Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax

by Robin Jarvis

  He flicked through the rest of the book. It laid out the customs of the Court and how everyone slotted into its daily life. There were rituals and manners. There were songs and even the dance steps to accompany them. It was a portrait of the complete world; a world where the Ismus was its absolute ruler and in which the infatuated females would fly to him after dusk by rubbing minchet over their bodies. Minchet was the flying ointment they obtained from the Queen of Hearts, who in turn had bribed the Jack of Diamonds to steal the spell of its making from Malinda the reclusive Fairy Godmother…

  “Hmm…” Martin grunted. There was no gripping story here, no desperate chase leading to a thrilling conclusion. It was stodgy, repetitive and obvious and in places quite impenetrable. He couldn’t understand how anyone would want to waste their time reading it, but there certainly wasn’t anything harmful in it as far as he could tell.

  Poor Shiela. Whatever substances she had been taking had definitely done terrible damage. He hoped she would seek help and that it wasn’t already too late.

  “I’ve had to drink the bath water!” Carol announced, standing in the doorway in her bathrobe.

  “Oh – your wine!” he cried. “Sorry!”

  “I saw the back of the Prime Minister’s head at work today,” she told him, towelling her hair vigorously. “He’s going bald and sprays it with black webby stuff.”

  “Image is everything,” Martin said. “Never mind the policies, so long as he looks good on camera. Do you remember when that Labour leader, Michael Foot, was ripped to pieces one Remembrance Day for looking like he’d been dressed by Worzel Gummidge? What nobody mentioned was that he was the only politician at the Cenotaph who’d paid for the wreath he laid out of his own pocket. Isn’t that the important thing? The eighties was the time when all this image garbage began and the rot really set in.”

  “Martin, that was decades ago. I was too bloody young to know or care.”

  “Nothing’s changed. Now you get politicians cycling to Parliament because it makes them appear ‘green’, but it’s only for appearances; their ministerial cars are right behind them, carrying their suits and laptops. It’s all surface and show: they’re the only things that are important these days. There’s no substance to any of it. As long as it looks good and it’s hyped enough, the masses will buy into it. Until the next shiny novelty comes along.”

  Carol wound the towel around her head. She’d heard this rant too many times before and had no intention of letting it progress that evening. “What’s that you’ve got?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Paul’s book he was given at the boot fair,” Martin said, realising he was beaten. He rose from the table and went into the kitchen to pour Carol’s wine. “Thought I’d have a look at it.”

  “You nosy article!”

  Martin handed her the glass. “I know, but someone warned me about it today. Turns out they were just out of their tree.”

  Carol took a sip. “Mmmm… Dutch courage tastes so nice,” she said.

  “What do you want Dutch courage for?” he asked, before having a sudden panic. “No! You haven’t been in my sanctum and broken anything, have you?”

  The woman ignored that. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I’ve been thinking, up there in my teetotal bath,” she began. “Look, Mr Arithmetic. You go on far too much about stuff that doesn’t matter to anyone else but you and drive me round the bend with your spacey, hobbity obsessions. If you had your way, you’d change the name of this street to Warp Drive and I know you only fancied me at first because you thought I looked like a young Sarah Jane Smith. But my mother likes you – heaven knows how you managed that not-so-minor miracle. Paul gets on with you so well I sometimes feel like a spare part. You’ve turned him into a mini-Martin! And now the lovely Gerald – he of the faultless taste and character judgement – has invited you to meet Evelyn… that really puts the tin lid on everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Erm… my Universal Translator is on the blink. I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

  Carol started to laugh. “I’m saying that I’d better put a ring on your finger and make an honest man of you. I want us to get married, you big daft geek!”

  For several moments Martin could only stare back at her. Then he let out a whoop and hugged her tightly. The wine spilled everywhere, but they didn’t care.

  “I’m thirty-six, Martin,” she continued. “Time, and my lady bits, aren’t marching by – they’re whizzing past on rocket-fuelled mopeds.”

  “Like the ones in Return of the Jedi – or Thunderbirds?”

  “Shut up and listen!”

  “OK.”

  “Paul and you are the most important people in my life. But, and I’ve thought about this a lot, I really want there to be another – before it’s too late for me. I want to have a child with you.”

  Putting her glass down, she took hold of his hand before he could say anything else and led him up the stairs.

  It was the last time they would be so happy. The book that Martin had dismissed so casually would ensure their joy was short-lived. Their lives were about to explode and a bitter, heartbreaking end was fast approaching.

  Chapter 15

  FIVE MOTORBIKES ESCORTED the camper van along the coast road that afternoon. The two outriders had tattooed diamonds on their faces, the next had coloured streamers flying from the sides of his helmet and the last two had blackened faces. Manda’s car brought up the rear. It looked like the cortège of a rough and down-at-heel head of state.

  The Ismus was driving the van and Shiela was next to him. She kept turning round to stare at the passenger sitting in the back. In his neat, charcoal-grey suit, with the Gladstone bag on his knees, Mr Hankinson was a singular sight surrounded by the faded decor and bric-a-brac of the VW. He looked entirely out of place, but there was a dreamy expression on his face as he read the book in his hands. The illustration of the Jangler might have been a drawing of himself, apart from the medieval clothes, with the hanging sleeves, pointed shoes and the thick belt that bore many hoops of keys. He stroked his smooth chin and decided he would have to grow a little beard to match the one in the drawing.

  No one had told Shiela where they were headed and she could not guess, but she could sense the barely suppressed excitement in the Ismus.

  The Suffolk coast is cluttered with defences. Most of them, like the groynes that reach down into the water and the concrete tetrahedra, are to protect it from the hungry sea. Others, like the Martello towers and the Landguard Fort, were built to repel human enemies. The ghostly remains of more recent military bases also scar the land. RAF Bawdsey clearly shows where twelve Bloodhound Mark II, surface-to-air missiles were stationed, ready to launch against Soviet jet bombers. The immense Cobra Mist radar array at Orford Ness is like the imprint of a colossal fan on the ground. From Saxons to the Cold War, the fear of attack was always the foundation of those structures, but, in the end, it is the sea that will win.

  Only one concrete bunker was ever built for a different purpose entirely. Close to the Felixstowe Ferry Golf Club, at the edge of a remote stretch of the road, was something that the Ministry of Defence had nothing to do with.

  The motorbikes kicked up the gravel of a lay-by and the van pulled in behind. A concrete pillbox, half hidden in the gorse and surrounded by wire fencing, was before them.

  The Ismus got out of the van and twirled the keys that Jangler had given him. His bodyguards dismounted and came over to walk at his side.

  The Harlequin Priests strode to the van, slid open the side to let out a beaming Jangler and removed two pairs of wire-cutters from their toolbox. Shiela lit a cigarette and dug her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket as she watched them advance purposefully towards the fence. The doors of Manda’s car slammed behind her.

  “Mr Fellows designed this himself and had it built at his own expense, in 1935,” Jangler was telling anyone who would listen.

  “There were other contributors,” the Ismus
corrected. “Members of many different ‘societies’ donated funds towards the project.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr Fellows was the head and founder of many circles – and so very persuasive.”

  “He still is.”

  “Of course,” Jangler said reverently. “And our firm has maintained the security around this place since then.” He pointed across the road to a larger fenced area near the shore. “National Heritage has contacted me twice in the past eight years, but I told them the land and the structures upon it were held in trust and they weren’t to interfere.”

  “You did well.”

  “I did only what my father and grandfather had done before me. It was a sacred duty and honour.”

  Leaning against the van, Shiela looked on as the men she had known as Tommo and Miller snipped away at a section of the wire fence.

  “And how are you this blessed day, my Lady?” Queenie’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  She looked around, startled. Manda had apparently been very busy with her sewing machine. The pair of them now sported new long gowns. Queenie was dressed in black with silver lace and Manda was in red and gold. They must have been up all night to work on those outfits. They were still unfinished, but the temptation to wear them had been irresistible.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, not really wanting to engage with either of them. They were both far too immersed in this lunacy.

  “‘Fine’, is it?” Queenie asked with an edge to her voice that made Shiela wonder what she was driving at.

  “Yeah, just fine,” she repeated flatly.

  Queenie clasped her hands to her exposed, and pushed up, cleavage.

  “Is it not a most joyful hour?” she asked, her eyes flashing at Shiela reproachfully. “To be here, at the unlocking of the hidden way.”

  “Cut that stuff out. I’m not interested.”

  “So many things are hidden, are they not?” the other woman said archly.

  “What is your problem?” Shiela asked.

  Queenie laughed and fluttered her fan in mock innocence. “I have no problem, my Lady,” she cooed. “Nay, none at all…”

  Crooking her finger at Manda, the two of them sashayed towards the Limner, who was sketching the pillbox.

  “She’ll be saying ‘mayhap’ and ‘gadzooks’ next,” Shiela muttered.

  The Harlequins finished cutting through the fencing and began pushing the gorse back, revealing more of the low concrete building behind.

  “There are so many of these along the coast,” Jangler informed everyone, “that one more really didn't attract any attention when it was built. It’s as commonplace as a beach hut. How clever of Mr Fellows.”

  Shiela stared at it without interest. Mr Hankinson was right. She had seen dozens of them before. This pillbox looked just the same as the others. It had an ugly, squat and brutal shape, with a letterbox-like slit facing the sea and a rusted metal door in one of its five sides. It was this door that the Harlequins were busily clearing a path to. When they were done, they stood on either side of it and bowed.

  “Labella,” the Ismus called.

  Shiela stirred herself, realising he meant her. Throwing her cigarette away, she walked over and took his outstretched hand.

  “We enter together,” he whispered.

  The pair of them passed through the gap in the fence and stepped between the parted gorse. The others fell into place behind. Then the Ismus selected the largest key on the iron ring and slotted it into the lock.

  It was stiff, but the ring gave him extra leverage and after a brief effort, it turned. The metal door swung inward.

  A waft of cold, damp air flowed out. Unimpressed, Shiela peered inside, expecting to see a miserable and poky room. The narrow window allowed only a sliver of grey light into the claustrophobic interior, but what she saw surprised her. In the centre of the pillbox, a flight of concrete steps descended into the ground.

  She turned to the Ismus at her side. “I’m not going down there,” she refused point-blank.

  “We’re all going down,” he insisted. “You have nothing to fear, my love – ’tis only the ritual entrance way to the larger area yonder.” He nodded to the other fenced area across the road.

  “This is a subway?” Shiela asked. “What on earth for?”

  The Ismus gave her that infuriating indulgent smile. “It symbolises the departure from this world, to the realm of our master, the Exiled Prince,” he explained. “There must be a physical journey, as well as a spiritual one, for you and the rest of the Court.”

  She shook her head and tried to pull her hand from his. “I’m still not going down there,” she swore. “I can’t keep playing along with this! I’ve had enough.”

  Behind them, the Lockpick glanced at the Harlequins in confusion. The Queen of Spades and the Queen of Hearts looked at one another knowingly.

  “What is wrong with my Lady?” Jangler murmured. “Why does she protest?”

  The Ismus clenched Shiela’s hand so tightly that her fingers turned white. “Naught is wrong,” he declared. “The Lady Labella has an aversion to rats and dark places, that is all.”

  “But surely there are no rats down there!” Jangler exclaimed. “Mr Fellows would have seen to that, as he saw to the cellars of his house.”

  “See,” the Ismus told Shiela. “The Lockpick knows. You won’t find any vermin down there.”

  Staring at the Holy Enchanter, the woman wasn’t so sure. Besides, it wasn’t just rats and the dark that frightened her. Here was another, literal, step into the madness that had possessed them. Then the Ismus entered and pulled Shiela with him.

  At once the black-faced bodyguards followed and produced torches from their pockets, which they shone down the steps to light their Lord’s way.

  “To the Realm of the Dancing Jacks,” the Ismus declared. Leading a fearful Shiela, he descended the stairs.

  There may have been no rats down there, but the concrete-lined subway was pitch-black and the torch beams did not reach the far end of it. Stagnant seawater sloshed over Shiela’s trainers and she recoiled as it soaked through her socks.

  “’Tis but water,” the Ismus said calmly, his voice distorted and echoing eerily in that dank space.

  “Freezing water,” she said. “Freezing water in a black hellhole that stinks of damp and I’m a bigger nutcase than I ever realised for being down here in it.”

  Cursing herself, she followed him along the subway, the seawater slopping around them. Suddenly the torchlight fell upon a hideous, grinning face in front and Shiela screamed.

  It was only a painted statue. But the fright had been genuine. The statue was repulsive. The thing had a misshapen body with monkey’s arms and an oversized head with glaring yellow eyes and a wide, downturned mouth full of jagged teeth. In the centre of its forehead were two curling ram’s horns.

  “What is that?” Shiela asked.

  The Ismus reached out and patted the deformed stone head.

  “Mauger,” he said with a grin. “Growly Guardian of the Mooncaster Gate. Everyone must pass this fierce warden if they are to come unto the presence.”

  “He’ll never get on the cover of GQ,” Shiela commented.

  The Holy Enchanter’s eyes glittered in the torchlight.

  “Soon he will be amongst us,” he said. “The first of those I shall bring through.” With a grim smile, he led Shiela further in.

  Behind them, the bodyguards and the rest of the entourage bowed in turn as they passed in front of Mauger.

  Shiela found herself clinging tighter to the Ismus’s hand. She hated it down there, as much as she had hated being in the cellar of that horrible house. With huge relief, she saw the torchlight finally strike another set of steps that climbed upwards into the same grey light as before. She had almost expected night to have fallen outside while they had been down there.

  She hurried up the slippery stairs as quickly as she dared and found herself inside another pillbox, identical to the one across the road. The Ismus r
attled his keys again and yanked and pulled on this door. A few minutes later it squealed open.

  The young woman hurried outside, her trainers squelching. But she was grateful for the fresh air and the soft evening light. She lit herself another cigarette and looked around her.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  They had emerged into a wide courtyard, surrounded by high concrete walls. It was overgrown with sea campion, biting stonecrop and sea holly, which had all taken root in the sand and shingle blown over those lofty walls during the winter storms. At the far end of this strange place there was yet another pillbox, except this one was much taller and wider, and the door that faced them was larger than the one Shiela had just stepped out of. Two sets of steps wound around the outside of it, up to the flat roof, where she imagined there must be a marvellous view of the sea.

  “I do not wish you to smoke those things any more,” the Ismus commanded, pulling the cigarette from her mouth and casting it away. “’Tis not seemly.”

  Shiela glared at him, but bit her tongue. She suddenly realised that she had not seen him touch a single cigarette since that first visit to the empty house. He hadn’t drunk any alcohol either.

  “Not too wild and overrun,” Jangler observed, gazing about as he emerged behind them. The legs of his trousers were rolled up to spare them from the stagnant tunnel water, revealing his sock garters. “Considering how long it’s been since anyone set foot here, that’s not too bad at all. A good day’s labour will clear this lot away handsomely.”

  “Oh, do you have to?” Shiela asked sadly. “It’s like a garden – a secret garden for the sea.”

  The Ismus snorted in disgust. “It’s not a garden,” he spat. “You are standing in my Court, Labella! I want these weeds ripped out by tomorrow night.” He glared at the Harlequins as they joined them and they nodded in silent reply.