Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax

by Robin Jarvis

  “First thing in the morning I’ll send Jangler round with a copy of Dancing Jacks for each of your patients,” he promised. “They’ve earned them. They really have.”

  “Blessed be,” Joan thanked him, beaming.

  Chapter 17

  PAUL STARTED THE next day in a thoroughly excellent and elated mood. Nothing was going to spoil it for him. When Gerald had driven him home after the piano lesson the previous evening, Martin and his mother sat him down and told him their intentions. Yelling with joy, he had leaped off the settee and punched the air. He could not have been happier. He had been wishing for them to get married for well over a year now. He also longed to have a baby brother or sister and so nothing whatsoever could ruin his day – or even his week. At least that was what he thought.

  Martin drove them to school that morning in a similar frame of mind. Not even the disturbing phone call Carol received from the hospital could dampen his spirits. Apparently a male nurse had snapped and gone on a violent rampage through the children’s ward, before throwing himself out of a window. Luckily none of the young patients suffered anything worse than cuts and bruises and one broken arm, but it was a shock to everyone who knew and worked with Shaun Preston.

  It was the last thing anyone expected him to be capable of, but you could never really be sure about anyone. Sister Joan Olivant was already telling the press how she had always been uncomfortable in his presence; how he used to stare at her inappropriately and make lewd suggestions. She was certain that her rejection of his attentions and threat to make an official complaint were what had driven him over the edge. It was another media frenzy over there today.

  As Martin drove through the school gates, he saw that even more floral tributes had been placed in front of the railings overnight. He wondered how long they were expected to remain there. What was the respectful thing to do with such things afterwards? Barry Milligan would be sure to know; he was good at stuff like that. For all his scary TV cop persona, he could be very tactful when required.

  Humming a tune to himself, that sounded more than a little like the wedding march, Martin waved goodbye to Paul and made his way to the staffroom. His good humour evaporated when he saw his colleagues poring over the morning papers.

  “Doesn’t bode well,” he observed. “What’s going on here then?” They couldn’t have printed the story about the male nurse already, could they?

  Mrs Early held up a tabloid in her thumb and forefinger as though it was a soiled nappy. The front page was full of the engagement of the month, but pages 6 and 7 were devoted to ‘Dead Drunk Head – Boozy Headmaster of Yob School drinks himself under the desk while kids lie dead’. Sneaky photographs of Barry Milligan, taken over the past few evenings, were plastered across the pages. There he was: drinking in two different pubs, coming out of off-licences and even through the window of his front room where he was sprawled ‘dead drunk’ on his sofa, nursing an empty glass with the remnants of that night’s binge all around him.

  “Hell!” Martin swore.

  “The man’s a liability and a dinosaur,” Mr Wynn said. “He’s not fit to do the job. What sort of example is that?”

  Martin threw the paper down in disgust and stared at the games teacher angrily. “What any of us do in our time away from here isn’t anyone’s business,” he told him.

  “The only people who ever say that are those with something to hide,” Mr Wynn muttered to himself.

  “What was that?” Martin demanded. “If you’ve got something to say, let’s all hear it.”

  Mr Wynn looked him up and down. He snorted and flexed his broad shoulders then smiled falsely. Zipping up his tracksuit, he swaggered from the room. Martin wanted to run out after him and punch his stupid orange face, but Mr Wynn would have flattened him with one retaliating swipe.

  “Brainless muscle-head,” he seethed through grated teeth. “Go squeeze the steroid spots on your back.”

  “Happiest days of our lives,” Mrs Early said wearily.

  “So where is Barry?” Martin asked.

  “In his office,” Mr Roy answered. “Wouldn’t be surprised if his phone line melts today. I wouldn’t go anywhere near. Cornered beasts are liable to lash out at anyone.”

  “It’s not fair,” Martin said. “He’s damn good at the job.”

  Mrs Early shook her head. “Doesn’t mean a thing now,” she declared. “He’s suddenly infamous across the country. No one cares how good a Head he is. He’s been tried and judged already. His identity is fixed. He’ll never be rid of it. He’ll be the Dead Drunk Head forever. It’s on his file now and will be dredged up and thrown at him wherever he goes.”

  “His position is untenable,” Mr Roy added.

  Martin knew they were right, but it sickened him. The bell sounded for registration.

  Mrs Early looked down at the discarded newspaper. “Such is the power of words,” the English teacher mused to herself. “They inflict pain, ruin lives and start wars. All it takes is one.” With a shake of her head, she left the staffroom, reflecting that there were some words which she too could lose her job over if she uttered just one of them in class. The might of language must never be underestimated.

  Elsewhere in the school, Paul Thornbury’s happy mood took longer to dissipate.

  His friends had been strange with him the previous day and last night they hadn’t responded to his pokes on Facebook, where their profile photographs had been replaced by pictures of playing cards. He had wondered how Anthony Maskel and Graeme Parker would react to him today and how he should behave towards them. Should he be off with them and treat them coldly if they spoke to him, or would that make it worse? Were they even worth keeping as friends if they could be this way?

  When he saw them that morning at registration, they could not have been more pleasant – too pleasant.

  “Blessed be!” they both greeted, grinning like cats that had inherited a combined dairy and salmon farm business.

  “Hello,” Paul answered cautiously. “You guys OK?”

  The two boys smiled back at him. They were not normally like this. Anthony was usually moaning about some imagined ailment and Graeme was naturally a bit morose, but it was those very traits that Paul enjoyed about them. He couldn’t make out what had happened to change that.

  “We are most well,” Anthony answered. “We have been sharing our thoughts on the Court.”

  “We’d like you to share them as well,” Graeme told him.

  Paul looked puzzled. “You’re not on about tennis, are you?” he asked.

  His friends laughed, but shook their heads. “There is only one Court,” Anthony said, reaching into his bag and bringing out a book. “This one.”

  “Hey, I’ve got that as well!” Paul exclaimed. “The bloke gave it to me.”

  “The Ismus gave it you?” they asked, impressed. “You are highly honoured.”

  “The what?”

  The boys blinked at him. “You have not read it?” they asked. “Or are you an aberrant?”

  “Am I a what? No, I’ve not had a chance to start it yet. Is it any good?”

  The boys exchanged significant glances and looked as if they knew secrets that he did not. Paul didn’t like that.

  “Good isn’t the right word,” Anthony informed him. “Paul, it is the only thing that matters. It is the most…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the correct words to express his feelings for Dancing Jacks.

  Paul wriggled on his chair uncomfortably. They were beyond weird now.

  “Do you have yours here?” Graeme asked. “We could read it together. It’s good reading it together, out loud as one voice.” He began rocking slowly backwards and forwards.

  “No,” Paul replied, feeling extremely uneasy. “I left it at home.”

  “Then let us read to you,” Anthony urged.

  “Yes, we will read it to you, together,” added Graeme. “And you can share the joy of it with us.”

  Paul looked around to see if anyone in the clas
s was taking any notice, but nobody was looking in their direction.

  The two boys held up their books and opened them at the first page to read aloud.

  Then the bell rang.

  “Saved,” Paul breathed, without realising the enormous truth of his words.

  Their first lesson was history. Year 7 was learning about medieval realms and the castles of the Normans. There wasn’t one child who disliked that topic and just about everyone found it fascinating. That morning two found it even more absorbing than the rest. The usually quiet Anthony and Graeme were asking lots of peculiar and irrelevant questions about the colour of the stonework, the layout of the rooms and how many tapestries they would have. It was as if they were trying to compare a Norman castle to somewhere they had been and found the wooden motte-and-baileys and stone keeps and towers of the Normans lacking in every aspect.

  Miss Smyth, the cool, blonde teacher, who always wore crisp, white blouses with a small red or black bow at her throat and whom practically every boy in the school had a crush on, was beginning to get irritated.

  “Do you know how many horses they kept in the stables, Miss?” Graeme asked. “And how many hounds and hawks?”

  The other children didn’t dare titter at his newfound nerve. Miss Smyth was not someone to wind up. She may have been as beautiful and well groomed as a Hitchcock leading lady, but she was no pushover and only the foolish ever tried to bait her. They watched and listened, baffled at the boys’ behaviour, but curious to see how much she would tolerate and just how she would react when pushed too far.

  “That would depend on the castle in question,” she replied sternly. “Each was different, depending on the wealth and status of who lived there. Only the very rich would keep a large number of any of those animals.”

  “My Lord Ismus keeps forty fine horses in the stables of Mooncaster,” Graeme said proudly. “Each a splendid thoroughbred, with a richly embroidered cloth to wear when the knight goes riding – and the White Castle has three concentric walls and the Keep is five storeys high…”

  “Enough!” Miss Smyth told him, pointing her pen at the boy. “If you keep on disrupting the lesson with your stupid remarks, you’ll be kept behind after school.”

  “It’s true!” Anthony cried in Graeme’s defence. “It is the best castle in the world!”

  “With the finest steeds! And in a separate building of its own is the Jack of Club’s stallion – the one he saved while it was still only a foal! There’s no better or stronger or nobler beast than that one!”

  “That’s right!” Anthony chimed in again. “It’s the envy of every knight and…”

  “Be quiet!” Miss Smyth roared, slamming a textbook on the desk, which made everyone jump in their seats. She had no idea what stupid game the pair of them were playing, but she was not putting up with any more of it.

  “I’m surprised at you two!” she continued severely. “But one more word, just one, and you’re in detention.”

  The boys looked affronted as though she was being unjust, but they hung their heads and said nothing else for the remainder of the lesson.

  Nobody in the rest of the class dared utter a word either. Miss Smyth’s face had turned a deep pink colour and her nostrils were flaring. Graeme and Anthony’s insolence had made her lose her temper and she barked at everyone to copy out passages from their textbooks.

  Paul and the other children stared at the two boys. What were they thinking? Now they were all suffering her displeasure and they sat there, meekly doing their work. When the bell rang, no one attempted to move until she gave her permission and then they filed out quietly.

  “You two,” she addressed Graeme and Anthony as they passed her desk. “Come here.”

  The boys stood before her, eyes cast down.

  “I don’t understand what that was about today,” she told them sharply. “But I never want to see the same stupid behaviour from you again, do you hear?”

  Anthony raised his face and looked her squarely in the eyes. “We hear you, Miss,” he said in a fearless, almost haughty tone. “We hear you and we forgive you.”

  “You what?” she asked in disbelief.

  “We forgive you.”

  Miss Smyth’s mouth fell open slightly. She had never been spoken to like this, and certainly not by someone in Year 7. Anthony continued to stare at her. This was more than disrespect. It was disturbing. She noticed with a shock that his eyes appeared glazed, almost lifeless – like the eyes of a doll.

  “You had better be careful, young man,” she finally managed to say. “I’ll be on to your parents about this.”

  “They will forgive you too,” he answered. “For now.”

  Then it was Graeme’s turn. His face was impassive and calm and his eyes were the same.

  “You can’t help it,” he said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. “You’re just ignorant, Miss.”

  “Yes, you’re ignorant… for now.”

  “But that will change.”

  The teacher drew back in her chair. The boys were not normal. “Get out,” she murmured in as level a voice as she could manage. “Get out of here.”

  They waited a few moments more, smiling at her, then left the room.

  “Blessed be,” they called out.

  The pen was shaking in Miss Smyth’s hand as she watched the door close behind them. It was broad daylight, she was sitting in a school classroom, one of the safest places imaginable, and yet she had never felt so threatened and intimidated in her life. It took her a full five minutes to recover and rise from her desk, but she was still trembling.

  Paul was waiting for the two boys in the playground, wondering what Miss Smyth had said. Looking around him, he noticed that other children in different years were behaving strangely out there. Small groups were huddled together and some of them were rocking backwards and forwards, like Graeme had done that morning in registration.

  “Another day in Loonyland,” he muttered. To occupy himself while he waited, he took out his phone and sent a text to his mother, just to say ‘hi’ and ask if she could wash his gym kit for tomorrow.

  He had just pressed Send when he saw Graeme and Anthony leave the school building. Paul ran over to them.

  “What were you playing at in there?” he asked. “She almost went ballistic!”

  “We were not playing,” Anthony countered. “We were trying to instruct her.”

  “She knows nothing of life within a real castle,” Graeme agreed. “She needs tutoring.”

  Paul waggled his head. “Okaaay…” he said, humouring them, but not understanding where they were going with this. “And was she grateful?”

  “She isn’t ready yet,” Graeme answered. “But it won’t be long before she is.”

  “Not long,” Anthony echoed, nodding like a plastic dog in the back of a car.

  “You two have flipped, you really have,” Paul declared. “Is this all because of that old book?”

  The boys shot severe looks at him. “Watch what you say!” Anthony warned. “Speak no ill of Dancing Jacks. The penalties are swift and harsh. The Ismus will see to that.”

  Paul almost laughed. “He doesn’t sound like a very merry Ismus then!” he quipped.

  Graeme and Anthony’s faces looked sterner than ever.

  Paul backed away from them. “You know what, Anthony,” he said. “You can stick that daft book and your potty Ismus up where the sun don’t shine. I’m sick of this stupid game – it’s boring and so…”

  Before he could finish, Anthony lashed out. He grabbed the unsuspecting boy by the throat, pushed him to the ground and knelt on his chest.

  “There is no Anthony!” he snarled in Paul’s astonished face. “I am Aethelheard, groom of the stables.”

  “Get off!” Paul cried in a strangulated voice as he thrashed underneath. Graeme stood over him and trod on his arms, pinning him down even more.

  “And I am Bertolf!” he shouted. “I tend to my Lord’s hounds. I know a mangy dog when I see one
.”

  “Yield!” Anthony demanded. “Yield and retract your blasphemy!”

  “Get off – you mental cases!”

  “Recant, caitiff!”

  “Up yours!”

  Anthony’s hands squeezed tighter round his throat and Paul choked. He held out for as long as he could. Then he nodded frantically.

  Anthony loosened his grip. “You recant?”

  “Yes,” Paul coughed.

  “Say the Ismus is the most noble ruler under the sun.”

  “Say it!” Graeme commanded, putting more weight on the balls of his feet and making Paul gasp from the pain in his arms.

  “The… Ismus… is…”

  “The most noble ruler…” Anthony prompted.

  “The most… noble ruler…”

  “Under the sun.”

  “Under the… sun. Ow – my arms!”

  The boys released him. “Be about your day,” Graeme growled. “And make no more vile calumnies against our Lord.”

  Rubbing his neck and then his arms, Paul staggered to his feet. His face was almost purple. A torrent of emotions gushed through him: rage, shock, shame and humiliation, but the worst, and the one that hurt the most, was the terrible sense of betrayal. He had believed they were his friends. That was the last time he would have anything to do with them.

  The boys gave him one last warning glance then moved off and joined a group who were reading solemnly.

  In the staffroom Miss Smyth was relating her encounter to Mrs Early.

  “They stood there like… like the devil spawn of Ant and Dec,” she said. “It wasn’t just insolence – there was something abnormal and nasty behind it. I couldn’t bear looking at them. Actually, no – I couldn’t bear them looking at me.”

  Mrs Early was so interested she hadn’t touched her knitting.

  “Those two are usually so quiet,” she commented in her languorous voice. “It’s like getting blood from a stone asking them to contribute to lessons – they never volunteer to read aloud. It’s painful to watch them struggling.”

  “Well, I’m going to ask the Head to write to their parents,” Miss Smyth announced. “They’re not getting away with that. Has Barry made an appearance yet?”