by Robin Jarvis
Hearing that, the Ismus vaulted over the flames and jumped on to the workbench. He stared through the broken panes and searched the darkness outside.
“Jockey!” he shouted. “I know you’re there!”
Martin didn’t know what to do. The bodyguards had removed their coats and were thrashing the flames with them. He was cornered with no escape. Suddenly, behind him, the boarding was prised clear of the windows. A brick came flying through the glass, followed by a caramel-coloured boot that kicked the remaining shards away.
“Haw haw haw!” the unknown man guffawed again and then, in a falsetto voice, he sang, “I rode you, I rid you. I flamed you, I fled you! Hoo hoo hoo!”
Martin saw a glimpse of someone in a leather costume, the same colour as the boot, skip away from the freshly made hole. The figure darted over the tumbledown wall of the kitchen garden and vanished into the dark.
The maths teacher hesitated only for an instant. Then he seized his chance and squeezed though the empty frame.
“My Lord Ismus!” one of the Black Face Dames shouted. “The aberrant is escaping!”
The Holy Enchanter was still staring at the spot where the Jockey had disappeared. “Why hasn’t he come forward?” he raged. “He’ll pay for this when he does. I’ll make him sing a sorry song. I won’t be ridden! I won’t! He’ll dance to my tune, not his own.”
“The aberrant!” the bodyguard repeated. “He’s getting away.”
The Ismus leaped from the bench. The fire was almost out. Leaving one of the Dames to finish the job, he took the other two and ran through the house.
“He won’t get far!” he promised. “There’s no saving the teacher now.”
Martin charged around the building, down the side alley and dashed for the driveway. They’d be coming after him. He had to jump in the car and tear out of here. He’d drive to Ipswich and head straight for the police station. He would have to do everything he could to convince them while trying not to sound like a crazy person. They had to be made to believe and understand just how dangerous and real this was. The situation here had grown so big. They might even have to call in the army.
But, haring over the weed-covered drive, he saw a sight that made his heart sink and dashed any hopes of escape. The Ismus’s camper van had pulled up right behind his car. Reaching the vehicles, he found the car completely blocked in. With the tree directly in front and the van almost touching the back bumper, there was no way he could get it out of there.
“Dammit!” he cursed, glaring at the Volkswagen and thumping its rusting side.
Suddenly a ferocious, bestial clamour sounded within the van. The camper juddered and rocked wildly from side to side. There was a tremendous crunch and a dent punched up into the roof.
Martin jumped backwards. What the hell was in there? A wild bull? An angry rhinoceros? The van lurched and jolted. Then a curtain was torn from one of the windows. Martin yelled out loud.
A grotesque, oversized face pressed against the glass. Two bright yellow eyes with small, red-rimmed pupils fixed on him. The window clouded over as steaming breath snorted up from the creature’s flattened nostrils. The van’s side banged and pounded as wide shoulders lowered and the head bent down. Two curling horns battered against the sliding door.
Martin did not see them. He was already stumbling down the drive, running for his life.
The Ismus and the men who had been Tesco Charlie and Dave sprang from the house. The bodyguards were about to set off after the terrified maths teacher, but the Ismus held them back.
“No,” he said, observing the van’s violent shaking. “Let us be generous and give Mauger something bigger than rabbits to catch this night.”
Darting to the camper, he wrenched the buckled door open and the monstrous shape leaped out. It gouged the grass with its claws and bellowed a horrendous roar.
“After him, my pet,” the Ismus commanded. “Go, hunt him down. He is yours!”
The horrific beast snapped at the air then bolted down the driveway.
“That’s the best way to deal with aberrants,” the Holy Enchanter laughed.
In the darkness of the overgrown drive, Martin heard the bestial roar and knew the creature was chasing him. The maths teacher had never been good at sport, his mind and imagination were the most active and agile parts of him, but at that moment he ran faster than he ever had in his life.
He didn’t dare look back. He didn’t have to. He could hear the nightmare pursuing him. He could tell it was gaining. The snorts and growls and clashing of teeth were quickly growing louder. Martin pushed himself harder than ever, but it was no use. Then, in that tree-enclosed gloom, his foot hooked under the arch of a protruding root. A cry of dismay burst from his lips and he crashed to the ground.
Mauger bounded towards him. The man lay there, winded and panting. The demon sprang and Martin knew it was over.
In that instant a glimmering missile came spinning from the trees. It was another of those fiery bottle bombs. It struck Mauger’s powerful back and erupted in flames. The monster shrieked and came thundering through the air. It landed back on the drive, barely missing Martin, then went rolling down the sloping way, writhing and bawling, engulfed in fire.
Martin lifted his face and stared at it, incredulous. The beast was thrashing about wildly, screeching and yowling.
Then, from the trees, a stern voice hissed, “Get up, man! Run – you idiot!”
Martin turned, just in time to see that same caramel-coloured outfit nip back into the shadows.
“Thank you!” he called. But the figure was gone and all he heard was a high “Haw haw haw!” trailing into the distance.
Mauger’s frantic struggles were almost over. The thick fur of its gorilla-like arms was now only smoking and the fires that burned across its back were almost extinguished.
Martin realised he had waited too long. He leaped to his feet and, with his heart in his mouth, he pelted past the smouldering horror. Mauger’s unwieldy head swung around and the glowering yellow eyes watched the man race by. Two great claws clamped around the last burning patch of fur and smothered it. A fearsome snarl drew its red lips back over purple gums and a loud, rumbling growl sounded deep in the drum of its chest. The eyes flicked momentarily at the trees. The smell of new leather was strong on the air and the river of that scent wound far into the woods and out again. The Jockey could wait.
Mauger lumbered on to all fours and shook itself. Singed and burned, it was even more horrific a nightmare than before – and now it was enraged beyond control or recall.
Shaking its horns, the demon roared louder than ever and leaped after Martin. Very soon it would be feasting on aberrant flesh.
Martin’s trousers were ripped at the knee and a deep cut across his shin was singing as he ran. Blood was running down his leg and he knew the creature behind could smell it. He tore down that forgotten driveway without a thought of what he would do next. Fear alone drove him now. Then he was clear. The drive ended. He flung himself forward, out on to the remote country lane beyond. The smooth surface of the road felt jarring under his feet after the rough slope of the drive. He staggered and slipped, but didn’t stop. The demon was closing.
Martin ran blindly, charging down the centre of the deserted lane. It was the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to run – and no shelter. In the far distance, he could see the lights of houses, but he would never reach them in time. Behind him there was an exultant cry and the fiend came rampaging out on to the road. Its claws clattered and skated on the tarmac for a moment then it wheeled around and the fury-filled eyes shone down the lane – on Martin’s desperate and hopeless fleeing figure.
The jagged fangs dripped in anticipation and Mauger stampeded after.
Martin heard it, and for no other reason than to drown out that awful approach, he shouted. “Help! Help me someone – help me!”
And then, to his undying relief, there was light and noise. A car horn blared behind them. Headlights dazzled and a car
came racing up the lane.
Mauger spun about. The light blinded its eyes and it shrieked in pain. Its claws flew before its face to shield it from the glare and the demon stumbled sideways into the hedge. The car horn continued to sound.
Martin had not dared to stop running, but he looked over his shoulder, squinting into the harsh lights. The car was almost upon him. He jumped to the verge and the vehicle braked sharply. The passenger door was pushed open and the strident tones of Professor Evelyn Hole were telling him to get in.
Moments later Martin was inside, huffing and wheezing and clutching his stinging knee. Evelyn’s sensible brogue stamped on the accelerator and the car screeched away.
In the rear-view mirror she saw Mauger jump back into the road and give chase.
“So much for the thirty mile an hour limit,” she said as the speedometer nudged up to sixty, then seventy. The demon’s monstrous shape receded and was soon lost in the darkness behind. A desolate, bone-numbing howl of frustration echoed across the open fields.
Evelyn waited until Martin was ready to speak.
“Thank you,” he said eventually. “If you hadn’t turned up just then…”
“Did you really think I’d let you go off to that hellish place alone, dear boy?”
“Then it was you, dressed as the Jockey? You really had them fooled back there – and me!”
“I’m not with you.”
“You didn’t rescue me from the conservatory? You didn’t throw those Molotov cocktails? You weren’t dressed in that strange get-up?”
“Strange get-up?” Evelyn asked in surprise. “Martin, what do you take me for? Who is this Jockey you’re talking about?”
The maths teacher didn’t know whether she was teasing him and wished Gerald hadn’t chosen today to let Evelyn take over. He glanced at the back seat, expecting to see the Jockey’s discarded leather costume. It was empty. Perhaps the outfit was in the boot.
Martin stared at the dark road ahead, trying to make sense of everything.
“I saw him,” he said after a short silence. “I spoke to him. Austerly Fellows. It’s all true.”
“Did you find out about Paul?”
“He’s got him.”
“Then there’s nothing we can do on our own,” Evelyn told him flatly. “We have to get out of Felixstowe tonight. We have to get help from outside. It’s our only chance. Everyone’s only chance.”
Martin was thinking hard. “No,” he said. “There might be just one last hope. But it’ll have to wait till first thing tomorrow.”
“We shouldn’t wait, Martin.”
“We have to.”
“Very well, if you’re sure. But you and Carol can’t spend another night at your place. It won’t be safe. You’d best stay with me – at Gerald’s.”
Martin agreed. Then for the first time he realised something – the Ismus had gone to that old house expecting to find him there. Why else would he have brought the things Paul had taken from the inner sanctum? But who else except Evelyn had known Martin was going there that night? Who else could have told the Ismus?
Martin stole a quick, suspicious glance at the person behind the wheel. A determined and grave expression was on Evelyn’s face. He wondered what else that make-up and wig might be concealing. Martin Baxter suddenly realised he couldn’t trust anybody.
Chapter 29
“. . . AND WE’LL HAVE more of those scandalous allegations involving the England team later in the programme for you. But first it’s over to Felixstowe again where Lyndsay Draymore reports on the special memorial service being held there today – Lyndsay.”
“Yes, a very sad day here in Felixstowe this Sunday morning, Tara. Nine days ago, this Suffolk town was torn apart by what has gone down in history as the Felixstowe Disaster, when a car, driven by fifteen-year-old Daniel Marlow, ploughed into a crowd of young people and exploded. Daniel and his three passengers died almost immediately, but there were a total of forty-one fatalities as a result of that night. The police are still no closer to discovering the cause of that terrible crash. Today the first eight funerals will be taking place – all of them pupils who attended the High School here.”
“Now that’s the school that the press have labelled ‘Yob School’, isn’t it, Lyndsay?” the anchorwoman interrupted, edging forward on her seat behind the news desk and jabbing her pen at the green screen where the reporter was superimposed. Tara’s ardent pen-jabbing was one of her trademarks, a mannerism which the impressionist Jan Ravens always mimicked so mercilessly. It was important to have a personable gimmick when reading the news, so the viewers could enjoy a more rounded experience while watching. Tara had practised hers so much that now it looked completely natural and she was sure it would lead to other presenting jobs higher up the ladder within the corporation.
“The tabloids really have had a field day with this during the past week,” she continued, stabbing away like a mini-musketeer. “Felixstowe has hardly been out of the news. First the Disaster and then the male nurse who ran amok, before throwing himself out of a hospital window. And, of course, the revelations about the Headteacher at the school. The tabloids really laid into him, didn’t they?”
“That’s right, Tara. The tabloids showed no restraint there and branded him ‘the Dead Drunk Head’. In a special report later tonight, we’ll be profiling Barry Milligan and interviewing members of his staff, the board of governors and the Education Minister – who has been one of his harshest critics over this past week. In that programme we also speak to his ex-wife for the inside story of his broken marriage and reveal that Mr Milligan has a history of violence and intimidation towards his staff and students. So it comes as no surprise to discover that he has been persuaded to step down from his job. However, the question on every one’s lips must surely be – why did it take the deaths of forty-one young people for that decision to be made and if Barry Milligan had been ‘expelled’ earlier, could this Disaster have been averted?”
“A sobering thought, Lyndsay – if you’ll excuse the pun.”
Lyndsay Draymore gave her professional grin then remembered she was standing in a churchyard with mourners milling around behind her. Her face locked down into serious mode and she nodded gravely to camera.
Tara let her flounder a few moments longer than necessary. “But there has been an unexpected and, dare I say it, a positive development in the wake of this tragic event, I hear,” she eventually prompted. “What’s all this about a children’s book I’ve heard rumours about?”
“Yes, Tara. As strange as it may sound, an old storybook has taken this town by storm and glued this grief-stricken community together during this dreadful week. I spoke to a group of youngsters earlier and they were in no doubt that without this book they simply could not get through the days.”
“Astonishing – is it by anyone famous?”
Lyndsay shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Tara,” she told her, before consulting her notes. Tara winced at this unprofessional gesture and hoped the camera was on her when she did it. She would have memorised all relevant information or had it written large on a board just out of shot.
Lyndsay continued.
“The book is called Dancing Jackets – sorry, that’s Dancing Jacks – by Austerly Fellows. What sort of dancing they do isn’t clear.”
“Ballroom maybe?” Tara interjected, reminding the audience she had been on Strictly.
Lyndsay’s wooden expression told her what she thought of that. “Who knows, Tara,” she said. “What is certain is that these simple fairytales have helped the people of Felixstowe deal with their profound grief and that’s the most important thing.”
Tara wasn’t accustomed to being put in her place by provincial reporters. She turned to Camera One in the studio and cut the item short. “Linda Draymore there,” she said, getting the name wrong on purpose. “And there’ll be more from Felixstowe in our lunchtime bulletin later. Now what do a Spice Girl, a grumpy celebrity chef and a Weatherfield landlady have
in common? Yes, they’re gamely taking part in a bid to create the world’s longest strand of spaghetti…”
Back in Felixstowe, Lyndsay Draymore prodded her earpiece. “Hello, studio?” she said. “Hello, Tara?”
“The link’s down,” Gavin the cameraman told her.
“The bitch,” Lyndsay hissed through her teeth. She had been planning to end her piece with, “So it’s a big thank you to Austerly the author – he really was a jolly good Fellows.” Still, there was always the midday news. She could work it in there. “OK,” she said. “Where’s that little man with the coffees? I’m parched!”
“Should I carry on taking shots of the mourners?” Gavin asked. “Do you want the usual hearses and pall-bearers stuff?”
“Too damn right I do!” Lyndsay told him. “I want to see wailing kids, teddy bears holding weepy messages, parents breaking down – the full snotfest. If there’s a dry eye anywhere to be seen then stick your finger in it. Oh – and if you spot that Headmaster in the crowd before I do then for BAFTA’s sake don’t keep it to yourself. He’s been harder to find than Madonna’s natural hair colour, the coward. Make a fantasmic addition to my programme later that would. Contrition, guilt, anger – whatever edits in best. I’ll provoke a reaction even if I have to kick him. With any luck, he’ll do the old thumping the cameraman routine – that’s always documentary gold.”
“Oh, geez thanks, Lyndsay,” Gavin moaned.
“And no wobbly camerawork or crash zooms,” she warned. “We’re not doing drama and trying to juice up a shonky script.” The reporter stomped over old grassy graves to find out where her skinny latte had disappeared to. She had driven here three hours ago and so far the only caffeine she’d had was before she’d left her house and she was gasping for more.
With the camera on his shoulder, Gavin roamed the churchyard, quietly filming the groups of people arriving for the special service and the first of the funerals. He was the only news cameraman there. There were too many celebrity stories to be covered that weekend and he had drawn the short straw. There were plenty of tabloid photographers present however.