by Robin Jarvis
“Please!” they cried. “Save us.”
Captain Swazzle shoved Martin roughly back into his cell and removed the manacles. Rubbing his aching wrists, Martin returned the rabbit to Dandelion and Burdock, who hugged it desperately. Then he gazed over at the newcomers with an overwhelming sense of his own helplessness.
“Martin Baxter!” they implored.
The Punchinellos growled and bawled at the children to keep quiet. Darting up and down in front of the cells, they struck out with the lash until every hand and face was withdrawn.
“I can’t help you,” Martin said apologetically. “I’m just a man, not a legend. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing.”
“He useless,” Swazzle cackled. “No cry out to him. Save cries for later. You will need them – oh, yes.”
Hungry and afraid, the young aberrants settled down. No one dared speak until the guards had departed and could be heard carousing in the dungeon. Then, gradually, hushed conversations began to spring up between the different groups. The Americans were the gleanings of three different camps in the US and they had been just as ill-treated as the Germans. Everyone had horror stories to tell, but no one wanted to darken this final day any further and so they spoke of the times before Dancing Jax and Martin answered as many of the new arrivals’ questions as he could. They drank in his words and waited for the hours to pass.
It was a Christmas Eve like no other. Most of the population of Britain had made the pilgrimage to Kent, or were still trying to get there. The tailbacks on the motorways were unprecedented, but no one in the gridlocked vehicles was getting angry. They were just waiting: for the traffic to move or the release of Fighting Pax, whichever came first.
Hospitals, care homes, farms, prisons and zoos had been abandoned by their staff, and patients and animals were left to die in their beds or barns or be eaten by creatures that crept into the neglected wards and through the fences. Fires raged out of control in most towns and cities, and airports still boomed with exploding fuel as planes continued to try to land.
In Felixstowe, the sea and the sky were an angry red. Across the harbour, Harwich was ablaze and the immense pall of black smoke kept the dawn at bay.
Standing in the front garden of the Duntinkling guesthouse, Spencer viewed the distant glare and reek in mournful silence. The world was ending. Adjusting the brim of his Stetson, he glanced back at the house. Having slept deeply for the first time since he could remember, he was impatient to set off. He’d forgotten what sleeping in a real bed was like. And then, this morning, Gerald had cooked the best breakfast he’d ever eaten with the provisions they’d looted on the way from Stansted. But time was running out and he was itching to get down to Kent.
Inside, a sweet and beautiful tune was being tentatively played on the piano.
Two hours previously, Chung Eun-mi had awakened in one of the guest bedrooms with a pain-filled cry that could be heard in every part of the house. Shell-shocked by the terrors of the night, she crawled into a corner and they found her curled into a ball. Gradually, with gentle words and patient coaxing, Gerald drew her out and led her downstairs. After Eun-mi had been encouraged to eat some toast and drink a cup of green tea, in a faltering, weak voice she thanked them for helping her.
But that was all she would say about what had happened and, when Estelle’s name was mentioned, Eun-mi quailed and dropped the teacup. Now, after a shower, with her uncannily white hair turbaned in a towel, she sat at the grand piano.
Her mother had been a beautiful, talented pianist who had played in the State Symphony Orchestra before her marriage. The most beloved memories Eun-mi had of her were when she played the piano in their home, when the General was away. Often, as a small child, she’d sit beside her mother and watch, entranced by the fluid movements of her graceful fingers over the keys.
The tune that Eun-mi was trying to play was the only one her mother had taught her. It was called ‘Arirang’ and was the spiritual music that beat in every Korean’s heart and the unofficial anthem of the whole peninsula. It was an ancient folk song, with many versions, and the notes flowed through the people’s veins. It was a symbol of their identity and now, more than ever, Eun-mi needed to hear it.
She had never understood why, sometimes when she played it, her mother had wept and her tears would splash on to the ivory keys. The song was about the bitter yearning after two lovers part and had become a powerful metaphor for their divided country.
“Man’s heart is like water streaming downhill,” she sang softly. “Woman’s heart is well water – so deep and still.”
And then, abruptly, she was transported back. One of those memories she had locked away and had never dared approach broke through the barred door she’d created in her mind.
It was the day she returned home from school to find her mother slumped against the piano. The keys were awash and dripping with vibrant red blood. She had slashed her wrists and sat down to play one last time. Eun-mi tried in vain to wake her, calling and imploring, hugging and kissing her cold skin. Finally she backed away. Nabi was crying in the next room and, mechanically, she went to comfort her, covering the baby’s clothes in their mother’s blood as she held the infant closely, promising to protect her, promising to be strong, promising to never show weakness, promising to never leave her. Hours later, this was the scene their father encountered when he returned home.
Eun-mi’s own tears fell on to the keys of Gerald’s piano and she sat there, shaking, wracked with fresh agonies of grief.
Outside, Spencer kicked his heels. What was Gerald doing? The old man had disappeared into the attic some time ago and, inexplicably, had rooted through boxes of Christmas decorations. Then he’d vanished into his shed for a while and was currently getting changed upstairs.
Spencer checked the car one more time. Everything was in there: rifles, ammunition, grenades. Catching his reflection in the wing mirror, he noticed, with some astonishment, that his complexion had cleared up considerably. Whatever strange rays had bombarded his skin in Fellows End seemed to have done it the world of good.
“Bit late now,” he mumbled.
He was getting anxious: would they be able to get to the White Castle before nine o’clock? Would they even get there at all and, if so, how could they find that master console? Just what did Gerald have in mind? He hadn’t explained his “silly idea” any further and so far Spencer hadn’t understood what he had meant by having left someone behind. There was nobody here. Felixstowe was completely deserted and it was obvious that nobody had been inside the guesthouse for over a year.
However, his questions were soon to be answered and Eun-mi would be jolted out of her despair when Gerald came downstairs.
The day wore on. In the gaol of the White Castle replica, around five in the afternoon, the aberrants were stunned when all the guards came waddling in, carrying five trestles that they set down in the centre of the chamber. Then they scurried away, while the Mexican bandit unfurled two long tablecloths, decorated with holly and poinsettias, and covered the trestles with them. Then the others came scampering back, bearing large wooden bowls. Some of them were steaming and smelled fantastic and the belly of every child whimpered pitifully.
The aberrants pressed close to the bars, their gaunt faces fixed on the feast that was being laid on the table before them. There were five bowls of pasta in tomato sauce, three baskets full of loaves still warm from the oven and another filled with bagels and pots of peanut butter to slather over them.
The Punchinellos spent half an hour scurrying to and fro, bringing fresh dishes and jugs of water and flasks of hot coffee.
There were baked potatoes, fruit, deep vessels brimming with nuts and seeds, tureens containing kedgeree, yoghurt in ceramic urns and a large oval plate piled with cooked chicken breasts.
When the trestles could take no more, the Punchinellos stood back to admire the mouth-watering banquet and exchanged sly glances.
“The sadists,” Maggie murmured under her br
eath. “They’re going to stuff their foul faces right in front of us.”
But she was wrong. Captain Swazzle unlocked the cells and ordered everyone out.
“Dinner time,” he squawked. “Eat up – is good. Plenty for all. Much yummity.”
Warily the children crept forward and approached the long table as if it was laden with bombs. The aberrants stared at the irresistible feast uncertainly. It was the most food any of them had seen in over a year. They were so hungry, some of them were crying, but they didn’t dare touch the incredible spread. There had to be a trick. Was it poisoned?
“What is this?” Martin demanded. “What cruel game are you playing?”
“No game!” Swazzle answered, seemingly offended by the slur. “Is good scoff. Get down neck.”
“You forgotten what you fed us that last time in camp?” Maggie snapped. “Cos we bloody haven’t.”
The Captain bowed and Charm’s girls saw a foul smirk creep over Bezuel’s face.
“Is a gift from Ismus,” Swazzle said. “You eat – you not eat. You make choice.”
He and the guards withdrew, back to the dungeon, leaving the aberrants gazing miserably at the bounty spread before them. Slowly their eyes left the food and they looked to Martin for guidance.
“I think it’s all right,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense for them to kill us like this. No, I know what this is about. I’m afraid this is the last hearty meal of the condemned.”
“So just real food, Sir – yeah?” one of the Americans asked. “No crap, no funny business?”
“I really…”
The rest of Martin’s words were drowned out by the squeals of delight as everyone dived at the feast. They didn’t even care when some of the guards came back to watch and made oink oink noises at them.
A little while later, Maggie wandered away from the table to join Martin who was sitting back in his cell.
“Hiding from your fans?” she asked in amusement.
“I never expected any of that,” he said. “How mad, here on the last day!”
“I reckon it’s brilliant. Us lot didn’t stop to think about it, but you’re a star.”
“Believe me, I’m not. I’m nobody.”
“Shut your face. You gave hope to those kids out there and lots more besides – thousands that we’ll never know about cos they didn’t make it. But them out there, you saved their lives, Martin. That’s gobsmacking awesome that is.”
“Saved them for what though? For this? For whatever’s going to happen to them tonight? They’d have been better off…”
“Oi! None of that. Gerald would tear you off a strip if he heard you talking that way. Keep on going, keep on fighting, that’s what he’d have said.”
“Hell, I miss him.”
“He was the wisest and funniest person I’ve ever met.”
“I wish he was here right now; he’s the one who kept me going all this time. It’s him those new kids should be idolising, not me.”
“Well, he isn’t here, so you’ll have to like it and lump it. Just stop with the humble, it really gets on my wick, and I’ll kick you up the arse if you carry on.”
Martin suppressed a laugh.
“You didn’t eat much just now,” she observed.
“I had enough,” he answered.
“Time was when I’d have hoovered up everything in sight,” Maggie said. “But that was another life ago. Besides, what you said about the hearty meal, that wasn’t quite right, was it?”
Martin looked at her. “How’d you mean?”
“Any hearty meal would’ve been full on Mooncaster stuff: roast goose and turnip pudding or something hey nonny nonny, not sodding pasta and definitely not coffee. It’s not even remotely Christmassy, apart from the tablecloth.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I thought it was weird when they fetched it all out, but I didn’t catch on till I saw what was in that hamper at the far end. You didn’t stick around for that, did you? Here.”
She took from her pocket a modern cereal bar, still in its wrapper.
“What they’ve served up to us, Martin,” she said, waving the bar and nodding at the banquet, “is a load of energy food: carbs, cereals, caffeine. That’s the sort of blow-out athletes eat hours before they run a marathon. Looks like we’re expected to do a whole lot of running tonight.”
“Oh, God!” Martin muttered, aghast. “Of course, Flee the Beast… so that’s what it means.”
“No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing the fleeing, but what sort of beast will it be?”
“We’d better stop these kids gorging,” he said, jumping up. “If they stuff themselves stupid, they’re not going to be able to move, never mind run.”
It was only Martin’s hero status that made the children pay attention. They would have continued to eat until there was nothing left, but they listened to what he said and abandoned the banquet. Esther lingered wilfully to pick at the nuts and fruit. She made a show of sauntering round the table, picking up a bagel or a potato, sniffing them, putting them down, dipping a spoon into the yoghurt and licking it clean.
When Martin shouted at her to stop taunting the others, she laughed and ignored him. Those foreign kids might think the sun shone out of his backside, but she knew he was just a crappy teacher and said as much. Turning her back, she scooped up a handful of pumpkin seeds to nibble on and raised her eyebrows at the other children who were glowering at her.
Maggie saw red and stormed over, grabbed the girl by the hair and dragged her to the cell. Esther howled and lashed out, catching Maggie across the face with her hand and the animosity that had been simmering for months finally boiled over into a fight.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Perry Como sang as the chamber rang with shouts and jeering. The two girls punched and slapped one another and yelled insults. But it wasn’t a fair contest. Maggie was two years older and, even though she’d trimmed down, still had the bigger build. Esther was on the floor in no time and Maggie was about to pounce on top of her when Martin pulled her away.
“Stop it!” he ordered. “The pair of you! Tonight you’re going to need every bit of energy you have.”
“She’s mad she is!” Esther cried, rubbing her scalp gingerly. “I’m going to laugh my head off when you get killed later – you cow!”
“Keep her nasty mouth quiet,” Martin told Nicholas as he led Maggie away.
The boy reached down to help Esther to her feet, but she smacked his hand clear and strode to her cot where she sat down with her arms folded, fuming.
“What is it with you two?” Martin asked Maggie. “Do you have to keep snapping at each other, even today? I know she’s a royal pain, but you’re better than this.”
The girl sighed and shook her head. “I dunno,” she said. “She just knows what buttons to press. You know, back in the camp, at the start she was OK. We worked in the kitchen together and we got on fine – at first.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Buggered if I know. But she started listening to spiteful rumours about me, and that drippy Nicholas drew a cartoon of me as an elephant. She turned sour and deeply unpleasant and has been stuck in uber bitch mode ever since.”
“Maybe it was her way of coping with the regime there? We all find different ways of dealing with what’s happened and trying to stay sane. I’m not proud of mine. Sometimes it’s easier to lash out and be unpleasant than risk losing someone you care about.”
Maggie pulled a face. “I’ll try not to wallop her again,” she promised. “But if you think we’re suddenly going to be best pals then you’ve got your sums wrong.”
“If only life was as simple as mathematics,” Martin murmured.
Everyone was glad when the Punchinellos eventually came to remove the food. It was a torment to have it in front of them. Even though they’d eaten more than they had in ages, there was still room for extra and they’d got into the habit of eating as much as they could, whene
ver they could, because they had no idea when they’d see the next meal.
“Only three more hours till Flee the Beast,” the speakers heralded. “All the e-readers are out there now. Well done to everyone who donated. You’ve made the hopes of everyone in this grey place possible and we’ll all soon be leaving it together. Now make sure they’re fully charged and get yourselves to a TV screen or your Internet device of choice. You won’t want to miss a second of this.”
After the feast had been taken away, the children were permitted to wander freely about the gaol chamber. Yikker had whispered to Maggie that she could visit him in the dungeon if she wanted.
“In your dirty dreams, padre,” she replied, reaching into her pocket. “And, if you so much as touch me, I’ll kill you. That’s a promise.”
Yikker sidled away, licking his teeth.
The next time they saw the guards, they had changed out of their bizarre and filthy costumes and were wearing brand-new versions of their red and yellow Mooncaster uniforms.
Headed by the Jockey, they came stumping in, hauling eight clothing rails after them. Peculiar-looking garments were swinging on the hangers. Maggie saw a lot of white fleeces and some bulky, furry costumes with floppy feet that looked suspiciously like pantomime horses.
“Gather, gather!” the Jockey called, clapping his hands and summoning the children round. “Here are your outfits for tonight. Also, you will find, taped to the front of each rail, a list of names, and each name has a number that corresponds to an item of apparel. The Holy Enchanter has been most specific, so do not deviate from his instructions. That would be most unwise, would it not, Mr Maths Teacher?”
Martin nodded. “Best do as he says. Don’t give the guards any excuse to use their swords.”
“Gah!” Bezuel grunted in disappointment.
“So be quick, be quick!” the Jockey commanded. “Don your outfits without hesitation. Then the warders will escort you to your positions about the castle, in readiness for the great broadcast. This world awaits you. Such merry sport it will be! Haw haw haw.”