Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax Read online

  The lesson proceeded. Without her two friends, Emma’s disruptions were limited to moans of how difficult the equations were – or jibes at the “hilarious losers” who had “butchered their blazers”. None of the twenty-two card-wearing pupils responded to her insults, no matter how hard she tried to provoke them. They got on with their work in silence. Martin watched them with concern. It simply wasn’t normal.

  At the end of the double period, when Martin was setting the homework, Emma sat slumped, sullen and scowling, sucking the end of her pen as if it was a thin cigar.

  “Can’t do this,” she declared floppily. “Don’t understand it.”

  “Everyone else is managing,” the teacher replied. “Maybe if you’d listened when I was explaining, you’d be able to.”

  “I was!”

  “No, you weren’t, you were drawing a beard and glasses on Paris Hilton in your magazine.”

  “You was droning on, it didn’t make no sense. You’re a rubbish teacher.”

  “Do you really have to be so insolent and rude all the time?”

  “Just being honest.”

  “No, you’re obnoxious and insulting – there’s a massive difference, Emma.”

  “I’m just being me, ain’t I?”

  “Why do you think that being you is anything to be proud of? It really isn’t. You’re thick scum. Try and be something better.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “I think you’ll find I can – I’m the teacher.”

  “You’ve never taught me anything.”

  Martin laughed. “For once we agree,” he said. “In all the years you’ve attended this school, I haven’t taught you a single thing. And that’s why you’re going to fail the exam in the summer and have a totally rubbish life scrounging off the state.”

  “Tell me how to do it then.”

  “Have you got thirty quid?”

  “Eh?”

  “That’s how much private tuition costs per hour. I’m not going to waste any more of this lesson repeating myself. If you haven’t got the sense or manners to listen the first time, I’m certainly not going to give up my free time for nothing.”

  One or two of the unaffected sniggered at her, but Emma pulled a disinterested face and shrugged it off.

  The bell rang. Five children scrambled to leave. The card-wearers stood, almost in unison, and began filing out.

  “So do you think it was Daz or Persil, Sir?” Emma asked the teacher abruptly. It was Martin’s turn not to understand. Emma threw her stuff into her bag.

  “What they had their brains washed in,” she sniped as she barged by everyone. “I might be thick scum, but I’m not a mindless zombie like these sad cabbages. You, and the rest of this grotty town, need to wake up and smell the cappuccino because this… this ain’t normal. Out of my way, losers.”

  Martin knew she had a point. Something was very wrong. He gathered up his books, put them in his briefcase and followed the children out. At the door he paused. Sandra Dixon was still in the room. He was about to call and hurry her along, but what he saw made him catch his breath.

  The girl had walked slowly across the room until she was standing next to the waste bin. For a moment she gazed down into it. Then stooping, she reached inside and fished out the thing that Owen had dropped there. It squelched in her fingers and was still glistening with his saliva. Pencil shavings were stuck to it, but that didn’t deter her. Without hesitation, she placed it in her mouth and began to chew, closing her eyes happily.

  Martin was too astonished and revolted to say anything. He leaned against the corridor wall and the Dixon girl sauntered past, oblivious to his presence.

  “My God,” he whispered. “What the hell is going on?”

  It was morning break and Paul was sitting alone at the edge of the playground, observing the other children. The number wearing playing cards was almost double that of yesterday. They were either gathered in groups, reading together from that hateful book, or were practising formal dances or exchanging courtly gossip. The lips of some of them were stained a sickly, yellowish-grey. He could not guess what that meant.

  The boy longed for the day to be over so he could go and see Gerald and tell him everything he knew. He was sure he would listen.

  “Paul?” a voice said nearby. The boy looked up and there was Martin.

  “What do you want?” Paul asked crossly. “I won’t visit that counsellor!”

  “Calm down, I know. I’ve been thinking… what you said about that book.”

  Paul got to his feet. “What about it?” he asked.

  “What were you trying to tell your mum and me the other night when you burned it?”

  “Why do you want to know now for? What’s changed your mind?”

  “Look around you!” Martin hissed, nodding at the huddled groups of children chanting and rocking as they read. “Something weird is going on.”

  “And you’d really listen to me – without butting in?”

  “I’m many things, Paul, but I’m not completely dense. This thing, whatever it is, is starting to scare me.”

  “Welcome to the club,” the boy said grimly. “You’ve got no idea.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  The bell for the end of break rang across the playground. Paul picked up his rucksack. He wanted to make Martin feel bad for not giving him a chance to explain before.

  “You know,” he said, “if I’d have told you it was down to an alien invasion, you’d have believed that instead of what’s really happening. You spend so much time watching fantasy stuff and collecting the merchandise, but you don’t recognise the real thing when it’s happening right under your nose.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Paul looked up at the sky. “So many movies about predators coming from outer space,” he said. “But that’s not where the real dangers are. People in the olden days knew, before science told them it was stupid.” He pointed to the ground. “Down there, Martin. Deep down there, that’s where it’s coming from.”

  The maths teacher stared at him. “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “There’s no such thing as aliens. Never was, just a diversion to make us look in the opposite direction and forget. The monsters are already here, Martin – down below. They’ve always been here and that book, that evil book, is linked to them.”

  “Paul,” the man said firmly. “There’s no such thing as devils and demons either, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “Yes, there are,” the boy countered. “They’ve been around longer than telescopes and computers and satellites and everything else that says they haven’t. I saw one flying up from the barbecue. I did. It wasn’t fireworks. Everything you ever thought was superstition and nonsense… is true. Evil is out there. It’s in each one of them books. You only have to look at what’s going on in this school to see that.”

  Martin didn’t know what to say. The boy was so definite and certain. He was obviously far more disturbed than either he or Carol had realised – and yet…

  They were the only ones left in the playground. Everyone else had gone inside for the next lesson. Paul saw that Martin didn’t believe a word he had said. No surprise there then.

  “I’ve got English now,” he said, moving off.

  “Let’s carry on with this at lunchtime!” Martin called after him.

  “What’s the point?” the boy replied. “It’s right in front of you and you still refuse to see. If you’d only Google the man who wrote Dancing Jacks then you might start.”

  “Come find me in the staffroom at lunch?”

  Paul turned. It wasn’t Martin’s fault. He was trying his best. He broke into a grin.

  “OK, Obi-Wan,” he promised. “But it’ll put you right off your sandwiches!”

  Martin smiled back at him. “At least you didn’t call me Jar Jar,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”

  His gaze dropped to the grey tarmac of the ground beneath his feet and he tapped
it with his shoe.

  “Don’t be soft, Baxter,” he told himself. “There’s got to be a proper, reasonable explanation for all this.”

  Paul hurried to his next class. The other children were already settled when he came running in. He was happy to see Mrs Early sitting at her desk once more. The English teacher still bore the scratches on her face where Anthony and Graeme had attacked her. The long sleeves of her cardigan concealed the bruises they had inflicted. Every child recognised the garment as the thing she had been knitting over the past few months. The black wool, shot through with glittery purple strands, was unmistakable. Apparently there had been enough of the stuff left over to crochet a snood for her hair as well. It made her look quaintly old-fashioned and matronly.

  “Sorry I’m late, Miss!” Paul said.

  The woman smiled at him. “Only by a couple of minutes,” she said in her languid voice. “Besides, you were one of those who came to my rescue the other day. I haven’t rewarded you for that yet.”

  “Nice to have you back, Miss,” a girl piped up.

  “Thank you,” she said warmly. “So let’s make this a fun, enjoyable lesson. No tests, no comprehensions, no written work at all.”

  A cheer went up from the children – or at least the ones who weren’t wearing playing cards. There were twelve of the affected in Paul’s class.

  He had noticed at registration that morning how many more were possessed by Dancing Jacks. He nodded at how appropriate that word was. The evil book really had ‘possessed’ them.

  There was little Molly Barnes and her two friends, then the five who had gone to see the counsellor the previous day, and four of their mates. The cards they wore were different numbers and suits, but there was nothing above a seven and there were no picture cards. Paul saw that Molly’s mouth was that livid, unnatural colour he had seen on the lips of others in the playground. It looked like she had been eating a luminous ice lolly while sucking a pencil – and making a real mess of it.

  “What are we going to do then, Miss?” Gillian Gregor asked.

  “I thought I’d read to you,” Mrs Early told everyone, with a dreamy smile on her face. “Something inspiring and wonderful. Close your eyes and be transported to a magickal place by the power of words written a long time ago by the hand of a genius.”

  “Ugh… Shakespeare,” Terry Farnham uttered grumpily.

  “No,” the teacher replied. “Not him. We don’t need him now.”

  The hairs on the back of Paul’s neck began to prickle. It was the same sensation he had felt in his bedroom, the night he had burned the book.

  Mrs Early regarded her students with a benign smile. Her eyes were unusually dark and glassy.

  “You will so adore this,” she promised.

  A book was lying open on her desk. It was the book she had taken home after the attack on her, the book she had read to try and understand what had happened that day. The woman turned to the first page and began.

  Fear clutched at Paul’s heart.

  “Beyond the Silvering Sea, within thirteen green, girdling hills…”

  Her unhurried, melodious voice read to them steadily and the children wearing playing cards gasped with rapture. They began to rock backwards and forwards. The others turned to look at them in puzzlement. Mrs Early read on. The daylight dimmed outside the windows and shadows filled the corners of the classroom.

  Paul rubbed his eyes and fought to keep awake.

  “No,” he murmured. “Mustn’t…”

  Now he was creeping through a stone passageway, wearing a rich velvet tunic of horizontal scarlet and gold stripes. A mask of black silk with two eyeholes snipped out of it disguised his face. It was the dead of night in Mooncaster. He was making his way to the West Tower, to the apartments of the Royal House of Hearts. Vivid tapestries hung from the walls and flaming torches in iron brackets sent shadows of the deepest violet bouncing along the galleries.

  Passing under a vaulted archway, he stepped out on to the battlements. The midnight air was heavy with fragrance: jasmine and night-scented stock. Gold and silver moths were waltzing above the gardens of the Queen of Hearts. Directly ahead, at the corner of the battlements, the West Tower reared up. The lustrous white stonework gleamed in the starlight and the heraldic banners bearing the badge of Hearts fluttered gently in the perfumed breeze.

  He held his breath and proceeded cautiously. The Punchinello Guards were at large. The Under King had requested their number be doubled about the West Tower. He had taken the fabulous Healing Ruby from his treasure house in order to sleep with it under his pillow. He had been disturbed by nightmares of late and, for the past five nights, had awakened shaking and weeping with fright. He was sure the ruby would cure him of these terrible dreams.

  Such a jewel was too great a temptation for the Jack of Diamonds. In his silk mask and wearing the silent shoes given to him by Malinda, the retired Fairy Godmother, he stole ever closer to the gilded steps that wound up to the tower.

  Suddenly a small, ugly creature, whose large head was attached to its chest, without a neck, sprang out in front of him. The hook-nosed Punchinello Guard barked a challenge and jabbed a vicious-looking spear at him.

  “Stand and disclose!” it demanded, the beady eyes swivelling in their sockets.

  The Knave of Diamonds stifled a yell and thought desperately. The Punchinellos loved to kill, that was the burning passion that drove them. What could he do? Yammering a bloodthirsty shriek, the hideous, hump-backed imp came bounding towards him…

  Paul snapped his head up. He was in the classroom again.

  “NO!” he shouted.

  With a tremendous effort of will, he lurched from his chair. His legs were weak and unsteady and he almost collapsed straight away. Breathing hard, he stared around the class. The other children appeared groggy or asleep, but those wearing playing cards sat bolt upright in their seats – their eyes wide and glittering.

  Mrs Early paused in her reading and looked over.

  “What are you doing?” he spluttered.

  The teacher smiled. “Welcoming you to the blessed Kingdom,” she answered softly. “Sit and listen. It is a better world there – a keener world. It pulses with splendour and vigour. There is breathtaking beauty and excitements you will never know here. Come, Jack, your dance is only just beginning.”

  The boy shook his head. “My name is Paul!” he protested. “Paul Thornbury!”

  “You are the Jack of Diamonds,” Mrs Early stated. “What a rascally Knave you are. How you set the Court cavorting!”

  “I’m Paul!” he shouted back at her.

  Molly Barnes and her friends turned to him, their eyes and grins fixed.

  “Jack Jack Jack Jack…” they chanted.

  The boy stumbled from his desk.

  “Wake up!” he yelled, shaking two lads nearby. “Wake up!” They mumbled under their breaths and their heads flopped forward.

  “All of you!” Paul shrieked. “Wake up!”

  He blundered between the desks, trying to rouse his classmates. He shook and slapped them, but it was no use. They were like rag dolls in his hands. The spell had already gripped and claimed them.

  Paul rounded on Mrs Early. “Stop this!” he begged her. “It’s evil. Stop it!”

  The woman looked away from him and returned her attention to the pages.

  “And when the Dawn Prince was in exile, he sent neither message nor sign back to his Kingdom. So, whilst the Ismus and his subjects waited, they filled their days with merrymaking and happy pleasures…”

  Paul’s limbs grew so heavy, he almost crashed to the floor. There was a buzzing in his head.

  The Jack of Diamonds stared at the dagger in his hand. It was dripping with the imp’s dark blood. It had been a hideous struggle. Punchinellos fight like no other creature in Mooncaster. They are wild and ferocious and fly into battle with a glee that alarms and dismays their enemies. Jack had been lucky this time. This Guard was so thrilled and overexcited to have caught a
n intruder, it had gloated before striking and so Jack lashed out first.

  The imp’s frilled yellow tunic was soaked with its own blood. But the Guard was not dead. It lay there gasping and croaking like a twitching toad. What a din it made. Others would hear it. They would come running and squawking and then the noble would be captured or killed.

  “Tsk… I can’t have that now,” Jack whispered. “I’ve got an itch for jools.”

  Raising the dagger once more, he silenced the Punchinello forever.

  Paul Thornbury choked and lumbered through the classroom. He had to get out. He had to escape the words of Austerly Fellows. They were echoing inside his mind, dragging him to that other place.

  He threw himself towards the door, but Mrs Early’s eyes flicked across to Molly Barnes and her friends. The three girls leaped up and raced past the staggering boy. They slammed themselves against the door and pushed him back when he drew near.

  “Let me out!” he demanded, holding his pounding head in his hands. “I won’t listen – I won’t!”

  Mrs Early continued to read.

  Jack dragged the imp’s lifeless body out of sight. It was only a matter of time before the others caught the scent of spilled blood. Punchinellos didn’t have those grotesque noses for nothing. He had to be quick. He ran up the steps and into the tower.

  The court of the Under King was fast asleep. Pages dozed on fur-strewn benches and knights slumbered peacefully next to their empty armour. The royal apartments were at the very top of the tower. Jack hurried up the spiralling steps, pausing only to dare look in on the chamber where the Jill of Hearts slept.

  A lantern of blue glass cast a trembling, submarine glamour over the room. Upon a cot, close to the muslin-draped bed, the governess was sound asleep, her hair still netted in her snood. Jack gazed upon Jill’s bed. Through the creamy, gossamer-like swathes, he could see the girl’s pale face and the contours of her body beneath the silver silk coverlet.