by Robin Jarvis
There was nobody there. He shivered slightly. This bloke sounded like a right murdering fruitcake. How had he ever come to write a kids’ book? And what on earth for?
Still nibbling the neck of his jumper, he returned to the screen.
Life back in England When Austerly finally returned to England in 1907, he founded many secret organisations, some of which still operate today.[8] Unlike other occultists of the period, he shunned publicity and there are few details to document his subsequent life. Many of the files held in the public records office were destroyed by a freak occurrence of damp and are now unreadable.[9] However, from 1927 it is thought he was engaged in some major undertaking, which occupied him for the next nine years, but what that work was, and if it was ever completed, remains unknown.
Death Confusion even surrounds the manner of his death. During a Beltane gathering of the Inner Circle at his home in Suffolk, he disappeared in mysterious circumstances and was never heard of again. Local police assumed he had been murdered by one or more of the other occultists, but his body was never discovered and their testimonies no longer exist.[10][11] His estate is maintained by a solicitor in Ipswich. His only beneficiary, his younger sister, died in 1954 in the insane asylum that had been her home since his disappearance.[12]
“Sick,” Paul breathed. “So he was some sort of devil worshipper? What took him nine years? Writing that book?”
He clicked off the entry and returned to the results page. It took a few minutes to digest what he had read. Could it really be the same person?
“It’s just mad,” he told himself.
His eyes wandered down the results list. One link looked promising. He opened it.
It was a website called ‘The Saxon Spookers’.
Hi!!!
We are a group of friends who absolutely LOVE TV’s Most Haunted. (Come back, Derek Acorah! And let me run my fingers through your bouffant hair!) We meet every third Thursday of the month in the White Horse, Felixstowe and discuss the programme. We are very interested in ghosts and legends and all things spooky so we decided to form our own little paranormal investigation group and that’s how the Saxon Spookers was born. We aim to visit local sites that are reputed to be haunted and conduct our own amateur, but enthusiastic, investigations – and have a good time along the way.
Paul grinned. There followed a series of photographs of these four adult friends, taken with an infrared camera in the dark, with mock frightened expressions on their faces. They seemed great fun and Paul liked the look of them. Each one had a potted biography next to their photo, together with a list of likes and dislikes. The main Chronicler of their exploits was a divorcee called Trudy Bishop. She and the others had chosen four places in Suffolk to intrepidly hunt down ghosts over the forthcoming months. Paul checked the date. This website had been started the previous year.
The first place scheduled to be ‘investigated’ by the Saxon Spookers was the Landguard Fort, followed by the ruins of Greyfriars at Dunwich, the Hare and Hounds Inn at East Bergholt and finally – the house of Austerly Fellows…
Paul sat upright in his chair. Each account was on a fresh page and he clicked through them. The reports of these experiences were illustrated with photos. There was the Landguard: they hadn’t had permission to spend the night inside so they conducted an inept investigation around the perimeter and happily scared one another in the dark. The boy quickly realised that these vigils and experiments were hardly serious or scientific and were more of an excuse to do something unusual of an evening and drink a few cans in different surroundings. Trudy and her friends were more like teenagers than people in their forties. Were grown-ups often like this? he wondered, thinking about Martin.
He flicked his eyes down the photos of the ruined friary up the coast at Dunwich, where the ever-hungry sea had gobbled up the town and its eight churches. The Spookers had hoped to catch a glimpse of the ghostly Franciscan monks who supposedly roam the grounds there, but had caught nothing on film and Trudy had stepped in something decidedly unholy.
Then there was the Hare and Hounds Inn, to hunt down a ghost with the totally non-supernatural-sounding name of Fred. Lots of pictures of raised, clinking glasses and this time they were joined by someone’s auntie, who claimed to have mediumistic gifts. Apparently it was a successful night: the auntie had sensed a presence in the bar of a very sociable spirit who enjoyed mingling with the customers and pulling the fruit machine’s plug out of its socket. The Saxon Spookers considered this to be an absolute triumph and prepared for their next investigation eagerly.
Paul opened the fourth and last page. There was only one photograph of a sombre, large grey house surrounded by trees. A few lines of text accompanied it.
This is the house of Austerly Fellows. I wish we’d never gone. I wish we’d never started any of this. We should have listened to Reg’s auntie. It’s dangerous to mess about with this kind of thing. We treated it as a game, but dear God, it wasn’t. There are things out there none of us can understand. If you poke into dark corners, eventually something is going to be disturbed and jump out at you. I can’t believe how stupid we were.
I’m so sorry, Geoff. We miss you.
Trudy x
The page was dated five months ago. Paul stared back at the photograph of the ugly house. What had happened the night they went there? There was only one way to find out.
Paul quickly did a search for her on Facebook and there she was, Trudy Bishop. She worked in an estate agent’s in the High Street. Without hesitation, he sent her a message.
Hi,
you don’t know me, but I saw your site about the Saxon Spookers. Could I ask you a few questions? I need to know about Austerly Fellows.
Thanx
Paul Thornbury
He hoped she would reply soon. With that done, he got up and was about to go downstairs to see how another over-salted lasagne was coming along, when he noticed the copy of Dancing Jacks lying on the end of his bed. He hadn’t seen it when he came in. It certainly wasn’t there that morning when he left for school. Maybe his mother had put it there. Or maybe she hadn’t.
Paul stared at it suspiciously, half expecting it to move. He was ready to believe anything about that book now. The faded green and cream cover that had seemed so charming when he first saw it on Sunday now repulsed him. Knowing what the contents had done to people, he saw it as threatening and deceitful. It was a cheerfully painted mask to disguise the evil within.
His eyelids closed.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the bed and the book was in his hands.
The boy did not know how he had got there. He gazed at the bound work of Austerly Fellows and the flesh on his neck crawled once again. He could almost feel a cold breath brush softly across the back of his head.
He uttered a helpless gasp and tried to pull his eyes away from the cover. He wanted to look at the door and run towards it. But the book wouldn’t let him.
Then, very slowly, he was forced to open it.
He saw the map. Elements of the drawing seemed to be moving. The banners were fluttering on the castle’s battlements; the gibbet was swinging; a breeze was ruffling the treetops of the forest that grew around the witch’s tower.
Paul’s young, shaking fingers turned the first page and he saw the picture of the empty throne, then the introduction by the infernal Mr Fellows.
He turned again – to the first chapter.
“Come and get it!” his mother’s voice yelled up from the kitchen.
The spell was broken. The boy shrieked and flung the book away from him as if he had been bitten. He breathed hard. It had almost got him. He had almost read the first line and then he would have been lost – like Graeme and Anthony and the rest.
Dancing Jacks was lying open but face down by the skirting board. Paul could not bear to look at it. What had that evil man done? What foul inspiration had Austerly Fellows poured into its pages? What diabolic hands had guided his pen?
Paul shive
red then cried out again. The book had moved. It had turned over while he was not looking. The open pages were now visible and displayed a drawing of the Jack of Diamonds. The character bore a resemblance to Paul.
The boy snatched his feet off the floor and tucked them under him.
“Martin!” he shouted. “Martin!”
There was no response. If the maths teacher had his headphones on in his sanctum, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything.
Paul glanced at the door and was about to call for his mother when he realised the book had moved again. This time it was halfway across the carpet. It was trying to get back to the bed. It was going to make him read.
“No!” the boy whispered.
Ten minutes later, Carol called up to both of them again. Their tea was getting cold on the table. There was no answer. It had been hell at the hospital that day. The press were all over the place again, trying to interview anyone who had known Shaun Preston, desperate to dig up any dirt on him. Carol was exhausted and in no mood to be taken for granted by the men in her life. She stomped upstairs, ready to drag the pair of them down by their ears.
She found her son’s room empty. Thinking he was in the sanctum, she looked in.
Martin was standing at the window staring out at the garden below. The headphones were still in his ears.
“What the hell is he doing?” he asked. Carol stood beside him and looked down.
There was Paul. He had dragged the rusted barbecue, which they never used, on to the patio and had started a fire in it with old newspapers.
Curious, they both went downstairs.
“What’s going on?” Carol called as she stepped on to the patio.
Her son poked the flames with a long barbecue fork. Thick smoke and glowing ashes were streaming upward.
“Paul?” Martin said as they approached him. “What’s this about?”
The boy held up his other hand. In it was his copy of Dancing Jacks. He had wrapped layers and layers of Sellotape around it, binding it tightly shut. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“It has to be burned,” he told them. “It’s not safe.”
Carol and Martin stared at him, shocked and concerned.
“You’re going to burn a book?” his mother asked, perplexed.
“It’s too dangerous to have in the house,” he answered. “It’s bad, Mum. It does things to people.”
Martin took a wary step closer. “Paul,” he began. “I know you had a frightening experience today. Why don’t we go inside and talk about it? You don’t need to do this.”
“Yes, I do,” the boy replied gravely. “Before this thing gets at us as well. It has to be burned! It’s evil!” He prepared to throw the book into the flames.
“But I’ve read it, Paul,” Martin said. “There’s nothing harmful in it, nothing that would cause your friends to snap like they did. It’s just an old-fashioned, and pretty dull, kids’ book.”
The boy wavered. “You’ve read it?” he asked uncertainly.
“Enough to be bored by it.”
“You mean that?”
“Jedi’s honour.”
“Did you rock backwards and forwards?”
“Eh? It didn’t play Status Quo at me.”
Paul moved around the barbecue, placing it between him and the adults.
“And your name’s still Martin?” he asked.
Carol was annoyed. “Stop,” she said sternly. “What’s got into you? You don’t mess about with fires. Come in, right now.”
“Is your name still Martin?” the boy repeated, taking no notice of her.
Martin nodded slowly. “You know it is,” he said, really getting worried for him.
“Then tell me the Ismus is a stupid freak.”
“What?”
“The Ismus is a stupid freak – say it!”
Martin thought it would be best to humour him. “OK, the Ismus is a stupid freak.”
Paul let out a breath of relief. That was proof enough. He looked at the sealed book in his hand and, with contempt and revulsion, cast it into the blazing barbecue.
“You didn’t have to burn it!” his mother shouted. “You could have given it to a charity shop.”
The boy shook his head, watching as the edges of the hardbacked cover blackened and smoked. The Sellotape withered and melted and Paul averted his eyes before it could flap open. “It’s the only way to be sure,” he said, quoting Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.
Carol and Martin didn’t know what to say. Paul had never behaved like this.
Suddenly there was a splutter and crackle in the flames as the pages caught light. The fire burned emerald and crimson and a pillar of fierce colour went shooting skyward.
Everyone jumped back. There was a roar and a burst of purple sparks. The garden was lit by a brilliant glare that dazzled them. Paul covered his face with his hands, but as he snapped his eyes shut, he thought he had glimpsed something, something travelling up that column of flame. It was so bright it remained for some moments as a ghostly image on his retina and terrified him. He fell to the ground.
And then it went dark. A chill breeze came gusting into the garden. The fire was extinguished and oily black smoke coiled out of the barbecue. Only ash was left behind.
Carol and Martin wiped their faces. Carol crouched over her son and quickly but expertly checked for burns.
“Did you see it?” Paul cried, struggling out of her arms and running to the barbecue. Raking the fork through the ashes, he shuddered then threw it away.
“See it?” Carol asked, her concern changing to anger. “You could have killed us. You’re not stupid so what did you do that for?”
Her son looked at her in confusion. “Do what?”
“The fireworks,” Martin answered. “Why did you put fireworks in there? Good God, Paul. They could have exploded in our faces.”
“You know how many horrific burns we get in the hospital every November because of careless, stupid idiots like you!” Carol shouted. “I just can’t believe you did that! I can’t believe it! Where did you get them from?”
The boy stared at them, wide-eyed. “I didn’t!” he protested. “There weren’t any fireworks. It was the book!”
“Paul!” Martin said sharply. “Drop it.”
“Why won’t you believe me?” he cried. “Since when have I ever messed about with stuff like that? It was the Dancing Jacks – I swear it!”
Their faces told him they would never believe his version, even though it was the truth. It was an impossible thing to accept. He thought so – and he had actually seen it. There was no way he could ever convince them or anyone else.
“Get inside,” Martin ordered.
The boy glanced upwards. He knew what he had seen. He knew it was real. In the middle of those flames, streaking into the sky, there had been a figure – a figure with horns.
Chapter 19
So in rides he, the best of all. The Jack of Clubs, so strong and tall. Chivalrous and brave is this dashing Knave. Animals and damsels they are in his thrall.
THE PIER AT Felixstowe was once the longest in East Anglia. When it first opened in 1905, it stretched 800 metres into the North Sea, with a landing stage for steamers at the very end. It had even sported an electric tram to transport passengers and their luggage to and from the shore. Now only a little over an eighth of the pier remained and that was unsafe and closed to the public. The amusement arcade at the shore end still buzzed and dinged and blinked with lights, but the high planked roadway over the water would never open again and would eventually be demolished, by man or the sea.
The building in which the amusements were housed was raised on concrete pillars over the downward-sloping shore. The waves slopped and swilled around the base of them, patiently nibbling and gnawing away.
That evening, under the green mossy concrete of the arcade’s elevated floor, a lone figure sat brooding in the growing darkness.
Conor Westlake came here when he was troubled. He liked to sit on the damp
, smooth sand in the spot where, when he gazed out to sea, the wooden posts of the pier were aligned directly in front of him and receded out to the horizon, forming a pillared corridor. He would sit there, projecting his mind along it, trying to leave his body and its problems behind, to journey out to the doorway of light at the far end and escape everything.
It had been an uncomfortable day. Owen Williams had told him that Kevin Stipe’s parents had asked if he would be a pall-bearer at their son’s funeral. Many of the young people who had died in the Disaster were being buried next Sunday. There was also going to be a special memorial service for them that morning. Owen wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to refuse, but he didn’t want to carry a coffin with the dead body of his friend in it.
Conor had listened to his concerns with a guilty heart. Kevin’s parents really should be told that their son died trying to help the others out of that car. He had died a hero. Conor couldn’t hold on to that secret any longer. He had to tell them, and the police, everything he knew. First thing tomorrow, he’d call the incident number and make a statement.
He had been so preoccupied with this heavy burden that he hadn’t been aware of the strange happenings at school. At lunchtime the number of lads who enjoyed a kick-about was depleted and when he saw them sitting cross-legged on the edge of the field, reading, he hadn’t thought anything of it. He hadn’t even heard about the attack on Mrs Early.
Taking out his mobile, he called up Emma Taylor’s number. There were grieving people who could be consoled by what he had to tell them. She was as impervious to feelings as the concrete posts around him. Knowing what he had to do to clear his conscience, he decided. His thumb jabbed at the buttons hastily as he texted her. He didn’t owe her any consideration, but it wouldn’t hurt to warn the selfish cow.
To: Emma
