by Robin Jarvis
To Gavin’s irritation he saw that the mourners were unusually calm and reserved. He couldn’t see any handkerchief action, not even from the grannies. The photographers weren’t pleased about that either. Then Gavin noticed something…
The children were turning up in their school uniforms, but there was something peculiar about them. What had they done to their sleeves? Gavin peered at his small LCD screen and zoomed in. Were those playing cards pinned to the lapels? What was this? Had the funerals been sponsored by an online poker site? And what on earth was going on with their mouths? Why were their lips that putrid colour? What had everyone been eating? Lyndsay wouldn’t be happy with this crappy footage. He could see the paps were grumbling among themselves too.
More and more people were arriving. They began to fill the churchyard and then the hearses sailed serenely through the gates. The first funeral was a double one. They were two teenage girls. Because they had been friends, their families had expressed the desire that it be a joint ceremony. Gavin pushed through the crowd to station himself in the best position to capture the stricken faces of the immediate family. Then he was so surprised at what he saw, he forgot about filming altogether.
He had never seen anything like the wreaths on those hearses. On the roof of one was a great big red diamond, made from hundreds of flowers, and on the roof of the other car was a huge black club.
“I’ve seen it all now,” he muttered. But he hadn’t.
The coffins were slid from the hearses and the pall-bearers took them on their shoulders. They too had cut up their suit jackets in order to have those strange hanging sleeves.
Gavin focused in on one of the girls’ mothers. She was composed and dry-eyed. In fact, her glazed expression looked more bored than sorrowful.
The chief undertaker stepped to the front of the coffins and placed the black top hat on his head. Gavin gasped. Surely not! Yes – there was a playing card tucked into the black ribbon of his hat! Gavin’s disappointment at the lack of emotion now flipped into excitement. There was something wrong here, something way off normal. And he was going to film every warped moment of it.
Dodging back through the crowd so he could get a front-on wide shot, standing by the church door, he held the camera as steady as his feverish anticipation allowed.
The undertaker began the slow walk to the church and the pall-bearers followed. The packed churchyard maintained a respectful silence. There wasn’t a single sniffle. And then…
“Wait!” a voice called out.
A murmur ran through the crowds and every head turned to look beyond the gates. Someone was coming.
“Are you getting this?” Lyndsay growled at him as she barged her way to his side. “What the flaming Panorama is going on?”
“No idea,” he whispered back. “But you wanted gold and this is it.”
“This is bloody platinum with diamond knobs on, Gavin,” she said eagerly. “This is better than a Christmas EastEnders. Here, let me get in shot for this. Shoot past me, but I have to be in these images! This might get seen around the world.”
“Wait!” the voice called again. It was the voice of a girl. “Stop the funeral!”
The undertaker turned smartly about on one foot. He held up his hand for the pall-bearers to halt. Everyone heard the clip-clip of stiletto heels marching along the road and a buzz of recognition spread through those nearest the gate.
Gavin was one of the last to see who it was. The ruddy coffins were in the way! Then, on the camera’s LCD screen, he saw a pair of glossy black ankle boots striding into view. He panned upward. The attached legs were in netted tights and those legs went on and on.
Lyndsay’s mouth dropped open. It was one of the shortest dresses she had ever seen outside a raunchy nightclub and it was certainly something she would never wear, nor indeed could wear, with her cellulite and chankles.
But what the audacious black outfit lacked at the front was made up for at the back. It had a train of taffeta that trailed on the ground behind. The bodice of the dress was decorated with countless diamantés that formed the shape of a large sparkling spade over the stomach.
Gavin tried to get a close-up of the face, but the outrageous newcomer was wearing a black silk hat with a matching veil of lace that covered her features. She was certainly young though, that much he could make out.
Walking between the coffins, the girl traced her silk-gloved fingers along the sides of them. Then she struck a pose and, with a dramatic flourish, lifted the veil from her face.
“The Jill of Spades!” the crowd exclaimed. Someone began to applaud. Here and there were chortles of laughter. One of the dead girls’ fathers smiled indulgently.
Lyndsay stared back at Gavin and mouthed her disbelief to the camera. The photographers were snapping away furiously.
Emma Taylor made a great show of kissing each of the coffins and was certain the photographers caught her from every angle. Then she spied Gavin and turned to face his lens.
“Ashleigh and Keeley,” she proclaimed. “Were Emma’s… were my best friends. I have come here today to make my confession. I was the one who caused the Disaster. I, Emma Taylor, was in that car next to Danny Marlow. I was the one who made him crash it. I stubbed my cigarette on his hand. I set fire to the car. The blood of forty-one innocent people is on my hands. I am responsible for all of this. I – Emma Taylor! Blessed be!”
She tossed her head triumphantly. The crowd repeated her last two words with a great, jubilant shout and then began to cheer. Hooray for the Jill of Spades! She could always be relied on to liven things up – even in this dull, unreal world. The photographers went wild. They rushed forward and surrounded her. Lyndsay hurriedly joined them, pulling Gavin after. Emerging from the church, the vicar nodded his approval. “Yes, blessed be!” he called out, clasping a green and cream book firmly to his chest.
With her hands on her hips, the Jill of Spades threw back her head and laughed.
This is what the girl Emma had always wanted – to be the centre of attention – to be photographed and be in newspapers and magazines. If she, the Jill of Spades, had to endure this dreary dream life when she was away from Mooncaster then she might as well make it as interesting and entertaining as possible. She would make the girl Emma famous – or infamous, it didn’t matter which here. As long as people knew who she was, that was the only important factor in this grey place.
Lyndsay could hardly believe her astounding luck. She was the only television reporter there. What a scoop! Oh, she could already see the awards lining up on her mantelpiece. She could even see Tara’s bright green face. All she had to do was get an exclusive with this insane girl before the police waded in to arrest her.
“You on me?” she barked at Gavin as she ducked in front of the lens. “Yes? Great. Hang on – my lips are like sandpaper. Wait a second.”
She reached into her pocket. One of the youngsters she had spoken to earlier had generously given her a pot of lip balm. She unscrewed the lid hastily and dipped a finger in.
“Here, give me some of that,” Gavin said, moistening his own lips.
Chapter 30
And though the moon may sink behind those green, girdling hills, Mooncaster will ever stand proud and defiant. None shall shake its foundations – they are stronger than any mind can guess.
AS THE STRANGE scenes unfolded outside the church, down by the seafront a very different event was taking place.
In the shadow of the Martello tower, where the boot fair was normally held every Sunday, that morning there was only one vehicle. No others were parked there, selling the usual bric-a-brac and bits of junk. Instead the waste ground seethed with a mass of clamouring people.
The vehicle was a new and gleaming black transit van with tinted windows. It was tucked into one corner of that empty lot and the trestle table in front of its open rear doors was stacked with copies of Dancing Jacks and jars of minchet.
Labella the High Priestess was there, supervising the distribution of
the sacred text. She was flanked by the Harlequin Priests. Eager, anxious customers, desperate to obtain their own copies, were handing over huge sums of money to the Lockpick who deposited it in a big, metal strongbox. Even the Ismus had underestimated how successful the Dancing Jacks would be. Thousands of books were now in circulation in Felixstowe. Within a week, they had managed to empty four of the six large crates they had found in the cellar of Austerly Fellows’ house. After only twenty minutes of setting up the stall that morning, they were already reaching the bottom of the fifth. There would not be nearly enough for everyone there.
The Lady Labella smiled to herself when she saw a woman in yellow flip-flops elbow her way to the front. She recognised her from last Sunday.
“I need a book!” the woman pleaded, brandishing a wad of twenties and fifties.
“Have you changed your mind?” Labella asked archly. “Isn’t your god-daughter as particular as you thought?”
“It’s not for her!” the woman spat fiercely. “It’s for me! I have to have it! I can’t live without it! I’ll give you anything – anything! I’ve got 700 quid here in cash, but I can get more tomorrow when the bank opens.”
The High Priestess’s smile widened, knowing what the Ismus would have done. Beside her the Harlequins pointed to a dark colour on their patchwork robes with the pokers in their hands. Labella nodded in agreement.
“Maybe next Sunday,” she said.
The woman let out a shriek and tried to push the money on her. She made a grab for the books, but the people behind dragged her away roughly. The banknotes fell out of her grasp and went blowing over the low sea wall and down over the beach. She was thrust back into the crowd. Her outraged wails went unheeded.
Jangler chuckled to himself. His strongbox was already overflowing. He had to start shoving the money into his pockets and then, when they were stuffed to bursting, into the empty crates.
Countless hands reached out to buy and beg a book or a jar of minchet. If there had been a lorry containing 10,000 books, they would have sold them all that morning.
Martin Baxter hurried on to the waste ground and viewed the scene in disbelief.
He had spent an anxious night at Gerald’s. Carol had been subdued and quiet. The stress of the past days was taking its toll. She had been relieved to learn that her son was ‘safe’. Although Martin explained that really was not the right word, she still slept more soundly than she had for a while. Just hearing news of Paul was some comfort.
After everything he had seen, Martin was almost afraid to sleep, but eventually he nodded off in an armchair and was spared any ugly dreams.
At first light Gerald woke him. The kindly old gent was his usual self once more and Martin noticed that Evelyn’s little domestic touches had been discreetly removed from the living room. He wondered if and when she would make another appearance. The doubts and suspicions of the previous night were still troubling him however. He simply couldn’t trust Gerald and refused to tell him what his plan was. If the old man was hurt by this, he hid it admirably.
Martin’s one hope, which he told to no one, not even Carol, now lay in finding Shiela Doyle, his ex-student. She had been so concerned about Paul’s welfare last week. Surely, if the Ismus had the boy hidden away, she would know where and would help. That was why he borrowed Gerald’s car and drove down to the Martello tower as early as possible. He had gone alone, leaving Carol to fetch her mother. As soon as they found Paul, they were going to drive out of Felixstowe and try to alert the authorities. They had debated whether to ring the police in Ipswich last night, but what on earth could they say over the phone? It was going to be difficult enough face to face.
Stepping on to the waste ground, Martin grunted with irritation and amazement. He had not expected to see such a vast sea of people already gathered there. There had to be several thousand – each hungry for a copy of Dancing Jacks. Then he told himself he should have expected it. So many were under the spell of Austerly Fellows’ words, but not all of them had their own copy to pore over whenever they needed their Mooncaster fix. They were reliant on family members or neighbours or friends. No one would be satisfied until they each possessed their own book.
Climbing on to a wall, Martin stared over the mass of heads and saw Shiela over by the new black van. He would have to push his way to the front. This wasn’t going to be easy.
He jumped down and began jostling and negotiating his way through the crowd. All of the people there had enlarged pupils and most had stained lips. Martin felt horribly aware that he wasn’t wearing a playing card like the rest of them. He should have thought about that. What would he do if challenged? Progress was slow. Each forward step was an effort and a struggle. His impatience mounted. He felt like punching somebody – anybody. Many people objected to him squeezing by. Trudy Bishop, the estate agent, huffed in indignation and swore at him. Doctor Ian Meadows, his face smeared and dripping, peered at him irritably, but was too busy chewing on a mouthful of fibrous minchet fruit to do much more. Martin went a good way before anyone physically tried to prevent him. Then a strong hand gripped his arm and yanked him back.
“Wait your turn,” a familiar voice growled in his ear.
Martin looked up at the man who had stopped him and was astonished to see the tanned, orange face of the games teacher, Mr Wynn.
“Douggy!” he said. “Let go, it’s me, Martin Baxter.”
A faint spark of recognition glimmered in the man’s glassy eyes. Then he turned away and said, “There is no Douggy. I am Sir Darksilver – knight of the Royal House of Clubs.”
“You would be,” Martin muttered, eyeing the ten of clubs pinned to his tracksuit.
“I must own the holy text,” Douggy said, but he was really only speaking to himself. “I must return to Mooncaster this very day and continue my real life there. I am to ride with my Lord Jack and the other knights this afternoon, to cleanse the caves beneath the ninth hill of the Marshwyrm that has crept in and made its abode there. My Lord Jack will need my sword.”
Martin rolled his eyes, but there was no way Douggy would let him pass. Then he had an idea.
“Stand aside, Sir Knight!” he ordered, inwardly thanking all the fantasy films he had ever watched. “I am on an errand for the Lord Ismus. How dare you hinder me? This is treason – you flout the authority of the Holy Enchanter himself!”
Confusion clouded the games teacher’s face. His eyes searched Martin’s clothes for a playing card to tell him what rank this man held in the White Castle.
Martin thought quickly. He could try to bluff it out and explain that the card was on his other jacket, or that it had merely fallen off. But it would be far better if there was a character who no one would think of questioning; someone who they were even afraid of. They already knew who the Ismus was so who…? Then he had it!
“Haw haw haw!” he laughed. “Out of my way!”
Douggy inhaled sharply and gave a nervous bow. Hastily he made room for Martin to get past. The people around them who had heard Martin impersonate the Jockey’s mocking laughter drew back and cleared a path straight to the front.
Martin tried to remember the strange skipping steps he saw the figure in the caramel leather outfit do last night and did his best to copy them as he made his way forward. The stifled gasps of apprehension he heard on the way made him realise just how alarming that character was for everyone.
When he reached the front, he saw the two Harlequin Priests staring at him with sombre expressions on their diamond-tattooed faces. Martin knew it would be dangerous to try and fool that pair. They were dressed in full medieval motley and were far above having to wear playing cards. He averted his face from their intense scrutiny and looked at Shiela Doyle.
The young woman was totally different from when she had come to see him at school last Monday. Gone was the slightly grubby, unkempt appearance with lank hair sporting faded, bleached ends. Now she was elegant and striking, with immaculate, ornate eye make-up, blackcurrant-painted li
ps and hair that had been dyed raven black. A gown of purple silk hung from her shoulders with silver clasps and an amethyst-studded belt sat loosely around her hips. Martin’s hopes and confidence began to waver.
“Shiela?” he said. “Shiela? It’s me, Martin Baxter.”
The High Priestess Labella turned a curious face to him. “You wish to buy the Hallowed Word of the Holy Enchanter?” she asked.
Martin sidled along the trestle until he was directly in front of her and leaned forward. “It’s me,” he hissed urgently. “Your old maths teacher – remember? You came to see me – about Paul. My partner’s lad?”
Labella’s large, dark eyes gave him nothing.
“Some minchet then?” she suggested in a leaden voice.
Martin could feel he was still under the scrutiny of the Harlequins. He knew he didn’t have much time and tried not to panic.
“Shiela!” he said.
“Labella,” she corrected. “I am the High Priestess, consort of the Ismus. I know you not. I cannot place your face at Court. If you are not here to buy, you should leave.”
Martin wanted to shake her, but that would do no good.
“Please,” he implored. “You’re my only hope, my last chance. Please listen to me, please remember – I’m Mr Baxter…”
The woman’s empty eyes stared right through him. “Aberrants will not be tolerated,” she stated coldly. “They will be rounded up and compelled to enter the Kingdom of the Dawn Prince, one way or another.”
Martin drew back. He was beaten. Without Shiela’s help, there was no way they could get Paul away from the Ismus. He and Carol would have to leave Felixstowe without him. How was he going to manage that? Carol would never agree to it. The anxious crowd swarmed past and the books continued to be sold. Martin raked his fingers over his scalp. If only there had been a way to break through that evil book’s hold on Shiela. If only he had been able to reach her true self.
