Dancing Jax

And then a new sound made all three of them turn. Behind the main school building, on the football field, there were furious shrieks and shouts and wild screaming. A pitched battle between the two teams and their supporters was under way.

“It’s a war zone, this place,” Martin muttered. “These kids are out of control.”

The next hour was a bit of a blur. Martin had helped Sandra into the staffroom and made her a cup of sweet tea, then called her parents to come and collect her. Meanwhile Barry had run to the field to see what was going on there.

Martin had been right. It really was a war zone. Douggy Wynn and the games teacher from the other school stood on the sidelines, powerless to stop the violence. They blew their whistles and tried to pull fighting groups apart, but it was no use. About forty kids were engaged in a fierce confrontation. Barry looked on in shock and disgust. This was pure animal savagery.

Here and there around the field, stunned parents were watching and at least one of them had already called the police because soon a siren could be heard racing down the main road.

Some of the kids scarpered at the sound, but others were locked in combat and were oblivious to the blaring wail that grew steadily louder and closer.

“What a bloody mess,” Barry said.

Two police cars turned up at the gates and the caretaker had been on the ball enough to open the barrier so they drove straight on to the field. Seven boys were arrested, two of them in their torn kits. The others pelted away.

Barry was in a cold rage and, if there was any space not filled with anger, it was topped up with shame. When he spoke to the police officers, he could see they held him, as Head, partly responsible. It was no comfort to discover that only three of the arrested lads belonged to his school. Then both of those emotions turned to shock when a police officer showed him the four-inch knife she had found on one of the boys.

“We’ve never had anything like this before,” he said.

“You do now, Sir,” the stern young policewoman informed him. “This could have been a lot worse than it was. There could have been a fatal stabbing here today. We’re going to need you and everyone else to make witness statements about this incident.”

Barry nodded then he remembered Sandra Dixon. “There was another incident, just before this,” he said. “One of our girls was beaten up outside the gates by three other girls. I was just about to call you about that.”

“Not a good day for this place, is it, Sir?” the policewoman said judgementally.

Barry Milligan had to agree with her.

Quarter to seven on a Friday night and Martin was still stuck in school. He’d called Carol, his partner, to warn her he was going to be late and give her a brief sketch of events, but she was incensed about something else. The bank had been on to her, or she had been on to the bank… either way she was livid. Martin was not in the mood to listen to her woes on top of everything else so he was relieved when Barry Milligan came into the staffroom and he could make his excuses and ring off.

“Tell me what else could go wrong today?” the Head barked, making a beeline for the kettle. “It’s a bloody asylum this place! The governors are going to love this.”

“Was anyone hurt on the field?” Martin asked.

“Busted noses and fat lips mostly. We was dead lucky it wasn’t worse. A knife, for God’s sake! A sodding knife!”

“It wasn’t one of our lads though.”

“Doesn’t matter whose it was, I’m not having that kind of thing anywhere near my school. I knew it’d happen here one day, but not so soon. This isn’t an inner city.”

“We still have gangs and hoodies and joyriders round here though.”

“Yes, well – just wait till Monday morning!”

“What do you mean?”

“Had a word with the police. They’re going to set up a knife arch at the gate first thing. If any of our lot are bringing knives in, we’ll know about it.”

Martin shook his head. “I remember when the most dangerous thing you’d find in a kid’s bag was a spud gun.”

“God, I miss those days,” the Head sighed. “It’s the feminisation of education, that’s what’s brought this on. And too much government interference, trying out each new trendy idea instead of leaving us to do our jobs properly. Just look what we’ve ended up with – a bloody chaotic shambles and kids armed to the teeth, thinking they’re gangsters.”

Martin wasn’t going to enter into that debate, even though he agreed with him.

“So how did it kick off?” he asked.

“More bloody oiling,” Barry told him.

Martin understood. Oiling was the latest unpleasant method of attacking someone in Felixstowe. Martin knew several people who had been oiled, his partner’s mother for one. It had been a terrifying and upsetting experience for her. Bottles of vegetable oil were cheaper than boxes of eggs and the oil itself was messier and smellier and more difficult to get out of clothes. A jumbo, 3-litre container was only a few quid and could be decanted into empty sports drink bottles, the type with the pull-up nozzle that could squirt several metres. Such small bottles could also be carried very discreetly in the large pockets of a fleece or a hoody. Gangs would steam through a crowded street and douse their selected victim with the stuff. It was disgusting. The situation had grown so bad that the police had advised local supermarkets not to sell vegetable oil to anyone under the age of eighteen.

“By the way,” he said. “Sandra’s mother came while you were with the police. She’s taken her to casualty to be checked over, but said she’ll be in touch.”

“I bet she will,” Barry grunted. “I don’t blame her. Those three girls are going to get a visit tonight from the law. They already had a word with that Conor lad.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Sandra told me he had nothing to do with it.”

Barry shrugged. “Well, they’ve taken a statement anyway. This coffee really is foul muck, isn’t it? You know what I need right now? About half a dozen pints. I’m going to swill this bloody awful day away – you joining me?”

Martin declined. Barry spent too many hours in The Half Moon in Walton. That and his devotion to rugby were what had driven his wife away two years ago. She had taken the Labrador with her too. Barry missed the dog far more than her.

At ten past seven, Martin Baxter finally sat in his car. As he drove out of the school, he tried to close his mind to the traumas of the day. No one, especially him, suspected that much worse was yet to come. This weekend was going to be the turning point in the lives of everyone. At long last the world was going to learn about Dancing Jacks and it would never be the same again.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_72ed5945-9c6c-5ddf-af64-40b93ccbc1db)

JIM HOWIE’S TATTOO and piercing parlour, INK-XS, was tucked away off the Port of Felixstowe Road. It was a small place, but not too seedy. It was split into two halves: the back part was where the inking was done, behind a shoulder-height partition, and the front was for customers to wait in and browse the designs pinned to the walls and in the three folders on a low table. There was also a knackered sofa, which came in very handy for the squeamish ones who fainted when they felt the needle or glimpsed the blood. At the rear of the building was a monotonous vista of huge sea containers. They were dwarfed by the massive cranes straddling the horizon, which always reminded Howie of steel dinosaurs. Appropriate enough for the stark tundra of the largest container port in the UK and one of the biggest in Europe.

Howie was a big-bellied man in his thirties, with a square-cut, gingery beard, shaved head and enough tattoos on his fleshy body to reupholster that old sofa. He sported two piercings in his lower lip, another through his septum and one more through his right eyebrow.

Looking around at his shop, he moaned as Tommo and Miller hauled another of those large wooden crates through the door.

“Hey, c’mon,” he complained. “That’s five of them now. How many of these things are there?”

“Just one more,” Tommo told him. “If you’d give us a hand, you’d have seen that yourself. These aren’t filled with fresh air, you know; we could do with the extra manpower.”

Howie waved the suggestion aside. “I’m an artist, man,” he declared. “I can’t risk damaging these delicate instruments with a load of splinters.”

Miller and Tommo shoved the fifth crate alongside the others they had fetched from the van and leaned on it to catch their breaths and rest their aching muscles. It had taken two long trips from the strange, ugly house to Howie’s shop to bring all six crates over, to say nothing of the struggle hoisting them up from that cellar. Jezza had been insistent though.

“It’s time for them to leave home,” he had said, “and make their way in the world.”

“I can barely squeeze by them!” Howie grouched. “Just for tonight, capiche? I can’t have these blocking my shop. I’ve got a business to run – and don’t tell me what’s in them, I don’t want to know, but how hot is it? We talking tepid or scalding? If the filth come sniffing around, you’re not dropping me in it. You got that? I’ll tell them exactly who it belongs to – or doesn’t.”

“Peace, brother,” Jezza’s voice interrupted as he came in. “This is… legit merchandise.”

Howie raised his eyes heavenward. “Like the Blu-ray players you stashed here last month?” he asked. “Yeah, they was so bona fide they burned a hole in the lino!”

Jezza ran his hands along the edge of one of the crates. “I’m done with all that,” he announced. “The old life is over, no more hooky gear. I’ve got a better, higher purpose now – and if you’re a good little bunny, you can come with me. The door of destiny has just swung open and I’m inviting you to step through it.”

“Hallelujah!” Howie mocked. “He done seen the light!”