Dancing Jax

Jezza’s eyes glinted at him and he showed his crooked smile. “You couldn’t be further from the truth, Mr Tattoo Man,” he said.

Miller shifted uneasily and glanced at Tommo.

“Bring in the last box,” Jezza told them. “I want Howie to see what he’s storing for me.”

“An’ we want to see what we’ve been busting our guts over,” Miller said.

“Less of the guts, please,” Tommo pleaded. “Come on. Let’s go get the last Alexander.”

“The last what?”

“I’m wasted here,” Tommo sighed.

The three of them returned to the yard where the VW was parked, leaving a puzzled Howie scratching his beard. He’d never seen Jezza behave like this before.

“He’s been like that since we went into that vile house,” Shiela spoke from the doorway. “It’s weird, like… oh, I dunno – like it’s him, but it isn’t.”

Howie looked at her. “What happened in that place then?” he asked. “No one’s said.”

The girl frowned then shrugged it off. “Mad stuff,” she finally answered. “I freaked out big style and so did Miller – but Jezza…”

“What?”

“I wish I knew – or maybe I don’t.”

“Are you all on something? Nobody’s making sense.”

“Wait till you see what else we found,” she said. “What’s still back there – in the manky conservatory.”

“Mind your backs!” Tommo called, lumbering in, carrying the final crate with Miller. “There! That’s the lot. Now my gaseous friend’s innards here are rumbling like Krakatoa so we’d better get some food in him. Come on, Methane Maker, let’s…”

Their exit was barred by Jezza. He was standing in the doorway, eyes gleaming.

“We haven’t finished yet, boys,” he said, removing the loose lid from the last crate and reaching inside. “This is only the beginning. You have no idea of the incredible honour you’ve been granted. You’re here, right at the start of everything. We’ve each been chosen and should be on our knees in gratitude. Take a breath and look around you. Remember this momentous night. The whole world is about to change and this is the last time you’ll see it like it was.”

A look of panic flashed over Howie’s face. “Bloody hell!” he cried. “You’ve never got guns in them boxes?”

Jezza laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

“What then?” Howie demanded. “Bombs or something? You’re out of your greasy mind and way out of your league! You’re crazy!”

Jezza continued to laugh. It was a horrible, throat-rattling sound. Shiela clutched at the collar of her denim jacket. The voice she heard was not his.

Then he slammed his palm on the side of the crate and the laugh subsided to a dry chuckle.

“Guns and bombs have been tried,” he said in a far-off kind of way. “Tried and failed, tried and failed, time and again. That’s not how to do it. Wars are finite. They blaze for a few years and it’s fantastic and showy and spectacularly loud and operatic. Then suddenly peace breaks out like a rash and you’re back where you started and you have to foment it all over again. War doesn’t work. It unites more than it destroys.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Howie demanded.

Before the others could answer, Jezza flashed his teeth in a wide grin and threw something at him.

Howie ducked and jumped out of the way, half expecting it to be a hand grenade. This was lunacy.

The thing landed at his feet and he peered down at it warily. When he saw what the thing actually was, he thought it even stranger than if it had been an explosive.

“A book?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“It’s time for you all to have one,” Jezza said solemnly, his voice recognisably him once again. “Take them, cherish them… coddle them.”

He passed the copies around. Only Shiela had seen the book already, but she stared at it with the same fascination as the first time.

“Dancing Jacks,” Howie read. “Where did you get a load of second-hand kids’ books from? And what for?”

Jezza was relishing the looks on their faces as they turned the book over in their hands. They had no idea what they were holding.

Shiela flicked through the slightly musty pages, the occasional illustrations skimming before her eyes. There was a faint, almost inaudible sound as the leaves parted after being pressed together so long. It was like a soft, dry kiss between the ink and the paper.

“They’re not second-hand,” Jezza said. “Not one of them has ever been owned, not a single one has ever had eager eyes scan its pages. The moment they were printed and bound, they were packed away. They haven’t seen daylight or felt a human touch for seventy-five years. They’ve never been read. They’re fresh as virgins and just as ripe and anxious to be treasured and explored.”

“First editions then,” Howie said. “How much are they worth?”

“Everything,” came the cryptic answer.

“Who’s this Austerly Fellows?” Howie asked, reading out the author’s name. “Never heard of him.”

“Not many have… yet,” Jezza replied with the hint of a smile. “But they will. His name will ring out at last. We promise.”

“Is this all that’s in them boxes?” Tommo grumbled in disbelief – hugely disappointed. “Is this what I’ve broke my back for all afternoon? The way you was talking, I thought it was the family silver or something. I thought we was going to be minted.”

Jezza took out a book for himself and opened it at the first page. “This is worth far more than silver,” he guaranteed, the cream-coloured paper reflecting up into his eyes and making them unusually bright. “All things will be as dross beside this. We’ve waited a long time, but now our words are ready to be heard, to seep into the mind and smite the heart.”

“Riiiiiiight,” Tommo said. “So aren’t we going back to gut that house?”

“Not to gut it, no. Besides, we don’t need to now.”

“I was never one for reading,” Miller said dismissively. He put the book down and took out his mobile to order a curry.

“Beyond the Silvering Sea,” Jezza began, “within thirteen green, girdling hills, lies the wondrous Kingdom of the Dawn Prince…”

The others exchanged embarrassed glances as he read aloud. What was he doing? They each felt uncomfortable. It was a peculiar situation and Tommo almost giggled. It was so bizarre and silly – and so totally out of character for Jezza.

“And the Dawn Prince went into exile,” he continued, “vowing to return to the Castle of Mooncaster only when he deemed his subjects worthy of his golden majesty.”

Tommo found the matching page in his copy. Almost without realising, he began to follow the words as they were read out, his lips moving with Jezza’s as he spoke them.

“But who would rule in the Lord’s stead?” Jezza uttered. “Who would keep the knights and nobles, the Jacks and jostling Under Kings in order?”

Howie lowered his eyes to the book in his hands. Jezza’s voice seemed to be spinning slowly around him and the words were beating to the rhythm of his heart. There was reassurance here – a cosiness he had not felt since… he could not remember. It was an inviting, nostalgic sensation: back to when large hands scooped him up and held him close, when sweet lips kissed his grazed knee, when perfect comfort was a favourite blanket with a silken edge and a sucked corner. He felt warm and loved and safe. Within his rusty beard, his own lips began to move like Tommo’s.