Dancing Jax

“Ha ha!” the boys laughed. “Get in, we’ll give you a lift.”

“No way, losers!” she refused.

“Take you forty minutes to walk there from here, Lemon Face,” Kevin said. “You’ll miss the best bits. Everyone’s gonna be there.”

Emma considered the offer quickly. She knew they were right, but she didn’t want to be seen dead with any of them. They were spotty lads in hoodies and fleeces. But how else was she to get to the end of the peninsula, down the long View Point Road, on time? No chance in these heels. Besides, there was every likelihood the police would be out looking for her once they discovered she was not at home.

“Go on then,” she said. “But I’m ditching you soon as we get there – understood? So don’t get any ambitious ideas.”

The rear door opened. “Get in, Sexy Legs.”

“Err, in your dreams, mentals!” she snarled. “I’m not getting in the back of no car with you, Brian Eastland, and as for you, B.O. Humphries…”

“Shame!” they booed.

“Come on then,” Kevin relented, getting out of the front seat and squeezing alongside the boys in the back. Emma didn’t thank him, but clambered into his vacant place and slammed the door.

“What is that stink?” she complained, turning to the driver whose hood was pulled up over his head. “You lot drinking meths or something?”

“Here!” she cried in sudden recognition. “Danny Marlow! What you doing?”

“That’s our Baz’s overalls,” he told her, meaning the smell. “He does decoratin’. I bunged them and the turps rags under the seat. Don’t worry, you won’t get paint on you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she said. “What you doing in this motor?”

Behind her, Kevin tapped her on the head and leaned into the gap between them. “’S all right,” he said. “It’s his brother’s car, innit. It’s not nicked or nothing.”

“But he’s like, in our year – so that makes him the same age as us!”

Kevin guffawed. “See!” he laughed. “You are good at numbers – Sarky Baxter would be proud!”

Fifteen-year-old Danny revved the engine and, even as Emma hastily fastened her seat belt, the Fiesta roared away.

Conor Westlake had left the house as soon as he received the email from 7734. A mad night out would do him the world of good after today. The haunting image of Sandra Dixon’s pale face glaring up at him was a memory he wanted to wash away, or at least dilute. The fridge at home was empty though so he hoped to bump into some of his mates down at the Landguard. None of them were answering their phones right now, but he was certain they’d be there.

A cold wind was blowing in from the North Sea and the darkening sky looked threatening. He pulled his hood up and continued walking. When he joined View Point Road, he saw that there were many other young people heading down the peninsula, like a great herd of thirsty beasts seeking a watering hole. Most were on foot, but there were also some cars driving past and groups of cyclists. Two figures were even weaving in and out on Rollerblades. The skateboarders who usually hung out near the cinema were here as well.

The road was long and, apart from a kink at the beginning and end, ran a tediously straight course. On the right, behind its high perimeter fence, was the container port. To the left, a caravan park that gave way to a stretch of sandhills and the sea.

Casting around, Connor guessed many of his fellow eager pilgrims were older than him, but he saw a few who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, dragging their older brothers or sisters forward. Here and there the odd parent stood out like a watchful pillar of negativity and disapproval and he hoped they would have the good taste to merge into the background at the Landguard. Tonight was no place for the olds.

He could feel a buzz of anticipation and excitement in the air. It was a carnival-like atmosphere. Some had brought torches and were waving them about, making patterns of light in front of them. Once the caravan park had been passed, they shone into the dark desolation that stretched between the sandhills and the road – startling the rabbits. Those sandhills formed a high, humpy spine all the way to the fort and Conor could see figures silhouetted against the sky on the ridge path, making their way along them. They were approaching the Landguard from the other side, to loop around it and join the rest of them in front of the gatehouse.

Everyone was hoping for something special that night, a new experience – a new thrill. There was a tremendous feeling of not knowing what was going to happen. It was almost quarter to nine and around the last bend in the road, the squat, solid bulk of the pentagonal fortress appeared in the distance. Conor half expected to see searchlights fanning the sky and sweeping dazzling discs over the fort’s brickwork, but there was nothing, just the steady march of the people river heading towards it and the glittering expanse of the port next door.

The present fortress on Landguard Point is a hybrid spanning the centuries. The five-sided structure, with its bastions at every corner, was built in 1744, but heavily modified and refurbished in 1871. Yet there had been some type of fortification there since the days of Henry VIII, for the harbour is the deepest water between the Thames and the Humber and of strategic significance. If an enemy could land troops there, they would be dangerously close to London. In 1667 the last opposed invasion of England took place when the Dutch attacked the fort. Their aim was to burn the ships in the harbour. But the garrison stationed in the Landguard defended it brilliantly, despite being vastly outnumbered, and the Dutch forces were successfully repelled.

That night a new invasion looked to be taking place. As Conor drew closer to the fort, he was amazed at the numbers. There were thousands of people gathering there. They filled the small car park, stood on the mounded verges and pressed against the railings of the empty moat. Conor had only seen such crowds at football matches or gigs before and he clapped his hands appreciatively. It was going to be an unforgettable night.

Martin Baxter and Paul were also making their way down to the fort. They too were astonished at the volume of human traffic and Martin began to grow concerned. There didn’t appear to be any safety measures in place, no crowd-control stewards anywhere. People were drifting across the road. There was no pavement, just a narrow strip of scrappy grass on one side. When cars beeped to get through, the pedestrians shouted and banged on the car bonnets before getting out of the way.

What Conor had found so exhilarating, Martin felt intimidated – even threatened – by.

“You know,” he said to Paul. “I’m not sure this was such a good idea.”

The boy couldn’t disagree more. “It’s brilliant!” he said. “We’re almost there now – almost at the fort. We’ll be able to see who it is!”

But Martin wasn’t certain there was anything or anyone to see. There were no vans, no swanky cars and certainly no cameras. The Landguard looked the same as it always did at night – blank and brooding and more than a little sinister.

Martin pulled out his mobile and made a worried call to the police.

It was five to nine and the crowds who had got there early were getting shunted against the fences and railings by the relentless influx of people pouring down the road and up from the beach. Many of them were drinking.

Somewhere in there, Ashleigh and Keeley were bitching about Emma and peering up at the fort doubtfully.

“Why’s it so dark though?” Ashleigh asked. “Where’s the lights and stuff? Where’s the music?”

“Must be inside,” Keeley answered. “There’ll probably be a big blast of sound and them big doors’ll open and it’ll all start.”

“Hey – who you pushing!” Ashleigh yelled as someone stumbled into her.

“This is literally crammed and I mean it,” Keeley grumbled.

At two minutes to nine, Martin pulled Paul to the very edge of the road and refused to go any further. People jostled and shoved by them. It was getting alarming now.

“But Martin!” the boy cried. “We’re so close!”

“No,” he said firmly. “This is madness. We’re going back.”

Paul stared at him beseechingly, but Martin would not be persuaded. The eleven-year-old caught himself about to whine and stopped it immediately. Carol had raised him not to be one of those people who pestered and sulked to get their own way. He didn’t like Martin’s decision, but he had to accept it.

Trying to walk against the oncoming flow was almost impossible though. The best they could do was stand by the edge and let people pass until the numbers began to thin.

Conor checked the time on his phone. It was dead on nine.

The assembled multitude halted and every face was trained on the Landguard Fort’s stout walls. It felt like the countdown to New Year. They held their breath and expected a fanfare, fireworks, an explosion of light and sound and colour. Flashes sparkled from phone cameras and they waited.

Nothing.

Murmurs of discontent began to ripple through the massive crowd. Someone began a slow handclap and others joined in. Voices chanted, “Why are we waiting…?”

Still nothing.

“This is so wrong!” Ashleigh moaned.

“Where’s the celeb and paps?” Keeley griped. “I am sincerely freezing my legs off here.”

There was a rumble of thunder overhead.