Dancing Jax

When she saw the state of his back, she grabbed one of the water carriers and emptied it over him.

“Call an ambulance!” she shouted. “Hurry!”

“No!” Howie answered.

“He’ll die!” she yelled. “Look at him – look at that!”

“It’s beautiful,” the tattooist said admiringly. “Such exquisite work.”

The girl stared at him for an instant. Had everyone gone crazy? Howie was normally so level-headed and sensible. She reached for her phone and was about to dial 999 when a trembling hand knocked it from her grip.

“No hospitals!” Jezza struggled to say. “No doctors! I must… endure it alone.”

“Jezza!” she protested. “You need help.”

“There is no Jezza!” he screamed back at her. Then he collapsed and lay sprawled face down on the floor, the rain lashing across his body.

Shiela looked round at the others. They were staring at the man at her feet. The throne had seared strange symbols and ancient writing into his flesh.

“The contract is made,” Howie announced. “Lift the Ismus. We must bear him from this place.”

With the utmost reverence, Miller, Tommo and Dave approached the unconscious man. Tesco Charlie had put his glasses back on and brought a blanket from his cab. They covered the Ismus with it and gently carried him inside the container on the back of the lorry.

Shiela watched in disbelief. Even Manda and Queenie were playing along with it now, walking behind them like overawed worshippers.

Howie emptied the other two water carriers over the Waiting Throne and clouds of steam billowed upwards.

“Come, Labella,” he said, emerging from the white vapour with a beatific smile widening in his beard. “Rejoice. We have a Lord to rule over us and govern the Dancing Jacks. When the Ismus recovers from the Great Ordeal and arises, order shall be restored.”

Shiela could not comprehend what had happened that night. But she knew they had all taken a step towards something sinister and final and there was no going back.

Chapter 9 (#ulink_fc6ce584-6f87-5057-834a-b483b93c403f)

“IT’S ALL QUIET here today, but on Friday night, right behind me, outside the historic Landguard Fort here in Felixstowe, tragedy occurred – a tragedy that claimed the lives of many local young people. At nine o’clock last night several thousand were gathered here to take part in a supposed flash mob. Each of them had been invited via an anonymous email that the police are currently trying to trace. Details are not completely clear yet, but something sparked a riot and, while that was going on, a car came hurtling down this approach road, seemingly out of control. It skidded then crashed into another car, parked over there in that car park, and exploded. The second car followed moments after. You can only imagine the terror, the panic.”

A cool female voice interrupted.

“Have the police made any further statement as to how the car came to be out of control?”

The man on the screen shook his head. “Not as yet,” he said. “The forensic teams are still combing the wreckage and the area, as you can see behind me. But eyewitnesses we’ve spoken to say there was smoke coming out of the car even before the crash. Others claim to have seen flames.”

“Thank you, Justin, now we can head over to Lyndsay Draymore outside Felixstowe General where the injured and the dying were taken last night.”

The image of the suited man standing upon the sandhill, with the road behind him, was replaced by a smart young woman, in front of a red-brick, arched entrance.

“Lyndsay, what more can you tell us about this tragic incident?”

“Well, Tara, medical staff have been working round the clock, through the night here. I understand there was something in the region of a hundred and twenty casualties, impact injuries and burns being the majority of cases that had to be dealt with.”

“And I gather the death toll has now risen again?”

“Yes, within the last hour, it has been announced that two more have died as a result of their injuries, bringing the total now up to thirty-eight – with five more still in intensive care and fighting for their lives. An unbelievable loss of life in this usually quiet seaside town, here in Suffolk.”

Behind her a nurse emerged from the entrance; she looked tired and drained. Someone behind the camera must have alerted Lyndsay because she turned and almost ran over to her, eager for a word from the front line.

“Can you tell me what it’s been like in there?” she asked, shoving a microphone forward.

A startled Carol Thornbury looked quizzically down the lens that came after.

“How is the mood of the medical staff?” the reporter asked. “What can you tell us? How are the families of the injured feeling at this time?”

“Are you bloody stupid or something?” Carol snapped. “How do you think they’re feeling? Get that ruddy camera out of my face or I’ll give you a colonoscopy with it! And keep this area clear!”

Carol barged impatiently past the camera crew, leaving a thick-skinned Lyndsay smiling benignly. “As you can see,” she continued without a blink, “the atmosphere here is tense and tempers are running high. This is Lyndsay Draymore, Felixstowe General, for BBC News.”

The picture switched back to the anchorperson, perched informally against the news desk, casually displaying the shapely legs that had served her so well in Strictly Come Dancing the year before.

“And we’ll have more of that terrible incident in Suffolk on our main bulletin at six,” she purred. “You can tweet us your thoughts and condolences at the address at the bottom of the screen. Now over to our showbiz correspondent to see which pop diva has lost a size, shredding twenty pounds thanks to a new diet from…”

Martin turned off the TV. “Good on you, Carol,” he said proudly.

“She looked shattered,” Paul commented.

“Must have been a horrible night there,” Martin answered. “I’ll run a bath for her and do some toast. She’ll want something before she crashes…”

He flinched, not believing his unthinking choice of word, and the horror of the previous night rushed in again. He and Paul had returned home in a kind of dream state. The night had been alive with sirens and whirling lights and they had both fallen asleep in front of the rolling news.

The phone rang. It was Carol’s mother.

“Hello, Jean. Yes, I saw her on the news just now too. No, television always makes you look fatter than you are. Yes, it’s been awful. No, I don’t know how many were from the school, they haven’t released that information yet. Paul is fine. I’ll tell her you rang, soon as she gets back. OK, you too, Jean. Bye now.”

It was the second time she had rung. The first was at half six that morning when she had first heard about it on the radio. Other people had called: Barry Milligan had sounded irritable and hungover and his mood wasn’t helped by the fact that the rugby game had been cancelled out of respect. Gerald Benning, Paul’s piano teacher, had checked to make sure he was safe, and so had members of the family who hadn’t been in touch for years. It was positively ghoulish.

When Carol came through the door, she gave her son the biggest, chest-crushing hug he’d ever had. She had worked an extra four hours over her shift. Her face looked grey and drawn and her hollow eyes seemed to attest to the things she had seen in the casualty department.

Martin passed her a cup of tea, which she took gratefully, but refused the toast.

“I couldn’t,” she stated.

Neither Martin nor her son uttered a word while she drank it. Then, cradling the cup in her hands, she said, “I never want to go through another night like that as long as I live.”

“You were just on telly,” Paul ventured. “You were fierce!”

“That stupid, stupid woman. Why do they ask such inane, crass questions?”

“It’s what they do,” Martin said.

“I almost punched her, but you know what stopped me? I knew it’d help her flaming career and I’d end up on some cheap blooper programme that’d be repeated for the rest of my life.”