Dancing Jax

“Belief in the supernatural is cut from the same twisted psychology as the need for religion,” Jezza began propounding. “It’s a man-made hang-up, yet another method of controlling the gullible proletariat by the fat cats at the top to keep us down and scared and not dare to ask real questions of the real people. Instead they made us kneel and pray against the terrors in the night that they invented. It’s always been about control; there is no evil substance to darkness – it’s just an absence of light.

“Like I always say, you should only be afraid of realness. It’s not some vampire that’ll get you along the lonely midnight lane, but the paranoid schizophrenic who prefers junk to his meds and believes his Ricicles are telling him to collect human livers in a blue bucket. Be scared of that poor sod, and the NHS trusts who turf him into the community expecting him to function without proper care because it’s cheaper and they can afford some extra salmon on the buffet when the next bigwig comes round for the usual glad-handing and a mugshot in the local rag.”

“Listen to me, for God’s sake!” Shiela cried. “I know who that kid was, the one with the magazine. I know what happened to him. Jezza – stop. Come down!”

The man reached the small landing. He half turned to grin at them. That conceited little grin which always preceded some proud, pig-headed action. Then, turning away into the wedge of shadow, he reached out with both hands and placed them squarely in the centre of the mould on the wall.

“Stupid to the power of ten,” Shiela uttered in disgust.

The three disciples waited. Staring up at the back of the man they knew only as Jezza, they watched and wondered. Jezza remained perfectly still. He made no sound. He just stayed with his hands against the wall and the moments dragged into minutes. Shiela dug her fingernails into her arms. The tension was unbearable.

“That’s enough!” she said, unable to take it any longer. “This isn’t funny!”

“Yeah,” Miller called. “Joke over.”

Jezza did not move.

Tommo smiled at the others. “Chill,” he told them.

“Rich,” the girl said to Miller. “Go get him. Bring him down.”

The burly man hesitated.

“Bring him down!” she repeated forcefully, pushing him forward.

Miller moved towards the stairs. Passing a puzzled-looking Tommo, he began to climb, reluctantly.

“Come on,” he called up. “Enough’s enough. You’re spooking Shiela.”

“You two are so over-reacting,” Tommo declared. “Jezza’s winding you up. Whirrrrrrrr – there you go.”

Miller neared the small landing. His forehead began to sweat as he recalled the terror that had overwhelmed him before. He took a deep breath and smelled the same putrid reek of decay, and coughed as it caught the back of his throat.

He took a step closer to Jezza. The man’s head was hidden in the gloom and when Miller leaned sideways to catch sight of his face, he could see nothing but a black profile.

“Jezza, mate,” he said. “Stop this now.”

In the corner of his eye something moved over the wall. He jumped back and stumbled down two steps.

“Jesus!” he cried.

And then Jezza stirred. He jerked his head back then turned slowly around. His narrow eyes danced over his followers as if viewing them properly for the first time and a smile spread across his face.

“Look at you,” he laughed softly. “Doesn’t take much to panic my little chickens, does it? Another minute and you’d be screaming – and all for the fear of nothing at all. Very instructive.”

“You’re bleeding hilarious you are,” Shiela snapped.

“And you’re terminally predictable,” he answered coldly.

His eyes left her mutinous, wounded stare and fixed on Miller in front of him.

The big man was looking past him, at the wall. But there was nothing to see in the shadows there, just the staining mould.

“You’re in my way,” Jezza told him.

Miller shook himself. Whatever he had thought he had seen was no longer there. He lumbered about and stomped back down the stairs, glad to feel the floor beneath him once more. With far lighter, almost dancing steps, Jezza followed.

“I wasn’t scared!” Tommo piped up. “Dunno what’s wrong with these two today.”

“Shut it, you tedious prat,” Jezza instructed, without even looking at him.

Shiela grimaced. Sometimes he repulsed her. He could treat people like dirt, even those closest to him. She saw Tommo react as if he’d been slapped and she wanted to be far, far away from this life she had chosen for herself. Why did she and the rest of them put up with it? Why did they keep coming back and seeking this creature’s approval? What did it ever get them?

“I’ll be in the van,” she declared, moving back into the sunlight that streamed through the door.

Before she even set foot on the porch, Jezza was behind her. He seized hold of her wrist and spun her around. Grabbing the back of her hair, he pulled her face to his and kissed her roughly on the mouth.

Shiela struggled and kicked him on the shin.

“Sod off!” she spat.

“Don’t go yet,” he said, releasing her. “Come on, there’s more to see. Let’s me and you explore on our own. Come on, girl.”

She blinked at him in surprise. He hadn’t kissed her like that for a long time.

“Tommo, Miller!” he ordered, “You two go look through the rest of these rooms down here.”

The men glanced at each other uncertainly. Neither of them wanted to be there any more.

Jezza turned the full power of his stare on them. “Only this floor mind,” he warned. “No one, but no one, is to go upstairs. Do you hear me?”

“I wouldn’t if you paid me,” Miller muttered.

“Be about it then, rabbits,” Jezza said with a nod towards the other rooms.

With a cautious look at Shiela to make sure she was OK, they made for one of the other doors leading off the hall. If they had rechecked the first one, they would have seen that the red leather of the armchair was now no longer covered in mould.

“Just you and me, kid,” Jezza said, smiling at Shiela.

The girl was wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “What have you been eating?” she asked, spitting on the floor. “Tastes like… soil or something. Have a mint!”

“I’m just an earthy guy,” he said and there was that wink again. Then he surprised her a second time by taking hold of her hand, only gently, far more gently and tenderly than he had ever been. “This way,” he said, leading her further into the hall.

“I don’t want to be in here,” she protested. “I want to sit in the van. I’ll wait there.”

But he was so insistent, his voice so coaxing and persuasive, that, before she realised, they were standing before a door in the panelling beneath the stairs. With a flourish, Jezza yanked it open.

It was pitch-black inside and a waft of cold, dead air flowed across Shiela’s face.

“What’s in there?” she asked, backing away.

“Cellar,” he replied.

“There’s no chance in hell I’m going down there! Even if we’d brought torches I wouldn’t.”

Jezza reached into the darkness and caught hold of a Bakelite switch dangling on a corded flex from the sloping ceiling. An instant later a dim bulb illuminated a flight of steps leading downward.

“How did you know that was there?” she asked. “How come the power’s still on?”

Jezza was already descending. There was a strange, barely contained excitement in him. It was as if he knew what was down there, as if he knew exactly what was waiting.

“It’ll be swarming with rats!” she said. “I’m not coming with you.”

He looked back at her – his eyes shining like an owl’s in the light.

“There’s no rats down here,” he assured her with consummate confidence. “They’re not allowed.”

Shiela watched his figure bob further down the steps. “Come back!” she called. “Jezza!”

He disappeared round a corner and she wished she’d kicked him harder.

“Jezza…?” she shouted.

She was alone. “Tommo, Miller…” she said, but her voice faltered and wherever they were they did not hear her.

Shiela looked anxiously at the open front door. The sunlight had dimmed and the outside seemed grey. A wind was shaking the trees.

“Save me, save me,” she whispered urgently. Everything appeared threatening. Shiela thought of the magazine and what had happened to the boy it had belonged to all those years ago. Suddenly a gust of wind banged the front door against the wall. It bounced back and slammed shut. The hall was plunged into darkness.

The girl yelled and flung herself down the stairs.

“Jezza!” she cried. “Jezza!”

She leaped down two steps at a time and whirled around breathlessly. The cellar was built of vaulted grey stone that formed small, dungeon-like chambers, each with a single light bulb suspended from the apex of the ceiling.

The first chamber was empty, but a draught was moving the hanging light and the shadows swung sickeningly around her.

“Jezza…” she called again. “Damn – what the hell am I doing down here? You need your brains testing, you crazy—”

She couldn’t find a word dumb enough to describe herself. She shivered, but noticed that although it was cold down here, it was the only place in that awful house that was not damp.

“Jezza!”

No answer. She moved warily across the chamber to the next archway. That too was empty, except for strange drawings chalked on the walls, but this was not childish graffiti like the scribbles above. Here were intricate geometric patterns, interlocking circles and squares, surrounded by florid lettering spelling out Latin words. Shiela stared at them and her skin crawled. She had seen Howie, another of Jezza’s disciples, tattoo similar pentacles on the backs of many heavy-metal fans and wallowing emos.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jezza spoke in her ear.

The girl flinched and hit him. “Take me to the van right now!” she demanded.

“Wait till you see this,” he said, leading her to the next chamber.

“I’ve seen enough!” she replied, tugging away from him.

“No, just this,” he said firmly. “Come on, girl.”

They passed into the third chamber. It was larger than the previous two. Three wide, concentric circles had been inscribed into the stone floor, in the centre of which were six large wooden crates.

“What’s them?” she asked.

“The jackpot, girl. Only the ruddy jackpot.”

“But what’s inside?”

With a triumphant laugh, he leaped into the circles. A rusty crowbar was lying across the top of one crate and he grasped it with both hands.

“Let’s open them and find out!” he yelled.

“No,” Shiela objected. “Leave it. There could be anything in there. Jezza, leave it!”

The man took no notice and was busily prising off one of the lids. The old nails squeaked and the wood splintered. Shiela looked around and cursed herself for ever suggesting they come here.

“Bobby Runecliffe!” she blurted, edging away. “That was the name of the boy. He was famous, all over the news back then. My mum knew him. They were in the same class. Bobby disappeared one night when he was thirteen. He was missing for three days. They finally found him wandering out on the motorway, but he was different – mental. He couldn’t speak. When they took him home, he killed all his pets, strangled them. Then he tried to do the same to his kid sister. He’s been locked up ever since. Nobody knew where he’d been, but it must have been here. Oh, God, it was here and it drove him crazy. Jezza – don’t open that! Please!”

He only laughed in answer as the final nail was torn free and he wrenched the lid clear.

Shiela was shaking. The adrenalin was coursing through her veins. She was ready to race away at the slightest thing.

“If something flies out of there,” she said.

Above them, in the rest of the house, Miller’s voice was bawling. “Guys! You will not believe this! Guys! This is seriously weird, man!”

Shiela spun around. “What?” she cried. “What did he say?”

Jezza dropped the crowbar and the noise of it clanging on the stone floor made her scream.

“Don’t do that!” she yelled.

“Calm down, baby,” he muttered, gazing admiringly into the open crate. “Calm down.”

“That was Miller,” she said. “He might need help.”

Jezza chuckled. “I think our flatulent friend has merely discovered my conservatory,” he told her. “Nothing to worry about.”

Shiela stared at him. “How do you…?”

He grinned up at her and beckoned with his cigarette-stained fingers. “Come look,” he said. “Look what we found.”

“I don’t want to see,” she told him. “I’m so out of here.”

Jezza dipped his hand inside the crate.

“Don’t be scared, my honey, my pet,” he said.

In spite of herself, Shelia remained. Jezza was always bizarre and never behaved as society expected him to. That was part of the attraction. But this was different. She had not seen this side to him before.

Now he stood before her, holding something that caused his eyes to widen, and he drew in a marvelling breath.

“Look at this,” he whispered reverently. “There’s plenty more in the box. Each one is packed with them.”

Shiela lowered her eyes to the thing in his hands and the surprise and relief almost made her laugh out loud.

“It’s just a book!” she exclaimed. “Just a… kids’ storybook!”

His grin grew wider as he gave it to her. In the stark glare of the bare bulb she could see it was old, but had never been read. The dust cover was in mint condition, with only a few foxed marks speckling it. The illustration was an outdated style, but it had a certain period charm and she read the title aloud.

“Dancing Jacks.”

Jezza pressed his face against hers. “Yes,” he said, breathing damp and decay upon her as he smiled. “It’s just a book, my fair Shiela… bella.”

Chapter 3

And so: those rascally Knaves, who set the Court cavorting. How they do behave, it’s really worth reporting. The Jill of Hearts, a hungry temptress, she’ll steal a kiss from lad and lass. The Jack of Diamonds prefers shinier pleasures, gold and jools are his best treasures. The Jill of Spades is coldly cunning, a secret plot and you’re done in. The Jack of Clubs, beasts and fowl adore him, all raise a shout and sing aloud — four Dancing Jacks have entered in!

“SIT DOWN AND settle down,” Martin Baxter said in that practised tone that only experienced teachers ever seemed capable of. It was loud enough to be heard above the scuffle and din of thirty kids flooding into a classroom, yet it wasn’t shouting and it required no great effort on his part.

“Coats off. Hurry up. Glen, do that tie up properly. Keeley, take your earphones out. If I see them again, your MP3 player is going in my little drawer till the end of term. Don’t think I won’t – it’ll be company for the mobiles.”

Surly young faces stared back at him and he beamed pleasantly in return. That always annoyed them. He hated this Year 10. Yes, actually hated them. They were just as bad when they were in Year 9. Actually, no, not all of them; some of the kids were OK. There were some genuinely nice, bright ones. But most of them, even the most naive and idealistic of the new staff had to admit, were hard work and there were one or two that he had long since classified as downright scum. Unfortunately that very scum were in his lesson right now.

In the far left corner, Keeley slid on to her seat in front of her two friends, Emma and Ashleigh. The three of them immediately began singing a Lady Gaga song and only stopped when they caught sight of Mr Baxter staring at them.

“Where do you three think you are?” he asked.

“In a boring maths lesson,” the hard-faced Emma answered.

“We’re going to enter the next X Factor, Sir,” Ashleigh explained.

“Don’t you need even a modicum of talent for that?” he inquired.

“Yeah, so we’ve got to practise,” Keeley argued.

“We’re going to blow that Cowell bloke away!” Ashleigh said. “We’re going to be famous and be in all the mags.”

Their teacher looked surprised. “Are there many specialist publications just for gobby imbeciles then?” he asked. “Actually that’d be most of them,” he murmured under his breath.

“You’re mean and sarky, Sir,” Emma grumbled.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he retorted with a fixed grin. “You’ve got as much chance of being singers as three cats yowling in a dustbin.”

The girls pouted and fell to whispering to one another.

“‘When shall we three meet again?’ probably,” Mr Baxter muttered, although he knew he was slandering Macbeth’s witches. Over the past few years he had come to realise that these three girls had no redeeming qualities and were getting worse. They had absolutely no regard for anyone except themselves and constantly showed their displeasure at having to attend school instead of being allowed to stay at home watching Jeremy Kyle.

“And who do you think you are?” Mr Baxter told one boy who came traipsing in with his trousers hanging down over his backside, displaying his underwear. “Pull them up!”

“You can’t discriminate against me, Sir,” came the rebellious reply. “It’s my identity, innit. I’m doing it to support my brothers. I won’t yank up my saggys.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “Your brother works in Halfords,” he said with a weary sigh. “And I didn’t realise bright purple pants with Thomas the Tank Engine on them were very hip hop.”

“Yeah, well, my best ones is in the wash and I wouldn’t wear them to this poxy school anyways.”

“Be that as it may,” Martin said, above the titters. “The fact remains, that’s not how you’re supposed to wear your uniform so pull them up or you’ll be staying behind every night this week and every night after that until you do pull them up.”

“You is well bullying me, Sir.”

“Owen,” Martin said with a weary sigh. “Why do you insist on speaking like that?”

“It’s who I is, innit.”

“No, it isn’t. For one thing, you’re ginger, for another – you’re Welsh.”

“I is ghetto.”

“You’re as ghetto as Angela Lansbury, only nowhere near as cool and I’m sure she doesn’t reek of Clearasil and athlete’s foot powder. Now save who you is till you get outside the school gates, then you can drop your trousers down past your bony knees for all I care.”

Owen hitched his trousers up and sat down noisily, slinging his bag on the desk before him.

Martin Baxter groaned inwardly. He didn’t mind what cultures the kids tapped into. It was normal and healthy to seek for an identity, but in recent years he’d become aware just how homogenised that identity had become. Was it any surprise though when just about every other television programme was fronted by presenters with forced mockney accents, as if working-class London was the centre of the cool universe and nowhere else mattered. It made him wince whenever he heard the kids here in Felixstowe trying to mimic the cod East End accents that grunted around Walford. Whatever happened to quirky individuality? Sadly he reflected that, like the coast here in Suffolk, it was being eroded.

The maths teacher felt it was going to be one of those days. Thank heavens it was Friday. He had no idea just how bad that day was going to become. No one did.

When the shuffling and unrest had subsided, he sat at his desk and pulled a sheaf of papers from his battered leather briefcase.

“Before we start,” he said. “Let’s have a look at last week’s test.”

One of the three huddled girls looked up in alarm.

“You’re not going to read the marks out, Sir?” she asked in exaggerated dismay.

Martin beamed again. “Oh, you betcha!” he said brightly. “Let’s all have a laugh and see who the thickies are – as if we needed reminding.”

“That is so not fair,” she said, covering her face.

“Shall I start with you then, Emma, and get it out of the way? Here we are, 23 per cent – that’s a new record for you. You must have actually been awake during one lesson. Now Ashleigh and Keeley, 19 and 21 per cent respectively.”

“No respect about that!” roared one of the boys, slapping his desk. “That is so shaming!”

Martin smiled at him next. “Kevin Stipe, a whopping 17 per cent! Who’d have thought chatting to your pals and larking about instead of listening to me would produce such lame results? There can’t be a connection there, surely? Coincidence? Nah…”

Kevin Stipe sank into his chair while Emma and her cohorts shook their hands at him and jeered.

“Quiet!” Martin called. He read out a few more pitiful scores before looking across to the side of the class where a thin-faced, pretty girl, was hiding behind her hair.

“Sandra Dixon,” he said, this time with a genuine smile. “Ninety-four per cent. Well done, Sandra. Now who would have thought that paying attention and getting on with your work in class could produce that result? You know, I really do think there’s something in that theory. Take note, the rest of you.”

Emma and her cronies pulled faces at Sandra’s back and Ashleigh scrunched up a scrap of paper to lob at her head.

“You just dare!” Martin growled at her. “You’ll be in the Head’s office so fast, your shoes will leave skid marks on the corridor floor.”

“Skid marks!” Kevin guffawed.

Just then the door opened and a tall, fair-haired lad with a sports bag slung over his shoulder came ambling in. Without so much as a glance at Martin Baxter, he headed for his empty seat. Keeley and Ashleigh whistled through their teeth at him. They had recently decided his was the best bottom in the school.

“Conor!” Martin said. “Where’ve you been? Why are you drifting in here so late?”

The boy looked at him insolently. “I was helping Mr Hitchin, Sir,” he said.

“Then you’ll have a note from him for me to that effect.”

“No, Sir.”

“OK, you’ve just earned yourself some extra time here tonight.”

“Can’t do that, I’ve got football.”

“Conor, you’ve been here long enough to know how this place works. If you come to my lesson late, without a valid reason, then it’s automatic detention.”

“But there’s a match on!”

“If that was so important to you, you’d have made sure you were here on time and not get detention.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Excuse me, do I know you? Now sit down.”

Conor slumped in his seat and mouthed an obscenity when Mr Baxter wasn’t looking. Then he glanced round to see if any of his classmates had seen him do it. Sandra Dixon’s disgusted eyes met his and he mimed a kiss at her. Sandra turned away.

Martin Baxter looked up just in time to catch that exchange. He felt sorry for students like Sandra, the ones who enjoyed their lessons and worked hard. Even the ones who weren’t as capable but tried their best were a pleasure to teach, but the number of wasters and wilfully ignorant, disruptive kids was growing every year and the government’s policy of inclusion meant that they dragged everyone else in the class down to their level and held them back. As teachers, they weren’t even allowed to use the word “fail” any more; they were now instructed to adopt the phrase “deferred success”. Martin had to laugh at that; some of these kids would be deferring success for the rest of their lives.

The profession was not the same as when he first started, over twenty years ago. Now he was also expected to be a policeman and a social worker, but he absolutely refused to be a clownish entertainer like some of his colleagues. They had lost the respect of their pupils and now had to perform every lesson in order to engage and keep their attention. Consequently very little proper teaching was done. As far as Martin was concerned, the kids were here to learn and, for him, that meant the old-fashioned way of drilling it into them. He didn’t care if they found it repetitive; this method worked – or at least it did for those who listened and were prepared to apply themselves.

“OK, open your books!” he told them. “We’re going to find the area of triangles today – you lucky lot.”