Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (16 page)

At the end of the beds the patients’ charts began to swing and clatter against the metal frames. The lid on a plastic squash bottle popped off and the bright orange contents spurted out. A bag of saline jerked like a pendulum on its hook. Then the whole stand rose off the ground. A morphine pump juddered and rocked backwards.

Shaun’s eyes grew wider and wider.

One by one the foil balloons swelled and burst. Get-well cards flew up and flattened against the wall like pinned butterflies. The pale turquoise curtains that separated each bed started to flap and their rings rang on the rails as they billowed towards the ceiling. And then the bed covers lifted, floating up like rafts of thistledown.

Just like the balloons, the saline bags puffed up. In rapid succession they exploded.

Another cymbal crashed. The trumpets blasted and the trombones thundered.

Still asleep, Janet Harding screamed.

The device in the Ismus’s hands squawked in answer and its needle whirred around the dial.

The children’s limbs lifted into the air and the legs of each bed left the floor.

Peter Starkey was screaming now. Then Jonathan Spencer joined him. The Ismus danced down the ward and soon every child was shrieking.

Shaun saw Fiona Ellis levitate off the mattress. The girl drifted higher and higher until the invisible force suddenly threw her against the wall and pinned her there, upside-down.

Thomas Goulden flew up next. The drip feed pulled from his arm and he was sent spinning into a mural of Dumbo and Shrek. His bedside table came sliding up next to him. The water jug spilled its contents over his face. But still he remained locked in that nightmare sleep.

Leaning against the desk, Sister Olivant watched in quiet admiration. How light and giddy she felt now that she knew this world was not the true one.

Comics and magazines thrashed their pages as they swept by. Battering against the ceiling, they formed a noisy, twisting whirlpool of glossy paper. Then the remaining ten children were plucked from their beds. Harvey Temple was snatched up, legs first, and his plaster casts smashed heavily against the wall when he was hurled against it.

The Ismus revelled in the horror and despair of the sleeping youngsters. He spun about, delighted, then stared down at the dial on the Bakelite device. The needle had progressed all the way around. It was time. The electronic bedlam that crackled from the grill had drowned out the music. It was almost deafening and the pitch was rising all the time. It quickly became unbearable. Shaun clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut as the noise cut right through him. Mr Hankinson covered his ears and Labella did the same. Joan shuddered and winced and even the black-faced bodyguards were trembling. The noise seemed to drill through their heads until, finally, it soared so high they couldn’t hear it any more. There was only the music again and the shrieks of the children.

The Ismus tweaked the tuning. The music stopped at once and a new sound replaced it. Shaun’s heart thumped violently. He heard a bestial roar. But it was unlike anything he had ever heard in his life. It was an unearthly, ravening bellow – a noise consumed with terrifying rage.

“Listen,” the Ismus declared, stroking the grill fondly. “Mauger is impatient to cross over.”

Striding to the centre of the ward, he placed the device on the floor and clicked the third tuning knob. Then he stepped away smartly.

The device began to shake. Suddenly a freak wind came howling from the speaker grill. It punched into the ceiling and the magazines that surged and swirled there were instantly torn to shreds.

The Ismus opened his arms in welcome and laughed his loudest.

Then the gale fell upon the ward. It went racing over the empty beds, tearing through the floating sheets, ripping chunks out of the foam pillows. And then…

Shaun’s mind recoiled with terror.

The unseen power had rushed at one of the bed curtains. For the briefest moment the turquoise fabric moulded around its monstrous shape. It was large as a bull, with an enormous head supporting two curling horns. A deep, rib-rattling roar bawled from the awful face that the curtain revealed.

Whether the glimpse of that dreadful thing had so shocked the bodyguards that they loosened their grip, or whether his own intense fear had pumped new strength around his body, Shaun did not know, but a desperate kick and a smash of elbow in a soot-covered face and he was free.

There was nothing he could do to save the children here. They were stuck around the walls, writhing like human fridge magnets. He had to raise the alarm and get help. He seized the broken monitor from the desk, leaped forward and flung it at the Bakelite device on the floor.

There was a flash and both of them smashed and splintered. A cloud of yellow, sulphurous smoke belched out. Then all was chaos. The force keeping children, beds, drips, morphine pumps, ripped magazines, chairs and cabinets up in the air was gone. Everything came crashing down. Shaun glanced around him in despair. It was like the aftermath of a terrorist attack. What else could he do but run? Shouting for help, he charged to the security door, slapped his hand against the release button and pelted down the corridor.

The black-faced bodyguards leaped after him.

“Wait!” the Ismus commanded them. “Don’t rob Mauger of his sport.”

Another ghastly roar shook the ward. A large, harrowing shape jumped through the yellow smoke and the two bodyguards were thrown off their feet as the thing that had crossed over barged past.

Surrounded by the wreck of the Paediatric Unit, as glossy confetti fluttered down around him, the Ismus called out, “Hunt him down! Bring him back to me.”

Mauger’s hideous bellow went echoing down the corridor.

“When he does,” the Ismus said, turning to the Lady Labella, “feed him the minchet fruit.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Shiela answered, holding it up and licking the river of putrid juice that ran down her wrist.

And then there was silence, broken only by the agonised weeping and whimpers of the young patients, strewn carelessly about the floor. They were still trapped inside their nightmares.

“What a nasty mess!” Sister Olivant exclaimed with a chuckle as she gazed about the devastated ward. Beds were upturned, curtains yanked from their rails, machines bleeped erratically and red lights were flashing. A mingling flood of squash and saline was spreading across the floor.

“I’m confident you can cope,” the Ismus told her. “And the busier you are here, the richer your time in Mooncaster will be.”

The night sister nodded eagerly. “And when they ask what happened?” she asked.

“Tell them the male nurse flipped and went berserk,” he suggested. “There was nothing you could do to stop him. He won’t dispute it.”

“Naughty, sexy Shauny,” she giggled. “It’ll serve him right for being so coy with me.”

Shaun Preston ran for his life and, for all he knew, his soul. Around the corner was the door to Maternity. He’d call Security from there. Flinging himself against the locked door, he pounded his fists upon it, demanding to be let in.

“Come on! Come on!” he bawled. “Open up!”

There was no answering buzz from the lock. No curious face appeared behind the glass panel to see who was hammering on it at that time of night. Shaun pressed against the glass and saw that the nurse’s station was empty. He couldn’t see the nurse on duty. The ward stretched off to the right, out of his vision. She must be at the far end. He yelled even louder and began kicking the door.

An exhausted new mother sat up in the nearest bed and stared over at him, confused at first then angry.

“You’ll wake the babies!” she mouthed.

Right on cue, one of the infants started to cry. “Let me in!” Shaun demanded.

The woman gestured down the ward, waving the night sister over frantically. Shaun saw her lips form the word “nutcase”.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” he yelled.

He heard footsteps running closer. The night sister rushed into view, her face startled and questioning.

“Open the door!” Shaun shouted. “Hurry!”

The sister did not hesitate. She ran towards him and pressed the entry button. Shaun wrenched the door open. Then he froze.

Mauger’s roar came booming down the corridor. Shaun looked past the astonished night sister to where the mothers and their babies were now awake and either crying or looking anxious and frightened. If he ran in there, the invisible terror would smash its way in after him. He thought of the destruction in the Paediatric Ward and imagined the carnage that monster would wreak in Maternity.

For the second time that night, he heard the old Tom and Jerry gulping sound, only this time it was real. He knew what he had to do.

Shaking his head, he backed out of the doorway. “Don’t open this for anyone,” he told the sister before he slammed it shut between them. “Not for anyone.” Then he fled, further along the corridor. Behind him the terrible force came raging around the corner.

“This way – you ugly Mary!” he goaded. “Come get me!”

Mauger roared again. The noticeboard outside Maternity rattled on the wall. Notes and announcements went flying as the beast stampeded by.

Shaun ran to the lifts and thumped the call button.

“Dammit!”

Both lifts were down on the ground floor. There wasn’t time to wait. The air shook as Mauger rushed upon him. Shaun leaped away, ducked behind a vending machine, then kicked open the double doors of an empty, budget-closed ward.

It was dark in there. Mattresses were rolled up on skeletal bed frames. There was nowhere to hide and no other exit.

Shaun swore under his breath. He heard the vending machine buckle and smash outside as Mauger’s fury fell upon it. Packets of crisps, chocolate bars and cans of pop gushed over the floor.

The man ran to the far wall, hoping the darkness between two windows would conceal him long enough so he could dodge past and escape. The lifts would be here by now, if he could just reach them…

The double doors flew open. Shaun stared directly ahead and tried to silence his panting breaths.

A solitary can of Tango came rolling into the deserted ward. It trundled under one of the beds and bumped gently against the metal leg. Shaun could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. In the doorway a crisp packet burst as a heavy, invisible foot stamped on it. Another popped and the disgorged contents crunched as the beast prowled forward, into the empty ward.

Even though Shaun could not see the monster’s eyes, he could feel them burning into him. It knew exactly where he was. It was a demon of the darkness. Night shadows were no hiding place.

A bed juddered as it lumbered past. Shaun’s terror grew.

No!
his thoughts screamed.
You won’t get me. You won’t!

There was a vicious snarl and, for an instant, the darkness shivered. A faint, horned outline appeared. It was even more horrific than Shaun had glimpsed through the curtain. This time he could see the huge fangs in the downturned mouth.

Any hope of escape vanished. He knew there was only one way out now. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he went for it.

“Dear God, save me!” he yelled aloud.

Mauger roared as it pounced. Shaun Preston darted sideways. He vaulted on to the windowsill and hurled himself against the glass. The windowpane splintered around him. He dived out into the night. Knives of glass lacerated his hands and face and sliced through his uniform. Howling, he flailed his limbs as he fell the three storeys. The shattered window sparkled around him all the way down.

The awful noise as he hit the ground, followed by Mauger’s bellow of frustration, was heard back in the Paediatric Unit.

The Ismus raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Put the fruit away,” he sighed to Shiela. “We won’t need it now. Shauny isn’t coming back.”

“Such a pity about your wonderful invention,” Mr Hankinson lamented, looking down at the fragments of the Bakelite device.

“As I said,” the Ismus told him, “we will need more. Now let’s bring Mauger to heel before the fuss kicks off.”

He ushered his followers from the wrecked ward and bestowed a final smile upon Sister Olivant.

“First thing in the morning I’ll send Jangler round with a copy of Dancing Jacks for each of your patients,” he promised. “They’ve earned them. They really have.”

“Blessed be,” Joan thanked him, beaming.

Chapter 17

P
AUL STARTED THE
next day in a thoroughly excellent and elated mood. Nothing was going to spoil it for him. When Gerald had driven him home after the piano lesson the previous evening, Martin and his mother sat him down and told him their intentions. Yelling with joy, he had leaped off the settee and punched the air. He could not have been happier. He had been wishing for them to get married for well over a year now. He also longed to have a baby brother or sister and so nothing whatsoever could ruin his day – or even his week. At least that was what he thought.

Martin drove them to school that morning in a similar frame of mind. Not even the disturbing phone call Carol received from the hospital could dampen his spirits. Apparently a male nurse had snapped and gone on a violent rampage through the children’s ward, before throwing himself out of a window. Luckily none of the young patients suffered anything worse than cuts and bruises and one broken arm, but it was a shock to everyone who knew and worked with Shaun Preston.

It was the last thing anyone expected him to be capable of, but you could never really be sure about anyone. Sister Joan Olivant was already telling the press how she had always been uncomfortable in his presence; how he used to stare at her inappropriately and make lewd suggestions. She was certain that her rejection of his attentions and threat to make an official complaint were what had driven him over the edge. It was another media frenzy over there today.

As Martin drove through the school gates, he saw that even more floral tributes had been placed in front of the railings overnight. He wondered how long they were expected to remain there. What was the respectful thing to do with such things afterwards? Barry Milligan would be sure to know; he was good at stuff like that. For all his scary TV cop persona, he could be very tactful when required.

Humming a tune to himself, that sounded more than a little like the wedding march, Martin waved goodbye to Paul and made his way to the staffroom. His good humour evaporated when he saw his colleagues poring over the morning papers.

“Doesn’t bode well,” he observed. “What’s going on here then?” They couldn’t have printed the story about the male nurse already, could they?

Mrs Early held up a tabloid in her thumb and forefinger as though it was a soiled nappy. The front page was full of the engagement of the month, but pages 6 and 7 were devoted to ‘Dead Drunk Head – Boozy Headmaster of Yob School drinks himself under the desk while kids lie dead’. Sneaky photographs of Barry Milligan, taken over the past few evenings, were plastered across the pages. There he was: drinking in two different pubs, coming out of off-licences and even through the window of his front room where he was sprawled ‘dead drunk’ on his sofa, nursing an empty glass with the remnants of that night’s binge all around him.

“Hell!” Martin swore.

“The man’s a liability and a dinosaur,” Mr Wynn said. “He’s not fit to do the job. What sort of example is that?”

Martin threw the paper down in disgust and stared at the games teacher angrily. “What any of us do in our time away from here isn’t anyone’s business,” he told him.

“The only people who ever say that are those with something to hide,” Mr Wynn muttered to himself.

“What was that?” Martin demanded. “If you’ve got something to say, let’s all hear it.”

Mr Wynn looked him up and down. He snorted and flexed his broad shoulders then smiled falsely. Zipping up his tracksuit, he swaggered from the room. Martin wanted to run out after him and punch his stupid orange face, but Mr Wynn would have flattened him with one retaliating swipe.

“Brainless muscle-head,” he seethed through grated teeth. “Go squeeze the steroid spots on your back.”

“Happiest days of our lives,” Mrs Early said wearily.

“So where is Barry?” Martin asked.

“In his office,” Mr Roy answered. “Wouldn’t be surprised if his phone line melts today. I wouldn’t go anywhere near. Cornered beasts are liable to lash out at anyone.”

“It’s not fair,” Martin said. “He’s damn good at the job.”

Mrs Early shook her head. “Doesn’t mean a thing now,” she declared. “He’s suddenly infamous across the country. No one cares how good a Head he is. He’s been tried and judged already. His identity is fixed. He’ll never be rid of it. He’ll be the Dead Drunk Head forever. It’s on his file now and will be dredged up and thrown at him wherever he goes.”

“His position is untenable,” Mr Roy added.

Martin knew they were right, but it sickened him. The bell sounded for registration.

Mrs Early looked down at the discarded newspaper. “Such is the power of words,” the English teacher mused to herself. “They inflict pain, ruin lives and start wars. All it takes is one.” With a shake of her head, she left the staffroom, reflecting that there were some words which she too could lose her job over if she uttered just one of them in class. The might of language must never be underestimated.

Elsewhere in the school, Paul Thornbury’s happy mood took longer to dissipate.

His friends had been strange with him the previous day and last night they hadn’t responded to his pokes on Facebook, where their profile photographs had been replaced by pictures of playing cards. He had wondered how Anthony Maskel and Graeme Parker would react to him today and how he should behave towards them. Should he be off with them and treat them coldly if they spoke to him, or would that make it worse? Were they even worth keeping as friends if they could be this way?

When he saw them that morning at registration, they could not have been more pleasant – too pleasant.

“Blessed be!” they both greeted, grinning like cats that had inherited a combined dairy and salmon farm business.

“Hello,” Paul answered cautiously. “You guys OK?”

The two boys smiled back at him. They were not normally like this. Anthony was usually moaning about some imagined ailment and Graeme was naturally a bit morose, but it was those very traits that Paul enjoyed about them. He couldn’t make out what had happened to change that.

“We are most well,” Anthony answered. “We have been sharing our thoughts on the Court.”

“We’d like you to share them as well,” Graeme told him.

Paul looked puzzled. “You’re not on about tennis, are you?” he asked.

His friends laughed, but shook their heads. “There is only one Court,” Anthony said, reaching into his bag and bringing out a book. “This one.”

“Hey, I’ve got that as well!” Paul exclaimed. “The bloke gave it to me.”

“The Ismus gave it you?” they asked, impressed. “You are highly honoured.”

“The what?”

The boys blinked at him. “You have not read it?” they asked. “Or are you an aberrant?”

“Am I a what? No, I’ve not had a chance to start it yet. Is it any good?”

The boys exchanged significant glances and looked as if they knew secrets that he did not. Paul didn’t like that.

“Good isn’t the right word,” Anthony informed him. “Paul, it is the only thing that matters. It is the most…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the correct words to express his feelings for Dancing Jacks.

Paul wriggled on his chair uncomfortably. They were beyond weird now.

“Do you have yours here?” Graeme asked. “We could read it together. It’s good reading it together, out loud as one voice.” He began rocking slowly backwards and forwards.

“No,” Paul replied, feeling extremely uneasy. “I left it at home.”

“Then let us read to you,” Anthony urged.

“Yes, we will read it to you, together,” added Graeme. “And you can share the joy of it with us.”

Paul looked around to see if anyone in the class was taking any notice, but nobody was looking in their direction.

The two boys held up their books and opened them at the first page to read aloud.

Then the bell rang.

“Saved,” Paul breathed, without realising the enormous truth of his words.

Their first lesson was history. Year 7 was learning about medieval realms and the castles of the Normans. There wasn’t one child who disliked that topic and just about everyone found it fascinating. That morning two found it even more absorbing than the rest. The usually quiet Anthony and Graeme were asking lots of peculiar and irrelevant questions about the colour of the stonework, the layout of the rooms and how many tapestries they would have. It was as if they were trying to compare a Norman castle to somewhere they had been and found the wooden motte-and-baileys and stone keeps and towers of the Normans lacking in every aspect.

Miss Smyth, the cool, blonde teacher, who always wore crisp, white blouses with a small red or black bow at her throat and whom practically every boy in the school had a crush on, was beginning to get irritated.

“Do you know how many horses they kept in the stables, Miss?” Graeme asked. “And how many hounds and hawks?”

The other children didn’t dare titter at his newfound nerve. Miss Smyth was not someone to wind up. She may have been as beautiful and well groomed as a Hitchcock leading lady, but she was no pushover and only the foolish ever tried to bait her. They watched and listened, baffled at the boys’ behaviour, but curious to see how much she would tolerate and just how she would react when pushed too far.

“That would depend on the castle in question,” she replied sternly. “Each was different, depending on the wealth and status of who lived there. Only the very rich would keep a large number of any of those animals.”

“My Lord Ismus keeps forty fine horses in the stables of Mooncaster,” Graeme said proudly. “Each a splendid thoroughbred, with a richly embroidered cloth to wear when the knight goes riding – and the White Castle has three concentric walls and the Keep is five storeys high…”

“Enough!” Miss Smyth told him, pointing her pen at the boy. “If you keep on disrupting the lesson with your stupid remarks, you’ll be kept behind after school.”

“It’s true!” Anthony cried in Graeme’s defence. “It is the best castle in the world!”

“With the finest steeds! And in a separate building of its own is the Jack of Club’s stallion – the one he saved while it was still only a foal! There’s no better or stronger or nobler beast than that one!”

“That’s right!” Anthony chimed in again. “It’s the envy of every knight and…”

“Be quiet!” Miss Smyth roared, slamming a textbook on the desk, which made everyone jump in their seats. She had no idea what stupid game the pair of them were playing, but she was not putting up with any more of it.

“I’m surprised at you two!” she continued severely. “But one more word, just one, and you’re in detention.”

The boys looked affronted as though she was being unjust, but they hung their heads and said nothing else for the remainder of the lesson.

Nobody in the rest of the class dared utter a word either. Miss Smyth’s face had turned a deep pink colour and her nostrils were flaring. Graeme and Anthony’s insolence had made her lose her temper and she barked at everyone to copy out passages from their textbooks.

Paul and the other children stared at the two boys. What were they thinking? Now they were all suffering her displeasure and they sat there, meekly doing their work. When the bell rang, no one attempted to move until she gave her permission and then they filed out quietly.

“You two,” she addressed Graeme and Anthony as they passed her desk. “Come here.”

The boys stood before her, eyes cast down.

“I don’t understand what that was about today,” she told them sharply. “But I never want to see the same stupid behaviour from you again, do you hear?”

Anthony raised his face and looked her squarely in the eyes. “We hear you, Miss,” he said in a fearless, almost haughty tone. “We hear you and we forgive you.”

“You what?” she asked in disbelief.

“We forgive you.”

Miss Smyth’s mouth fell open slightly. She had never been spoken to like this, and certainly not by someone in Year 7. Anthony continued to stare at her. This was more than disrespect. It was disturbing. She noticed with a shock that his eyes appeared glazed, almost lifeless – like the eyes of a doll.

“You had better be careful, young man,” she finally managed to say. “I’ll be on to your parents about this.”

“They will forgive you too,” he answered. “For now.”

Then it was Graeme’s turn. His face was impassive and calm and his eyes were the same.

“You can’t help it,” he said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. “You’re just ignorant, Miss.”

“Yes, you’re ignorant… for now.”

“But that will change.”

The teacher drew back in her chair. The boys were not normal. “Get out,” she murmured in as level a voice as she could manage. “Get out of here.”

They waited a few moments more, smiling at her, then left the room.

“Blessed be,” they called out.

The pen was shaking in Miss Smyth’s hand as she watched the door close behind them. It was broad daylight, she was sitting in a school classroom, one of the safest places imaginable, and yet she had never felt so threatened and intimidated in her life. It took her a full five minutes to recover and rise from her desk, but she was still trembling.

Paul was waiting for the two boys in the playground, wondering what Miss Smyth had said. Looking around him, he noticed that other children in different years were behaving strangely out there. Small groups were huddled together and some of them were rocking backwards and forwards, like Graeme had done that morning in registration.