Robin Jarvis-Jax 01 Dancing Jax (34 page)

“Strange get-up?” Evelyn asked in surprise. “Martin, what do you take me for? Who is this Jockey you’re talking about?”

The maths teacher didn’t know whether she was teasing him and wished Gerald hadn’t chosen today to let Evelyn take over. He glanced at the back seat, expecting to see the Jockey’s discarded leather costume. It was empty. Perhaps the outfit was in the boot.

Martin stared at the dark road ahead, trying to make sense of everything.

“I saw him,” he said after a short silence. “I spoke to him. Austerly Fellows. It’s all true.”

“Did you find out about Paul?”

“He’s got him.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do on our own,” Evelyn told him flatly. “We have to get out of Felixstowe tonight. We have to get help from outside. It’s our only chance. Everyone’s only chance.”

Martin was thinking hard. “No,” he said. “There might be just one last hope. But it’ll have to wait till first thing tomorrow.”

“We shouldn’t wait, Martin.”

“We have to.”

“Very well, if you’re sure. But you and Carol can’t spend another night at your place. It won’t be safe. You’d best stay with me – at Gerald’s.”

Martin agreed. Then for the first time he realised something – the Ismus had gone to that old house expecting to find him there. Why else would he have brought the things Paul had taken from the inner sanctum? But who else except Evelyn had known Martin was going there that night? Who else could have told the Ismus?

Martin stole a quick, suspicious glance at the person behind the wheel. A determined and grave expression was on Evelyn’s face. He wondered what else that make-up and wig might be concealing. Martin Baxter suddenly realised he couldn’t trust anybody.

Chapter 29

“. . . A
ND WE
’
LL HAVE
more of those scandalous allegations involving the England team later in the programme for you. But first it’s over to Felixstowe again where Lyndsay Draymore reports on the special memorial service being held there today – Lyndsay.”

“Yes, a very sad day here in Felixstowe this Sunday morning, Tara. Nine days ago, this Suffolk town was torn apart by what has gone down in history as the Felixstowe Disaster, when a car, driven by fifteen-year-old Daniel Marlow, ploughed into a crowd of young people and exploded. Daniel and his three passengers died almost immediately, but there were a total of forty-one fatalities as a result of that night. The police are still no closer to discovering the cause of that terrible crash. Today the first eight funerals will be taking place – all of them pupils who attended the High School here.”

“Now that’s the school that the press have labelled ‘Yob School’, isn’t it, Lyndsay?” the anchorwoman interrupted, edging forward on her seat behind the news desk and jabbing her pen at the green screen where the reporter was superimposed. Tara’s ardent pen-jabbing was one of her trademarks, a mannerism which the impressionist Jan Ravens always mimicked so mercilessly. It was important to have a personable gimmick when reading the news, so the viewers could enjoy a more rounded experience while watching. Tara had practised hers so much that now it looked completely natural and she was sure it would lead to other presenting jobs higher up the ladder within the corporation.

“The tabloids really have had a field day with this during the past week,” she continued, stabbing away like a mini-musketeer. “Felixstowe has hardly been out of the news. First the Disaster and then the male nurse who ran amok, before throwing himself out of a hospital window. And, of course, the revelations about the Headteacher at the school. The tabloids really laid into him, didn’t they?”

“That’s right, Tara. The tabloids showed no restraint there and branded him ‘the Dead Drunk Head’. In a special report later tonight, we’ll be profiling Barry Milligan and interviewing members of his staff, the board of governors and the Education Minister – who has been one of his harshest critics over this past week. In that programme we also speak to his ex-wife for the inside story of his broken marriage and reveal that Mr Milligan has a history of violence and intimidation towards his staff and students. So it comes as no surprise to discover that he has been persuaded to step down from his job. However, the question on every one’s lips must surely be – why did it take the deaths of forty-one young people for that decision to be made and if Barry Milligan had been ‘expelled’ earlier, could this Disaster have been averted?”

“A sobering thought, Lyndsay – if you’ll excuse the pun.”

Lyndsay Draymore gave her professional grin then remembered she was standing in a churchyard with mourners milling around behind her. Her face locked down into serious mode and she nodded gravely to camera.

Tara let her flounder a few moments longer than necessary. “But there has been an unexpected and, dare I say it, a positive development in the wake of this tragic event, I hear,” she eventually prompted. “What’s all this about a children’s book I’ve heard rumours about?”

“Yes, Tara. As strange as it may sound, an old storybook has taken this town by storm and glued this grief-stricken community together during this dreadful week. I spoke to a group of youngsters earlier and they were in no doubt that without this book they simply could not get through the days.”

“Astonishing – is it by anyone famous?”

Lyndsay shook her head. “I’m afraid not, Tara,” she told her, before consulting her notes. Tara winced at this unprofessional gesture and hoped the camera was on her when she did it. She would have memorised all relevant information or had it written large on a board just out of shot.

Lyndsay continued.

“The book is called Dancing Jackets – sorry, that’s Dancing Jacks – by Austerly Fellows. What sort of dancing they do isn’t clear.”

“Ballroom maybe?” Tara interjected, reminding the audience she had been on Strictly.

Lyndsay’s wooden expression told her what she thought of that. “Who knows, Tara,” she said. “What is certain is that these simple fairytales have helped the people of Felixstowe deal with their profound grief and that’s the most important thing.”

Tara wasn’t accustomed to being put in her place by provincial reporters. She turned to Camera One in the studio and cut the item short. “Linda Draymore there,” she said, getting the name wrong on purpose. “And there’ll be more from Felixstowe in our lunchtime bulletin later. Now what do a Spice Girl, a grumpy celebrity chef and a Weatherfield landlady have in common? Yes, they’re gamely taking part in a bid to create the world’s longest strand of spaghetti…”

Back in Felixstowe, Lyndsay Draymore prodded her earpiece. “Hello, studio?” she said. “Hello, Tara?”

“The link’s down,” Gavin the cameraman told her.

“The bitch,” Lyndsay hissed through her teeth. She had been planning to end her piece with, “So it’s a big thank you to Austerly the author – he really was a jolly good Fellows.” Still, there was always the midday news. She could work it in there. “OK,” she said. “Where’s that little man with the coffees? I’m parched!”

“Should I carry on taking shots of the mourners?” Gavin asked. “Do you want the usual hearses and pall-bearers stuff?”

“Too damn right I do!” Lyndsay told him. “I want to see wailing kids, teddy bears holding weepy messages, parents breaking down – the full snotfest. If there’s a dry eye anywhere to be seen then stick your finger in it. Oh – and if you spot that Headmaster in the crowd before I do then for BAFTA’s sake don’t keep it to yourself. He’s been harder to find than Madonna’s natural hair colour, the coward. Make a fantasmic addition to my programme later that would. Contrition, guilt, anger – whatever edits in best. I’ll provoke a reaction even if I have to kick him. With any luck, he’ll do the old thumping the cameraman routine – that’s always documentary gold.”

“Oh, geez thanks, Lyndsay,” Gavin moaned.

“And no wobbly camerawork or crash zooms,” she warned. “We’re not doing drama and trying to juice up a shonky script.” The reporter stomped over old grassy graves to find out where her skinny latte had disappeared to. She had driven here three hours ago and so far the only caffeine she’d had was before she’d left her house and she was gasping for more.

With the camera on his shoulder, Gavin roamed the churchyard, quietly filming the groups of people arriving for the special service and the first of the funerals. He was the only news cameraman there. There were too many celebrity stories to be covered that weekend and he had drawn the short straw. There were plenty of tabloid photographers present however.

To Gavin’s irritation he saw that the mourners were unusually calm and reserved. He couldn’t see any handkerchief action, not even from the grannies. The photographers weren’t pleased about that either. Then Gavin noticed something…

The children were turning up in their school uniforms, but there was something peculiar about them. What had they done to their sleeves? Gavin peered at his small LCD screen and zoomed in. Were those playing cards pinned to the lapels? What was this? Had the funerals been sponsored by an online poker site? And what on earth was going on with their mouths? Why were their lips that putrid colour? What had everyone been eating? Lyndsay wouldn’t be happy with this crappy footage. He could see the paps were grumbling among themselves too.

More and more people were arriving. They began to fill the churchyard and then the hearses sailed serenely through the gates. The first funeral was a double one. They were two teenage girls. Because they had been friends, their families had expressed the desire that it be a joint ceremony. Gavin pushed through the crowd to station himself in the best position to capture the stricken faces of the immediate family. Then he was so surprised at what he saw, he forgot about filming altogether.

He had never seen anything like the wreaths on those hearses. On the roof of one was a great big red diamond, made from hundreds of flowers, and on the roof of the other car was a huge black club.

“I’ve seen it all now,” he muttered. But he hadn’t.

The coffins were slid from the hearses and the pall-bearers took them on their shoulders. They too had cut up their suit jackets in order to have those strange hanging sleeves.

Gavin focused in on one of the girls’ mothers. She was composed and dry-eyed. In fact, her glazed expression looked more bored than sorrowful.

The chief undertaker stepped to the front of the coffins and placed the black top hat on his head. Gavin gasped. Surely not! Yes – there was a playing card tucked into the black ribbon of his hat! Gavin’s disappointment at the lack of emotion now flipped into excitement. There was something wrong here, something way off normal. And he was going to film every warped moment of it.

Dodging back through the crowd so he could get a front-on wide shot, standing by the church door, he held the camera as steady as his feverish anticipation allowed.

The undertaker began the slow walk to the church and the pall-bearers followed. The packed churchyard maintained a respectful silence. There wasn’t a single sniffle. And then…

“Wait!” a voice called out.

A murmur ran through the crowds and every head turned to look beyond the gates. Someone was coming.

“Are you getting this?” Lyndsay growled at him as she barged her way to his side. “What the flaming Panorama is going on?”

“No idea,” he whispered back. “But you wanted gold and this is it.”

“This is bloody platinum with diamond knobs on, Gavin,” she said eagerly. “This is better than a Christmas EastEnders. Here, let me get in shot for this. Shoot past me, but I have to be in these images! This might get seen around the world.”

“Wait!” the voice called again. It was the voice of a girl. “Stop the funeral!”

The undertaker turned smartly about on one foot. He held up his hand for the pall-bearers to halt. Everyone heard the clip-clip of stiletto heels marching along the road and a buzz of recognition spread through those nearest the gate.

Gavin was one of the last to see who it was. The ruddy coffins were in the way! Then, on the camera’s LCD screen, he saw a pair of glossy black ankle boots striding into view. He panned upward. The attached legs were in netted tights and those legs went on and on.

Lyndsay’s mouth dropped open. It was one of the shortest dresses she had ever seen outside a raunchy nightclub and it was certainly something she would never wear, nor indeed could wear, with her cellulite and chankles.

But what the audacious black outfit lacked at the front was made up for at the back. It had a train of taffeta that trailed on the ground behind. The bodice of the dress was decorated with countless diamantés that formed the shape of a large sparkling spade over the stomach.

Gavin tried to get a close-up of the face, but the outrageous newcomer was wearing a black silk hat with a matching veil of lace that covered her features. She was certainly young though, that much he could make out.

Walking between the coffins, the girl traced her silk-gloved fingers along the sides of them. Then she struck a pose and, with a dramatic flourish, lifted the veil from her face.

“The Jill of Spades!” the crowd exclaimed. Someone began to applaud. Here and there were chortles of laughter. One of the dead girls’ fathers smiled indulgently.

Lyndsay stared back at Gavin and mouthed her disbelief to the camera. The photographers were snapping away furiously.

Emma Taylor made a great show of kissing each of the coffins and was certain the photographers caught her from every angle. Then she spied Gavin and turned to face his lens.

“Ashleigh and Keeley,” she proclaimed. “Were Emma’s… were my best friends. I have come here today to make my confession. I was the one who caused the Disaster. I, Emma Taylor, was in that car next to Danny Marlow. I was the one who made him crash it. I stubbed my cigarette on his hand. I set fire to the car. The blood of forty-one innocent people is on my hands. I am responsible for all of this. I – Emma Taylor! Blessed be!”

She tossed her head triumphantly. The crowd repeated her last two words with a great, jubilant shout and then began to cheer. Hooray for the Jill of Spades! She could always be relied on to liven things up – even in this dull, unreal world. The photographers went wild. They rushed forward and surrounded her. Lyndsay hurriedly joined them, pulling Gavin after. Emerging from the church, the vicar nodded his approval. “Yes, blessed be!” he called out, clasping a green and cream book firmly to his chest.

With her hands on her hips, the Jill of Spades threw back her head and laughed.

This is what the girl Emma had always wanted – to be the centre of attention – to be photographed and be in newspapers and magazines. If she, the Jill of Spades, had to endure this dreary dream life when she was away from Mooncaster then she might as well make it as interesting and entertaining as possible. She would make the girl Emma famous – or infamous, it didn’t matter which here. As long as people knew who she was, that was the only important factor in this grey place.