Читать книгу Freax and Rejex - Robin Jarvis - Страница 8

THE TEENAGER IN pink and white leather was oblivious to the sneers directed at her from Jody in the first coach. She was too busy flicking her blonde hair extensions back and casting a critical eye at her reflection in the glass of the vehicle’s door. Her mother was just as eager to meet the Ismus and the Jacks as the other parents, but she had resisted the powerful urge and remained with the girl.

“Make sure you get your face on camera as much as possible,” she instructed. “Soon as the rush dies down, we’ll move in. You latch on to his Lordship and hang in there like a limpet.”

The girl nodded. “I know,” she said. “Like he’s a Clooney or a Rooney. Aww, I made a poem, innit!”

“And remember, you’re here to learn as well as get your face in the papers and glossies. I don’t know why the book hasn’t worked for you yet, but I’m sure there’s a good reason. Just taking a bit longer with you than the rest of us.”

“It’s not cos I’m fick, Ma.”

“I didn’t say you was. But this is your big chance – don’t cock it up. What has your mother always said? ‘You have to turn every setback into a lesson to do better next time.’”

“You ain’t never said that! You always told me to act dumb and common cos no one likes a clever bird.”

“Well, I’m saying it now. There might not be a next time after this. You’ve got to grab this chance by the curlies and make the most of it. You’re gonna wake up from this miserable dream world sometime this weekend and find out you’re royalty – a Jill or higher, not a three of clubs laundress like me. Can’t be nothing else with that pretty face.”

“I’m a princess, innit,” the girl told herself. “You an’ Uncle Frank always said I was.”

Her mother gave her an appraising look then prodded her chest. “You got those chicken fillets in? Should have used ostrich’s. Put your shoulders back so they stick out more.”

“Do they have things like these in Mooncaster?” the girl asked. “I don’t wanna be no flat-chested munter when I wake up there. I wanna good boob rack.”

“Don’t you worry about that. We’ve got corsets and bodices to show off our milk puddings a treat. It’s Boots’ make-up counter I miss when I’m there and those other silly fripperies they have here in my dreams. I’m not sure about sleeping with raw bacon on my eyes to keep the crows’ feet at bay or rubbing goose fat on my poor chapped fingers. If I could afford some of the Queen of Hearts’ concoctions, I would, but laundresses don’t earn many sixpences – silver coin isn’t easy to come by. I’m not complaining – that’s just how life is there and it’s a bushel better than here, I promise you.”

“You don’t half talk funny since you been goin’ there. It’s mad. Like you’re in an old film about history, like that Shakespeare’s Got Love. It’s not fair the book hasn’t worked on me. It should of. You know how hard I been tryin’. You know me an’ readin’ don’t get on, unless it’s Cosmo or Hello or a catalogue or Garfield or a text message. That book’s the longest fing I ever read in my life. Took me over a month solid an’ I’ve done it dunno how many times since – and had that sloppy minchet stuff in all my Slim Fasts an’ mixed in with my avocado salads, but I’m still bleedin’ here! What’s that about then?”

Her mother shushed her. The Black Face Dames had emerged from the first coach, leading a straggly line of unhappy children. The musicians played with even more gusto and dancers came skipping forward to perform. The Ismus was there, accompanied by a woman and a straw-haired young man who was busily filming the last few children emerging from the vehicle. The black youth at the very end pushed the lens out of his face and gave him the finger.

“There’s His Highness, the Holy Enchanter!” her mother exclaimed. “And there’s a camera – perfect moment. Get in there!”

The girl didn’t need any persuasion. She tottered hastily over the grass in her pink diamanté heels, making a beeline for the Ismus.

Kate Kryzewski was wondering how she could get away from him and his bodyguards and make it to the car without being noticed, when the girl and her mother bore down on them.

“Your Lordship!” the woman cried, bobbing into a curtsy. “I am Widow Tallowax of the wash house. A lowly matron, though of good character, far beneath your notice I’m sure. After a long day at the steaming coppers, when I nod off on my comfy rocker by the ingle, I find myself here where I am this girl’s mother. The pity of it is the poor mite can’t find her way back to the castle so we’ve no idea who she really is, but she’s a rare beauty and obviously a personage of quality and standing whom no doubt the Limner will be sure to paint a likeness of.”

The Ismus listened with faint amusement.

“And what is your name here?” he asked, addressing the girl directly.

“Charm,” the teenager said, nodding perkily and pushing her shoulders back. “Charm Benedict, but we dropped the last bit. It were goin’ to be Charm Bracelet for my modellin’, but Uncle Frank, he’s my manager, said that were a bit naff. I really liked it, but he said brands work best with just one word and he’s right when you fink about it. So it’s just Charm now, innit?”

The girl thrust her arm through his and ran a hand over his sleeve.

“This velvet is well lush,” she said enthusiastically. “You look well elegant. Ooh, that sounds funny! Is there such a word as ‘welegant’? There should be.”

“Thank you, now if I may…”

“I bet you’re an After Eight!”

“A what?”

“You know… them skinny square chocs at posh dinner parties. See – I reckon everyone has their own flavour. You’re classy, right – like an After Eight. There it is, nice and slim in its special little bag fing, all dark chocolate but wiv a minty cream fillin’. Smoove an’ sleek on the outside, zingy like toothpaste in the middle. Hidden Depps – like the actor.”

“She’s always putting flavours to people,” her mother added, beckoning to Sam to bring his camera over. “It’s just one of the pretty quirks she has. I’m cookie dough apparently. Tell them what you are, Charm, go on.”

The girl managed to flick her hair back and swivel both herself and the Ismus round so that the camera was fully on them.

“I’m a rainbow sherbet,” she said with a perfected smile. “Mixed with that space dust stuff, so I froth and sparkle with sweetness on your tongue.”

“Effervesce,” her mother corrected in a muttered aside. “Froth makes you sound like you’ve got rabies.”

The Ismus tried to disentangle himself, but the girl wasn’t going to let him escape that easily.

“I am well looking forward to this weekend!” she declared, clinging on with determination. “I’m so excited I could wet my knickers. This is what I’ve been waiting for, ever since the book come out and I couldn’t get my head round it. There’s no one who wants to go to Mooncaster more’n I do. Me ma’s told me so much. Sounds amazin’! I am going to work so hard and make sure I get there. I’ll do anyfink I will. Look what I had done soon as I knew I was coming here.”

She unzipped her leather jacket and lifted a skimpy T-shirt to show the heart-shaped, pink diamanté stud that pierced her navel.

“You getting that?” she asked Sam, angling her midriff so the diamanté glinted in the sunlight. “Matches my Dolce Gabbanas as well, see. Course I don’t know what I’ll be when I wake up in the castle, but I hope it’s Hearts, cos I luuurve ’em; them’s the prettiest, but I don’t mind what I am – honest. I can change this for whatever. Diamonds would be well good.”

Sam kept the lens on her. The teenager’s attitude was the weirdest he had encountered so far. She babbled away like a Valley girl, not letting the banal chatter drop for a moment. She fired off questions then gabbled over the answers and her mother chipped in whenever there was a pause for breath. The longer this went on the better, thought Sam, because Kate had slipped quietly away.

Kate Kryzewski made it to the hire car without any hindrance. Market stalls displaying food fit for a medieval banquet had been set up right in front of it. This ye olde bake sale formed the perfect screen. The car was completely hidden from view.

Once inside, she quickly typed the explosive email that would jump-start America and the UN into action.

“Blue touchpaper well and truly lit,” she told herself as she clicked on send. But there was no wireless signal.

“Failure to launch. Damn you, Sam for being right.”

The reporter frowned and thought calmly. Maybe there just wasn’t any coverage in this nowhere place anyway. She slid across into the driver’s seat and turned the engine over. She’d drive to the nearest village or town, until that little graphic began to blink on her laptop.

Kate glanced in the mirror to reverse out, but braked sharply. While she had been typing, a large wooden wagon loaded with hay bales had been wheeled directly behind, blocking her in.

“Unbelievable!” she seethed impatiently.

There was nothing for it but to get out of the car and get the wagon moved. But there was nobody near it and no one she asked had seen who put it there.

“The carter’ll be having a mug of ale, most like,” a pie-seller told her. “Try asking over yonder, at the brewer’s stall. There’s a tidy crowd there.”

Kate glanced across, but it was too close to where the Ismus was being monopolised by that teenage wannabe.

She returned to the wagon and pushed against it. The thing wouldn’t budge. How did it even get here? There had to have been a horse pulling it. She ran back to the pie-seller. He was a big, beefy man with thick forearms and looked strong as an ox.

“Hi again,” she said, with her most winning smile. “I wonder – could you please do me a massive favour? I don’t want to disturb the wagon guy if he’s having a beer. I’m sure if we both push, that thing’ll move out of the way and I can get my car out.”

The man stared back at her blankly.

“I can’t leave my pies unattended,” he told her. “Not when the Jack of Diamonds is about. He’ll nab the lot soon as my back is turned. Beggin’ your pardon, Mistress, but you won’t find none here in the market who’ll neglect their wares whilst Magpie Jack’s around.”

Kate understood. No one was going to help her. The wagon had been put there deliberately to keep her inside the camp.

“Fine,” she uttered. “Just fine – dammit.”

But it wasn’t fine. The unspoken menace here was mounting. She’d been in tight spots before, but this, this was something else. She wished she’d brought a truck full of US troops with her instead of one laid-back Californian cameraman. Why did she always think she could handle any situation on her own? Why did she think she was Teflon-coated?

For the first time in too long she thought of her father. He had served in the military all his life. By the age of nine, she had lived in half the US army bases in the world. Kate hadn’t spoken to him in three years. Their political views were poles apart and the last row had been nuclear with lots of fallout. Still, if he was here now, he’d have broken the Ismus’s jaw before those blacked-up bodyguards had guessed what was coming. At that moment, Kate would have given anything to see that. She smiled faintly at the thought and promised herself that, after this, she’d make the first move and call Lieutenant Colonel Pete Kryzewski and say, “Hi, Dad.”

She took off her jacket, retrieved the laptop and wrapped it inside. Holding them under her arm, she cast a careful glance towards the coaches and moved quickly but discreetly through the bustling people. Everyone under the influence of that book appeared to be having the time of their lives. Carollers were singing and the minstrels were filling the spring sunshine with lively music. Kate kept to the edge of the crowds and wove her way towards the main gates. If she ducked around the far side of the second coach, she could reach the forest road without being spotted.

The urge to run was strong, but she forced herself to walk as nonchalantly as possible. The children and teens from this other coach were now standing in front of it, bewildered and ill at ease. Kate saw the same traumatised expressions on them as before. She didn’t dare stop or speak to them. It was vital to get this email sent.

She ducked round the side of the vehicle and sprinted along the length of it. Then she checked her pace and sneaked out of the camp gates.

The narrow forest road stretched in front of her. Kate looked searchingly at the lines of cars parked on either side. She couldn’t keep darting to and fro, checking every car. Someone would be sure to spot her. Choosing the left-hand verge, she hurried past the cars parked there, trying the doors.

“Come on,” she whispered urgently. “Show me some keys! There’s no larceny in this country any more, right? No reason to worry about auto theft. Why do you Brits have to be so uptight, even when you’re all nuts? Just one set of keys in the ignition. I’m not fussy – doesn’t have to be a Porsche.”

It was no use. Every vehicle was locked. Finally she understood why. The owners had known the Jack of Diamonds was going to be here today. His character in the book was cursed with itchy palms. He couldn’t help himself. He stole anything he took a liking to. The drivers weren’t taking any chances with that roguish Knave at large.

Kate uttered a curse of her own. She would have to reach the nearest village, or wherever she could get a signal, on foot.

Half running, she set off down the tree-lined road and tried to recall the journey that morning. Sam had been driving and she had been concentrating on her notes, so barely noticed the landscape they passed through. Sam had commented at the time that this place wasn’t his idea of a forest. Sure, there were lots of trees, but they were clumped in many separate areas of woodland, interspersed with open tracts of heath and pasture. His idea of an English forest was based solely on Robin Hood and King Arthur movies and some of them were cartoons. Still, she remembered he had pointed out several riding centres, hotels and restaurants along the route. Surely they couldn’t survive without Internet bookings?

It took her ten minutes to reach the junction where the narrow road joined a wider way. Kate knew they had turned right off there. Staying close to the trees, she began retracing their journey and unwrapped the laptop from her jacket.

Still no signal.

She swore under her breath and hastened on.

Behind her, in the camp, a horn sounded a warbling fanfare and a great cheer went up. She wondered what that meant – the call to a mass reading or a free-for-all at the pie stall? She hoped Sam would have the sense to get in the car whilst any reading took place. She’d briefed him on it enough times before they arrived. It was too dangerous to risk hearing just one sentence from that infernal book.

Suddenly she stopped walking and whipped her head around. She could hear the thudding of horses galloping along the road and the whooping of the following crowd.

“Oh, Jeez,” she breathed. “They really are totally insane.”

Now she understood why that horn had been blown. It was the start of a hunt, and they were hunting her.

Kate clutched the laptop tightly and ran. She was in good shape – female reporters had to be or they didn’t get on TV. She went to the gym three times a week and did plenty of cardio: rowing machine, bike, stepper, always finishing with half an hour on the treadmill and when she didn’t go there, she jogged.

She had to get off this road. So far, the riders hadn’t emerged on to the main road and she wanted to be out of sight when they did. The trees on the other side grew sparsely and she saw a stretch of open heath beyond them.

Kate dashed over and jumped into the thin woodland opposite. She had seen a car in the distance headed this way. She hoped the driver hadn’t spotted her, or if they had, wouldn’t be suspicious of a woman haring across the road. It was a ridiculous hope.

Not looking back, she plunged into the trees and then out over the green expanse of coarse, scrubby heathland.

The Jack of Clubs’ horse was the first to clatter out on to the main road. He reined it around, looking right and left for the fleeing reporter. Presently the other riders were alongside him.

“Where is she?” the Jill of Spades asked. “Did you mark where she went?”

Jack shook his head. “We must divide our number,” he instructed. “You come with me; we shall take the left way. The others must ride yonder!”

“Why can I not go with you?” the Jill of Hearts asked. “I like the look of that left way better.”

“Are you sure it is the way you prefer the look of?” the Jill of Spades asked pointedly.

The girls exchanged spiked glances. By now the car was almost level with them. It slowed to a stop and the driver, a woman in her fifties with a five of clubs pinned to her coat, got out and sank to her knees.

“My Lords and Ladies!” she exclaimed, elated beyond measure. “A mighty honour this is, to find you here, in my grey dream – of all places! ’Tis really you! Our dear own Jacks and Jills, right in front of me, here in this nothing place! How blessed I am!”

The Jill of Spades sneered at her and the Jack of Diamonds leaned over to whisper in the Jill of Hearts’ ear. They laughed together.

“Good mistress,” the Jack of Clubs declared, with a charming smile. “We are hunting one who has defied the Holy Enchanter. Have you seen sign of her?”

The woman nodded her head vigorously. “Just seconds ago!” she cried, delighted to be of assistance and pointing with excitement back down the road. “She ran across that way, through those trees!”

The Jack of Clubs thanked her and they spurred their horses on.

“Blessed be!” the woman shouted after them.

She rose to her feet just as a black SUV, with impenetrable tinted windows, pulled out of the forest road, flanked and followed by a crowd of stern-looking people.

“These dreams are so peculiar,” the woman said, getting back into her modest hatchback.

Kate Kryzewski was over halfway across the heath when she heard the horses’ hooves leave the tarmac and come thumping on to the grass behind.

Another area of woodland spread out ahead. If she could reach that, the riders might not be able to follow. But, as she ran nearer, she saw the trees were too evenly spaced to prove any obstacle to her pursuers. Her efforts would be wasted. Undeterred, she sped on. One thing those early years growing up in army bases had taught her: you never gave up.

The galloping came closer and closer.

Kate sprinted past the first of the trees and looked around wildly. Filtering through new spring leaves, the warm sunshine caused the bluebell-carpeted floor to glow. It was an enchanting, idyllic place, but its beauty was lost on the reporter. Escape was all she could think of.

Some distance away there was a dense thicket of young birches. No horse could get through there. With renewed hope, she tore off diagonally towards it.

The four riders came charging into the wood.

Before Dancing Jax had ensnared them, not one of those teenagers had ever ridden a horse. The book had made them masters of the saddle. Now, flushed with the thrill of the chase, the Jacks stood in their stirrups and urged their steeds on. The Jill of Spades applied her riding whip and the horses thundered through the bluebells.

Kate called on her last reserve of strength. The birches were almost within reach. She might just make it.

“Bring the peasant down!” the Jill of Spades cried, pulling a dagger from her belt and waving it threateningly.

Kate felt the ground shudder. The horses were almost upon her. A snorting breath blasted against her neck. She yelled and, with an extra spurt of energy, flung herself forward. The horses shied and reared behind her as she stumbled into the cover of the birches. She heard the Jacks call out in anger and frustration and she gave a rueful grin before hurrying on.

As she ran, she discarded the jacket and fumbled with the laptop. To her overwhelming relief and surprise, the wireless symbol was blinking. She couldn’t believe it and staggered to a stop. Her fingers were shaking from exertion and fear and it took two attempts to reopen the email.

“Go…” she blessed it breathlessly. “Get this party started.”

But the email was never sent. At that moment, a violent blow punched into her spine. The laptop flew from her hands and suddenly she was on the ground – her face buried in bluebells.

Almost immediately she flipped over on to her back and there was the Jack of Diamonds standing astride her, looking very pleased with himself. He had leaped off his horse and come tearing after her.

Having just turned twelve, he was the youngest of the Jacks. Kate knew everything about him, who he had been before the book had taken control.

“You’re Paul,” she panted desperately. “Paul Thornbury.”

“Be silent, serf!” he commanded. “You must not address me so.”

“I’ve spoken to Martin Baxter. You remember him. You and your mother lived with him in Felixstowe, remember?”

“I am the Jack of Diamonds!” the boy retorted haughtily. “Son and heir of an Under King. I will not heed such untruths from so common a ditch trull as you!”

Kate shook her head in exasperation. He was too profoundly lost in the book’s power. There wasn’t time for this.

“In dances Magpie Jack,” the boy began to chant, the expression draining from his face and his eyes staring fixedly ahead, the pupils dark and glassy. “So hide what he may lack. In his palm there is an itch and the spell he cannot crack. Jools and trinkets he will…”

“Oh, shut up, Your Royal Jackness!” the woman snapped. With an angry yell, she brought her legs up and kicked him in the chest.

The boy cried out in astonishment and tumbled backwards, hurled off balance.

Kate scrambled to her knees. The laptop was still open and lying upside down, just out of reach. The woman lunged for it, but the heel of a riding boot slammed her aside. Then she felt a steel blade press against her neck.

“You dare strike out at a Prince of the Royal House of Diamonds?” the Jill of Spades snarled. “You will die for this, serf!”

Kate twisted around and saw the fierce expression on the girl’s face. She knew that was no empty threat.

“Emma Taylor,” the reporter told her. “Your name is Emma Taylor. Think before you do this. You’re Emma Taylor!”

“I know who I am in my dreams!” the teenager scoffed. “What business is it of yours?”

“This isn’t a dream! This is the real world. There is no White Castle. There is no Mooncaster! You’re caught up in some mad delusion. If you use that knife, you’ll be committing murder.”

The teenager snorted with scorn.

“The girl Emma is already guilty of so many crimes,” she boasted. “What is one more? It will make good viewing for her reality show here.”

Behind her, the Jack of Clubs and the Jill of Hearts were dismounting and the Jack of Diamonds picked himself up, brushing grass from his doublet.

“Is it proper for serfs and thieves to affront and assail us so?” asked the Jill of Hearts. “Dispatch her quick and let us return to the merrymaking.”

The Jill of Spades grinned cruelly and turned the dagger in her hand, admiring the sunlight flashing over the blade.

“Hold!” the Jack of Clubs ordered. “The Ismus wishes her unharmed.”

“That Ismus is a sick, psycho wack-job!” Kate blurted. “You kids don’t know what you’re doing!”

The teenagers ignored her. Everyone had heard a car approaching. They turned and saw the SUV stopping at the edge of the wood. The three Black Face Dames got out and strode towards them.

The bodyguards seized Kate roughly. They pulled her to her feet and dragged her over to the car. There was no point trying to struggle against them.

The Ismus was leaning casually against a wheel arch, his arms folded. Behind the vehicle, a large crowd, dressed in their Mooncaster best, was waiting in expectant silence. The reporter saw many parents of the newly arrived children among them. She wondered what was happening back at the compound. What was the Ismus really up to? What did he really plan to do with those poor kids?

“Miss Kryzewski,” he hailed her. “How ill-mannered of you to leave the festivities without bidding adieu.”

“Oh, gee,” she replied sarcastically. “Did I forget my goody bag?”

“You left before the reading commenced.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one treat I can skip. Thanks for having me. I had a real swell time. Now tell your Jolson homies to let go of my arms.”

The man merely smiled back at her and held out his hand. One of the Harlequin Priests stepped from the crowd. With a reverent bow, he handed him a copy of Dancing Jax.

“The plan was for you to hear the sacred text read by one of our greatest Shakespearean actors,” he told her. “In a more intimate, cosy setting than this. But I do believe yours is the better choice. Let it be alfresco. It’s such a lovely day.”

He nodded to the crowd and every single one of them took a copy of the book from a large pocket or bag and turned to the first page in unison. It was the most chilling and sinister sight Kate had ever seen.

“You can’t do this!” she shouted. “I’m an American citizen! You have no idea how severe the consequences of your actions here will be. My country will instigate full and major punitive measures on your skinny ass!”

The Ismus chuckled mildly. “After the glowing report you’re going to send in about this wonderful weekend?” he asked. “I very much doubt that, Miss Kryzewski.”

“They having snowball fights in hell today? Cos that’s the only time I’ll be doing anything you want.”

The man’s chuckle turned into a full-blooded laugh.

“If you only knew how droll that was,” he told her. “But no, you will do just as I ask. Why else do you think I invited you back?”

Kate pulled and tugged at her arms, but the bodyguards gripped her more fiercely than ever.

“Now shall we begin?” the Ismus asked. “Are you comfortable? Perhaps not, but you will be very soon. I promise.”

The woman glared back at him. “You won’t convert me so easy,” she growled. “Come on – bring out your best Shakespeare guy, let’s see what he’s got. Personally I always thought your actors were overrated, only good for playing bad guys in dumb action movies. I’m a Pacino girl through and through.”

“I guessed as much,” the Ismus replied. “That is why I thought it would be more amusing to have someone more familiar read to you.”

He rapped his knuckles on the SUV’s roof. The rear door opened slowly and a tear rolled down Kate’s cheek when she saw who got out. She screwed her face up and turned away.

“Hello, Sam,” the Ismus greeted him.