Fighting Pax. Robin Jarvis

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      Martin staggered and steadied himself against the table. Could it really be that simple? His heart began thumping with excitement and his eyes started to swim. The horror, the anguish, the horrendous loss of life, was the end of all that so near? Was he going to see the two people he cared most about in the world again? Was it possible?

      A flame of hope spluttered in his heart and a tear ran down his face. In that brief instant of blazing joy, he totally forgot about the plight of Gerald and the children.

      “Oh, thank God!” he uttered. “Oh, thank, thank God!”

      Barry rose. He clapped his hands and cheered, as if his favourite team had just scored a try.

      “We’re going to save the world, old son!” he shouted.

      Suddenly Martin’s elation perished and the light that had flared so briefly in his eyes was quenched. When Barry moved, he could hear the creak and squeak of leather beneath his clothes. Martin stumbled back and gave a howl of anger and frustration.

      “You evil, evil freak!” he raged.

      “Haw haw haw!” the other man crowed. “I teased you, I tricked you, I taunted you and played you. What a bad boy the Jockey is. How he rides them all.”

      Throwing off the coat and tracksuit, he revealed the toffee-coloured costume underneath and hopped around in a triumphant circle.

      “But you were too easy, Mr Baxter,” he scolded, wagging a finger. “You wanted it to be true so much you quite took the pleasure of my game clean away. I was expecting to have to work much harder at the dissembling. Gullible chumps like you are no fun.”

      The bitterness of Martin’s disappointment was almost unbearable. He felt utterly crushed. To have that sparkling hope dangled in front of him, only for it to be snatched away, was a pain he didn’t think he could endure.

      But he had to.

      “So what are you here for?” he asked, broken. “You’ve found me, you’ve won. What are you going to do now? I’d have thought your precious Ismus would want to be here and gloat in person at the finish.”

      “Hoo hoo hoo!” the Jockey guffawed. “I’m not here because of you! You really do have an inflated view of your significance, even worse than that charlatan, Old Ramptana. No, we’ve known exactly where you’ve been skulking from the beginning. You just weren’t important enough to go chasing. Did you honestly think you were? Haw haw haw – that is very funny. Wait till I tell the Lady Labella; how she will laugh.”

      “How… how is Carol? Is she OK?”

      “The Lady Labella,” the Jockey rebuked him, “is in the pinkest of health. Since the advent of the Holy Enchanter’s son, she has been as radiant as the morning.”

      Martin closed his eyes. Hearing that revolted him.

      “And Paul?” he asked. “I mean the Jack of Diamonds, how is he?”

      “The light-fingered doings of Magpie Jack are none of your concern, Martin Baxter.”

      Martin gritted his teeth and fought the urge to smash the other man’s face through the large TV screen. It wasn’t easy.

      “What about this new book?” he asked instead. “Was that part true? Is the Ismus writing a sequel?”

      “Oh, most assuredly so. Wherever we go in this silly dreamland he has been tappy-tappy-tapping on his laptop, late into the night, shunning company and comforts. But it is not a sequel, for how can there be such a thing? ’Tis a furtherance of our merry lives in the Realm of the Dawn Prince. We of the Court are agog and breathless to be granted even so much as a fleeting glimpse of it, but that is forbidden for the moment, yes, for the moment.”

      He gave a twitch of agitation and Martin guessed correctly that the Jockey had already tried and failed to read the manuscript.

      “All will be revealed betimes though,” the Jockey continued. “A declaration shall be made this very day and the whole of this grey drabbery will know of it. Oh, such plans are a-place, such excitement there shall be for you all, yea, even the aberrants. We genuinely do all we can to make this drudging gloom more sprightly for you – perk it up and keep it lively, keep it bright and frolicsome.”

      “You really shouldn’t bother.”

      “Now, now, don’t irk. Let us not curdle this jolly day with your vinegary humour. I have come to rescue you from these dank grots and caves, fit only for worms and pin-eyed bats. You should be glad and singing.”

      “You’ve already said it wasn’t me you’ve come for. So who, as if I didn’t know?”

      The smirk slipped from the Jockey’s face. “My Lord Ismus wishes the Castle Creeper brought unto his presence,” he told him with great solemnity. “There is a covenant between them he is most keen to pursue.”

      “I know all about that. It’s his maddest, most disgusting scheme yet. What I don’t know is how you persuaded the North Koreans to let you come here.”

      The Jockey threw back his head and let out a throaty laugh.

      “Persuade them?” he hooted. “They really aren’t in a position to deny me. When my Lord Ismus tells them to hop, they leap like hares from a burning field. Dear me, Mr Baxter, you cannot truly believe your raggle-taggle band of aberrants have been their guests these many months? You silly, dolting muttonhead. This impecunious country is on its knees and the people are suffering. Famine bites hard and their children are stunted and starving. Though they are friendless in this silly world, they are dependent on foreign aid, even from the West whom they despise. You and your young vagabonds have not been guests here, you have been hostages – and used as articles of barter for an increase in that aid. What wily hagglers they are. They have done well from the bargain. My Lord Ismus has been sending them oodles of food and fuel – such munificence! ’Tis a marvel their trousers still fit.”

      Martin finally understood why the North Koreans had not explored ways of utilising Lee’s gift. They were too busy profiting from keeping him here. They hadn’t wanted to attack the Ismus, because they were accepting aid from him and now it was time for their benefactor to collect. This was why the Chief of the General Staff had looked so ashamed a few minutes ago.

      “And have they also done a deal to keep their republic free of Dancing Jax?” he asked.

      The Jockey tittered behind his hand. “Of course they have! The Holy Enchanter has given his word not to distribute the hallowed text within these borders.”

      The sentence had scarcely left his lips when the lights began to flicker.

      “Oh, the Ismus is such a rascally swizzler!” he giggled. “His promises are spun of the most brittle, sugary strands. Now I am charged to fetch the Creeper. You are to be taken to the whirlycopter. There are some surprises and japes in store for you, Martin Baxter. What a thrilling Christmas you’ll have in this tedious sleep world this year.”

      “Wait,” Martin called as the Jockey brushed past him. “I just want to know… is there anything of the Barry Milligan I worked with for over twenty-five years still left inside you? Was that only an act before? Is there no trace of that rugger-loving sod anywhere?”

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