Freax and Rejex. Robin Jarvis

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      “Aberrant,” his cousins said.

      “Aberrant,” his uncle repeated.

      “Aberrant,” spat the voice of Aunt Jen in the doorway behind him.

      The word spread through the large crowd until everyone was chanting it like a mantra, their faces twisted and angry.

      “We must not suffer an aberrant to live!” Uncle Jason shouted.

      “Burn him!” Ryan called out.

      “Burn him!” echoed the crowd.

      Reggie stared at them in horror. Yes, they would do it. They would burn him alive. The madness had gone that far.

      “Lock him in the shed and set light to it!” Uncle Jason cried.

      “No,” Aunt Jen commanded. “It must be done properly, as we would burn the Bad Shepherd in Mooncaster. Build a bonfire. Bring wood and fuel.”

      The crowd gave a mighty cheer. Many went running to their homes to fetch anything that would burn. The rest came surging towards Reggie and closed in around him. There was nothing he could do, no chance of escape. Strong hands grabbed at him. He was hitched high off the ground and carried to the road.

      The beginning of a bonfire was swiftly thrown on the tarmac. Chairs, tables, empty bookcases, shelves ripped from walls, tied towers of newspaper from recycling bins, anything that a flame could bite was brought there in euphoric haste. A man emerged from his house with a chainsaw and immediately set to work, carving the furniture into useful, stackable pieces.

      Reggie was paraded around the mounting timber pyramid like a living guy. He saw a pensioner gleefully throw his walking stick into the midst of the growing pyre and watched a woman come laughing from her garage carrying a can of paraffin. She looked up at Reggie and he saw the joyous expectation on her face. Dancing around the woodpile she sloshed the paraffin over it with carefree abandon.

      Reggie was held so tight he could not even struggle. He knew there was no way out of this. He tried to shout, to tell them they were insane, that the book had possessed them – that they were about to commit murder. But nobody listened and they sang the stupid songs from those evil pages all the louder. This was it. He was going to be burned to death.

      And then, suddenly, a siren cut through the excited babble of voices and, to Reggie’s overwhelming relief, two police cars came roaring down the street, screeching to a stop in front of the bonfire.

      “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Reggie yelled.

      “Break it up, break it up!” the officers shouted as they slammed the car doors shut.

      The crowd grew quiet. One officer moved forward, his hand poised close to the firearm at his hip. Since the beginning of the protests and street violence some months ago, the British police force had been armed.

      “Put the boy down,” he ordered.

      There was a moment of hesitation, but the mob could tell he meant business. The men carrying Reggie lowered him to the ground.

      “Step away from him,” the officer instructed.

      The crowd obeyed, grudgingly, and the boy ran over to the squad cars.

      “I can’t believe it!” he cried. “I thought you were all got at. I thought you were all taken over by the book! These nutters were going to burn me!”

      The policeman ignored him. “Who’s in charge here?” he called out.

      “I am,” Aunt Jen’s voice rang out.

      The crowd murmured and parted, forming a path for her to come forward. Fanning herself, the woman sauntered regally through them.

      Reggie glared at her and countless accusations blazed as fiercely in his mind as the bonfire would have done. But before he could speak, the officers did something that caused his newfound hope to shrivel and die.

      Every police officer removed his cap and dropped to one knee before the Queen of Spades. Reggie knew that somewhere, under their stab-proof vests, they too would be wearing playing cards.

      “Majesty,” the policeman said. “I am Sir Gorvain of the Royal House of Diamonds.”

      “You are come just in time to join our revel,” the woman greeted him. “This day we burn one who defies the Holy Enchanter, a foul malefactor in league with the Bad Shepherd.”

      “Grant me the honour of escorting the fiend to the flames.”

      The Queen of Spades slapped her fan shut and pointed over the policeman’s shoulder with it. “First, Sir Knight,” she said crossly, “you shall have to catch him again.”

      Everyone turned. Reggie had seized his chance and was racing down the street. The crowd jeered and booed. The boy had discarded his heavy rucksack and was running faster than he had ever done before. He knew the bonfire was blocking the way of the police cars. They wouldn’t be able to chase him. He might just manage to get away. There was still a slender chance!

      Two shots were fired, but Reggie only heard the first. A moment later, he was on the ground. At last he had escaped, to a place where the evil of the book could never catch him.

      The crowd cheered. Sir Gorvain waved his gun with a flourish and took a bow as they applauded. Then one of them began to sing, another played lute music loudly on a mobile whilst someone else shook a tambourine and a courtly dance commenced. The colourful streamers hanging from the lamp post were taken up and the courtiers skipped around it, laughing. Others took out their copies of the book and began to read aloud in unison. What a glorious April evening it was.

      The woman who had been Aunt Jen gazed impassively down the street where the body of the young aberrant lay. Then she snapped her fan open once more and joined the dance.

      

      “AS MANY OF you out there may be aware, something strange is happening across the pond in good old Blighty. You might have seen news reports or read about it on the Internet, but do you really understand, in the name of all that is sane, just what those Brits are up to? I’ve been trying to follow this phenomenon, but frankly it’s clear as chowder to me. Here’s Kate Kryzewski, reporting from London, England, with the Jax Fax.”

      The VT rolled and the news anchor leaned back in his chair.

      “Damn crazy little ass-end country,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “Let them keep their crappy books to themselves this time. We don’t want it. Am I right?”

      A make-up girl darted in from the side and dabbed at his glistening forehead.

      “How’m I looking, Tanya?” he asked, almost purring.

      “Just wonderful, Mr Webber,” the professional and pretty Tanya answered.

      “You don’t think I need a little tuck and lift round my eyes then, huh? Still holding up well, yeah?”

      Tanya wisely refrained СКАЧАТЬ