Freax and Rejex. Robin Jarvis

profoundly untrue; they deserve our pity and understanding, and get plenty of both.”

      “Not according to my sources.”

      His eyes locked on her and Kate, despite being a veteran of war reporting in some of the most dangerous hot spots of the world, felt a stab of fear unlike anything she had ever experienced.

      “Now I wonder what those sources can be?” he asked.

      “I can’t disclose that.”

      “You don’t have to. I can guess. Tell me, do you always give credence to paranoid conspiracy theorists with personal grudges? Martin Baxter is just a jealous, embittered maths teacher from Suffolk. His grievance isn’t with Dancing Jax. It’s with me. His ex left him to become my consort. Her son is also with me; the boy is one of our four prime Jacks – the Jack of Diamonds. Martin Baxter just doesn’t know when to let go. I feel sorry for the man, I really do. He should move on.”

      “Is that why he’s in hiding?” she pressed. “Is that why he’s too afraid to even meet with me and communicates via email only? He is very outspoken and critical of what you and your book have done here.”

      “The guy is delusional and a militant agitator. He’s wanted by the authorities here for stoking the very unrest you were talking about earlier. His accusations against me and Dancing Jax have been totally discredited and condemned and the papers uncovered some very unpleasant, shameful details about his personal life. Why would you even listen to someone like that?”

      “Sir, what I’m more interested in is the treatment of the people who haven’t embraced your book. What is happening to them?”

      The Ismus looked down the lens again and continued. “I intend only to help those people, to try and enable them to come join the rest of us and reap the same incredible rewards from this amazing work. Just as I hope to share it with other countries, yours included.”

      “Sir,” she repeated without any respect in her tone. “The rest of the world is watching what is occurring here, watching extremely closely. Washington will not permit this controversial book to be published in the US if it provokes such heated demonstrations and turns citizens into brainwashed zombies who think this life is not their real existence. I really don’t think you can expect the book to be published anywhere else but here.”

      The Ismus grinned at her. “And yet,” he said, “earlier this month, at the Bologna International Book Fair, Dancing Jax was sold to many different countries. At this very moment it’s being translated into nine languages. I can’t wait to see those foreign editions, I really can’t. The words of Austerly Fellows are going global.”

      The interview ended on his crooked smile and the picture cut once again to Kate Kryzewski outside the Savoy.

      “And so there you have it, the current situation in the United Kingdom. I still can’t begin to understand it, but I will say this and once again echo the words of Brandon from Wisconsin: ‘Wake up, America’.”

      The camera did a slow zoom on her face.

      “Do not permit this book to get a foothold in our country,” she warned. “Do not let it take root; do not let Dancing Jax brainwash our citizens, our precious children, as it has here. Never let the Land of the Free become subject to the tyranny of this insidious book. If you receive a copy from a relative or friend over here, destroy it immediately. Don’t even leaf through the pages. Don’t give it a chance to hook you in. America, I love you. Be vigilant. This is Kate Kryzewski for NBC Nightly News, reporting from London, England.”

      The familiar environment of the studio snapped back on air. With eyebrows slightly raised, Harlon Webber appeared as calm and professional as ever and ready to introduce the next item.

      Suddenly a voice yelled out in the studio and Jimmy the cameraman ran in front of Camera Two. He raised his right arm, brandishing a copy of Dancing Jax for millions of Americans to see.

      “Hail the Ismus!” he roared, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and dotting the lens. His eyes were wide and the pupils dilated so much that hardly any iris could be seen. “Hail the Ismus!” he continued to bawl until Security dragged him away. “Hail the Ismus! He is amongst us!”

      

      EARLY MORNING AND it was overcast, almost chilly. Not quite the glorious sunshine they were hoping for in the first Friday of May. Perhaps later on it would brighten up a little, in time for the special arrivals. Still, everything else was perfectly in order.

      The man now known as Jangler, or the Lockpick, after the gaoler character in Dancing Jax, ran through his checklist one last time and twirled his fingers through the neat little grey beard that sprouted from his chin. Meticulous and methodical in habit and training, he made a bluff mumbling sound under his breath as he satisfied himself he had missed nothing. Everything was organised, nice and tidy. Turning, he glanced up from his clipboard and peered over his spectacles at the holiday compound behind him.

      Up until three months ago, this idyllic retreat in the heart of the New Forest had been a favourite place for hostellers and school parties on outward bound trips. The main block housed the kitchen, refectory and lecture room, while seven lesser buildings were dormitories. They were designed to resemble log cabins, with various degrees of success, but the cumulative effect was not unattractive. They looked sufficiently picturesque and rural, surrounded as they were by trees and bedecked with spring flowers in a myriad of pots and window boxes and fluttering heraldic banners and bunting. It looked good on camera and that was the important thing today.

      Jangler drew a tick on his list. He enjoyed drawing ticks. They signified something had been completed. It was a leftover habit from his previous existence as a solicitor in a drab, file-filled office in Ipswich. Before the power of Dancing Jax had taken control, his former name had been Hankinson, but he hardly ever remembered that now. He had spent that entire former life waiting for this. Through the generations, his family had been disciples of Austerly Fellows and were entrusted with keeping the documents and secrets of that incredible personage safe down the decades.

      He continued to twiddle with his beard and checked the list once more.

      The news crews were assembled inside the main block for the press conference that the Ismus had convened. With two exceptions, everyone there was in the thrall of Dancing Jax. Reporters were dressed in medieval-type clothing, with a playing card pinned somewhere on their outfit. They showed a nauseating deference to the personage of the Holy Enchanter when he came striding in. The lecture hall popped and flared with white light as camera flashes went wild. The Ismus paraded up and down, so that everyone could get a great photo, and the tails of his velvet jacket whipped about him as he strutted before them.

      Five chairs were lined up at the front, facing the press. Occupying four were the Jacks and Jills, the teenagers from Felixstowe who had become the embodiment of the lead characters in the book. They were now the most famous teens in Britain. Their faces appeared everywhere, endorsing products that suited their royal personalities. No magazine or newspaper was complete without photographs of them and there were endless articles about the minutiae of their lives in this drab world. Each had their own reality TV show.

      Currently, the one featuring the Jill of Spades had the highest ratings. The girl had been responsible for the Felixstowe Disaster the previous autumn, in which forty-one young people had died, and the consequences of her confession were most entertaining to watch. At the moment, she was out on bail and her trial was due to commence in two months’ time. It promised to be a total circus. The Audience Appreciation Index figures for her programme were unprecedented. Her sly, devious ways made it unmissable viewing. The British public were hooked, not only on Dancing Jax, but also on her outrageously amusing antics in this world.

      Kate Kryzewski and Sam, her unshaven cameraman, waited for the applause to die down as the Ismus took the vacant seat in the middle. His bodyguards, three burly men with blackened faces, stood behind him and two Harlequin