Robin Jarvis - Fighting Pax

Martin uttered a dismal cry. They knew! They were making for the medical centre. But it was so soon. Gerald and the children couldn’t have got very far. They probably weren’t even hidden by the fog yet. They’d be sitting ducks on that mountainside. Martin didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just sit here and let it happen.

The four jeeps raced nearer. They were only moments away from passing when Martin threw himself forward. He dived between the Captain and the driver and wrenched at the steering wheel. The vehicle swerved sharply into the other lane and the approaching headlights dazzled him.

Horns blared and startled yells shrieked out. The tunnel was filled with the screeching of brakes and the reek of scorched tyres. The oncoming jeeps veered aside, while Martin’s scraped along the tunnel wall, showering him and the three soldiers with fiery sparks.

Suddenly it was over. The four jeeps thundered on and Martin’s skidded to a standstill. He couldn’t believe he had survived and despaired that he hadn’t been able to stop them. The Captain and the other two were bawling at him and he was wrestled back to his seat. One of them hit him, but he barely noticed.

“I’m sorry, Gerald,” he muttered, staring after the receding lights. “I’ve let you down.”

“You no do that again!” the Captain was shouting in his face. “You crazy UK!”

The engine started once more and the scarred and dented vehicle spluttered on its way, rattling and juddering until they reached the red double doors of their destination.

Martin stepped out and the armed guards stood aside. The Captain pushed him forward and he entered the meeting room for the second time that day.

The Chief of the General Staff was waiting, standing stiffly by the table. Martin thought he looked faintly embarrassed, almost shamefaced, as he bowed in greeting.

“What do you want?” Martin asked. “Why am I here?” Then he realised there was no interpreter present.

The Chief bowed again. There was something awkward, even shifty, about him. Martin saw his eyes slide over to the high back of a chair that was facing the large TV screen at the end of the room. Someone was sitting in it: Martin could just see the top of their head.

The Chief mumbled something that sounded like an apology, then strode past and left the room.

Martin didn’t understand. He looked across at the chair back, but he wasn’t in the mood to play these sorts of power games. Remembering he was cold, he moved over to one of the electric fires and held out his hands. Over by the far wall, the carpet was still dark with blood. He was just wondering where the young aide’s body had been taken to when the chair swung round and Martin had one of the greatest surprises of his life.

“Hello, Baxter me old mucker!” said an extremely familiar voice. “What’s all this then, a sabbatical? Or are you playing truant or what?”

Martin couldn’t believe it and his mouth actually fell open.

“Barry?” he cried. “What the hell…?”

The former headmaster of the school he had taught at in Felixstowe was grinning at him across the table. He was the last person Martin had expected to see here. Barry Milligan was now part of the Ismus’s inner circle and travelled the world with him and his Court. Way back, so long ago now, when the book had been distributed to the unsuspecting inhabitants of that quiet seaside town out of an old camper van, Barry had been one of the first to be possessed. He had become the mischievous character of the Jockey and had fooled everyone until the very last moment.

He was a middle-aged, squarely built man, with a face florid and craggy from a lifetime’s overindulgence in salt, saturated fat and whisky. His pot belly was a testament to the same.

“Is that all you’ve got to say, Martin?” he asked, laughing and slapping the table. “Here we are in a top-secret bloody military base, dug into a mountain – in North Korea, with China breathing down our necks – and that’s the best you can manage? That’s just rubbish that is. The thickest yobs we used to try and teach could’ve come up with something better than that.”

Martin regarded him uncertainly. His former boss was wearing a large black overcoat and he could see there was a blue tracksuit underneath. Where was the Jockey’s signature caramel leather outfit?

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “That was you on that helicopter earlier, wasn’t it? Makes sense now: no one in their right mind would risk flying through this fog. Shouldn’t you be skipping around the Ismus, amusing him with puerile tricks and scaring the rest of them with jokes that only you find funny?”

Barry shook his head gravely. “I’m not part of that no more,” he assured him, putting his hand on his heart.

“Pull the other one.”

“It’s true, I swear! I don’t know why or how, but a few months ago the effects of that book simply stopped working on me. I think it’s because of something that Ismus geezer was writing on his laptop. I caught a glimpse of it over his shoulder one day and… I dunno, the bit I read made my old head feel like it was about to split wide apart. After that, I stopped believing in it. Everything I thought was real – that mad, medieval place and the plonker I was supposed to be there – had gone. There I was, finally wide awake, and wondering what the hell had been happening. It’s like waking up from the longest pub crawl with the rugby lads. There’s a lot of it I can’t even remember.”

“Don’t do this,” Martin said. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Honest, Martin! I’m out of it, and today I managed to get away without them even suspecting I was back to normal. I just had to find you. I know how to get Carol and Paul out of it. We’ve got to get that laptop and make them read it. Just think – if we could email that file to everyone, this huge sorry mess would be over.”

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.”