jewellery, rusty tools, redundant VHS tapes, typewriters, ugly clocks, unfashionable shoes, chipped vases, bent candlesticks, incomplete jigsaws, cracked crockery, vinyl recordings of cover-version compilations, empty picture frames. There was nothing here the red or blue teams of Bargain Hunt could take to an auction and make a profit on.
Conor moved through the crowd, only vaguely noticing what was on sale – until he came to a beaten-up camper van where a young woman was standing behind a wallpaper table covered in a display of old books. The same old book, with a green and cream cover.
With Emma’s spiteful account of what Sandra Dixon had said about him still in his mind, the boy stopped and picked one up.
“Dancing Jacks,” he read.
The woman behind the table regarded him oddly, shooting him warning looks. Almost as if she was telling him not to look at it, never mind buy it.
Ignoring her, he flicked through some of the pages. The black and white illustrations looked archaic to him and the thought that they really did need colouring in suddenly popped into his head.
“Ha!” he blurted. “You don’t want that,” the woman muttered. “What’s it about?”
“You won’t like it.”
“How much?”
“You’d be wasting your…”
Her voice was cut off as a movement sounded from within the van and a lean-faced man emerged from the sliding door.
“Peasant coins are all we seek!” he said with a crooked grin. “Just thirty of your shiny new pennies.”
“Thirty pence? Is that all?”
The man bowed. “For this day only,” he said. “Next week they shall be ten pounds each and after that… who knows, a hundred – a thousand, maybe more?”
Conor almost laughed at him, but something about the man’s manner commanded more respect than that. Then he noticed that the scuffed leather jacket he was wearing had been added to and was now sporting two long tails, like an old-fashioned fancy dinner jacket. There was an illustration of a character wearing something like that in the book. In fact, it even looked a bit like that weaselly man.
Conor handed the money over and walked away with the book under his arm.
The man’s eyes gleamed. Then he turned to the woman and took her hand to kiss it.
“You must endeavour to be more persuasive in your vending, my fair Labella,” he told her.
Shiela nodded slowly. “Yes, Ismus,” she said in a fearful voice.
Protecting the Ismus, night and day, keeping vigilant watch upon his Holy person are his devoted bodyguards: the three Black Face Dames. No dainty damsels they, but brawny bruisers in black skirts and iron-studded boots, with midnight ribbons tied about their knees and arms. Soot bedaubs their cheeks and brows, for they have renounced their true names and their stomping dance is the deadliest of all. Seek not to gambol with them, only the Jockey has e’er frolicked and jigged in their midst and lived to laugh. Beware their Morris, beware Old Oss’s poisoned bite and Scorch’s fiery tongue.
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