by C. J. Skuse
At lunchtime, after I’d walked Pee Wee, I really needed to sleep so we went to the least-visited corner of the Library, Large Print, and cuddled up for an hour. It didn’t help. I was still yawning my head off by the time double English came around at three o’clock. Our tutor, Jill Price, made me read aloud the opening paragraph of the short story we were all supposed to have read. Herbert West: Reanimator by H.P. Lovecraft.
None of us had read it.
‘Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can speak only with extreme terror,’ I began. ‘While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone and the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jill. ‘Anyone like to have a stab at what the narrator is telling us there?’ Everyone looked at everyone else. ‘Come on, who has read this?’
A sea of blank faces. My mind went cloudy. Rain pitter-pattered on the darkening windows. The room was so warm. My eyelids went heavy.
Weird Alice’s voice: ‘He’s talking about his friend’s weird experiments and how at first he thought they were wonderful and boundary-pushing and then, as the scientist got more and more dangerous, he grew afraid of him. Terrified even. He’s witnessed something really bad and he’s going to tell us about it.’
Jill Price’s voice: ‘Yes, good. Well, I’m glad someone’s read the set homework. So can anyone else tell me what these experiments were?’
My eyes started closing. Nobody was making eye contact with Jill. There was a very definite scratching sound in the pipes behind the wall. Hamsters, no doubt. We all got a little distracted. But Jill wasn’t having any of it. She slammed her dry wipe marker down on the board ledge.
Weird Alice piped up again. ‘They experimented on dead bodies,’ she said.
My eyelids sprang open. ‘What?’
Weird Alice looked at me and frowned, nodding. ‘Yeah. This Herbert West was trying to bring them back to life and the narrator is explaining how they went about it, stealing the bodies and stuff.’
‘Oh my God,’ I gasped under my breath.
‘Right,’ said Jill. ‘Since Alice is the only one who even bothered to look at this text, we’ll waste the entire period reading it aloud so everyone else catches up, all right? You’ll take turns. Philip, you carry on from where Camille finished, please.’
As Philip Always In Shorts read on, the story just got weirder and weirder. I wished I understood some of the really flowery bits and long words, but I didn’t. I just highlighted them in my book with my pen that smelled of strawberries. I felt sick with every new passage I marked. Though it could have been the smell of strawberries.
In his experiments with various animating solutions, he had killed and treated immense numbers of rabbits, guinea pigs, cats, dogs and monkeys.
That was Zoe! That was Zoe’s dad! Animating solutions, like the blue serum!
We followed the local death notices like ghouls, for our specimens demanded particular qualities.
Like we’d done with Luke the Lifeguard’s body, read through the obituaries!
I saw him inject into the still veins the elixir which he thought would to some extent restore life’s chemical and physical processes. It had ended horribly . . .
Oh my big fat God . . .
His slight form, yellow hair, spectacled blue eyes and soft voice gave no hint of the supernormal – almost diabolical – power of the cold brain within.
So Zoe wasn’t slight or bespectacled and she didn’t have yellow hair, but she did have blue eyes and a soft voice. And a cold brain. A cold, cold brain.
And the story got weirder and scarier. It was as though this writer bloke had time-travelled to our college, spied on me and Zoe and gone back to his black-and-white olde worlde time and written it all down, changing all the names so no one knew. We were the story. The story was us!
I looked at the skirting boards. The filled-in holes where the hamsters had gnawed through.
One thing . . . had risen violently, beaten us both to unconsciousness and run amuck in a shocking way before it could be placed behind asylum bars . . .
Holy focaccia bread. Asylum bars? I thought. Was my perfect boyfriend going to go mad? Was this what had already happened with the hamsters? And Pee Wee? I looked down at him in my bag, curled up cutely with his little eyes closed, twitching as he dreamed his little dreams. Dreaming goodness knows what little dreams. No, Pee Wee wasn’t mad. He was odd, but he wasn’t mad. To me he was perfect. But then, I saw nothing wrong in stealing body parts to make myself a boyfriend. What was wrong with me?
I looked around the room, my heart galloping, my cheeks so hot I thought they were going to burn right through. The guilt must have been written all over my face. Any second now, someone would stand up and shout, ‘Jill! Jill! Camille and her mad friend are doing what Herbert West did, and they’ve killed Poppy Lamp and Splodge Hawkins. They’ve chopped them up! We’ve got to tell the police!’ But they didn’t. No one said a word. Everyone carried on looking bored and Monday afternoony.
But I was in a horror story. I wasn’t making a boyfriend; I was making a nightmare. I couldn’t concentrate on English any more after that. I just had to get out.
*
After the lesson, Jill Price asked me to go to her office for a ‘little chat’. She had a room in the English block. She made me a cup of watery tea in a chipped mug and sat down on the end of her desk. Her skirt rode up to show the veins in her lumpy legs. Along the skirting board were holes where the hamsters had chewed. There was a hole in Jill’s tights. I wondered if the hamsters had done that too.
Jill fed Pee Wee a ginger biscuit and he gobbled it up in a second and sat by my chair, gnawing the leg. ‘I thought we should touch base,’ she said. ‘Talk about how things are going, if that’s all right, Camille? You look tired.’
‘Yeah, I’ve had a bit of trouble sleeping lately. I’ll be okay.’
‘How are you finding the work at the moment?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘The work’s fine. Really fine, in fact. Splendido. Totally.’ I realised I was over-egging the fine-ness and stopped talking.
‘And you’re also doing History and Sociology, that’s right, isn’t it?’
‘No, History and Human Biology now,’ I said. ‘I swapped.’
‘Oh right. And everything’s okay at home? You’re not worried about anything?’
I couldn’t tell her about my real worry. There was no way she would understand. So I just said, ‘No, I’m okay.’
‘You seemed very absent in today’s lesson, Camille.’
‘No, I was definitely there, you saw me,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know you were there but you didn’t seem to participate as readily as you normally do. Are you understanding the texts all right? Because you should say if you’re not. Some people really grasp Lovecraft, others don’t.’
‘Oh I grasp him,’ I said. ‘I think I grasp him a lot.’
‘Well, always ask if you’re not sure about something. Do you think you’ll cope with the assignment?’
‘What assignment?’
Jill sighed. ‘You really weren’t listening, were you? The assignment to write a modern take on a Lovecraftian text.’
‘I didn’t hear that, I’m sorry,’ I said, hanging my head. ‘I’m sure I won’t have a problem with it though.’
‘Are you enjoying the set texts?’ she asked. I nodded. I hadn’t read any of them outside of the lessons.
‘Have you read any of the non-compulsory texts on the syllabus? Jane Eyre? Northanger Abbey? The Taming of the Shrew?’ I shook my head again. ‘What do you read for fun?’
I leaned down and rummaged about in my bag for the two books I was currently reading. I handed them to her. I could tell she wasn’t impressed.
‘Jake the Sheikh and the Mistress Unbound,’ she read, ‘and Yule Be Mine: Stories
of Christmas Lovin’ Under the Mistletoe. Camille, you really shouldn’t be reading this sort of . . . nonsense,’ she said, handing them back to me.
‘I like them,’ I said, as again the blush taps in my cheeks went into flood mode. ‘I just like nice books, no chopping off feet or sticking things up each other’s bottoms or drowning kittens or anything like that. Just nice stories.’
‘You’re not enjoying the poetry texts then?’ she said. ‘Well, I suggest you borrow some classics from the library and get yourself a good night’s sleep. And if you need to talk again, you know where I am. My door’s always open.’
I wondered if I could tell Jill my worries about Poppy. A problem shared is a problem halved, as my dad always said, cos if you keep them inside that’s how you grow tumours. I thought Jill would be as good a person as any to tell. Then I’d only have half a tumour to worry about. ‘Can I come tomorrow and talk about it?’
‘I’m not here tomorrow. TUC conference in Chester. Any other time though. Apart from half term obviously as college is closed then. Or when I’m at home. Can’t have students on the beige carpets, not after last time. But any other time, I’ll be right here.’
I nodded and tickled the top of Pee Wee’s head. ‘I’ll be okay. Pee Wee needs a wee wee.’
Dead people can be so romantic
It was half past five by the time I left college. I didn’t like leaving in the dark but at least I had Pee Wee with me. The traffic was still quite heavy on the main roads into town and I stuck to the pavements that had street lights on so I could be seen, like Dad had taught me. Pee Wee was a pretty good guard dog too. His weird little bark and him walking directly in front of me rather than beside me was a total turn off for anyone coming in the opposite direction – a couple of people actually crossed over to avoid him I was sure.
As I got to the traffic lights, I had to wait for Pee Wee to poo and then clear it up. Some men were walking into town on the opposite pavement. All I could see in my head were the bits of them that would look good on Sexy Dead Boy, the name I gave my future boyfriend. The one in the blue shirt – his hair. The black one in the yellow trainers – his face. The one in the tracksuit – his broad back.
Was this what Zoe thought about too? Had she seen Splodge’s piano-player’s hands? Had she seen nice cleanliving Poppy and made a play for her organs? What about Luke the Lifeguard? Had it been Zoe who had planted the Snot Monster in the pool changing rooms? I just couldn’t figure out what was true and what was just me and my overacting imagination.
As I made my way through the churchyard, a twig snapped. Pee Wee barked.
‘Who’s that?’ I called out, brandishing the dog poo bag ready to defend myself.
‘It’s okay, Pee Wee. There’s no one there. Let’s go home.’ Pee Wee trotted on, ears pricked up.
A little further along, I stopped again. I could feel someone behind me. I quickly whipped around but there was still nobody there. I carried on walking. Pee Wee barked and hopped up and down on his front paws.
What if Zoe was following me? Stalking me? Ready to pounce and chop something off? I waved the poo bag again and got out my thickest Biology textbook and held it in front of me like a shield.
I turned around. ‘Right, that’s it. Who are you? Show yourself, you weirdo!’
Someone stumbled out of the bushes, followed by someone else, their foot catching and making them fall forwards. ‘Oomph!’
I caught my breath. ‘Who are you?’
‘Louis, it’s Louis,’ he said, getting to his feet with his hands up, like I was the police. He was laughing.
‘Hahahaha,’ cried the other person, whom I recognised instantly as Damian de Jager. He had paper stitches over one eyebrow, and from the way he was falling about I guessed he was drunk. Pee Wee was straining on his lead and barking.
I lowered the poo bag and sighed in relief but I still brandished my textbook. ‘Louis? What are you doing here?’
‘Sorry if we scared you, Camille,’ he said, laughing as Damian fell over.
‘Have you been following me?’
Louis scratched his head. ‘Yeah, kind of,’ he smiled. He was drunk too, I was sure of it. He was holding a can of Crunk Juice that kept spilling. He giggled at Damian, who was goading Pee Wee to attack him. ‘We skipped Media and headed into town. Damian’s got this sweet deal going with some of the lads from St Anthony’s. He’s getting them cheap sim cards and cigarettes and they’re paying him through the nose.’
‘Oh, nice,’ I said, banging my eyes shut to show my disgust at them fleecing private school boys just because they could.
‘We were just coming back when I saw you going up the road so we followed you then. Not in a weird way, just . . . sorry.’
‘Come on then! Come on then!’ Damian was teasing Pee Wee, who was pulling even harder on his lead. ‘You want my big hairy balls, you come and get ’em!’
‘Stop teasing him,’ I said. Pee Wee barked and strained harder, eyeing up his target: Damian’s crotch. ‘I see your head injury didn’t make you any less of an idiot. I’ve got a good mind to let him off and teach you a lesson.’
Raaawwwwwrrrr raaawf raaaaawf raaaawf!
‘Go on then, let him off. Let’s see him do some damage!’ Damian laughed, and with that, I bent down and unhooked Pee Wee’s collar from the lead and Pee Wee pounced upon Damian with such force he knocked him back down on the grass.
‘Ahhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit! Get this thing off me!’ Damian yelled, jumping up and throwing Pee Wee off, only to have him leap back up to his hood and hang on by his teeth. Damian sprinted around the graveyard trying to flick him off. Louis was wetting himself. Not literally, but really, really laughing.
I laughed too, I couldn’t help it, but I was still really cross with Louis for jumping out at me. Damian and Pee Wee disappeared into the darkness, just as I caught sight of a bin where I could sling the poo bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Louis, when I returned from making my deposit. ‘I said I’d walk you home. I waited for you after Geography.’
I decided to get on my high horse, not least because he’d actually almost literally frightened me out of my wits and because I was still mucho mucho tired. ‘I don’t need walking home by a . . . drunk person, thanks very much.’
‘Camille, listen. I know, okay? I know,’ he said, as Damian’s screams and Pee Wee’s growls came floating over the gravestones in the distance.
‘Know what?’
‘I know about Luke Truss,’ he said.
I wound the dog lead around my wrist. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly.’ Louis shivered, folding his arms so his biceps went bulgy. He was wearing three-quarter-length jeans and a sleeveless checked shirt that was done up right to his neck. We were exactly the same height. ‘But I know he wasn’t your boyfriend. That’s why you didn’t go to his funeral.’
My brain wouldn’t work properly. But then I remembered. ‘Oh the lifeguard!’ I said and sort of laughed. He looked at me and his eyes went all starey like Zoe’s did. ‘Luke . . . yeah, he died. I . . . couldn’t face it, what with all the grief and everything. I had to mourn and stuff.’
‘You went into History,’ he said. ‘Wes Carpenter told me you weren’t there cos I asked him.’ He swept his fringe out of his confused brown eyes. ‘Just, say it. He wasn’t your boyfriend, was he?’
‘Uhhhh . . .’ My ‘uh’ was going on for a long time and wasn’t leading to any brilliant cover-up lie, so I just admitted it. ‘No. I didn’t know him.’
‘Then why did you want to see his body at the funeral parlour that night if you didn’t know him? Were you just breaking in?’
‘No,’ I said, folding my arms.
‘Well, I don’t know what to think, Camille,’ he said. ‘I just know . . . you’re doing something you don’t want people knowing about and it involves our funeral parlour. And when I saw you at the hospital that day . . .’
‘I had a nosebleed, from when you opened a d
oor in my face, remember?’
‘Yeah, but why steal the bed? Why steal incineration bags? It’s Zoe Lutwyche, isn’t it? That psychopath’s making you steal stuff. She’s not . . . doing what her dad used to do, is she? Making Frankenstein’s monsters?’
‘No, of course not!’ I shouted, louder than I meant to. ‘And she’s not a psychopath.’
‘Camille, you can’t . . .’
‘AAAAAAaaaarrrghhhhh!’ Damian screamed as he came pounding down the path. Pee Wee was still dangling off his hoodie. Louis grabbed Damian’s arm to stop him and started unzipping his coat so he could scramble out of it. Pee Wee let go of the hoodie and started tearing into it on the ground.
‘That thing wants putting down!’ Damian puffed. ‘It’s a maniac!’
‘He just doesn’t like you,’ I sneered, bending down to pick up Pee Wee and give him a cuddle. ‘Pretty good judge of character, I’d say.’
‘Ooh, look who’s grown a bush,’ said Damian. ‘You’ve got more spunk than your mate Lynx. She don’t stop pissing and whining.’
I scowled. ‘Why don’t you dump her then, if she’s such a bad girlfriend?’
‘Oh she passes the time.’ He went to pet Pee Wee, who immediately started gnashing his teeth at him again. ‘I’ve had enough of this, I’m going down the pub. You coming, Mario? Princess Peach, can I tempt you?’
I shook my head as Damian’s phone started ringing in his jacket pocket.
‘Yeah, I’ll meet you there,’ said Louis as Damian grabbed his torn jacket, answered his phone and swaggered off down the path.
I turned to him. ‘Go on then, I’m not stopping you,’ I sniffed, well and truly on my high horse now.
Louis did that boy thing of adjusting his pants, the thing our Sociology teacher Mr Atwill used to do in class all the time, possibly because he wore trousers made of that really itchy stuff that sacks are made out of. ‘You can tell me what Zoe’s making you do,’ he said. I can stand up to her if you don’t want to. If you’re . . . in trouble or anything like that.’
I kind of wanted to tell him then, but I knew I couldn’t. I knew it would get me in trouble. Apart from anything else, we were doing this whole grave-robbing thing for my benefit. To find me a boyfriend. So I just snipped, ‘It’s none of your business!’
