Dead Romantic

by C. J. Skuse

  The doorbell woke me up with a start, like my heart had exploded.

  . . . last seen at the entrance to the Covent Garden Underground station. Anyone who believes they saw Alex on Saturday 11 October is being asked to call this number with any information that might help police track him down.

  ‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Dad, heaving himself up off the sofa.

  ‘No, don’t answer it, Dad,’ I said, grabbing his arm. ‘It won’t be important.’

  ‘It’ll be guests, love. And guests equal money.’

  I still clung on to him, my heart pulsing so hard I could feel it in my neck, my wrists, the tops of my thighs and everywhere else I had a pulse.

  . . . that number again, if you have any information on the whereabouts of Alex Rathbone, is as follows: 0845 645 . . .

  ‘Camille, love, I’ve got to get that,’ said Dad.

  I stared at the TV screen. Missing model from South London. Wasn’t that where Zoe had been going yesterday? Hadn’t she gone to London to get the head? Wasn’t that what I’d said I wanted for Sexy Dead Boy – the head of a model or something? A square jaw. Soft thick hair. I looked at the photograph above the phone number on the screen. He was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I had described! It was going to be the police at the door. The police looking for Zoe the murderer! Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .

  The doorbell went again. Dad prised my fingers from his sleeve and gave me a funny look as he left the room, like he couldn’t work me out. Like he couldn’t possibly imagine the sheer horror of what was about to happen when he opened that door. It was going to be Zoe, with an axe, ready to chop off his head on the doorstep! And then she’d steal his brain before coming in here and hacking my mum to pieces too.

  I ran into the hall, ready to unhook the fire extinguisher. But it wasn’t Zoe. It was the old couple, Mr and Mrs Sangster from room one. They’d forgotten their door key, like they always did. I panted at the foot of the stairs as Dad joked with them and asked about their morning and they told him about the marvellous sand sculptures they had seen on the beach. I took my hand off the fire extinguisher.

  I was afraid, for the first time, properly hand-shakingly afraid. I was afraid of Zoe.

  And I knew my first thought had been right: I had to stop her.

  So I totes have to catch a murderer

  Bugger triple Biology – I had a murderer to catch.

  I had to go to Zoe’s house and she wasn’t going to like what I had to say, so I thought I should take a weapon, just to protect myself. Halloween party date or no Halloween party date, she couldn’t go around killing male models and my best friends and that was that. The problem was we didn’t have a single useful weapon in our house. Even all our knives were blunt. Dad had a very old pellet gun out in the shed, which he used to shoot the starlings off the roof with, but I could barely lift it, let alone take aim and fire. And besides which, we didn’t have any ammo.

  So me and Pee Wee made the long trek up to Clairmont House with the only weapons I could find – a birthdaycandle lighter and a small bottle of peach shampoo. It always stung my eyes when I washed my hair so I thought it might be useful to blind Zoe with if I had to make a quick getaway. I held both of them in my coat pockets as I came closer to the turning for the driveway. The gates were locked.

  ‘Pee Wee, no!’ I cried as my naughty dog forced himself flat, crawled under the gates and then galloped up the driveway without me. He probably still had a whiff of that poodle he’d been chomping on a few nights ago.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said, ‘just brilliant,’ and looked along the wall for a way I could get over and in. There was an overhanging tree branch a little further down and I made for it. I yanked it a few times and it seemed pretty sturdy. I used it to pull myself up the wall until I was just far enough up to hold on to the top while I swung my legs over and on to it. Then I jumped down to the other side.

  There was no Pee Wee, no sight and no sound.

  ‘Pee Wee,’ I whispered, as loudly as I could. Nothing.

  I ran round to the side of the house, keeping low in case of machine gun fire from an upstairs window. I really didn’t know what to expect. But I could still be seen from every ground-floor window. I peered in through the kitchen window. Everything was still. I could hear the old grandfather clock on the landing chiming four o’clock. I could see the tap over the white sink drip drip dripping. Hear the buzzing of the freezer. But there were no signs of life or death anywhere else. I walked on round to the back door. I tried the rusty black handle. Locked.

  ‘Pee Wee?’ I saw his bottom disappearing through the cat flap. I was too late to grab him. I knelt down on the doorstep and lifted the flap to shout in. ‘Pee Wee, you come out of there this minute or I’ll . . .’

  I could see that in the kitchen there was a small window above the sink that was slightly open. I was sure I could squeeze through it, so I crept round and shoved my hand inside to loosen the catch. It was stiff but it gave me just enough room. Pee Wee did a little jump on the spot when he saw me, as if to say, ‘Yay, Camille’s here, now we can play!’

  ‘Naughty boy!’ I whisper-shouted.

  But he wasn’t listening. He trotted out to the hall and up the stairs.

  ‘No, not upstairs! Pee Wee, here boy, here!’ I said, slapping my thighs as if in some way this would prove irresistible and he’d have to come back. But Pee Wee was no ordinary dog and I was no dog trainer and he completely ignored me.

  And it was at this point that I remembered Zoe’s Aunt Gwen.

  ‘Oh shizz!’ I breathed as my skin prickled all over with sweat. ‘Pee Wee, come here now!’ I clutched the birthday-candle lighter in my pocket as he trotted off towards the bedrooms.

  ‘Bad dog!’ I whispered, running after him and knocking over a pile of letters on the hallway table. I stopped to pick them up and arrange them exactly as they had been but goodness knows if I’d done it right.

  There were three doors on the landing. One was Zoe’s bedroom, door locked. The second had a painting of a fishing boat at sea on the wall beside it, door also locked. And the door to the right of that was slightly open. It creaked.

  I had to come clean. If Aunt Gwen came out and saw me, she would think I had broken in, which I had. Or even worse, that I had come to do her harm, which I definitely hadn’t. If anything, I had come to save her life. But what if it was too late?

  ‘Uh . . . Mrs Lutwyche?’ I called out, shattering the silence of the dusty old house. ‘Mrs Lutwyche? Auntie Gwen?’ No reply. ‘My name’s Camille Mabb. I’m Zoe’s friend from college. I’ve come to see Zoe.’

  I pushed the door open wider to see in. A neat and tidy bedroom with chintz curtains and a beautiful pink silk bedspread. Untouched. There was no one there.

  Except a woman stood by the window in a big white hat, looking right at me.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAArrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhh!’ I cried as Pee Wee bounded in and raced over to the woman, jumping up to her outstretched arm and tearing it clean off. He then attacked it on the floor, shredding it into tiny pieces. Puffs of white polystyrene flew up into the air like a snowstorm.

  ‘No, Pee Wee!’

  It took me a moment to realise that the polystyrene and the lack of blood meant she was not actually a woman, but a shop dummy. A shop dummy with strings of beads around its neck and, of course, the big white hat. My pounding heart slowed to a more relaxed jog as I sat down on the edge of the bed, willing my hands to stop shaking. It was okay. It was all okay.

  There was a chest of drawers next to the dummy. On it stood a stuffed squirrel in a tiny rocking chair smoking a pipe, some photos in frames and a blue lizard ornament. One of the photographs was of a woman with black hair, wearing the same large white hat. She was on a beach and there was a little girl with blonde hair and the biggest blue eyes, playing with a spade. The woman was so beautiful. She looked exactly like Zoe, but happy. I went to look at them more closely.

  In another photo, the woman and the blonde girl w
ere petting rabbits. In another, the girl was clutching Easter eggs and smiling. I picked it up. The little girl had to be Zoe, though I’d never seen her smile so widely, her starey blue eyes so sparkly. In another picture, the girl, aged about ten, was holding a large blue lizard, just like the stuffed one in the case in the hall. She was standing in front of a man with wild blue eyes who wasn’t in any of the other photos. He wasn’t smiling either. He was staring at the girl like he was afraid she was going to drop the lizard.

  That had been Zoe’s family. Now it was just Zoe. That was why she was doing all this. She was building herself a friend. Zoe was lonely.

  But she would kill me if she found me in her house.

  I pulled what was left of the dummy’s arm away from Pee Wee and picked him up. He licked my face and snuggled comfortably into the crook of my arm. I looked out of the filthy window. A movement. The nail art van was coming up the drive.

  Zoe was back.

  ‘Shizzles. We’d better go,’ I said, heading for the door.

  It’s at times like these when the last thing you want to hear is the sound of your phone belting out a Rihanna song in your pocket, but that was exactly what happened when I was cowering on the landing.

  ‘Oh no no no!’ I gasped, fumbling it out of my pocket with one hand and turning it totally off. Pee Wee gave me a look that said, ‘Well done, you’ve totes just blown our cover; now the psycho’s going to chop us up and wear our heads as shoes.’ But it was okay. Below us, the front door was only just being unlocked. It opened. It shut. It was locked. Keys were thrown onto a table. I put my hand gently over Pee Wee’s nose, feeling like he was gearing up for a bark. I heard footsteps disappearing across the hall. The footsteps of a murderess, I thought. Stairs or kitchen, which way would she go? The footsteps went towards the kitchen.

  ‘Thank God,’ I breathed. Maybe we could make it down the stairs and out the front door. I started down, knowing full well that any noise I made might be heard by a person who wouldn’t hesitate to tie me to a chair and torture me then kill me stone dead. The kitchen tap was running. Something clanked. I made it to the bottom step. A door closed. Tinkles of water. She was in the downstairs toilet. I was an arm’s length away from the front door, when I looked towards the kitchen and saw it on the table. The cool bag.

  She’d gone and done it again.

  Something was in that bag. Or part of someone.

  This was proof that I could take to the police. Actual bodily evidence. I sprinted towards the kitchen, just as I heard the flush go in the bathroom. I ducked into the pantry, pulling the door to as quietly as I could.

  Through the crack in the door, I could see Zoe walking across the kitchen. She got herself a glass of water and stared out of the window. She put down the glass. I lost her for a second as she rounded the side of the table, so I crouched down to get a better look through the larger part of the crack at the bottom of the door. She was at the cool bag. She pulled the zip around the top. I almost didn’t dare look. Slowly, she pulled on the little plastic tuft that was sticking up. A large bag of ice came up with it, and pretty soon she had pulled it out completely. In the middle of the ice bag sat something brown and red. The bag looked heavy. Bowling-ball heavy.

  It was the head. My possible dead future boyfriend’s head. And she was going to take it out of the bag and look at it.

  I didn’t quite know how I was going to react when I saw the severed head. Would a horrible face appear with bulging eyes and saggy mouth and all these bloody entrails dangling from the stump? Would I be disgusted? Shocked? Appalled? Would I cry? Would I faint? Or would it be amazingly handsome, the dream face she had promised me, the dream head of the boy I would eventually fall in love with and marry? I tend to fancy guys I shouldn’t. My best friend’s dad. Mug shots on Crime Solvers. Our Year Ten French supply teacher, Monsieur Ecorche. And now, possibly, a decapitated head.

  I prepared myself, as much as I could prepare myself when I was stuck in a pantry with a flimsy door and a fidgety puppy. I took a big stomach-deep breath and readied myself for the sight.

  Zoe put the plastic bag on the table and moved the cool bag out of the way. She twizzled the tie around the tuft. It came loose and the top of the bag opened. She slowly lowered both her hands into it. She pulled the head out, hands either side of it. And there he was. His skin was as white as a hard-boiled egg and his hair was blonde and slightly wet. The male model’s hair had been blonde too. Oh. My. God. His neck stump was covered with an ice pack. He was shaking – Zoe’s hands were shaking as she held him. Was she scared?

  No, she wasn’t scared. She was smiling. She was excited.

  I felt a stinging in my throat. How could she be so calm? So cold?

  Because she’s a psychopath.

  A loud CLANG CLANG sounded from the hallway and made me jump. Zoe quickly put the head back into the plastic bag and tied it up. Then she placed it back into the cool bag, zipped it round and disappeared as the doorbell rang again. CLANG CLANG.

  This was my chance to escape without being seen. I could easily get to the back door and unlock it before she came back. I picked up Pee Wee and eased my way out of the pantry. I tiptoed to the back door and gently unlocked it. I was about to leave when I looked back and saw the cool bag on the table. Just waiting there. I went over to the table. Zoe’s purse was lying open next to the cool bag. It bulged with coins and receipts. And there was a tube ticket sticking out of it. I took a closer look. She’d been on the Underground that Saturday she went up to London. So had that missing male model. She had been in London when he went missing.

  This was proof. Proof that she had been in London when the model disappeared and proof that she had a human head in a bag. I took them both, pocketing the ticket and grasping the straps of the cool bag. Then I legged it, through the back door and out into the gardens, darting and weaving through the trees so I couldn’t easily be seen. I put down Pee Wee and we ran together through the open gates and down the sloping streets until we had reached the town and the safety of numbers. Of witnesses. Lots and lots of witnesses who would save me if Zoe started running after me with an axe. I’d never been so happy to see people in my life.

  Me and a head that’s dead

  Out of breath and sweating even worse than at our last school sports day when I’d gone against Lynx in the 800 metres, I sauntered around the shops, trying to get my head straight and decide what my next plan of action would be. I checked my phone. There was a text from Louis. Hi Camille. Just checking u r OK. Did u hear n e thing yet? I’m working 2day at da fun parlour if u want 2 tlk. LB. I didn’t text back.

  I knew I was in a mood with Louis about something, but I couldn’t remember what at that moment, and I had more pressing matters on my mind. I really needed to get to the police station and hand in the dead head. I put Pee Wee on his lead and we went into Marks & Spencer – we could cut through the store onto King Street, where the police station was. We were nearly there. Safety. There would be big burly policemen with big bulgy biceps to protect me and say things like, ‘You’ll be all right now, miss. No one can harm you here.’ Like in that film where the woman with a perm goes to the police station and hides under the policeman’s desk cos the man in the leather jacket and sunglasses is coming after her. Even though the man ended up killing all the policeman and burning down the police station, she was still safe for a bit under the desk.

  ‘Camille?’ said a voice as I was passing by the cold meats and deli.

  ‘Lynx!’ I said, trying to appear breezy and carefree even though I was in the biggest ever fluster. She was in her usual red-and-navy tracksuit and her hair was in an exceedingly ragged ponytail. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Dad’s getting me some new spikes. Not in here. The ones we saw in Bracht Sports with the silver bits on?’

  ‘Oh right,’ I said, wiping my forehead in the crook of my arm. ‘He finally cracked then?’ My eyes darted towards the back doors. I was so close to King Street. So close now.
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  Lynx nodded sadly. ‘He wanted to get me out of the house. He’s had enough of me moping . . .’ Her eyes started to tear up. ‘Oh Mills!’

  Before I knew it, Lynx was crying into my shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said. Pee Wee was nipping at Lynx’s ankles and the dead head was getting so heavy in the cool bag that my upper arm was killing me. I was also still sweating full-on beads. I tried to comfort her as best I could under these circumstances but it was all sorts of awks.

  ‘Damian’s dumped meeeheeeee!’ she wailed.

  My left hand had to take the full strain of Pee Wee’s lead and the cool bag now, as I used my other hand to there there Lynx. It wasn’t a nice there there though. Lynx was so bony and muscly and she grabbed on to me like you’d grab onto a rock ledge, not a friend.

  ‘What did I do to deserve it, Mills?’ she sniffed, pulling back from me and folding her arms.

  I shrugged. ‘Damian’s not really the relationship type, is he? Louis says he’s a right slut. And he’s his best friend.’

  She crossed her feet over as well as her arms. ‘But we were getting on so well! The sex was good . . .’

  ‘Oh you shouldn’t have had sex with him,’ I said, a bit too loudly, as an old woman reached past me for some corned beef and scowled at us. I moved us along until we were in the next aisle, the quieter aisle for dog and cat food. ‘Damian’s all about the sex. I realise that now.’

  ‘He told me I was good at it, too,’ she continued. ‘And then . . . he texted me. He said he had to move on.’

  ‘Oh, Lynx . . .’

  ‘He said that he wasn’t a one-man woman or something. And something about a rolling stone gathering moss. I didn’t even understand it and when I texted him back he rang me and just said, “You’re dumped, you stupid cow,” and hung up! Can you believe it?’