Dead Romantic (19 page)

The worry worms niggled all the next day. I Googled the word
psychopath
.

So when I first met Zoe, she was digging in her father's grave. Digging him up? Putting him back? Borrowing something? Burying something? What part of Professor
Lutwyche had she stolen for the project? Maybe that's where the hands had come from? Maybe it had been
his
organs she had taken.

There were lots of different types of psychopath on the Internet and all sorts of mega-complicated detail about them. Primary psychopaths. Secondary psychopaths. Distempered psychopaths. Charismatic psychopaths. And then there were sociopaths, a whole other bag of bunnies. I didn't understand any of it and there were all these quotes from scientists and psychologists, and footnotes and references that I couldn't force my brain to read. However, some words jumped out at me and left the rest to rot:

Psychopaths convey no emotions.

They are very intelligent.

They are good liars.

They are antisocial.

They are insane.

And they have something called ‘parasitic tendencies'. I almost ignored this one until I read the line describing it. ‘A reliance on others to do things for them.'

That was
me
! That was the reason she wanted me involved! I was Herbert West's assistant in that story! And Zoe was Herbert West. She was a psychopath who got me to do all her donkey-work for her. And if we
did
get caught, she would blame it all on me and I'd go to prison and it would probably kill my mum and dad off altogether. They couldn't take stress at the best of times. My dad went into shock if the postman was late.

I played ball with Pee Wee in my room. I taught him to roll over and stay. I gave him treats when he did it right.
It took my mind off what was in my mind, for a while. But taking your mind off your own mind isn't easy. Thoughts kept knocking. One thought was this: I had to stop her. Zoe Lutwyche, my best friend, was a bed-wetting, mother-abandoned, head-chopping psychopath. Louis was right. Who was next on her hit list? I couldn't let her finish making me a boyfriend, not if he was made out of people I knew. That just wasn't right. I had to go to the police and tell them everything and put an end to it.

But more thoughts started knocking: if Zoe
did
finish Sexy Dead Boy, I'd have a date. And I'd have a friend again. And maybe Splodge and Poppy really
were
at a festival in Wales and they would be back soon. And maybe if you stayed on the right side of a psychopath, it would be okay. Maybe I'd be okay.

At lunchtime, I went downstairs. Mum was in the sitting room, reading one of her crime novels with a bar of chocolate between her knees. The TV was on mute in the corner.
Prime Minister's Questions
. My mum fancied the prime minister. Apparently he'd been in some pop group when Mum was my age and she used to follow them around the country and write rude things in the dirt on the back of their tour bus.

‘Mum?' I said, coming in quietly, because she'd jump about a foot in the air if I disturbed her reading.

‘All right, love? Feeling any better?'

I nodded.

‘You going to be all right for Biology this afternoon?'

I shook my head and sat down next to her. ‘No, I'm still a bit hot.'

‘Do you want some chocolate?'

‘No, thanks. Mum, can I ask you something?'

‘Hang on,' she said, reaching for the remote and turning the volume back up. ‘He's getting all angry, look. He's ever so dishy when he's being heckled.'

‘And I ask my learned friend to remember who it is who WON two elections in a row and whose job it is to clean up the mess left behind by the previous government.'

‘Hear, hear,' said my mum, then muted it again and went back to her book.

‘Mum, I need to ask you something,' I said again, now I had at least half her attention.

Her face fell. ‘It's not that dog of yours, is it? He's not done a whoopsie on the new hallway carpet, has he? Because if he has, Camille, I'm telling you . . .'

‘No, Pee Wee's fine. He's having his lunch in the back yard. I just wanted to ask you if you know anything about psychopaths, that was all.'

She laughed, obviously relieved. ‘There's one of them in here, funnily enough.' She folded her book over. ‘Serial killer he is. Right vicious swine he is too but he still wets the bed. You might like it. There's lots of dead bodies in it.'

‘No, I've kind of gone off dead bodies a little bit,' I said, trying to smile.

‘It's a good story,' said Mum. ‘He's got this vicar's daughter tied to a radiator and he beats her with this big wet fish.'

‘A
vicar's daughter
?' I cried, thinking immediately of Poppy tied to a radiator and being beaten with a big wet fish. ‘Oh shizz!'

‘It's not real, love. Clever though, because then he cooks and eats the murder weapon. The psychologist is trying to pin it all on his mother who abandoned him at birth, cos he only kills women called Yvonne, and that was her name. I'll lend it to you after . . .'

‘NO, I don't want it! Thanks.'

‘All right, calm down,' she said, laughing.

I came and sat down next to her, doing the same face I used to do as a toddler so she'd twiddle with my hair. She didn't though, just carried on reading her book. I leaned my cheek against her shoulder.

‘Mind your make-up on my top, love. This is clean on,' she said, checking her sleeve.

‘Sorry,' I said, moving away.

Dad came in with his coffee and set it down on a mat on the coffee table.

‘All right, duck?' he said.

‘Yeah,' I said.

‘Those bin men still haven't come, Francine,' he said, picking up the remote and finding the news on one of the Sky channels. He sat down next to me and Mum so I was squashed in comfortably between them.

Police are asking for help in locating a young male model from South London who was last seen at an Underground station yesterday lunchtime. Eighteen-year-old Alex Rathbone
. . .

I finally felt safe. I went to sleep on Dad's arm.

I had my dream again about the horse on the beach, the wind blowing through my endless blonde crinkly hair. Holding tight to a strong man as the stallion thundered on.
Crashing through the dazzling waters, his hair blowing behind him in the wind, his strong hands on the reins.

‘Hya hya!' he shouted. But every time he yelled ‘Hya!' something fell off: a clump of hair, an arm, an eye. All I could do was watch it bounce along behind me on the sand. Piece by piece, he disappeared before my eyes and soon I was riding along with just a set of teeth on the saddle in front of me. And every tooth was rotten.

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.

 

 

 

 

B
ugger 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.