Dead Romantic (15 page)

I nodded. ‘Yeah.' For some reason my heart started to pound and I felt the coldest, prickliest feeling all over my skin. I had said exactly the wrong thing.

‘So this . . . Louis will do for you, will he?'

‘Do what?' I said, swallowing.

‘He will do as your “perfect” man, will he? I'm going to all this trouble – trying to collect a thousand different pieces, trying to put them all together in the exact right way – just so you have someone half decent to go to that stupid party with, and the boy in your History class will “do”.'

Her words were like wasp stings. ‘I never said that, Zoe. Why are you being like this . . . ?'

‘Some scrawny know-nothing, one of the lads, one of those beer-swilling spotty-faced runts that you see on every street corner, every day of the week. One of them will do, will they?'

Her rant had winded me. ‘Louis isn't like that,' I said. ‘And he doesn't have spots. He's got quite good skin actually. And he's not scrawny. He actually has nice arms . . .'

‘I'm generalising,' Zoe snapped. ‘He may not dress like them but he colludes with them. That Damian de Jager amoeba. That Splodge Hawkins monstrosity. I've seen chemical spillages more appealing than those two. I heard Hawkins has got two younger brothers. What on earth made his parents think they needed to spawn two more when the first one looked like that?'

‘How do you know Splodge has two brothers?' I said, though my voice was barely a whisper. The chocolate football had appeared again and Pee Wee leapt out of my lap and launched himself at it. He missed it and galloped down the aisle to get it, but it rolled back. Alf's driving got a lot more all-over-the-roady.

‘I mean, Mozart composed his first symphony aged nine. Picasso painted
Portrait of Aunt Pepa
at fourteen. Blaise Pascal had written a theorem by the time he was sixteen. What has Damian de Jager ever achieved? Top scorer on Call of Duty and five wanks in one day?'

Weird. She had never heard of Johnny Depp but she'd heard of Call of Duty?

‘I had to spend an entire half-hour listening as he regaled the Chemistry class with Tales in the Life of Damian last week.'

Ah, that explained it.

‘The teacher did absolutely nothing to discipline him. But of course, we're encouraged to act like morons at our age, aren't we? God forbid we might actually read a book or achieve something every once in a while.'

‘Zoe, calm down. Alf doesn't like a lot of noise.'

‘And now you're in love with one of them, well how
convenient,' she growled at me. ‘I should have guessed it that night on the pier. The stench of your pheromones made me quite nauseous.'

I hadn't understood much of what she'd just said, and I hadn't even tried to. I just got that she hated Splodge and Damian and for some reason she also hated Louis, even though he hadn't done anything at all. In fact, he'd been quite sweet to me, except smashing my face in.

I tried to change subject. ‘Where will we get the head from?' I blew a bubble with my banana gum and it was so big that when I turned my head it touched Zoe's nose. I laughed.

She didn't. ‘London. From a medical school,' she said. ‘And
I
will get it. I don't think your heart is truly in this project anymore.'

‘What? It is!' I cried. ‘You said I could do the athletics. All the outward bits, face and hair and body and stuff.'

‘Aesthetics,' Zoe spat. ‘And I can do that alone. I don't need you. Not now.' Her words were like needles.

‘What do you mean “not now”? What have I done? I want to be involved, Zoe. I'll try harder, I will.' I wished I knew how to break her anger mask. ‘Maybe we can go somewhere and you can show me some heads and I can pick one out. I mean, you've done
everything
so far. You found Luke the Lifeguard, you sawed off William Pratt's feet, you got the blood and you even found new hands. I'll help you much more. You can rely on me, I promise.'

‘Was your fontanel compromised at birth?' she said, lifting the cool bag from under the seat and standing up. The bus had arrived at the train station. ‘I don't have access
to an endless smorgasbord of boy-band body parts I'm afraid. My sources are limited. I take what I can get.'

I went to stand up but Zoe pushed me back down into my seat, so hard it hurt.

‘Ow!' I said, even though it was only the shock of it that had hurt.

‘You're not coming. Go home, Camille. Go back to your family and your Mr Adequate.'

And she left me there on the bench seat. I watched her march down the bus steps and through the train station doors, barging through people like they weren't even there. She didn't once look back.

I waited for tears to form in my eyes. Why was she so big fat horrible? Why had she brought my family into it, and Louis, my ‘Mr Adequate'. What did
that
mean? What had I done to deserve her being so cross with me? I needed a hug. Poppy gave brilliant hugs. I missed hugs. I missed her. I picked up Pee Wee and gave him a cuddle instead. ‘Ain't you gettin' off?' Alf the driver called back to me. ‘I don't stop at Tanner's Knife or Pleinpalais on a Friday, you know.'

‘No, I know,' I said, clearing my throat. ‘I need to go to . . . Holy Trinity. The vicarage. I'll get off there.'

 

 

 

 

M
rs Lamp opened the door in her apron and limegreen Crocs. ‘Hello, Camille love. Long time no see.' She zoned in on my conk. ‘Ooh, you've had a nasty knock there.'

‘Hi, Mrs Lamp. Yeah. A door. Is Poppy in?'

Pee Wee jumped up and started biting her tights. She frowned as she tried to push him away. She was normally quite glamorous and I'd never seen her without make-up on, but today her face looked like it had been wrung out like a soggy dishcloth and her eyes were puffy as though hadn't slept all night. ‘No. Has she not phoned you?'

‘No. I've texted her twice. She hasn't texted back. I was
worried. Has something happened?'

Mrs Lamp rubbed the silky bit on her apron. ‘I was sure she would have told you at least.'

‘Told me what?'

‘Come in, love.'

It was weird how everything looked old in the house without Poppy there to young it up. Everything seemed so much more grey and vicaragey. The pictures all up the stairs were of her and her brothers as children. And of her friends: our day out at Splashy Manor four years ago – me, Poppy and Lynx on the rollercoaster, screaming; me, Poppy and Lynx at the aquarium aged about nine. I'd forgotten how fat Lynx had been as a little girl. I'd forgotten how freckly Poppy had been.

I followed Mrs Lamp through to the kitchen, where she let Pee Wee into the back garden and put the kettle on. She got down a cup and saucer for her and my usual mug, which she filled with three scoops of light hot chocolate powder without even checking I wanted it. She just knew. She placed it down on a doily coaster on the tabletop and took a piece of notepaper from the top of the fridge. ‘This was on her bed yesterday morning.'

My worry was so big by this time that I physically couldn't read the note fast enough. I had to read it twice before I understood what it said.

Mum and Dad, I've gone to the West Fest with Splodge. I'm sorry, I just couldn't not go. Please forgive me. We're getting the bus to Abergavenny. I'll see you in a couple of days. Please don't worry. I love you, Poppy xxxxx

‘Poppy wrote this?' I asked. Mrs Lamp nodded. ‘I'd heard Poppy talk about West Fest back in the summer. Lynx couldn't bear the thought of not showering for three days and I didn't like any of the bands, but she had really wanted to go. Me and Lynx had doubted her parents would have let her anyway – they hadn't even let her have her ears pierced until she was sixteen.

‘I can't believe she didn't tell you about it,' said Mrs Lamp, pinning her red hair back up into its clip as it was coming loose.

‘No. Well, I haven't really seen her that much lately.'

She sniffed. ‘Ever since this Splodge character came on the scene, neither have we. She even missed church last week, just so she could go and see him. It's just not like her, is it, Camille? She's never done anything like this before. We were always so sure with her. Her GCSE results were excellent . . .'

‘I don't think this was planned, Mrs Lamp,' I said, touching her hand to comfort her. ‘I just think . . . well, I think she's in love.'

‘That's not an excuse, is it? Not when she's just started her A levels. There's no way she's going to that Halloween party with him, that's for sure. Oh no, not after this. What do you know about him, Camille?'

I shrugged. ‘Not much, really. He's on the rugby team at college and in the orchestra with Poppy. He's quiet. Chubby. Bit of a lad . . .' I saw Mrs Lamp's face fall. ‘But he's not a bad person. I think he really loves her too. And I'm sure he'll look after her.'

‘I forbade her from going to that festival this early in a
new term. I looked it up on her computer, what goes on there. You can imagine. Drugs. Parties till all hours. Naked weddings . . .' Her voice dropped to a whisper and her cheeks flashed red. ‘Not to mention the fact that they'll both be sharing a tent. They'll be having . . .'

‘Sex?' I blurted out, before realising that Mrs Lamp really didn't need me telling her what they would be doing. I tried to make up for it. ‘Poppy wouldn't do that, Mrs Lamp. She knows that you wouldn't approve. And I don't even think she approves of that before marriage anyway. I think she and Splodge just really like these DJs, Skitzy and Creampuff. And there's this band, Little Maniacs – I think they were going to be there too. They're like an electronic orchestra.'

Mrs Lamp shook her head. ‘Just doesn't seem right to me.'

I bit my cheek. I had to say it. ‘It is weird that she went when she knew you wouldn't let her, though. Poppy doesn't even swear because you don't like her to. It's very . . .'

‘. . . out of character,' she finished.

I shrugged. ‘Yeah. Totes.' I looked around at the blue and green kitchen tiles me and Poppy used to count when we were having tea in the kitchen, swinging our legs beneath the breakfast bar. ‘But I really think they might, like, love each other, if that helps?'

Mrs Lamp's eyebrows rose up to her forehead and she sighed the longest sigh, like she was letting all the air out of her body. ‘How would that make me feel better? I suppose being in love makes you do crazy things like ignore your parents' rules and take impromptu trips out of the country whenever one feels like it, does it?'

‘Hmm,' I said. I turned the sentence over and over in my head as we sat there.
Being in love makes you do crazy things
. Like what me and Zoe were doing, building the body. It was all because of love.

‘What is it, Camille?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘I was just wondering if she told Lynx or anyone else about the festival.'

‘No, Lynsey was round here yesterday asking for her. Brought that rather forward young man with her. Jeff de What's-His-Name who owns the arcades and half the pier – his son. Dylan, is it?'

‘Damian,' I said.

‘Yes, Day-me-an,' she said slowly. ‘Seemed rather . . .'

‘Yeah,' I said, unable to think of an appropriate word to sum Damian up. ‘I know Damian.'

I looked at the note again. I didn't want to worry Mrs Lamp until I was sure, but there were a few things I just didn't get. For a start, it was written on a tea-stained kitchen notepad with corners that had gone curly. The slightest crease on a page and Poppy had to use a whole new one. And it didn't really look like Poppy's hand writing either – it was scrawly and ink blotted. It could have been done in a rush, I guessed, but Poppy was always so neat. She was like one of those medieval monks about her handwriting. It was her pride and joy. That scruffy scribbly note was not Poppy's style, of that I was the certaintest I had ever been about anything ever ever. A thought flashed into my mind – Zoe's notepad. Messy. Ink blotted. Like the note. Could it have been Zoe's handwriting? Could Zoe have written that note?

*

On the way back into town, the electro bus was packed so I had to stand up and hold one of the ceiling straps. Pee Wee sat between my feet. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a text from Louis Burnett. My chest pulsed. Had he heard from Splodge?

But no. It just said:
R u OK?

I texted back:
I'm fine. Went rnd 2 c P's mum. They went 2 a festivl in Wales. Her mum not happy. C
. And I put a happy smiley. Then I turned my phone off.

I didn't see the point in telling Louis my worries before I'd got everything sorted out in my head. It all just didn't add up, and I was no good at adding up anyway so I knew it was going to take me a while to work it out. Had Zoe written that note? And where had she got those hands for the project? Where had she got those organs from? You just don't have those kinds of things lying around, do you? Or maybe you do if you're someone like Zoe Lutwyche? Had she gone up to Madeira Cove and pushed William Pratt off the cliff just so she could steal his feet? Did I know who Zoe actually was? Was my best friend Zoe Lutwyche a murderer?