‘Donna.’
Julie could scarcely force the word out. She grabbed her sister’s leg, waiting until she’d turned before pointing at something inside the chamber.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Donna whispered.
Was this imagination? Or madness?
The wax figures in the tableau of Sharon Tate’s murder were moving frenziedly.
Rooted to the spot, their limbs jerked insanely, as if charged with some kind of kinetic energy. Arms and legs thrashed wildly.
Then the sounds began.
Screams of pain and terror rose from frozen throats and drummed in the ears of Donna and Julie.
Those who’d died that night in 1969 were dying again, their agony finding a new voice.
Donna watched, her eyes bulging in their sockets, her throat constricted.
Julie too found that she was paralysed by the sight.
Only when the figure of Charles Manson turned and looked at her did she finally allow her own scream to escape. It mingled with the others in a hideous cacophony of suffering.
The figure took a step towards them.
Eighty-One
In some obscene parody of a child’s first steps, the Manson figure lurched from its position on the display, steadying itself against a wall.
From the tableau itself the large figure of the man who had been known as Charles ‘Tex’ Watson also struggled free and turned on the two women. Both the effigies held knives.
Donna, her mind still reeling, looked around for the discarded .22 Pathfinder.
It lay ten or twelve feet away, beneath the rack of the Inquisition victim.
To reach it she would have to pass the figures of Manson and Watson.
Donna ran towards the weapon, but Manson moved towards her. The waxwork moved with surprising speed; Donna felt cold hands grabbing at her.
The knife slashed down and carved through the air only inches from her face. She turned and lashed out, feeling her hand connect with the hard wax of the face. The eyes fixed her in their glassy, stare, the eyes of a dead fish on a skillet.
The screams continued, over and over again.
Manson grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her towards him.
Towards the knife.
Donna managed to twist in his grip and drove a foot into his midriff, knocking him backwards. He crashed into the effigy of a torturer burning the eyes from his victim.
Donna lunged towards the gun and scooped it into her hand, rolling over in time to see Watson bearing down on Julie.
The younger woman avoided the knife-thrust and hurled herself to one side, rolling beneath a table on which a man was being subjected to the Chinese Water Torture.
The dust and grime was thick beneath the table and Julie coughed as it clogged in her throat and nostrils.
Watson turned and came at her again, his movements thankfully slow.
Donna rose to one knee and swung the Pathfinder up into position.
She fired twice, the retort, even from a pistol as small as a .22, quite deafening within the confines of the chamber.
The first bullet struck him in the back of the head, the second in the side of the face, blasting most of the area from the temple to the chin away. Fragments of wax flew into the air.
Watson continued moving towards Julie.
Donna thumbed back the hammer and pumped two shots into Manson with similarly useless results. She saw the body quiver, saw the burns on the shirt of the mannequin. She even heard the sharp crack as the slugs thumped into the hard wax. The figure did not pause, merely raised the knife and lunged forward.
Donna rolled away beneath the table and came up on the other side.
The Manson figure made a sudden movement and the knife came hurtling down, burying itself in the wood, missing her hand by inches.
Donna made a grab for the knife but Manson’s hand closed over hers. Again she felt the clammy chill of wax; it was like being touched by a dead man. She struggled to escape the grip. Using the pistol as a club she slammed it into the side of the figure’s head with such force that one of the glass eyes popped out, the wax around it splintering.
The grip on her hand was released and she backed off.
The Manson figure kept coming.
Julie scrambled to her feet, pushing other figures over in an effort to halt the inexorable progress of Watson, who had the blade brandished high.
The screaming continued, great racking caterwauls of agony that deafened the women as surely as the retorts of the pistol. The backdrop of sound was intolerable.
Donna ran towards a scene showing the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. As the Manson figure advanced on her, she dragged the axe from the frozen grip of the headsman. It was heavy, the razor-sharp blade comfortingly lethal.
With all her strength she swung it, burying the blade in Manson’s chest.
The figure wobbled.
Donna struck again, her own shouts of defiance and fear mingling with the screams all around her.
The next blow sheared off an arm.
Manson still advanced.
‘Bastard,’ roared Donna and struck his head from his shoulders.
The effigy flew into the air, the wax head spinning, the fake hair flowing out wildly.
The waxwork toppled over and lay still.
‘Donna,’ shrieked Julie, and she looked over to see her sister trapped in a corner, the Watson figure only a couple of feet away.
Watson swung the knife, the cut slicing through the material of Julie’s shirt and gashing her forearm. She looked up into the sightless glass eyes, unable to move as the knife was raised again.
Donna ran at the figure, bringing the axe down with manic force. The blow was so powerful it cleft the wax head cleanly in two and bit into the torso as deep as the shoulders.
Watson swayed uncertainly for a second then fell backwards, the axe still embedded.
Donna sucked in the stale air, perspiration soaking her T-shirt, matting her hair at the nape of her neck.
Julie shook her head, the tears running down her cheeks. Donna dropped to her knees and the two women embraced, blood from the wound on Julie’s arm smearing Donna’s clothes as they held each other tightly.
The screams continued to echo around them.
Eighty-Two
She woke with a start, looking around her frantically, disorientated, unsure of her surroundings. She felt her heart beating madly; the fear she had come to know only too well enveloped her like a cold glove.
Julie Craig sat forward on the sofa and rubbed her eyes, still trying to shrug off that twilight state between dreams and awareness.
‘Shit,’ she murmured, exhaling deeply.
Her faculties seemed to return slowly. She shook her head, as if that simple action would clear her mind. Immediately she became aware of a dull ache in her right forearm and looked down to see the bandage wound round it from just above the wrist to the elbow.
‘You okay?’ Donna asked her quietly.
‘I dropped off. I’m sorry,’ Julie apologized, rubbing both hands across her face, pulling her long dark hair back from her forehead. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after one,’ Donna told her. ‘I flaked out, too, when we got back.’
They had returned to the cottage almost two hours ago, exhausted, drained and frightened. Both of them had fought against the sleep they so desperately craved, but eventually it had overtaken them. Through that troubled sleep the events of the night returned to them. The drive to the Wax Museum, the slow exploration, the meeting with Dashwood and Parsons and the terrifying aftermath. All of it was re-run through their subconscious like a video recording. Their escape from the waxworks, through a small window which opened out into a side alley, and then the long drive back to the cottage.
Donna wondered if, indeed, she had just awoken and the entire bizarre chain of events had been the product of her fevered mind.
If only that were the case.
She need only look at the cuts and bruises on her own body and on Julie’s to know that the events had been all too real.
‘We have to leave here tonight,’ Donna said.
‘We need to rest,’ Julie protested.
‘We can rest when we get back to London. I don’t think they will, but if they come looking for us and find us here . . .’
She allowed the sentence to trail off.
Julie closed her eyes for a moment.
‘The police will come,’ she said.
‘That’s another reason we have to get out of here,’ Donna said.
‘Why? When they come, you can tell them what happened. Tell them everything. Like you should have done in the first place.’ There was a trace of anger in her voice. ‘Let
them
take care of this business now, Donna.’
‘No. It isn’t
their
business. Besides, if they find out what happened there’ll be problems. How the hell are we supposed to explain what happened at the waxworks? They’ll lock us both up. They’ll think we’re insane, and I wouldn’t blame them if they did.’ She regarded her sister for long moments then spoke again. ‘
We
have the advantage now. Dashwood and his men think we’re dead. They won’t be expecting us to go after them. They think they’ve got rid of us. They’ll be off guard.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, “Go after them”?’ Julie said incredulously.
‘Like I said, they think we’re dead. They won’t be expecting us,’ Donna said almost excitedly.
‘You’re mad,’ Julie said quietly. ‘Donna, for God’s sake, they’ve already tried to kill you Christ knows how many times, and you’re still not satisfied. Do you
want
to die?’
‘I want
them
to die,’ she rasped.
‘Forget it, it’s over. They’ve got the bloody book, that was what they wanted. Let them have it. Let them keep it. We’re alive, that’s all that matters.’ The anger had turned to desperation.
‘It’s not about the book, Julie, it never was.’
‘No, it’s about revenge. Your need for revenge. It’s become an obsession with you, Donna. It’s eating you away and you don’t even know it. First it was Chris’s affair, and now it’s that book, and even after everything we’ve been through that’s not enough for you. You won’t be happy until you’ve got us both killed.’
‘You don’t know what I’m feeling,’ she said angrily. ‘It was bad enough knowing about the affair, then being involved in something which could have caused our deaths, but now I find out my husband could have been a murderer, too. You heard what Dashwood said tonight. Chris was one of them.’
‘And you believe that?’
‘I’m going to find out and I’m going to wipe those bastards off the face of the earth.’
‘You can’t even see what it’s doing to you, can you? You can’t see what it’s made you. All that matters to you is this ridiculous need for revenge. You couldn’t have it against Chris or Suzanne Regan so you used the hunt for the book, instead. And now that’s gone you’ve found another excuse to carry on.’
‘Perhaps that’s all I’ve got left, Julie.’
‘Well, I won’t help you. I’m sorry but I can’t take any more. I’m not going to be there when you get yourself killed. I won’t watch you die, Donna.’
‘Part of me died when I found out about Chris and Suzanne Regan,’ Donna said. ‘And perhaps you’re right, perhaps this whole thing has been about that, an extension of the anger I felt. Somebody had to pay for it. Somebody
will
pay for it. And if
you
won’t help me, then I’ll do it alone. I can’t stop now. Not until this is over.’