Heathen/Nemesis Read online

  Danny Kaye, Liza Minnelli and Judy Garland looked on blankly as he sifted through the books. Again he found nothing.

  The hand grabbed his hair.

  So surprised by the movement he felt as if his vocal cords had frozen, Paxton hardly moved as his head was yanked hard backwards.

  The knife flashed in the spotlight, glinting viciously before the razor-sharp blade was drawn across his throat.

  Blood erupted from the wound that opened like a grinning mouth, spewing crimson over the lifeless figures.

  Peter Farrell held tightly to Paxton’s hair, careful to avoid the jetting blood. He heard the soft hiss as the waxwork owner’s sphincter muscle collapsed. Then he allowed the body to drop to the floor, watching it twitch for a second before stepping back into the shadows from which he’d emerged. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket and flicked it on.

  ‘I’m on the ground floor,’ he whispered into the machine. ‘Paxton’s dead. Split up and find the other two.’ He paused a moment, still looking down at the body, the head in the centre of a spreading pool of blood. ‘Keep them alive until I get there,’ he added as an afterthought.

  He put the two-way back in his pocket and slipped away, swallowed by the gloom.

  Behind him, Paxton’s body lay amongst the frozen dancers and entertainers smiling down blankly as if welcoming him.

  Blood from the hideous wound washed over the title plate of the tableau, which proclaimed happily:

  GOTTA DANCE.

  Seventy-Five

  Second floor.

  The top storey had yielded nothing. Outside, the rain which had been falling when they entered the building seemed to have eased. Night had invaded the heavens, closing around the waxworks like a black fist as impenetrable as the umbra that seemed to fill every inch of the museum. The exhibits were small islands of light within a sea of shadows.

  Donna paused at the bottom of the flight of steps and looked to her right and left.

  To her right was a gallery featuring GREAT EVENTS IN WORLD HISTORY; to her left, THE ENTERTAINMENT WORLD.

  ‘Do you want to check one side and I’ll check the other?’ she asked Julie.

  ‘No. I’m staying with you,’ the younger woman said, horrified at the thought of being alone in one of these darkened rooms. Donna gripped her hand briefly to reassure her, but the gesture did little to ease Julie’s fear. Donna, too, felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as they moved into the right-hand gallery.

  A mock-up of the front benches of the House of Commons displayed a dozen of the country’s most important politicians. Behind them were older, more famous ones. Gladstone, Disraeli and Lloyd George all stood in judgement, silent and unmoving as the two women passed by.

  The next exhibit showed Napoleon’s final trip to St Helena. He was in a cabin on board the ship with several figures standing around him.

  There were books on the desk at which the effigy of the Emperor sat.

  Donna wasted no time checking them out.

  Julie, meantime, took a couple of paces across the gallery towards a group of world leaders, past and present, gathered around a desk.

  She shivered as she felt so many sightless eyes boring into her.

  A board creaked beneath her feet and she sucked in a startled breath.

  Adolf Hitler stood, arms folded, beside Benito Mussolini. Stalin and Trotsky stood to their left.

  Julie could see bookshelves behind them.

  The Grimoire could be there.

  ‘Donna,’ she whispered.

  No reply.

  She looked round to where her sister was searching through the other books.

  ‘Donna,’ Julie repeated.

  There was no sign of the older woman.

  Julie felt as if someone had suddenly pumped her full of ice water.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she murmured, fearing she was alone. ‘Donna.’ She raised her voice slightly.

  There was a chipboard wall between the exhibits and Julie turned and moved towards it.

  She could hear sounds on the other side.

  The breath was stuck in her throat and her mouth felt dry.

  It was if someone had filled it with sand. In the deafening silence inside the gallery she could hear her heart thumping madly against her ribs.

  ‘Donna,’ she said again, the word sounding thunderous in the solitude.

  Close by a floorboard creaked.

  Julie swallowed hard.

  ‘It’s not here.’

  Donna stuck her head out from behind the chipboard wall.

  Julie just managed to stifle a scream. She raised a hand to her forehead and let out a breath which seemed to empty her lungs.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ she murmured.

  Donna saw the exhibit her sister had been looking at and crossed to it. She looked up at the books on the shelves and reached for the closest.

  She flipped it open.

  Blank paper.

  So was the next.

  And the next.

  Every book on the shelf was a volume of blank sheets.

  Donna sighed wearily and prepared to continue the search.

  Julie suddenly grabbed her arm.

  ‘Listen,’ she whispered, her eyes bulging in their sockets.

  ‘What . . .’

  ‘Just listen.’

  They stood as motionless as the wax figures surrounding them, ears alert for the slightest sound, eyes roving around the darkened gallery for any trace of movement.

  Donna heard it too.

  The unmistakable creaking of floorboards.

  Someone was on the floor above them.

  ‘It must be Paxton,’ Donna said quietly.

  ‘He was below us,’ Julie protested.

  ‘He said that we could pass each other without knowing. Perhaps he went up to double check, in case we missed something.’

  The footsteps receded.

  The two women remained motionless, gazing up at the ceiling as if to trace the source and direction of the footsteps.

  There was one more protesting creak, then silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Julie none too convincingly. ‘This place . . .’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

  Donna squeezed her hand and nodded.

  They paused a moment longer, then moved further down the gallery, inspecting each exhibit, checking any books which could be the hidden Grimoire. Finally satisfied that these tableaux held no secrets, they turned round and headed back towards the gallery marked THE ENTERTAINMENT WORLD.

  At the top of the stairs between the two galleries Donna paused and peered into the thick shadows, listening for movement from either above or below. She heard nothing. She wondered if she should call out to Paxton, just to find out where he was. She decided against it and walked through the archway to be confronted by the figure of Elvis Presley.

  Julie followed, past the cast of Dallas, glancing at figures of Rod Stewart, Tina Turner and Madonna.

  So many eyes watching them.

  These exhibits were mostly just single figures, not set out in any kind of tableau, but isolated in their stage clothes with just a name plate for company.

  Kate Bush stood defiantly before them, her hair frozen in an imaginary breeze, curling in the air like the deadly locks of a Gorgon.

  Bob Hope was leaning on a golf club.

  Frank Sinatra was holding a microphone.

  Donna moved quickly through the gallery.

  ‘There’s nothing in here,’ she said. ‘Let’s try the next floor. Perhaps Paxton’s found something.’

  ‘He would have called, wouldn’t he?’ Julie enquired.

  ‘Perhaps we didn’t hear him.’

  At the top of the stairs just beyond the archway at the exit from the gallery stood figures of Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder.

  The former of the two was in a glass case.

  Donna moved close to it, peering in at the finely sculpted features, momentarily distracted by the sheer artistry of the effigy.


  She and Julie moved nearer to the glass.

  Julie touched it.

  The figure turned and looked at them.

  Seventy-Six

  Julie could not suppress a scream this time.

  Her shriek of surprise echoed around the building, drumming in their ears, amplified by the stillness.

  The figure turned stiffly and fixed them in a sightless gaze.

  It took Donna a moment or two to realize that it had been activated by some kind of electric eye. When the glass was touched, the mechanism was set in motion. The figure swayed slightly on its base, then was still.

  Julie ran a hand through her hair and closed her eyes, her heart racing.

  ‘Oh God,’ she murmured.

  Donna too felt her heart thumping; the sudden shock made her tremble. She squeezed Julie’s hand and motioned for her to follow down the stairs that led to the ground floor.

  They were halfway down when the thought struck her.

  Why had Paxton not come to find the source of the scream? Why, at least, had he not called out? There was no question of him hearing the noise in the stillness of the waxworks. Where the hell was he?

  Perhaps they had been his footsteps they’d heard above them earlier. But even so, why had he not come running to find out what was happening?

  Donna licked her tongue across her dry lips and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Julie joined her.

  ‘What now?’ Julie wanted to know.

  Donna glanced across into the gallery on the ground floor then at another doorway ahead of them marked PRIVATE.

  She crossed to the door and found that it was unlocked. It opened out onto a narrow flight of stone steps. There was a cloying fusty smell rising from below, like drying clothes. It was cold in the narrow stairwell; the metal banister was freezing when she touched it.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘This must lead to the basement.’ She began to descend, and Julie followed. They trod carefully on the bare stone until, finally, Donna pushed open the door at the bottom and stepped out.

  The smell here was even stronger. The odour of decay as well as damp was strong in her nostrils. She looked round.

  The door from which they had emerged was also marked PRIVATE.

  To the left was a light, well-illuminated area that contained various electronic games and fruit machines.

  To the right, a set of steps led down into what looked like seething blackness. The darkness was so total that she wondered if they would even be able to proceed without the aid of a torch. There was a sign on the wall beside this entrance:

  ALL THOSE WISHING TO LEAVE THE WAXWORKS HERE, KINDLY USE THE APPROPRIATE EXIT. IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT YOUNG CHILDREN OR THOSE OF A NERVOUS DISPOSITION LEAVE NOW.

  Donna took a step closer to the top of the steps and peered down.

  There were five stone stairs leading down to a wooden floor and a narrow stone corridor.

  The smell of damp and rot seemed to waft from the doorway as if expelled from putrid lungs. There was a sign just inside the doorway, suspended from the ceiling by two rusty chains. Donna read it aloud.

  ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’ She smiled. ‘It would have been just like Chris to hide the Grimoire down there,’ Donna said, pointing towards the abyss beyond the steps. ‘It would have appealed to his sense of humour.’

  ‘What is it?’ Julie wanted to know, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

  Donna raised her eyebrows.

  ‘The Chamber of Horrors.’

  Seventy-Seven

  It was like stepping into empty space.

  Donna, who couldn’t see her feet beneath her, moved cautiously for fear of slipping on the stone steps. Julie followed behind, steadying herself against the wall, recoiling slightly as she felt the moistness of the stone.

  Paxton must have had the place treated with something, Donna thought. She was sure the basement that housed the waxworks’ grisliest exhibits was not naturally damp and decaying. Part of the process of making the viewing experience all the more real and eerie was the smell which went with the darkness and unbearable silence. There were companies in the film business who made fake blood; why not someone to recreate the smell of damp and neglect? Perhaps that odour could indeed be bottled and sold. Paxton must have bought a crateful.

  Fake cobwebs had been sprayed over the walls, too, although how much of the gossamer-like material was real and how much was fake she wasn’t sure. There would be no need to clean this part of the waxworks. Grime and the odd spider could only serve to enhance its appearance.

  The figures of the murderers themselves were arranged behind what looked like rusty prison bars. These too were covered by cobwebs both fake and genuine.

  Dependent on their stature or the nature of their crimes, figures were enshrined within their own individual displays. Others were grouped together, usually with a newspaper of the day framed beside them proclaiming their arrest or, in the case of those before 1969, of their execution.

  How perverse, Donna thought, that there should even be a hierachy amongst killers. Men like Denis Nilsen, Peter Sutcliffe and John George Haigh were presented in tableaux of their own, while those who had killed only once or twice, or who were there more for their notoriety than their savagery, merited a smaller setting where they were crowded together. Ruth Ellis, Lee Harvey Oswald and the Kray Twins stood together.

  Christie was displayed surrounded by his nine victims, portions of them visible from gaps in the walls and floor of the mock-up of his front room at Ten Rillington Place. Behind him stood Timothy Evans, the man wrongly hanged for a murder Christie committed.

  If the atmosphere in the rest of the waxworks had been unsettling, in this odorous basement it was close to oppressive. These glass eyes stared out with a venom and hatred that matched those of their inspirations. Julie felt her skin crawl.

  Nilsen stood at the cooker where he’d boiled down the remains of his victims.

  Sutcliffe gripped a claw hammer and a screwdriver, his face twisted into a half-smile.

  Haigh, dressed in a leather apron, was in the process of dissolving one of his victims in an acid bath.

  Julie tried to swallow but felt as if someone had blocked her throat.

  Beneath the model of Eichmann were newspaper cuttings about Auschwitz; yellowed with age like some of the other clippings, they were still as abhorrent, even after all these years.

  Dr Crippen was standing by a desk on which lay a pile of books.

  Donna looked for a way in to the exhibit. The only door was in the side of the cage-like display, at the end near the exit. In order to reach the figure of Crippen she would have to pass the other figures, too. She turned and headed for the door immediately, relieved that it was open when she pushed. She stepped inside.

  Julie gripped the bars, wincing as she felt how cold and wet they were, watching as her sister drew closer, pausing to look at the tableau of Christie. There were many cupboards in the display; Ward could have hidden the Grimoire in any one of them.

  Donna opened them but found that they were empty. She glanced at the figure of Christie and walked on. Past Haigh. Past Nilsen.

  The figure of Peter Sutcliffe was standing over the body of a woman, old newspapers beneath his feet. Donna paused to lift the newspapers and look beneath them.

  Julie sucked in an anxious breath, her eyes fixed on the model of Sutcliffe.

  The head moved a fraction.

  She opened her mouth to shout but no sound would come.

  Donna was still at his feet.

  Julie blinked hard and looked at the waxwork again.

  This time she saw no movement. A trick of the light? A trick of her mind? A little of both, she fancied.

  ‘Come on, Donna,’ she said, her breath coming in gasps.

  Her sister nodded, got to her feet and finally reached the Crippen figure. She looked at the books on the desk: a medical book and a book on anatomy.

  The third had a picture of a bird on it. A
hawk?

  Was this the Grimoire?

  Her hands were shaking as she lifted it.

  A picture of a hawk, not an embossed crest.

  Could it be ...

  She opened it.

  Blank pages.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered angrily and replaced the book. She hurried out of the cage and rejoined Julie. Ahead of them was another wall with a small gap in it; barely five feet high and three across, it formed a doorway into the last part of the exhibit. The Torture Chamber.

  Donna advanced towards it.

  There was a red light over the narrow opening. As she waited for Julie to join her, the light bathed her in crimson so that it looked as if she’d been drenched in blood. She looked down into the Chamber and saw that the same inky blackness awaited them. Only the models were lit, but this time by even weaker beams from hidden spotlamps in the low ceiling. This was the only entrance in and out. Donna led the way, glancing at several severed heads arrayed before a guillotine. Nearby a wax body dangled from a hook embedded in its side. Behind them a display featured a man with rats trying to eat their way through his stomach while imprisoned in a red hot cage.

  Burning out the eyes.

  Driving needles beneath the fingernails.

  Tearing off the nose with red-hot pincers.

  The horrors came thick and fast, vying with each other.

  A man being boiled alive in what looked like a massive metal bowl.

  A man with a steel ring through his tongue, the ring attached to a metal ball by a chain.

  The revulsion Donna felt was tempered by her recognition of the skill with which these monstrosities had been constructed. They were obscenely realistic.

  The two women turned a corner and Julie groaned aloud.

  THE MURDER OF SHARON TATE proclaimed the plate on the bars of the enclosure that housed one of the most horrendously realistic exhibits in the building.

  In front of the tableau a newspaper of the day headlined the slaughter of the Hollywood star and four others by members of the Charles Manson family. The figure of Manson himself, eyes wild, hair flying behind him, watched over the scene. It showed the living-room of the Tate residence with the film star’s killers, armed with knives and guns, and the other people who died with her. Whoever had modelled it had certainly been painstakingly accurate in the depiction, anxious to show that Sharon Tate had been eight months pregnant when she’d been hacked to death, her blood used to write the word PIG on the wall.