hands are claws. The bloke can’t make waxworks, not proper ones any more. So he gets real people, pretty girls and stuff, and has boiling wax poured all over them.’
‘Remember when the wax mask cracks off his face?’
‘Remember when he falls in the vat?’
‘Best bloody movie I ever saw,’ said Skip.
‘Well, he went stalking, didn’t he? All twisted over in a sort of cloak. Hood over his face. He’d knock you out, and when you woke up you’d be tied down, and he’d have hot wax ready to pour all over you. What if there’s a bloke like that?’
Skip shook her head sadly. ‘Is there a wax museum in Crater Lakes?’
The sawmill massed before them: grand silent sheds of corrugated iron by the railway line, grey-white in the darkness. Honza said they should cut through. Veering off the road, he waved to Skip to follow. No fences, no gates stopped them from passing between high metal walls.
‘Turn on the torch again,’ said Skip, as shadows encroached.
‘Scaredy-cat.’
‘It’s pitch black, idiot.’
The yellow beam was wavering, thin. They followed a concrete drive. Beyond a garage was a sawdust-smelling yard, with twin forklift trucks standing before the entrance as if on guard; caught in torchlight, the paintwork yielded up a sickly glow. Filling the yard was pallet after pallet of stacked pine planks. Each stack was the same: a cube, twice Skip’s height.
‘Tim- ber !’ cried Honza, pretending to be a lumberjack. ‘This is what the Lakes is about, Dad reckons.’
‘Doesn’t he work at the town hall?’
‘In the office. Sometimes he stays back real late.’
‘Keen, is he?’ Or not keen, Skip thought, on Deirdre Novak.
‘What about your dad?’ said Honza.
‘Haven’t got one.’
‘Did he die? How did he die?’ Honza seemed to think the answer should be funny. Suddenly Skip was sick of him. Stalking was silly, a kids’ game. But what did she expect? There was no wax museum in Crater Lakes and never would be. This was a town where nothing happened. She wondered if she could find her way home by herself. She looked around the piny yard. Between each pallet was a space a foot wide; the pale stacks rose like an ancient monument, some crumbly archaeological find uncovered in a desert – a set of tombs perhaps, or a strange priestly construction for calculating the movements of the stars.
There was a yowl. She jumped, and Honza laughed. ‘Pussycats,’ he said. ‘Hah! If I left you by yourself, you’d be screaming.’
‘I don’t scream. When did I ever scream?’
‘Girls scream. In that movie –’
‘What if I left you ?’ Skip started forward. Briefly she jumped into the torch’s beam, fingers curled monster-style, tongue poking out, then plunged out of sight between the pallets.
Crabwise, grateful for her smallness, she slipped down corridors of cut pine. Splintery ragged ends of planks scraped her like rough hands. Honza’s beam scissored through the blackness. She pressed into the wood and barely breathed, willing her heart to stop beating.
‘Where are you?’ Honza called.
Then: ‘Come on, where’ve you gone?’
Then: ‘Stop messing about.’
His voice was still little more than a whisper, but Skip heard the fear in it. Honza was walking around trying to find her; each time he spoke, his words came from a different direction. Cautiously she made her way between pungent woody walls, then emerged into the yard behind him. She crept forward, ready to disappear backinto the pallets if he turned. Quiet as a ghost, she scudded towards him, then jumped onto his back.
Honza screamed. The torch clattered down and the beam blinked out. Blackness surrounded them as they scuffled.
Laughing, Skip cried, ‘Only me!’
He flung her away from him. ‘Stupid girl. What was I thinking of, stalking with a girl?’
Skip kicked him. ‘You take that back!’
‘Fuck off.’ The boy dropped to his hands and knees, looking for the torch. Thick clouds made the moon a mere
‘Remember when the wax mask cracks off his face?’
‘Remember when he falls in the vat?’
‘Best bloody movie I ever saw,’ said Skip.
‘Well, he went stalking, didn’t he? All twisted over in a sort of cloak. Hood over his face. He’d knock you out, and when you woke up you’d be tied down, and he’d have hot wax ready to pour all over you. What if there’s a bloke like that?’
Skip shook her head sadly. ‘Is there a wax museum in Crater Lakes?’
The sawmill massed before them: grand silent sheds of corrugated iron by the railway line, grey-white in the darkness. Honza said they should cut through. Veering off the road, he waved to Skip to follow. No fences, no gates stopped them from passing between high metal walls.
‘Turn on the torch again,’ said Skip, as shadows encroached.
‘Scaredy-cat.’
‘It’s pitch black, idiot.’
The yellow beam was wavering, thin. They followed a concrete drive. Beyond a garage was a sawdust-smelling yard, with twin forklift trucks standing before the entrance as if on guard; caught in torchlight, the paintwork yielded up a sickly glow. Filling the yard was pallet after pallet of stacked pine planks. Each stack was the same: a cube, twice Skip’s height.
‘Tim- ber !’ cried Honza, pretending to be a lumberjack. ‘This is what the Lakes is about, Dad reckons.’
‘Doesn’t he work at the town hall?’
‘In the office. Sometimes he stays back real late.’
‘Keen, is he?’ Or not keen, Skip thought, on Deirdre Novak.
‘What about your dad?’ said Honza.
‘Haven’t got one.’
‘Did he die? How did he die?’ Honza seemed to think the answer should be funny. Suddenly Skip was sick of him. Stalking was silly, a kids’ game. But what did she expect? There was no wax museum in Crater Lakes and never would be. This was a town where nothing happened. She wondered if she could find her way home by herself. She looked around the piny yard. Between each pallet was a space a foot wide; the pale stacks rose like an ancient monument, some crumbly archaeological find uncovered in a desert – a set of tombs perhaps, or a strange priestly construction for calculating the movements of the stars.
There was a yowl. She jumped, and Honza laughed. ‘Pussycats,’ he said. ‘Hah! If I left you by yourself, you’d be screaming.’
‘I don’t scream. When did I ever scream?’
‘Girls scream. In that movie –’
‘What if I left you ?’ Skip started forward. Briefly she jumped into the torch’s beam, fingers curled monster-style, tongue poking out, then plunged out of sight between the pallets.
Crabwise, grateful for her smallness, she slipped down corridors of cut pine. Splintery ragged ends of planks scraped her like rough hands. Honza’s beam scissored through the blackness. She pressed into the wood and barely breathed, willing her heart to stop beating.
‘Where are you?’ Honza called.
Then: ‘Come on, where’ve you gone?’
Then: ‘Stop messing about.’
His voice was still little more than a whisper, but Skip heard the fear in it. Honza was walking around trying to find her; each time he spoke, his words came from a different direction. Cautiously she made her way between pungent woody walls, then emerged into the yard behind him. She crept forward, ready to disappear backinto the pallets if he turned. Quiet as a ghost, she scudded towards him, then jumped onto his back.
Honza screamed. The torch clattered down and the beam blinked out. Blackness surrounded them as they scuffled.
Laughing, Skip cried, ‘Only me!’
He flung her away from him. ‘Stupid girl. What was I thinking of, stalking with a girl?’
Skip kicked him. ‘You take that back!’
‘Fuck off.’ The boy dropped to his hands and knees, looking for the torch. Thick clouds made the moon a mere
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