Freaking Freak Page 6

  Jackie’s eyes widen even farther with surprise, adding to the weird, mask-like effect of her face.

  ‘Wait, wait!’ she suddenly blurts out, raising her hands like she’s wanting everything to slow down, wanting time to work out what’s going on here. ‘You mean you felt how suicidal she was, yeah? Like you did when I was there, right? You don’t mean you actually saw it?’

  ‘I mean I saw it! I saw her crash her car!’

  She screws up her face in puzzlement. (Wow, does she screw up her face! It’s like it’s made of rubber!) She shakes her head, like she’s hoping to get her brain back into gear and make sense of what she’s hearing.

  ‘You can’t see it, Jill!’ she insists vehemently. ‘The way you sensed it was, like, incredibly amazing! But seeing it? It’s not possible. I mean, the whole point of this suicide thing is all that agony, all that suffering, but–’

  She’s distracted as, out of the corner of her eye, she spots Jase finally making a move. Her eyes full of pain, she watches his every slow step as he disappears through the open doors into the building.

  As Jase vanishes from view, Jackie whirls on me.

  ‘And now I’m the one suffering, thanks to you!’

  ‘Me? What have I made you suffer? Suffer what?’

  For a brief moment, she stares at me like she’s trying to work out if I’m lying or playing the fool.

  ‘Hah! You really don’t know, do you?’ she snorts with disgust. She pulls delicately at the ends of her hair, a clump of strands easily coming away in her tightening fingers. ‘Look at me, you stuck up cow!’

  ‘What’s happening to you Jackie?’ I’m too appalled to take offence at her insult. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on!’

  ‘You never understand, do you Jill?’ she sneers. ‘As long as you’re okay, what’s it matter how much anyone else suffers, eh? You must be feeling really good now you’ve finally got rid of Fiona, eh?’

  She turns to leave but, grabbing hold of her shoulder, I drag her back and force her to face me once more.

  ‘Got rid of Fiona?’ I’m more confused than ever. ‘Sure, I’m glad if she’s gone! But it wasn’t anything to do with me! I didn’t get rid of her!’

  Jackie smirks maliciously.

  ‘Yes you did, Jill,’ she jeers, turning and striding away from me. ‘And I hate you for it!’

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 19

   

  Everyone’s passing by me now, heading off into class. But I’m rooted to the spot, unable to make even the slightest bit of sense of what Jackie has just said to me.

  Why – how – does she think I got rid of Fiona? Why does she think I’m the one making her suffer? (And just what is going on with the way she looks worse every time I see her, like she’s just about falling apart?)

  I’d hoped she’d be able to tell me about whatever it is that’s going on with the gloves. With Freak. With my ‘operation’. But instead she’s just ended up giving me even more questions I need answers to!

  ‘Hi, stranger; long time no see.’

  Cath nonchalantly sidles up to me, her eyes only fleetingly coming up from staring at her mobile’s screen to give me a welcoming smile.

  ‘Hi Cath,’ I say, perhaps sounding a little distracted but hopefully managing to hide it from her.

  ‘I couldn’t help but notice,’ she says, her eyes locked onto her screen, her thumb expertly changing the sites she’s flicking through, ‘that you and the freak have issues.’

  She looks up, smiles warmly at me. A smile that says she’s not gloating but accepting me back as a friend.

  She goes back to staring at her mobile’s screen. That’s why some people call her Scatty; her mind’s always on the gossip, fashion and beauty sites she endlessly flicks through, rather than the world going on around her.

  ‘Jase is so miserable too,’ she says. ‘He deserves it, I reckon, for what he did to you.’

  She gives me another quick, gracious smile.

  ‘You could look more pleased that’s he’s been dumped, you know!’ she grins. ‘The Germans have a word for it you know; Schwarzenegger!’

  ‘I think you mean sauce-en-fraud or something, or whatever it is,’ I chuckle. ‘Schwarzenegger’s the actor.’

  ‘That’s right, that’s what I meant,’ she says, briefly giving her voice a gruffer, accented edge as she adds, ‘“I’ll be back”, right? Meaning he always gets his own back, yeah?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Jase being miserable is getting my own back...’

  ‘Sure you don’t, Jill.’

  Cath gives me a sly look. She thinks I’m kidding when I say I’m not enjoying Jase’s misery. Then again, just a few days back, I probably would have been kidding.

  ‘We’ve missed you, you know?’ she says. ‘I’ve missed you; you know, talking about things like hair, clothes, makeup – available boys.’

  She glances up at me.

  ‘Friends again, right babe?’

  ‘Sure; friends!’

  Reaching out, I give her a warm, joyous hug; being careful not to dislodge her hold on her mobile, of course!

  She holds up her phone right in front of our faces, pointing the camera at us as she quickly snaps a picture. She smiles happily as she looks at our closely touching, grinning faces as they come up on her screen.

  ‘Aw, we look sweet; and gorgeous too, natch! Heartbreakers united again, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I answer, trying to sound positive.

  She links her arm through mine, gently pulling me with her towards the steps.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ she says. ‘And if you’re really serious about not smirking at Jase throughout class, I insist you let me do it for you, okay?’

   

   

  *

   

   

  For a moment, I’m tempted to just let Cath lead me meekly up the stairs, through the doors, and into class. Where I’ll just submissively take my seat, and try and forget everything that’s happened to me recently.

  It would be so wonderful to be surrounded by my friends once more.

  I could even put up with Jackie glowering at me throughout the lesson, I reckon.

  I could even ignore Jase, if he’s just going to sit there feeling sorry for himself, keeping quiet and remaining uninvolved in anything that’s going on around him.

  What I can’t get out of my mind, though, are images of the gloves!

  Of Hezzy. And Hezzy’s hands on the car’s steering wheel.

  I only came here in the hope that I could persuade Jackie to take the gloves back. But as I haven’t managed that, I need some other way of getting rid of them.

  Freak.

  I need to somehow find Freak, and return them to him. To insist he takes them back. To insist any deal he thinks we have between us is off; no matter the consequences.

  I hadn’t asked for the operation, after all.

  And you can’t demand payment from somebody for something they never even asked for. Something they had forced upon them.

  ‘Cath, sorry and all that,’ I say, pulling a suitably miserable face as I add, ‘but I’m not feeling well; I think I need to head on home.’

  I hate lying to her, especially as we’ve only just made up and become friends once more. But in my defence, it’s half true. I can honestly say I’m not exactly feeling wonderful at the moment!

  Cath turns, lowers her head slightly, looks me over with wide, concerned eyes.

  ‘Oh, I suppose you do look a bit peeky, babe,’ she says with a fretful pout.

  I grin bravely. (Peeky? Just how bad do I look?)

  ‘Another picture, right babe?’ Cath adds gaily as, drawing me close again, she snaps another photo.

  ‘Could you let Miss know, make an excuse for me?’

  ‘Course, course; ohh, you don’t look at all well, babe!’ Cath says, studying my face on her screen. ‘Miss has got to
believe me when she sees this!’

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 20

   

  Oh joy! I was only pretending to be ill, yet according to Cath I look like I’m knocking on death’s door!

  Then again, who wouldn’t look like that knowing they’ve got gloves made from human skin hanging around on their dresser top?

  As soon as Cath’s disappeared through the school doors, I head off home, breaking into a run whenever I believe I can manage it without drawing too much attention to myself. Last thing I need is someone reporting me for playing hooky from school.

  When I finally get to the house, it looks quiet, seemingly empty.

  Sure, I’ve thought that plenty of times, only to surprise Mum or Dad rollicking around the place just about naked with someone hardly older than me.

  (It just isn’t a great life I lead, I can tell you! Although, of course, I always tell my friends and everyone else at school that I do live an enviable life! Well, what else am I supposed to say, right?)

  Today, I’m hoping even more than ever that they’re not home. Quite bizarrely, I’m hoping Freak’s there, like he was before; waiting for me, thinking he’s going to surprise me.

  Then he can take his bloody gloves back and take a hike!

   

   

  *

   

   

  Inside the house, there’s no sign of life.

  Unless, of course, you count the gloves!

  I shout out, just in case; ‘Mum? Dad?’

  No reply, thank God!

  I dash up the stairs, rush into my room.

  No Freak; damn!

  The gloves are there, though.

  Hanging over the edge of the opened box, which is itself hanging over the edge of my dresser top.

  The opened box!

  Didn’t I close it before I left?

  And wasn’t it farther back on the dresser?

  Perhaps no; perhaps I’m just scaring myself. Imagining things.

  Even so I creep towards the box, like it’s going to suddenly leap at me and snap my head off.

  Crazy huh?

  There’s something small and white poking out from the box’s velvet lining that I’ve never noticed before. Like the edge of a business card peeping out from a specially constructed pocket.

  I reach out for it cautiously, like I’m still bizarrely expecting the box lid to snap down hard on my hand.

  I retrieve the card without the lid biting my hand off. After all my worrying, it’s just the kind of card you get with any glamorous purchase; a little promotional blurb they include in the hope you’ll be back for more.

  ‘The finest gloves, the softest leather; a second skin – a most sensuous experience. NonPareil Haute Couture. A veritable delight for the senses.’

  Wow, they’ve sure got that right about the second skin and the sensual experience.

  On the back, there’s an address for the shop; and wouldn’t you know it, it’s in my town, but down in the sort of district you’d normally only go shopping in with an SAS and SEAL squad in attendance. Then again, when these gloves were made back in the early twentieth century, it may well have been the place to be.

  Of course, it may also be that the box and card originally contained some other gloves. And Freak or whoever first put these gloves together just put them in this expensive box to give them an extra bit of cachet.

  Thing is, even if I take the gloves back to the shop, what happens then?

  Do I seriously ask them if they accept returns? Tell them I’m not expecting my money back?

  ‘These gloves weren’t quite what I was expecting.’

  ‘That’s right; never worn.’

  Or do I just come straight out with it and tell them if they don’t take them back, I’m calling in that ginger haired guy from CIS?

  Sure, great idea Jill; and end up as their newest pair of gloves, right?

  Just like Hezzy’s gloves, they could even have a nice little card with them:

  ‘A most sensuous experience – discover the agony suffered when your boyfriend runs off with a far more beautiful girl!’

  Nope, I’ve got to think of another way of getting rid of – aaarrrggggghhhhhh!

  My God, no, no!

  I’ve just caught sight of myself in my dressing table mirror.

  And just like Jackie’s face, half of mine is beginning to start hanging off me like a slab of butcher’s meat!

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 21

   

  No wonder Cath had looked so shocked when she’d last seen me.

  Or have I just got worse and worse since leaving her, just as Jackie seems to be deteriorating more each time I see her?

  I’m feeling my skin, trying to push it back up into place. It’s not quite as bad as I’d first thought, when I’d first caught that glimpse of myself in the mirror; but what’s happening to me is still absolutely horrifying. It’s like one side of my face has decided the only expression it’s capable of is frowning miserably!

  I can’t go out looking like this!

  Is it all down to Freak’s operation on me? Has it started to go wrong? Is he the only one who can fix me up right again?

  I could ring the doctor’s, the hospital; but I somehow instinctively know that they’re not going to be able to help me.

  Freak’s the only one who can set all this right once more.

  Which means I’m going to have to visit that shop, whether I want to or not.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Like Jackie, I’ve taken to draping my hair over one side of my face. It got me by on the bus getting here, with no one really staring, or thinking I was acting a little oddly.

  The shop’s a lot quainter looking than I’d imagined it to be; all wonky Tudor timbering and overhangs, with a sharply angled slate roof, only coming half way up the other shops it’s attached to. Everywhere else, its kebabs, tattoo parlours and iron-grilled pawn shops. Freak’s shop is like something snatched out of the most carefully preserved area of London’s Mayfair.

  There are mannequins in the window wearing the kind of dresses Audrey Hepburn would consider expensive. I’m no expert on these things, but they seem to be dresses from different eras. Periods when you got glamour in spades, providing you were prepared to pay for it.

  They’re not even regular mannequins either, each one being individually unique, and incredibly lifelike. The way they’re posed and dressed, they could all be Vogue cover shots.  

  Why this shop hasn’t been ram-raided, I’ve got no idea.

  Then again, perhaps I have.

  Because now I see them, laid out on elegant tables and chairs as part of the window display.

  Gloves.

  Lots of them.

  And all promising ‘a most sensuous experience’.

   

   

  *

   

   

  There are also scarves, purses and soft leather slippers in the window.

  I dread to think what – or rather who – they might originally have been.

  Like the gloves, they’re available in white, black, brown, red and yellow. And, surprisingly, blue and green, so I’m presuming dyes are involved here.

  Of course, it could well be that every single item in this shop is perfectly normal. It could well be that it’s only the gloves I’ve brought here with me that have been ‘specially’ made, no doubt with the help of Freak.

  Certainly, stepping into the shop doesn’t, as I’d expected, make my fresh creep.

  The effect’s entirely the opposite, for the dresses I’d seen in the window are obviously only a very small selection of the stock the shop has to offer. For a start, the shop extends much farther back than I’d expected. Despite ha
ving a ridiculously low, light-oak beamed ceiling, it’s also much lighter than I would have believed possible.

  Although there are the usual rails of dresses you’d tend to expect in such a shop, many of the dresses are once again displayed on elegantly posed mannequins. It’s like I’ve been transported to an exclusive White House or Buckingham Palace garden party.

  I almost miss the assistant standing behind the small counter, mainly because instead of being one of those weird little creatures who’d operated on me, and whom I’d been kind of expecting to be here, she’s every bit as gorgeous and expensively dressed as the mannequins. She could be a top model, earning about one hundred times more than what I suspect she’s earning here. Then again, going by the quality of items on sale, if she’s getting ten-percent commission she’s probably earning whatever a top model expects anyway.

  She smiles at me, one of those smiles assistants in expensive shops give you when they’ve instantly figured out that you couldn’t afford a pair of their cheapest socks in the New Year’s Day sale. Then she spots that I’m holding one of their glove boxes.

  The smile instantly changes, like she’s suddenly recognised me as being a fellow member of an ultra-select club.

  ‘I’d like to return these gloves, please.’

  The smile immediately changes back again.

  ‘Return them?’ She says it like it’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard.

  I’m opening up the glove box on the counter anyway, the way you do when you’re about to point out that whatever you’ve bought has a hole, or is coming apart at the seams.

  What I can say about a pair of faultless gloves, I’m not so sure. Oh yeah, wait, I remember;

  ‘These are made of human skin!’

  The girl looks at the gloves admiringly, enviously.

  ‘No finer material around, madam,’ she says, like we’re talking about merino wool. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  She quickly casts her expert eye over the gloves, her puzzled frown unmistakably spelling out to me that she knows they’re perfect. Then, before I can answer her question, she glances up at my face, trying to peer behind the veil I’ve made of my hair on one side.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be using the gloves?’ she asks curiously. ‘I mean, if you don’t want things to get worse.’

  She indicates the veiled side of my face with a slight nod of her head.

  ‘Get worse?’ I’m both horrified and furious. ‘What do you know–’

  ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to return a gift?’

  Freak appears from a door leading into a back room. At least, I know it’s Freak because I recognise his voice. He’s dressed so much differently today, wearing the elegant suit that you’d expect of a proprietor of a shop like this. His hair, too, is expertly coiffured.