Jo wanted to help. She really did.
In her head she could vividly see herself dropping to the floor to grab Lauren’s hand, which now shook like it was electrified. And with her free hand, Jo would pull out her Samsung and dial for help, and try hard not to slip in Lauren’s blood. But she couldn’t do any of this noble stuff since she couldn’t move. Because there was something in Samson’s dying eyes that was flooding Jo’s bloodstream with cement. The way he looked at her, even as he crumpled next to Lauren’s glistening black shirt. As he heaved out dying gasps as the guy in the suit pummelled his head. She thought she saw Lee put up a hand in front of the man, ‘That’s enough, mate. Bugger’s dead as a doorknob.’ Only it came out really slow, in a long, drawn-out drone.
Deeeaaaaaadassssaaaaadooooooooorrknobbbb.
Jo still couldn’t move. Because she kept staring at the way Samson’s eyes rolled backward into his head, toward the cupboard behind him, as if he wanted to show her something in his final seconds.
She wondered just then if this entire sixty seconds of insanity was simply to present her with what he had done. You know, like cats do after they’ve killed a baby pigeon? How they drop it at your feet and say … this is for you.
She kept thinking the same thought, over and over. You have to call Kassy. And Rachel. Yes, even Rachel. You have to call Rachel Wasson and get her back home. You have to make her come back. You have to gather the girls, and she wondered if that was a message from the dog too.
Gather them.
She followed the dog’s insane, dying gaze and looked at the storeroom door, now open. The basket of kazoos lay strewn across the floor, swimming in blood. The light wasn’t on, but even from here, Jo could see the dim shape of her friend Steph Ellis in a shadow. The frizz of her blonde, natural curl was obvious. Her head was cocked to the side, wet-looking. She looked like a life-sized puppet with the strings cut. Her legs and arms folded at weird, jaunty angles. And like a puppet, her wide eyes stared out with pupils turned to painted wood. Her throat looked totally black and Jo thought, why would that be?
Why do you think, you idiot? Why do you think?
Then Jo heard another scream, weaving with the rest. Her own.
CHAPTER TWO
Professor Matt Hunter stood in the long, bone-white corridor of the Arts and Humanities block, drumming his fingers on the hardback book in his hand. He was completely alone, unless you counted the series of life-sized statues that lined the corridor. A master’s level student had sculpted them all out of chrome and was exhibiting the entire clan this month. Most of them were dictators and megalomaniacs, peppered with an occasional talent show judge. The student should probably get high marks for technique, but low marks for subtlety.
He’d been hovering out here for five minutes now, and in that time Matt had discovered that Stalin had the biggest face. This was handy. He leant towards it and checked his reflection in the curve of Stalin’s cheek, stooping because Matt was just over six foot, but Stalin must have been five-four, tops. He swept his fringe into place. His blue silk tie looked as straight as it could possibly get, but he tugged at it anyway. Was having the top button fastened too formal? Too Stalin-like? He unhooked it and saw a Vegas lounge singer staring back.
He opted for somewhere in between. He tightened the tie, left the button loose. That’d do.
The double doors to the Charles Fox lecture hall were right in front of him. Beyond them, he could hear the murmur of people inside. But the rumbling voices were already dying away and the sound moved into a single muffled drone. It was the publisher’s voice, Beth. She was giving some long-winded introduction. A list of his achievements, such as they were. A checklist of qualifications, a spattering of awards and prizes. He noticed they’d left out his finest moment to date. Building an original arcade Pac-Man cabinet from scratch last autumn in his garage. Took him months, that did, but Beth skipped it.
This felt awkward out here. Twitchy-feet, pursed-lips awkward.
He’d specifically asked to be allowed to sit in the front row along with everybody else so he could just hop up when it was his time to speak. He’d lectured at this uni for what … three years? Never once had he done this lurk-at-the-door, drum roll thing. But Beth worked for the marketing arm of the publishers and she’d insisted that tonight was Not. A. Lecture! It was a full-on ‘look-at-me’ event for which they’d shipped in stage lights and a backdrop. Canapés had been ordered, she had stressed this. He needed to make an entrance. Some newspapers had turned up, including some tabloids. Impact was required. Think Ted Talks, Beth kept saying. Over and over. Think Ted Talks.
So he stared at the doors and waited for his call. He was dangerously tempted to push the ‘look-at-me’ button to the max and run into the hall with his arms in the air, squealing like a contestant on The Price is Right. Maybe he’d cartwheel up to the lectern and crash right into it. Spin round and finger pistol everybody in his Vegas suit and shout, Sssssup dogs! That’d make an impact. That’d be memorable.
A chrome-Hitler, standing a few dictators down, shot Matt a fixed pointed finger and told him to calm down. Told him to breathe.
Matt looked down at what was in his hands. The reason tonight was different to any other.
The book.
The cover image was of a child’s hand, holding a brush and painting a smiling face on a rock. The title above it read ‘In Our Image: The Gods We Tend to Invent
