Down Among the Dead Men (16 page)

17

J
ust to be certain, she Googled full moon for the fifth time that day and confirmed what she already knew. It was definitely tonight. If Ella had looked out of the taxi window she'd have seen the real thing emerging from behind a cloud, sharp, silver-white and symmetrical. This had to be the right night for Tom's latest party.

Her mum and dad were under the impression she was part of a sleepover at Jem's, a gathering of all the art group. They hadn't batted an eyelid when she'd appeared in her best goth outfit, the waistclincher corset and crushed velvet miniskirt with lace trim her dad had disapproved of last time she'd worn it, saying it barely covered her backside—as if minis hadn't existed when he and Mum were teenage lovers. They had known each other since school and there were some seriously embarrassing photos in an album Mum kept, embarrassing because of the fashions and the fact that Dad in those days had longer hair than Mum's. But they hardly ever spoke about what Mum called their courting days and in all truth Ella didn't want to hear about such things. The notion of her parents making love was as distasteful as her own sex life would have been to them, not that it amounted to much. The really hot stuff was in her imagination.

She'd walked to the station and taken one of the taxis that lined up outside. This was about nine thirty, by which time she reckoned the party would be in full swing. Everyone would have had a few drinks and it would be no big deal when she made her appearance. Ought to be, anyhow. The only person she was worried about was Tom himself. His artist friends wouldn't care who was there. They were a laid-back lot and wouldn't know she'd invited herself. It was just possible Tom might disapprove and go into art teacher mode—as he sometimes did when things threatened to get out of hand at school. Ninety-nine per cent of the time he was just one of the gang and you could say anything and get away with it, but just once in a while he reminded everyone of his role. Fair enough, in school. But here, in front of everyone, with Ella all white face and dark eyes, backcombed and in boots and her full-on gothic gear, a public slapdown didn't bear thinking about.

The other possibility—the one she had been fantasising about all week—was that Tom would not merely welcome her, but be amazed how stunning she was out of school and treat her as the woman she was, the gorgeous bird he was secretly longing to be alone with. If that happened, the rest of year eleven would drool with envy.

Being realistic, the best hope was somewhere between those two. Just let him be cool and allow her to melt in with the other partygoers.

Before leaving the taxi at the gate of Fortiman House, she asked the driver for his card and said she might call him later, depending on her plans. How could she tell? If everything clicked, and she pulled Tom, she wouldn't need a ride home.

Buoyed up with that thought, she stepped up the drive in her knee-high platform boots with the leather tassels flicking her knees while she told herself the big house up ahead didn't look the least bit spooky in the moonlight. Her insides were not turning to jelly. Once she'd broken the ice and got a drink in her hand, the rest would be a gas. She hadn't come unprepared. In one of her zipped pockets she had an Ecstasy tablet she'd kept when one of the boys was handing them out at the last prom.

She couldn't hear any sounds yet, but it was probably a touch chilly for the party to be outside. Anastasia had said they moved into the studio in the winter months, so she headed there and as she got closer the comforting beat of rock music reached her ears.

Then she heard something else a few yards off.

“Hi, cutey.”

She froze.

The husky male voice had spoken out of nowhere. She looked left and right. It was difficult to see anything except vague shapes apart from a tiny glimmer of red that was possibly the tip of a lighted cigarette. She screwed up her eyes and made out a figure leaning against a tree trunk and wearing some kind of naval officer's jacket and cap.

He spoke again, “Don't I know you? Yes, I do. You're one of the schoolkids.”

She was so annoyed that her nervousness evaporated. Great, she thought. I go to all this trouble and get an insult like that. “I'm not a schoolkid. I'm a student,” she said. “I have a name, you know. I'm Ella. And who are you?”

He took a step out of the shadow and she recognised his pot belly and still struggled to think who he was.

Him?

She hadn't expected Davy the model would be among the guests. He dropped the cigarette and trod on it. Then—in case she still didn't know him—he took up a posing stance with hands clasped behind his neck. “Here's a clue.”

“Give me a break,” she said. “That's so ridiculous. I can see who you are.”

“No probs,” he said, stepping still closer. “It happens to me all the time—in the street, in the pub, in buses and trains. People I've posed for stare at me and think where the hell have I seen that handsome guy before? They've looked at me for hours on end but it doesn't make a blind bit of difference. In the studio they see me as an object, not a human being. In my clothes and out and about I'm something different again. Try me.”

“I don't know what you're on about,” Ella said, getting scared and trying to sound unimpressed. She wasn't used to middle-aged men making a play.

“It works in reverse,” Davy said. “If I was to see you without your kit on I'd be hard put to recognise you. Well, I say that. I wouldn't mind putting it to the test.”

“Get lost,” she said in a hiss that she hoped was pure goth. “That's disgusting.”

“Chill, babe,” he said. “I was only making a point. People look at a model, but they don't actually see him. I just proved it, surprising you.”

“You didn't. I knew exactly who you are.”

“Are you here for the party?”

“Isn't that obvious?”

“What's Tom going to say?”

“I don't care. It's not that kind of party, is it?”

“What—drugs?” He shook his head. “Ferdie wouldn't stand for it and I don't think Tom would, either. I have to come out here for a bloody smoke—and it's not even whacky baccy.”

“Are they drinking?”

“Only wine and stuff. I've had my smoke. I'll go in with you.”

Her instinct was to tell him to get lost, but she reconsidered. This, she thought, could be helpful, being seen with Davy, and not making a solo entrance. She'd dump him at the first opportunity.

She fluffed up her hair and followed him to the studio door. He opened it and the decibels hit them.

Brilliant, but terrifying. She got the shakes. She took the tablet of E from her pocket and gulped it down.

She needn't have worried about being conspicuous. The lighting was almost non-existent, a few candles in glasses at each end of the room and some sort of coloured lantern hanging from the ceiling. Davy shouted in her ear, “Want a drink?”

“No.”

“It won't hurt you.”

“I said no.”

“Let's dance, then.”

She didn't fancy this fat slob one bit, but it was a reason to get away from the door and be a part of the action, so she allowed him to take her arm and move closer to the centre, where others were gyrating to “Someone Like You.” Making sure she kept out of range of Davy's pudgy hands, she let the music animate her arms and hips a little while her eyes got used to the near darkness. She thought she could see the elegant Anastasia on her right flicking a feather boa in time to the beat. And presently she heard a loud, “Hel—lo,” in confirmation.

She nodded and smiled.

Cool. I cracked it, she thought. I'm in.

Anastasia drifted out of focus and in her place was the guy everyone called the Bish, making a much more frenetic movement, a sort of ungainly jig, frankly ridiculous. Tonight he wasn't in bishop mode. Instead of the clerical shirt he was in a kaftan, head back, eyes popping. He didn't recognise her, but by the state of him he wasn't recognizing anyone.

She turned with the beat and saw a couple of people she thought she didn't know until she realised one of them was Charcoal Charlotte, now scrubbed up and presentable in a pink frock, but with an equally stupid look on her face, eyes rolling. From what she could tell in the candlelight, the studio was packed, and most of the guests were well sloshed. None of them would bother about an uninvited guest. Every second that passed was adding to Ella's confidence.

The music merged into another Adele number and she made a sideways move to get out of Davy's range. Briefly he looked to be following, but then Anastasia took a step backwards, blocking his way without meaning to. Ella took her chance and squeezed into a space and zigzagged away. She didn't stop until she reached the far side of the studio where some non-dancers were standing, drinks in hand. She moved close to them and looked over her shoulder. She'd lost Davy.

She took out her smartphone and texted Jem and the others:
full moon guess where i am
.

“I know you,” a voice said.

Oops. She looked up and saw Tom's father Ferdie in a Hawaiian shirt.

“But only by sight,” he added. “Which one are you?”

She thought about giving a false name, but thought better of it. This old guy was no fool. “Ella.”

“Are the rest of the gang with you?” He sounded as if he hoped the entire art group had turned up.

“Em, not at this minute.”

“How nice that you came, Ella. I do like your outfit. Very dramatic. I'm supposed to be in charge of drinks. Would you care for one?”

“What have you got? I don't want anything strong.”

“It's mainly wine. Fruit juice for you?”

“Are they, like, alcopops?”

“Good Lord, no. Absolutely no alcoholic content.”

“What flavours do you have?”

“Pineapple, orange, cranberry?”

“Pineapple would be nice.”

“Don't move from here. I'll be right back.”

One of the group she'd joined turned to look at her. More accurately, he looked down. He was a head and shoulders taller. She swallowed hard, not because of his height, but because she'd met another goth. Black leather bomber jacket over a shirt with a werewolf design and baggy trousers with loops of chain hanging from them. And she swallowed even harder when she recognised Geraint, the scary one who painted with knives.

She managed to say, “Hi.”

Geraint didn't answer. His eyes travelled slowly over her figure. Unlike her, he didn't need to wear make-up. The face was deathly pale and the eyes could have been drops of solder in black plugholes.

Under this withering scrutiny, she brought her left arm defensively across her chest and clasped her opposite shoulder. “Ferdie's getting me a drink,” she said, to make clear that she wasn't available. “He asked me to wait. That's the reason I'm standing here.”

Geraint muttered something she couldn't hear clearly through the music that could have been “witch” or “bitch.” In either case, Ella told herself, it didn't matter because it would be a goth term of approval. Then he turned his back on her and she felt the rasp of studs from his leather jacket against her arm. She wasn't sure if the contact was deliberate, but she suspected it was.

She took a step away and used her phone as a distraction: OMG just met geraint in goth gear.

Thankfully, Ferdie was soon back with a glass of pineapple juice. “Does Tom know you're here?”

Her stomach clenched. She didn't want to be taken to meet the person she'd most come to see. She'd rather approach him on her own terms.

“I expect so,” she said. “I've already spotted a few people I know.”

It came as a relief when he changed the subject. “You want to get some pictures with that phone of yours. Some of the guests look pretty wild.”

“I don't know if they'd like being photographed.”

“Too far gone to care, most of them,” he said. “Ginned up to their eyeballs. Want me to take one of you?”

Good suggestion. Proof positive that she'd been here.

“Would you?” she said. “I can show the other students.” She touched the camera icon and handed it to him.

“Smile, then.”

Smile? This old guy didn't have a clue what the goth subculture was all about. Ella stared like a judge.

“I'm not sure you're going to like it.”

“It's cool,” she said, checking. “It'll do.”

“Pity the others didn't come with you,” he said. “Bring down the average age. We could do with more young people to liven us up.”

“It seems lively to me.”

“It takes all sorts, I suppose, even among artists. We can't all live bohemian lives like Francis Bacon, although some make a stab at it.” He winked and tipped his head in Geraint's direction. “But some are the opposite, rather staid, in fact. We had a teacher who was really prim and proper, but she stopped coming months ago.”

“Yeah?”

“The name's gone. Don't know why I mentioned her.”

“No problem.”

He raised a finger. “Got it. Connie, her name was. In the drawing sessions she worked on large sheets of graph paper, measuring everything carefully.”

Ella almost gasped out loud. “Connie who?”

“I never heard her surname. She taught art at your school, I was told—Priory Park, isn't it?—before Tom started there. That's what must have made me think of her.”

“I think I know who you mean. We called her Miss Gibbon.”

“Is that so? I'd better get back to the drinks table.”

Ferdie moved off and Ella whipped out her smartphone and texted her three student buddies:
you wont believe this the gibbon used to hang out here
.

What a laugh.

She sipped the juice and considered her next move. She wasn't comfortable so close to Geraint. Just because he and she were both goths it didn't give him the right to hit on her. More and more she was wishing those wimps Jem, Mel and Naseem, could have been here for support.