Heathen/Nemesis

Eighty-One

In some obscene parody of a child’s first steps, the Manson figure lurched from its position on the display, steadying itself against a wall.

From the tableau itself the large figure of the man who had been known as Charles ‘Tex’ Watson also struggled free and turned on the two women. Both the effigies held knives.

Donna, her mind still reeling, looked around for the discarded .22 Pathfinder.

It lay ten or twelve feet away, beneath the rack of the Inquisition victim.

To reach it she would have to pass the figures of Manson and Watson.

Donna ran towards the weapon, but Manson moved towards her. The waxwork moved with surprising speed; Donna felt cold hands grabbing at her.

The knife slashed down and carved through the air only inches from her face. She turned and lashed out, feeling her hand connect with the hard wax of the face. The eyes fixed her in their glassy, stare, the eyes of a dead fish on a skillet.

The screams continued, over and over again.

Manson grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her towards him.

Towards the knife.

Donna managed to twist in his grip and drove a foot into his midriff, knocking him backwards. He crashed into the effigy of a torturer burning the eyes from his victim.

Donna lunged towards the gun and scooped it into her hand, rolling over in time to see Watson bearing down on Julie.

The younger woman avoided the knife-thrust and hurled herself to one side, rolling beneath a table on which a man was being subjected to the Chinese Water Torture.

The dust and grime was thick beneath the table and Julie coughed as it clogged in her throat and nostrils.

Watson turned and came at her again, his movements thankfully slow.

Donna rose to one knee and swung the Pathfinder up into position.

She fired twice, the retort, even from a pistol as small as a .22, quite deafening within the confines of the chamber.

The first bullet struck him in the back of the head, the second in the side of the face, blasting most of the area from the temple to the chin away. Fragments of wax flew into the air.

Watson continued moving towards Julie.

Donna thumbed back the hammer and pumped two shots into Manson with similarly useless results. She saw the body quiver, saw the burns on the shirt of the mannequin. She even heard the sharp crack as the slugs thumped into the hard wax. The figure did not pause, merely raised the knife and lunged forward.

Donna rolled away beneath the table and came up on the other side.

The Manson figure made a sudden movement and the knife came hurtling down, burying itself in the wood, missing her hand by inches.

Donna made a grab for the knife but Manson’s hand closed over hers. Again she felt the clammy chill of wax; it was like being touched by a dead man. She struggled to escape the grip. Using the pistol as a club she slammed it into the side of the figure’s head with such force that one of the glass eyes popped out, the wax around it splintering.

The grip on her hand was released and she backed off.

The Manson figure kept coming.

Julie scrambled to her feet, pushing other figures over in an effort to halt the inexorable progress of Watson, who had the blade brandished high.

The screaming continued, great racking caterwauls of agony that deafened the women as surely as the retorts of the pistol. The backdrop of sound was intolerable.

Donna ran towards a scene showing the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. As the Manson figure advanced on her, she dragged the axe from the frozen grip of the headsman. It was heavy, the razor-sharp blade comfortingly lethal.

With all her strength she swung it, burying the blade in Manson’s chest.

The figure wobbled.

Donna struck again, her own shouts of defiance and fear mingling with the screams all around her.

The next blow sheared off an arm.

Manson still advanced.

‘Bastard,’ roared Donna and struck his head from his shoulders.

The effigy flew into the air, the wax head spinning, the fake hair flowing out wildly.

The waxwork toppled over and lay still.

‘Donna,’ shrieked Julie, and she looked over to see her sister trapped in a corner, the Watson figure only a couple of feet away.

Watson swung the knife, the cut slicing through the material of Julie’s shirt and gashing her forearm. She looked up into the sightless glass eyes, unable to move as the knife was raised again.

Donna ran at the figure, bringing the axe down with manic force. The blow was so powerful it cleft the wax head cleanly in two and bit into the torso as deep as the shoulders.

Watson swayed uncertainly for a second then fell backwards, the axe still embedded.

Donna sucked in the stale air, perspiration soaking her T-shirt, matting her hair at the nape of her neck.

Julie shook her head, the tears running down her cheeks. Donna dropped to her knees and the two women embraced, blood from the wound on Julie’s arm smearing Donna’s clothes as they held each other tightly.

The screams continued to echo around them.