Chapter 3

‘Come in, Jess, darling, don’t be scared – although I do look like something out of a horror movie!’ called Flora’s mum.

Flora was sitting on the floor by the sofa. You could see she had been crying for hours. Her eyes had gone pink and piggy. Although, of course, she still looked a lot more beautiful than Jess, whose eyes were piggy every day of the year.

‘What happened?’ said Jess, sitting down on the floor beside Flora.

‘I had a stupid fall when I was getting out of the bath,’ said Flora’s mum. ‘It was that slippery bath oil – rose geranium.’

‘I gave it to her for her birthday!’ said Flora. ‘It’s all my fault! Mum’s broken her leg and we’ve had to cancel the holiday and everything.’

‘Oh no!’ cried Jess in dismay. She knew how much Flora had been looking forward to wandering through the cloud forest and admiring the howler monkeys.

‘Never mind, darling.’ Mrs Barclay stroked Flora’s hair. ‘Jess has come to cheer you up! Haven’t you, Jess?’

Jess nodded as cheerfully as possible. It was, however, the very opposite of what she had come for. Flora was supposed to be cheering her up, for goodness’ sake!

How ironical. Flora was devastated because her holiday had gone down the toilet; Jess’s life had gone down the toilet because of an unwanted holiday. Jess had to stop thinking like this. She was starting to want to go to the toilet.

‘So how’s your mother?’ enquired Flora’s mum.

Flora stared tragically at the carpet. It was clearly Jess’s job to transform the mood of the party from deep gloom to ecstasy with a few well-chosen witticisms about her mother, of all things.

‘Well, Mum’s excited,’ she began, without much inspiration. ‘We’re going on a . . .’ Jess paused. Was it tactless to mention her own holiday? She hesitated. ‘. . . a kind of a trip . . . mainly to see my dad.’

‘A trip!’ Flora’s mum’s eyes lit up. ‘How lovely for you, Jess! Your father lives in St Ives, doesn’t he? Oh, I adore St Ives! All those beaches! All that art! You’ll have such a fabulous time.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Jess doubtfully. ‘My mum and dad don’t exactly get on. And Granny’s coming with us. She wants to throw my grandpa’s ashes into the sea.’

‘Oh, bless her, what a wonderful idea!’ Flora’s mum’s voice softened slightly, acquiring semi-tragic overtones. ‘How romantic and yet terribly sad. I would like to be thrown into the sea, Flora, when the time comes – now, don’t forget, darling.’

Flora looked, for an instant, as if she would like to throw her mother into the sea right now. Or possibly herself. There are times so hard that you’re torn between homicide and suicide, thought Jess, and Flora was clearly in just such a dilemma.

‘So you’re going on a lovely kind of tour! What’s your route going to be?’ asked Flora’s mum.

‘I’m not sure . . . it’s a very last-minute thing,’ admitted Jess. ‘Mum did mention ruined abbeys and stuff.’

‘Ruined abbeys!’ cried Flora’s mum in rapture, as if she would like one on toast right now. ‘Doesn’t that sound marvellous, Flora? Isn’t Jess lucky?’

Flora roused herself from her deep depression, reached across and squeezed Jess’s hand.

‘Yeah, I’m glad you’re going to have a fun time, babe,’ she said. But there was a strange sort of sighing sound in her voice. Her own tragic failure to go on holiday was clearly a lot more interesting than Jess’s tiresome ruined abbeys.

Jess’s own modest little tragedy had been totally outclassed by Flora’s family crisis. Flora’s family was, as usual, superior. Even their disasters were more glamorous than hers.

Flora’s mum moved slightly on the sofa, and winced with pain.

‘Ow! Ow! Oh dear! I’m useless!’ she said.

Jess couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous. It seemed such a waste of a broken leg, causing Flora’s mother so much distress, when Jess would have welcomed a broken leg with open arms – as it were.

Immediately Jess tried to think of loads of lovely fun things which Flora’s mum could still enjoy, even with a broken leg. It wasn’t a very long list.

‘It might be a good excuse to do jigsaws,’ suggested Jess hesitantly.

‘Oh, I adore jigsaws!’ cried Flora’s mum. The woman was so determined to be positive that even if Jess had suggested bungee jumping, she was sure that plucky Mrs Barclay would have signed up for a session right away.

‘What a brilliant idea! Let’s get the Royal Family jigsaw out!’ said Flora’s mum, and Flora went off to get it. Her little sister, Felicity, then appeared, carrying her flute.

‘Mum, will you listen to my flute solo and tell me if it’s all right? I’ve been practising for ages and I can’t get the middle section fast enough.’

‘Of course, darling!’ said Mrs Barclay. And this was the fatal moment when the evening kind of solidified into awfulness. Jess just had to grit her teeth and get through it.

Instead of pouring her heart out to Flora and receiving massive amounts of tender loving care and sympathy, she spent an eternity listening over and over again to Felicity’s extremely dull flute solo, while looking in vain among hundreds of jigsaw pieces for the Queen’s teeth.

It was almost a relief to be out alone on the pavements, walking home afterwards in the dark. At least she could wallow in her own misery and not be required to make sparkling conversation with people even worse off than herself.

Tomorrow she would have to start packing. And she hadn’t even had a chance to break the news to Fred yet. The street lamps had come on, and rather grim little pools of light punctuated the deep shade of the trees that lined the avenue. Jess was almost at her front gate when a hooded figure stepped out from the shadows and barred her path.

Oh my goodness! She was going to be mugged! The perfect end to a day of unparalleled vileness. The figure towered above her, his face blotted out because of the street lamp behind him. Jess’s heart leapt in panic and she saw huge headlines in tomorrow’s paper: SCHOOLGIRL MURDERED BY HER OWN FRONT GATE.

Help me, God! She uttered a silent, desperate prayer. I’ll enjoy every minute of that lovely history tour with my mum, if only you’ll let me live.

The figure grabbed her arm. ‘Hey, not so fast!’ came a harsh, rasping voice. ‘You don’t escape so easily. I, the Hooded Horror, must first drink your hot blood.’

It was Fred.