‘Scary Martha would have sounded rubbish—it doesn’t rhyme.’

‘Martha?’ If the girls’ confidence and state of undress hadn’t made him feel so uncomfortable, he’d have asked more forcefully.

‘Martha Wyers—that’s what she used to be called. But after she died and came back to life, she wouldn’t let anyone call her that any more, because, like, Martha Wyers had died?’

‘Gross! This story’s a pure freak-out, every time,’ one of the girls said, wrapping her arms round herself.

‘She lashed anyone who called her Martha. Even her mum and dad had to start calling her Mary.’

‘Lashed?’ Simon interrupted. He had to ask.

‘What? Oh, it’s, like, an expression?’

‘Translation for Villy outsider: she got really angry with anyone who called her Martha.’

‘And she lost weight when she turned into Mary. She was a pure tubber before.’

‘She was pining, wasn’t she, for her one true love?’

Simon couldn’t think clearly with the girls chattering at him. ‘Do you know why she chose the name Mary Trelease?’

They looked at one another, silent for the first time. ‘No,’ said one shirtily after a few seconds, annoyed to have been caught out. ‘What does that matter? A name’s just a name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is, Flavia Edna Seawright.’ More giggles erupted.

‘Her name’s not the only thing she changed after her resurrection , I know that,’ said Flavia, in an attempt to divert attention.

‘Oh, yeah—how weird is this?’

‘She used to be a writer—she had a book published.’

‘Yeah, there’s a copy in our house library.’

‘She must have been in Heathcote, then.’

‘No, Margerison.’

Simon understood the signs he’d seen. Boarding houses.

‘What house she was in is so, like, trivial? She was a writer, but after she hanged herself and it didn’t work, she never wrote another word—she took up painting instead. Not me personally, but loads of Villy girls have seen her wandering around at night, smoking, covered in paint . . .’

‘Didn’t Damaris Clay-Hoffman stop her and ask her if she had a spare ciggy?’

‘Damaris Clay-Hoffman’s such a rank liar!’

‘Where’s her cottage?’ asked Simon. ‘Don’t come with me, just tell me where,’ he said to the girls. He wanted to approach quietly, not with a screeching chorus around him.

As Flavia Edna Seawright pointed to her left, a loud noise, like a small explosion, burst out of the night. ‘Oh, my God!’ she said, grabbing Simon’s arm. ‘I’m not even joking any more, man. That sounded like a gun.’

27 - Wednesday 5 March 2008

27

Wednesday 5 March 2008

‘A stupid mistake,’ says Mary. ‘You said “Go to your parents’ house”. You meant Cecily’s house, didn’t you? I could see from your face that you knew. You’re a bad liar.’