The wax figures stare dully outwards – beautiful but empty inside; their waxy perfection skin deep only. There's something macabre about them, congregated around the red-carpet pathway that we follow, lit by tiny spotlights.

Always perfect.

Always on display.

"In what way is a trip to a wax work museum an educational trip?" Rebecca cuts into my thoughts.

"Would you rather be in school?" says Jared.

"Oh yeah...coz learning is sooo lame," she says, rolling her eyes. "What are you doing here anyway? Aren't you meant to be a sports coach? I can't believe they kept you on!"

Jared gives her a dark look.

"I volunteered to help out."

"Anything to get off that football pitch, eh?"

We trail behind the rest of the school group through the celebrity replicas. The teacher, Mr. Redwood, leads the rest of the class through a door into the next room and we're left alone. The air is warm, filled with the scents of must and wax.

"This place gives me the creeps," says Rebecca. She approaches one of the wax work people and looks into its face, "But they don't look that life-like I suppose."

She raises her finger as though to touch the model.

"Don't touch it," I hiss, noting the huge DO NOT TOUCH sign propped just below.

She exhales and slowly draws her finger back. We carry on through the museum, heading through the door and down some steps into a dark replica of a medieval dungeon. Rebecca's combat boots thud against the stone floor as we pass various torture scenes lit up by dim red lights.

"Now, you can't tell me this isn't creepy..." Suddenly she stops.

I groan.

"What is it, Rig...?"

She puts a finger to her lips and pulls us both backwards behind a large pot that appears to be boiling one of the waxwork figures alive. Two agitated male voices enter the room and Rebecca scrunches up her face.

"I did what you asked," Mr Redwood says.

"The supply wasn't good enough. The client isn't happy. I need more."

We peer around the large pot and catch our teacher arguing with one of the curators of the museum.

"The supply was perfectly adequate."

"Well she wasn't to his taste. I need more. And the decomposition of some of the parts..."

I shuffle to the side, accidentally bashing into Rebecca who lets out a yelp. The two men abruptly stop talking. The curator looks around, an angry look on his face.

"I thought we were alone. We cannot be overheard. You know what is at stake."

"Well may I suggest we go somewhere quiet, then?"

The two continue to bicker as they walk into one of the torture scenes. We hear a door open and close, then silence. Instantly Rebecca hurries out from the display. Jared tries to grab her to hold her back but she evades his grip.

"Rebecca..."

She turns.

"I just want to see what they're talking about," she whispers. "What could Mr. Redwood possibly be supplying the curator of a wax museum with?"

I open my mouth to protest as she turns and disappears behind the same door as the two men. Jared and I share a look. He sighs heavily, his broad shoulders drooping with the movement.

"I suppose we better follow her."

"Isn't this just asking for trouble?"

Jared nods, a pained expression on his face.

"Pretty much."

I sigh. Together we get up and walk towards a small door behind a waxwork gallows with a no entry sign hung from its handle. Jared opens it and quietly we slip inside.