We emerge into some kind of workshop and Jared immediately pulls me behind a shelf. I peer reluctantly through a gap between the sharp tools and rusty pots littered across the surface.

There's a long, wooden work bench in the centre of the narrow room with body parts made out of wax atop the surface. Disorganised shelves – like the one we hide behind - surround it, and every other inch of space in the room seems to be filled with incomplete waxy figures. Unlike the ones on display in the museum, these don't seem to be modelled after celebrities; they don't look like they belong in the dungeon section either. They're just ordinary, half formed, girls.

There's a bad smell in the air – the sweet smell of polish over a darker scent of rot. I glance up at Jared beside me and notice him wrinkle up his nose. He smells it too.

Mr Redwood and the tall, plump, red-faced curator sit at a small table at the edge of the room – still in discussion. There's a low hum in the air, like some kind of machinery, and their murmured voices are concealed behind it.

"Where the hell is Rebecca?" mutters Jared under his breath.

"You say my name?"

I almost jump out of my horrible, mismatched skin as Rebecca looms out of the shadows behind us like some form of irritating, goth ghost.

"Jesus Christ, Becs," hisses Jared.

She holds up her hands in mock surrender, her blue eyes glinting.

"Sorry!" She gestures with her head towards a cluster of mannequins close-by, "Is it me or do some of these wax figures look more...I don't know...realistic than the ones outside?"

She extends a finger through the gap in the shelves to touch one of the nearby girl's cheeks. I grab her hand and shove it downwards.

"For God's sake, Rigor, can you please try and stop touching them."

She pulls a face at me then grins.

"We need to get closer. Come on."

Before we can protest she edges towards the two men. Jared's eyes darken as he watches her go but then he follows her anyway – struggling to fit his broad frame within the gap between the shelves and the peeling wallpaper. I look longingly toward the exit of this creepy room of wax horrors, but I suppose these are my friends now – and I can't leave them behind. I shuffle after Jared.

We stop a couple of metres away from the table and my gut clenches as Mr Redwood frowns and his eyes dart straight towards the spot where Rebecca stands behind the shelving. I hear her slight intake of breath as she stands still, unmoving. Then he looks back towards the curator. He must have thought she was one of the waxy mannequins.

"She wasn't fresh enough," snaps the curator.

Mr Redwood runs his fingers through his balding hair.

"I did what you asked."

"The client wasn't happy. I need another."

A strangled sound escapes from our teacher's lips.

"Fine, I'll dig you up..."

"Not fresh enough," the hiss that escapes the curator's lips seems to fill the entire room.

He looks at Mr. Redwood and something seems to pass between them before our teacher nods. He rises to his feet and the two stride past us and the macabre models to the exit of the room. The two shake hands, though there is a hallowed look on Mr Redwood's face.

"Good doing business with you," says the curator. "You better make sure the next produce is fresh otherwise there will be trouble.  And you don't want to make an exhibition of yourself."

They exit the room leaving me, Rebecca and Jared alone with the wax girls. Rebecca turns to us a dark look on her face.

"What the Hell was that all about?!"