Snakeskins

by Tim Major

  Even so, she worried a little that she had exploited Anise’s friendliness. Using the library had been one thing, but taking this stack of books with her when she left had been an unreasonable request. Anise had agreed immediately.

  Anise hadn’t allowed Gerry to take the census books, though. She had talked about her civic duty, and the function of Ilam Hall as a repository of local knowledge, regardless of whether any locals actually used it. Gerry admired her steadfastness, but the decision still rankled. She had pored over the heavy, bound census documents for hours, without revealing any scraps of new information.

  Until the late 1820s, the census reports didn’t refer to specific buildings, listing only families and occupations. The census for 1813, the first one conducted after the Fall, was far thicker than the previous ones. By that point, more people had been attracted to the area by recent events, and Ilam had already grown in population and had become a tourist trap. Gerry had spent most of her time leafing through the 1807 census. Judging by scribbled notes she had found on one or two of the documents, it had been conducted around nine months before the meteor shower. Whoever had lived in that tiny building up on the mountainside, where the meteor appeared to have actually struck the ground, must be included in the book.

  But she hadn’t been able to make any headway. Part of the trouble was that the 1807 census covered a far wider area than just Ilam itself, including vast parts of the countryside straddling the borders of modern-day Staffordshire and Derbyshire. The other issue was that the reports were written in slanting, cursive handwriting that was, at times, close to illegible. Given time and resources, Gerry would have cross-referenced the 1807 census with the enormous 1813 one, to check for any commonalities, but she had found the task impossible to even begin and her head had throbbed with the effort of reading.

  So what was required was more research into the area itself, to determine who might have lived in that tiny building. The majority of the books she had taken from the library at Ilam Hall were about the village and the hall itself, as opposed to history books about the Fall. Gerry’s instinct was that, by the time accounts of the Fall had been written down, the event had already passed into folklore. Whatever she was searching for was far from clear, and would involve a slog, but it was like Drew had said: Go back to the source.

  She veered from side to side along the pavement, blind behind the tower of books. The drive had exhausted her, and this final act of coordination was almost more than she could manage. Her flat seemed further away than usual, though it was only around the corner, where parking permits were allocated only to people prepared to pay through the nose for the luxury of parking outside their own building.

  She paused to renew her grip. A sound of footsteps continued for a few seconds, then stopped.

  Some instinct made her turn.

  She saw the figure for a moment before it melted into the darkness at the side of the street. She waited. Perhaps it was one of her neighbours, taking out the bins or chasing in a cat. She saw no movement.

  She set off again, straining to listen.

  There, again. Soft footsteps from behind. When she sped up slightly, the footsteps did too.

  It took all her willpower to stop herself from turning around again. The windows she passed were all curtained. If she picked a door at random, would anybody answer? It wasn’t worth the risk. The best thing she could do was to get into her flat, only a hundred metres away.

  It suddenly struck her how comical the situation was. If she dumped the books, she could sprint to the door of her building in seconds. But there was no way she was going to abandon them now. She hoped that Drew, at least, would see the funny side if things went really bad. Gerry Chafik, journalist through and through. Chasing the story to the very end.

  When she turned the corner, the footsteps lessened in volume only for a moment. Whoever it was, they were right behind her.

  Abruptly, she turned around.

  There. The figure had been visible, for a second, behind the privet that surrounded her neighbour’s garden. Male, almost certainly. Adult. A hood pulled up over his head.

  She forced herself to take a breath before speaking. “Hey. Mister.”

  Nobody appeared.

  “I saw you there. Give me a hand, would you? Please? These books are heavy as hell.”

  After a pause, the man emerged from behind the tall bush.

  Don’t move, Gerry told herself. Not yet.

  The nearest street light was behind him. His face was invisible inside his hood.

  Gerry tilted the books, making the pile wobble. “Quick, take these top ones before they fall. They’re worth a mint.”

  The man moved agonisingly slowly and it was all Gerry could do to stop the books from actually slipping. He reached up to the topmost books.

  There was something in his hand. Its flat surface shone white. A knife?

  She had taken self-defence classes, long ago. She tried to remember the three steps of avoiding an assailant. Had there been a helpful acronym or a slogan? But the only advice in the world she could remember was something from her childhood. Clunk, click, every trip. Useless.

  So, as the man steadied the pile, she kicked out her right leg with all her strength. Her foot made a sickening impact with his crotch.

  He crumpled immediately, his fingers scrabbling against the heavy books and then at Gerry’s legs as he slid to the ground. He made a peculiarly low grunting sound, like someone at the bottom of a well.

  Incredibly, Gerry managed to avoid dropping any of the books. She swung around and took long strides to the door to her building. She rested the teetering pile of books against her hip, fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for the keys, grunted to heft the books into both hands, then staggered forwards into the lobby.

  A slapping sound echoed up the stairwell. Gerry whirled around, expecting to find the man following her inside.

  She exhaled in relief. One of the books had dropped to the concrete floor; that was all.

  She hurried up the stairs and along the corridor, faster and faster as the leaning pile of books pulled her forwards with unstoppable momentum. After a fumble with another lock, and with a sigh of relief, she dropped the enormous tower of books onto her coffee table.

  She dashed to the window. The street outside was empty. She was safe.

  The sagging sofa groaned under her weight. She flung her feet onto the table. The toe of her left boot tapped the lowest books in the pile. The pile shuddered and then collapsed, landing on the lino with a dozen loud cracks like rifle fire.

  Something was still falling, though. The white oblong fluttered and wafted to rest on a book. It was an envelope, marked with the name GERRY CHAFIK in shaky block capitals, as though the author had written it using whichever of their hands was unaccustomed to holding a pen.

  She lifted it. A message from Anise, perhaps?

  Or.

  The stranger outside. This must have been the white object she had seen in his hand, when he had reached out.

  She ripped open the envelope, before remembering that she should have taken more care. It might be needed as evidence.

  Inside was a single, folded sheet of A4 paper. The text and the lines of the table were faint – a photocopy of a photocopy. She raised it close to her face to read it. Her eyes widened.

  EIGHT

  The taxi deposited Caitlin at a broad, paved area dotted with wooden picnic benches and clusters of palm trees. Until the final turn to the roundabout that led from the road, the taxi had passed only industrial parks and shopping complexes, their uniformity interrupted only by GBP campaign hoardings scrawled with anti-prosperity graffiti. Here, Caitlin could no longer hear the hum of the ring road that had foiled her attempts to sleep at the hotel. This place was an oasis of calm.

  As she stepped lightly from the taxi, Caitlin noticed once again how in shape she felt. Absently, she rubbed her forearm where her scar had been. It occurred to her again that in each of her successive ceremon
ies, the rejuvenating benefits of shedding would be more and more significant as her body dialled back the effects of the passing years.

  The front of the building was tall and wide and was made entirely of glass panels. It looked more like a modern leisure centre, or an architect’s vision of the train stations of the future, than any kind of medical establishment – though the pair of armed police officers standing outside contrasted with the otherwise welcoming appearance of the entrance. Beside a revolving door that swung slowly was a sign: JANUARY CARE HOME and, in smaller text, By appointment of Her Majesty The Queen. That must have been Queen Victoria, the last monarch of England. Presumably the care home had been very different then.

  Inside, there was even less evidence of the building’s purpose. Against the glass wall was a collection of plush red sofas interspersed with magazine racks and tall bookcases. It looked more like a library than a traditional waiting room. Daylight turned the air golden. The people sitting on the sofas were relaxed, as though they had come here to read rather than for any more serious purpose. Caitlin smelt coffee. There was a drinks stand behind the seating area. Help yourself, a sign read. Freshly brewed.

  The centre of the vast area was empty apart from a metal sculpture. At first, Caitlin couldn’t make it out – the two bronze figures were intertwined and confused the eye. Then she saw the young boy at the bottom. His arms were outstretched and he gazed upwards at the second figure. No, not quite a figure. Now that Caitlin examined it more closely, she saw that it was only the boy’s jacket that rose above him. Its hollow arms were stretched out like wings. She understood the sense of it: Snakeskins were angelic. Not people, mind you: the coat-figure had no head, hands or feet. Then there was the name of the care home: JANUARY. As a kid, Caitlin had been obsessed with Greek and Roman myths. The month of January was named after Janus, who was usually shown with two faces, one looking back, one looking forward. Janus was the god of time, transitions, beginnings. The founders of the care home had nailed their colours to the mast. To them, Skins were symbols of good, not evil.

  She wished she felt the same.

  It hadn’t only been the noise of the road that had stopped her from sleeping. She had thought of nothing but her Snakeskin. The knowledge that her Snakeskin was still out there, somewhere, was immensely unsettling.

  All that talk with Evie about how Skins should be treated with humanity and kindness. All that talk about showing ‘normal’ people how beautiful sheddings and Charmers and Skins were. But when it came to it, Caitlin wanted her Snakeskin gone. The thought of her mum’s Skins lasting days, weeks or months revolted her. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She was Caitlin Hext. The thought of somebody else having the chance to play-act at being her made her feel sick. What if her Snakeskin was a better Caitlin Hext than she was?

  She hadn’t reached any conclusions. She was far from certain that she should be here. An image kept popping into her mind, of her mum at the Museum of Automata, years ago. She longed to hide away like that.

  To the right of the statue, a long, patterned carpet indicated a route that led further into the depths of the building. The path was blocked by a metal-detector gate, like the ones in airports. Security was evidently an issue here.

  Before Caitlin left Ivy Cottage, after the argument with her dad, she had stopped off in the kitchen. Inside her sports bag she now carried a sharp kitchen knife. Overnight, she had wondered again and again whether she would use it – whether she could plunge it into somebody who looked just like her, whether ridding herself of her Skin was important enough. Skins didn’t have rights like people. There would be a scene with the care home staff, and the police standing outside would get involved, but maybe she wouldn’t even go to prison for it.

  She felt a swell of relief at seeing the metal detector. Now that the decision had been made for her, she realised that she never could have gone through with it anyway.

  A hatch revealing a single reception desk was situated close to the front facade of the building but tucked behind the revolving door itself, so that this most functional aspect of the lobby was all but hidden to a first-time visitor. Next to the hatch stood a potted yucca plant. Caitlin bent beside it as though tying a shoelace. She slipped the knife out of her bag and pushed it deep into the soil in the pot.

  The young, dark-haired receptionist looked up and smiled as Caitlin approached. His teeth and uniform shone white in the bright daylight.

  “I’m here to visit a patient,” Caitlin said.

  “We don’t have patients here.” The smile widened. “Only residents. What is the name of your loved one?” Despite his confidence, he must have been only a few years older than Caitlin.

  “Seriously? ‘Loved one’?” Caitlin replied. “Is that how most people describe the Skin they’re visiting?”

  The man spread his arms wide. “They are loved, by all of us. We cherish their time here.”

  Caitlin realised what the vast, bright lobby reminded her of. Not an airport. A cathedral.

  There was no point arguing with the receptionist. He was only doing his job, however creepily. “I don’t know her name. Are they supposed to have names?”

  “Our residents retain the same name as their originator.”

  “Meaning the Charmer? Caitlin Hext.”

  The receptionist nodded. He leant forwards to peer at a screen embedded into the counter, tapping with an index finger. “Ah yes – newly arrived. And your association with the loved one is…?”

  “Charmer. Originator. Whatever. I’m Caitlin Hext. The real one.”

  For the first time, the receptionist’s professional manner slipped. Red blotches appeared on his cheeks. “I’m sorry. You’re Caitlin Hext? To visit Caitlin Hext?”

  She shuddered and wished he would stop calling the Skin that. “Is that so strange?”

  The receptionist’s blinking and his sudden stammer suggested that it was. “Please do take a seat,” he said, pointing to the red sofas. “I’ll call somebody to escort you inside. It may take— I’ll fetch them as quickly as I possibly can.”

  Caitlin frowned. Fetch who? The receptionist appeared far younger now. She felt sorry for him. She nodded and moved away.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” someone said as Caitlin sat down. A woman was sitting on the sofa opposite. A tweed hat like the ones worn by duck hunters hid most of her hair, but grey wisps floated free at the sides. Her face was lined, and the deepest folds were at the corners of her eyes, suggesting a life of smiling. Upon the lap of her ankle-length skirt was a cling-filmed sandwich. She unwrapped the sandwich as she talked, with careful movements as though it were an anticipated birthday gift. “Good for you, visiting your Skin. Good for you.”

  Caitlin gave a tight smile.

  The woman grinned. “I’m Dodie.” She gestured to the precariously balanced sandwich, then waved instead of offering her hand to shake.

  “Caitlin. As you heard.”

  “I am sorry. I’m not in the business of eavesdropping. I noticed you because you’re young. It tends to be fogeys like me visiting this place.”

  With a glance around, Caitlin could see that that wasn’t true. Several of the other visitors reading magazines were far younger than Dodie, though all were adult. “Is it just Charmers that come here?”

  Dodie shrugged. “Almost certainly. Why would anyone else? But the receptionist was right. It’s rarely the originators themselves who show up.”

  “I don’t understand that,” Caitlin said, although in truth she felt more and more sympathy for Charmers who wanted nothing to do with their Skins.

  “I can understand your being surprised. This must be your first shedding?”

  Caitlin nodded.

  “Of course it is, look at your beautiful skin – you’re little more than a baby. It’s not my place to pry, but I can imagine you have all sorts of thoughts in your head, and it’s those thoughts that brought you here all on your own.”

  “I don’t know what brought me here. C
uriosity, I guess?”

  “I doubt that goes halfway to explaining it,” Dodie replied gently. “But that’ll do for now.”

  Caitlin hesitated. “Then what do other people hope to get from visiting Skins?”

  Dodie pursed her lips. “I suppose some hope to learn something. Speaking with a Snakeskin can be enlightening. Speaking to your own Skin doubly so, I’d have thought. But people’s reasons for visiting might not always be positive. I’ve chatted to enough visitors over the years to pick out a few themes. Guilt, that’s the big one.”

  Caitlin blinked. She had no idea how to respond, or which category of visitor she would fall into.

  “Goodness. Listen to me,” Dodie said. She nibbled at a corner of a sandwich. “Sorry. I’m known to go on a bit.”

  Caitlin hesitated before speaking. “Do you have—”

  Dodie shook her head. “I’m a Charmer, but only in theory. It’s a fairly rare condition that I have. I haven’t shed since I was in my teens.”

  “And yet you visit the Skins here in the care home.”

  Dodie pressed her lips tightly together. “I visit the Skins because I’m fascinated by them. I worry for them, too, even in a place as well-equipped as this. But I believe that many of them feel desperately unsafe, all the same. At any moment they might simply disappear. And many of them are, effectively, abandoned by the very people who ought to welcome them the most. This idea that people have, that Snakeskins are a by-product, mere waste material… It makes me very angry and sad.” She pointed at a well-dressed man and woman who sat side by side, poring over their respective magazines. “It’s the parents who visit. But from what I’ve observed, they tend not to be very parental towards the Skins. It’s a duty, that’s all. And then it’s a relief when there’s only dust.”

  Caitlin flinched as a slim hand entered her field of vision.

  “Dr Scaife,” the owner of the hand said. “And you must be Caitlin Hext.”

  The doctor turned and started to walk away as soon as Caitlin was on her feet. She was tall, with long, striding legs. The skin on the back of her neck, below her frizzy bob, appeared chafed and sore. Caitlin turned to look at Dodie.