by Tim Major
The newly-installed safe was bolted to the floor of the wardrobe. Russell failed to see the digits on the combination wheel as Ellis spun it. He passed the box files to Ellis one at a time, who then eased the heavy door closed, sighed with satisfaction and sat on the bed.
“Good lad,” Ellis muttered. For a moment, Russell wondered if his boss was sleepy enough to have mistaken him for his son. “Now, you’d better get to the office. As for me, I’ll clamber into bed for an afternoon’s sleepy slumber. I believe I’ve earned it.” He slumped onto the bed and pulled the duvet around himself, a boiler-suited caterpillar.
It was only once he was safely on the bus that Russell dared to take the floppy disk from his pocket. He turned it over to see its scrawled label: CLIENTS.
When the bus deposited him on St Giles he headed west through town, rather than east towards his flat. If he was quick, he would reach the electrical shop before it closed.
* * *
Caitlin watched the door of her room, willing it to open.
She hugged her knees and squeezed herself into a tight ball on the bed. It was the only thing she could think of that made her a little less claustrophobic. The smaller she made herself, the more space there was in the rest of the room.
Footsteps in the corridor outside grew in volume but then quietened again. Whoever it was must have passed by. Perhaps one of the other residents had a visitor.
One of the other residents. It was amazing how quickly she had accepted her new role. Kit had left only yesterday afternoon. Today had been endless. The mottled skylight had now turned rust-coloured.
Perhaps another meal would be delivered to her room. The first had come soon after Dodie’s visit, delivered on a tray by a starched-uniformed female nurse. The nurse hadn’t spoken as she pressed the tray into Caitlin’s hands. Miniature microwaved vegetables, mashed potato with the consistency of broth, a palm-sized piece of pale meat that could have been either beef or chicken. She hadn’t eaten much of it. When the same nurse returned for the tray, Caitlin had asked when she would be allowed to go for a walk. The nurse had replied, “This afternoon, as usual.”
Well, it was afternoon now, wasn’t it? And it wasn’t only that she wanted out. Her belly ached from hunger. When she was a kid, she had read somewhere that hunger was the sensation of your stomach walls rubbing together when there was nothing inside. The thought had always revolted her. Her own flesh, deep down inside, pressing and squeezing and chafing.
She shuffled backwards and pulled the thin bed sheet over her legs. What was Kit doing now? The funeral must have ended. Caitlin imagined Kit and her dad preparing dinner together in the kitchen. Would he notice any difference in his daughter? Some deep-down sense of pride made Caitlin feel that he ought to. Then again, Kit would have returned wearing the clothes Caitlin had dressed in that morning. She would move in the exact same way. She even carried the same memories in her head. So what differences might her dad notice? The funeral would have left him at a low ebb. He would just be pleased that his daughter was there with him.
The thought chilled Caitlin. Perhaps the only thing, really, that distinguished her from Kit was that Kit might turn to dust at any moment. It was a matter of their prospects in life, rather than any measure of innate superiority. Until Kit ashed, they were interchangeable. Caitlin savoured this new sense of shock. It was made worse by the knowledge that her mum’s Skins had outlasted those produced by other Charmers.
There was another concern, a bigger one. What if Kit refused to return to the January care home? She might flee and hide away in some remote part of the country. Or, even worse, she might decide to stay put at Ivy Cottage. Caitlin would have no proof that she was the human originator and Kit the Snakeskin.
She was utterly trapped, and it was all her own doing. She had left herself at the mercy of somebody who might hate her, for all she knew; might want Caitlin’s life for herself.
She shivered. The room would get even colder overnight. The word ‘resident’ seemed more and more absurd. She had been locked in this tiny, bare box of a room for half the day. She had seen only two people. She had been given barely edible food and she had been ignored. In what sense was she not a prisoner?
She gasped at a clunking sound from the doorway.
The door swung open. Nobody entered.
Caitlin slipped off the bed. Her slippers squeaked on the polished floor.
The female nurse who had brought the food was standing a foot away from the doorway. She carried no tray but held up her ID card. Caitlin turned to see a device attached to the wall, with a single green light. It must be some hi-tech replacement for a standard lock.
“This way,” the nurse said.
“Will there be food?” Caitlin said. She hated herself for caring more about food than freedom. She hated her body for needing anything.
The nurse didn’t reply and led the way in silence. At the corridor junction, Caitlin turned to her right to see two people standing outside the visitors’ lounge – Dodie and Ayo, deep in conversation. As if sensing her presence, Ayo turned to look at her. At this distance, she couldn’t make out his expression.
The silent nurse ushered her away from the junction to continue along the sterile white corridor. She stopped outside a smoked-glass door with a nameplate that read Dr Victoria Scaife. She pushed the door open and stood to one side.
“Come in.”
Caitlin glanced at the nurse, who stared back at her impassively.
She took a breath and went inside.
Dr Scaife was sitting at a desk with her elbows upon it and her fingers intertwined, perhaps a rehearsed pose intended to make her appear formidable and in control. Mr Pearl, the head teacher at Caitlin’s college, adopted it whenever she was called to his office.
“Stop there,” Dr Scaife said.
For several seconds neither of them spoke. Another head teacher trick. Caitlin took the opportunity to look around the small room. The walls were covered with charts and tables of spidery handwriting. Dozens of blue card folders made stacks on shelves that sagged under the weight. In contrast, Dr Scaife’s desk was entirely free of clutter. The only objects on it were a single opened folder – information about Kit, presumably – along with a snow globe and a phone with a rotary dial. The receiver lay on its side on the desk. Dr Scaife must have been midway through a call.
The doctor stood and moved around the desk. She watched Caitlin in silence. The thought entered Caitlin’s mind that she should remember to act like Kit, before she realised that no play-acting was required. Kit would be equally terrified.
Instead of speaking to her, Dr Scaife turned to pick up the phone receiver.
“Your information is incorrect,” she said.
Caitlin chewed her lip. What information? While she had spotted CCTV cameras interspersed along the corridors, she hadn’t seen a camera in her room. Anyway, if there existed security-camera footage of her and Kit switching outfits, or any other concrete evidence, there could be no doubt about her guilt and her real identity. Perhaps Kit had done something stupid once she had left January, drawing attention to herself. She might have told Evie. There was no telling who could be trusted with the secret.
Dr Scaife frowned as she listened to the person on the phone. “You’re certain about this decision?” She nodded and her eyes flicked to Caitlin. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
She hung up. Her expression hardened. Caitlin felt a sudden certainty that she was in real trouble.
“Are you comfortable here?” Dr Scaife said.
Caitlin resisted the urge to laugh. Instead, she nodded. It was better to appear to have accepted her fate. Dr Scaife might worry less about a Skin that appeared meek.
The doctor bent to open a cabinet. Her body blocked Caitlin’s view.
“Good,” Dr Scaife said. “I care for all of you, you know.”
When she stood, she held something in her hand. It was a one-inch-square patch. Sickly yellow liquid swilled inside. In the centre o
f one surface was a single short point. Caitlin edged away instinctively.
“It’s nothing to fear,” Dr Scaife said. “A blood sample is required, that’s all.” She raised both arms as though she were about to embrace Caitlin. But she still held the patch in her right hand.
Caitlin heard a scuffling sound, then raised voices. Before she had time to react, the door thumped painfully into her spine, knocking her to the ground. Someone pushed at the door again, forcing it open and sending loose papers sailing through the air.
It was Ayo. He was panting. His wide eyes darted around the room, looking first at Caitlin, then at Dr Scaife and the needle patch in her hand.
“No,” he muttered.
Dr Scaife took a moment to recover herself. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Leave her alone.”
Caitlin struggled to her feet.
Ayo wiped a hand over his face, which shone with sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw the silent female nurse dart past the doorway, no doubt to fetch backup.
“Pardon me, Doctor,” Ayo said. Despite his formality, his voice shook with constrained anger. “This young lady has a visitor waiting. An elderly woman.”
Dr Scaife chewed her lip. “Then you can simply tell this woman—”
“No.”
“No?”
“There are others. Several visitors. The young lady’s father, and a friend. Her originator, too. They’re waiting in the lobby.”
Caitlin was sure he was lying. Her dad and Kit would be unlikely to make the journey to Reading so soon after the funeral. And Dodie had already visited earlier today.
“I see no reason to change any course of action.” But uncertainty had crept into the doctor’s voice.
“Let me make this clear,” Ayo said. “There are four separate visitors who would all be disappointed not to be able to meet with our resident. Once they have left, all will be calm again. The night-time will be calmer still.”
Dr Scaife seemed to be weighing up the possibilities. Finally, she nodded.
Two security guards and the silent female nurse appeared at the doorway. Dr Scaife surveyed them with disdain. She placed the needle patch into a desk drawer.
“Please escort our resident to her room,” she said. “She will be called when the first visitor is ready.”
The female nurse took Caitlin by the arm and pulled her roughly into the corridor.
Caitlin watched the two security guards enter Dr Scaife’s office. When they emerged moments later, they were flanking Ayo, who walked with his head hanging. In his plain uniform he looked as much a prisoner as any of the Skins. He would be punished.
The female nurse paused at a wall hatch. An unseen member of staff passed her a tray of food and the nurse in turn passed it to Caitlin. On it was a single bread bun with dry, minced contents, a packet of crisps and a bruised apple.
Caitlin had already eaten the bun and crisps by the time she was pushed back into her room.
* * *
As Gerry entered the cafe, Anise’s face reddened and she brushed her hands on her apron, producing a cloud of flour.
“I’ve got into the habit of making myself useful during the off hours,” Anise said, pointing at the disc of dough on the counter.
Gerry smiled. “Me too.”
“Except I end up with a few more cakes, whereas you…” Her voice tailed off. “It’s good to see you, Gerry Chafik. I didn’t think you’d be back.” Her face flushed again.
On the long drive up to Ilam, Gerry had given a lot of thought to whether Anise really had feelings for her. She had hoped her fears would be dispelled quickly.
“Well, your Bakewell tarts are pretty special.” She groaned inwardly. Everything she said, every mannerism, came across as blatant encouragement. Gerry had always harboured a certain amount of pride at never having been that sort of journalist. “Look, could we talk in private?”
Anise chuckled. “Here’s private enough, wouldn’t you say?” The only customer was the same elderly man who had been sitting in the corner of the cafe during Gerry’s previous visit. Now he was accompanied by a Basset hound who licked at his fingers as he dozed.
“One sec,” Anise said. She turned her back, retrieved some kind of device – a mobile telephone? – from her apron pocket, and fiddled with it for a while. She finished up and gave an apologetic smile. “Delivery coming in. If I left them to their own devices they’d dump it at the gatehouse. It’d be muggins who’d have to cart it up the hill.”
She pushed a slice of Bakewell tart onto a plate and motioned to a table away from the others. She took her seat, pulling one foot up beneath her buttocks. Her body language was more like a teenager than a sixty-two-year-old. Gerry felt a familiar ache of envy for Charmers’ longevity and agility. Her neck was as rigid as a pole after hours of staring at the motorway.
Anise took a small bite from the tart, then pushed the plate across the table. Gerry hesitated. It would send a bad signal, sharing bites of a cake. She was hungry, though, so she ate a mouthful. It really was good.
Anise stared out of the window. Droplets of water ran along the streaked tracks left by earlier rainfall. “Sometimes crappy weather helps bring people into the cafe, sometimes it doesn’t. If the rain kicks in once people have arrived, then we have a bumper day. Too soon in the day, and people head to Buxton Odeon instead. It’s all a matter of timing.” She made eye contact, investing her observation with extra meaning.
Gerry flashed a nervous smile. “Look, Anise, I—”
Anise cleared her throat noisily. Her voice became cracked and croakier. “Phillip, our curator, thinks the key is to open up the hall itself. Make it an outing for all weathers. He keeps muttering about a proper museum, or at least an exhibit, or something. About the Fall, I mean, and the meteors and all that. But then I imagine the red ropes cordoning off parts of the house. Once or twice I’ve woken up convinced that someone’s peering down at me while I sleep. I shudder at the thought of tourists creeping around the hall, taking pictures and looking inside my laundry bin. It’s silly, I know. I’m too long in the tooth to change things now. Or I’m too afraid.”
This seemed a different Anise to the person Gerry had met before. Perhaps she didn’t revel in the extra years granted to her by being a Charmer, the ability to cram more into her life. A Charmer’s loneliness would last longer than other people’s.
Gerry took another mouthful of Bakewell tart, then realised she had finished it off. “I think I’m homing in on something, Anise. There’s a story here, I’m certain of it. And I think that Ilam Hall is the key.”
Anise nodded. “What do you think it’s all about, Gerry Chafik?” Her voice sounded far away, as though she were dreaming.
“I’m sorry,” Gerry said with a frown. “What are we talking about here?”
“My father always told me we were privileged. And we are. I mean, look at this view from the grounds of my ancestral home, for crying out loud. But whatever we got from the Fall was a fluke – a fluke that then echoed down through the generations. Some people would tell you that Charmers are superhuman, but to me that implies some kind of inner strength in addition to our gifts. It’s not true. We’re as flawed as anyone.” She blinked rapidly. “Look at me. A mad old biddy, feeling sorry for herself.”
Gerry reached out and took her hand. Her skin was warm and soft. “I want to know the truth.”
Anise choked a little. She checked her watch. “So. Ilam Hall. Why do you think it’s so significant? Other than Ilam being the site of the Fall.”
“Because of what came afterwards. Anise, how much do you know about your ancestor, Lord Hartwell?”
“Only what I told you, and what’s in the books. He was the mayor, and then a lord much later.”
“But why?”
Anise shrugged. “Because Ilam became popular. I bet people visited even in the rain, back then.”
“Sure. It makes sense, up to a point. But think about it. Why would the mayor of a
town be made a lord, solely because of increased tourism? Ilam Hall wasn’t made for people occupying a new role in the town. It was built specifically for Lord Hartwell. For your family.”
Anise chewed her cheek. “You know, I’ve never thought of it in those terms. I’m— Well, I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t question it myself, no matter how many times I saw the same conclusion repeated in account after account of the Fall. And I should be more embarrassed, anyway. Spotting discrepancies is pretty much my entire job.”
“It’s sweet of you to try to make me feel better. I do feel awfully blind, though. But what are you actually telling me? What does it mean?”
“I’m trying not to come to any conclusions. There’s always a risk of trying to make facts fit a certain expected outcome.”
One of Anise’s eyebrows raised. “That’s a lie. You have a theory, and you’re wondering whether I’m complicit in something. I’ve been around longer than you, Gerry Chafik. I’ve been fibbed to and fobbed off before.”
Gerry saw there was no point in keeping things from Anise. “All right. I’ll start at the beginning. Hartwell was mayor, fine. And he was made a lord in 1822.”
“Is the year significant somehow?”
“It is. Let me finish. The Fall was in 1808, but of course nothing happened immediately, other than the meteor shower and the public interest that it inspired. The sheddings occurred later that year, which is when we get the first frantic accounts of Skins appearing in the village. But here’s the thing that most of the history books gloss over, due to our hindsight. After that first spate of sheddings, after another year passed without incident, there was no reason to think that there’d be any more Snakeskins.”
“Until seven years after the first sheddings.”
“Exactly. Which brings us to 1815. And what happened in 1815?”
