Beneath the Skin

by Nicci French

  “You're going to erupt,” I said. “We'd better stand clear.”

  “No, I'm fine,” Josh said in a strangled tone, and we all laughed. It was the first time I'd ever seen him with any expression more cheerful than an awkward self-conscious grimace, and I couldn't remember when I'd last laughed helplessly. There hadn't been anything to laugh about.

  “Now you,” said Josh.

  With exaggerated elegance I took a large spoonful and ate it. They stood looking as if I were a firework taking a long time to go off.

  “How do you do it?” Morris asked finally.

  “I love hot food,” I said. “And I can deal with it like a lady.”

  “We're impressed,” said Josh, awestruck.

  I then hastily took a massive gulp of cold beer.

  “You all right?” Josh asked.

  “Just thirsty,” I said casually.

  Surprisingly quickly, there was just the cooled wreckage of a meal. While I cleared the table, which meant putting the foil containers one inside the other, the boys wandered over to my notorious computer. They crouched over it and I heard occasional gasps and guffaws. I came back with another glass of beer, sipping it. I felt pleasantly dizzy.

  “I know it's comical.”

  “No, it's great,” Josh said, clicking away expertly with the mouse. “You've got all these primeval versions of programs, all these one-point-ones and one-point-twos. It's like a software dinosaur park. Hang on—what's this?”

  It turned out that my computer had somewhere embedded in it a solitaire card game that I hadn't even found. Did I know the rules? they shouted at me. No, I didn't. So with much shouting and fighting over the controls, they began playing.

  “This is like an evening with two thirteen-year-olds,” I said.

  “So?” said Josh.

  He seemed to be loosening up. He was certainly more relaxed with me. There was no longer any of that agonized, embarrassed respectfulness. They shouted for more beer and I brought them two cans, cold from the fridge.

  “I feel like I've become the Princess Leia in this scenario,” I said.

  Josh turned from the screen, looking at me thoughtfully.

  “More like Chewbacca, I think,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Forget it.”

  Maybe too much fuzziness wasn't entirely a good thing. I went and made a pot of coffee. I poured myself a mug. Very black, very hot.

  “There's coffee,” I shouted.

  Josh was absolutely engrossed. For the moment he didn't know I existed. But Morris wandered over and poured himself a coffee.

  “Is there any milk?”

  “I'll get it.”

  “You stay there. I'll find it.”

  Morris went off to the kitchen and I looked across at Josh, who was staring into the screen with fierce attention. His arms looked surprisingly thin and white. He was still a little boy. While being very big. Morris came back.

  “Nice flat,” he said. “Very quiet.”

  “Are you flat hunting?” I asked. “In which case you should take a look at the one I saw yesterday. Not very quiet, though.”

  “How did that go?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “I'm not sure what I was doing there. It was probably stupid, but it felt important. I talked to Zoe's friend, Louise. She was nice. It brought me closer to Zoe.”

  Morris took a sip of coffee.

  “Can you really care about somebody you've never met?”

  “Well, you know, I feel slightly connected to Zoe and Jenny.”

  “Did you see the news report about the landslip in Honduras last week?”

  “No.”

  “They recovered more than two hundred bodies. They don't even know how many people are missing.”

  “That's awful.”

  “It was a very small news item on the foreign pages of my newspaper. If it had happened in France it would have been a big story. If it had happened to people who speak English it would have been on the front page.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “You'll excuse me if I'm a bit self-obsessed at the moment. It's the constant feeling of fear and nausea all the time. It does that to you.”

  Morris leaned forward and put his coffee down delicately, on a magazine, as if the value of my crappy table could be reduced any further.

  “Do you really feel that?” he said sympathetically.

  “Yes,” I said. “I try to forget about it or cover it up, but it's always there. You know when you're a bit ill and everything you eat has a slightly curious undertaste? That's what it's like.”

  “If you want to talk about it, that's all right. You can tell me what you're feeling. Anything.”

  “That's nice of you, but there's nothing complicated about it. I just want it to be over.”

  Morris looked around. Josh was still engrossed in the game.

  “What are your plans?” he said.

  “I don't know. I had some stupid idea that I could try and look for clues myself, but I think it was a waste of time. The police have combed through everything.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “I've no idea, isn't that the most ridiculous thing of all? Looking for a needle in a haystack is one thing, but what about looking through a haystack without even knowing what you're looking for? Maybe I'm looking for a bit of hay. I had a brief look at some of the police files.”

  “They let you look at their files?” said Morris sharply.

  I laughed.

  “Well, sort of.”

  “What were they like? Were there autopsy reports?”

  “Mostly bureaucratic stuff. There were some horrible pictures. What was done to Jenny. You don't want to know. I still see it when I close my eyes.”

  “I can imagine,” Morris said. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not really. Oh, lots of information, but nothing that would help me. It was horrible, but it was pointless, really. I suppose I was hoping I would recognize something, some connection, that would link us: Zoe, Jenny, and Nadia, the three strange stepsisters.”

  “You found me,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes. Don't worry, Morris—I've still got my eye on you. And there was also the estate agent, Guy, who may have been a link between Zoe and Jenny. He seemed pretty weird. But I know a little bit about probability. We all live in north London. It would be strange if there weren't connections between us. We must have gone to the same shops, we must have passed each other in the street. But that's not important. It's just that I keep worrying away at it in my head. There must be something. There must be. I talked to this psychologist and she mentioned some principle that the criminal always takes something to the scene of the crime and always takes something away with him. It's a haunting idea, isn't it?”

  Morris shrugged.

  “Well,” I continued. “It haunts me. I feel I've got it all in my head. I've got the haystack inside my head and I feel there are two straws in there and if I bring them together, maybe I'll save my life.”

  “Of course you will,” Morris said. “You mustn't give up hope.”

  “I sometimes think I should. You know what the real pain is? It's the occasional moment when I have a feeling of what it might be like to get through all this and live a normal life and grow old.” I had to stop and pull myself together before tears started running down my cheeks. I was aware of a presence next to me. It was Josh. I poured him some coffee. “This evening has been a bit like that,” I said. “Something unexpected and casual.”

  We were silent for a moment. Josh looked grown-up again, sitting on the sofa with two adults. We all sipped our coffee and caught each other's glances and smiles.

  “So what you've been doing,” Morris said, “is trying to make a connection between you and the other two women, Zoe and . . . er . . . Josh's mum.”

  “Of course.”

  “I've been thinking about it—and would you mind if I said something that was really dumb but it was a thought?”

  “Go a
head,” I said. “It'll make a change from me prattling away.”

  “It's just that there is an obvious connection between the three of you.”

  “What?”

  “It's a trick question, really, but who are the people you have in common?”

  “Who?”

  I looked from Morris to Josh. Suddenly Josh's face lit up in a smile. “I know,” he said smugly.

  “Well who? Tell me then.”

  “I think you should guess for a bit longer.” Josh was actually teasing me now, like an irritating younger brother.

  “Fucking tell me, Josh, or I'll tweak your nose.” I held up my hand threateningly.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “The police.”

  “Has it been the same lot?” Morris asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “But really . . .”

  “Actually,” he said, “there's a major flaw in my brilliant theory.”

  “What's that?”

  “The first one, Zoe. The police would only have become aware of her after the first note.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  We relapsed into silence. Suddenly I felt a small charge in the back of my head. It was the sort of thing I'd been looking for.

  “That's not true,” I said.

  “What?” said Morris.

  “What you said, that they only came on the scene after the first note.”

  “What do you mean? How could they know about her earlier?”

  “It was in the files. Zoe was in the papers just before it happened. She tackled a mugger in the street. She hit him with a watermelon. She was famous; she had her picture in the paper. The police did know about her.”

  “I didn't mean it completely seriously,” said Morris. “But still . . . It might be worth thinking about whether there's been any strangeness about the way they've treated you. I suppose it's just been the normal detached sort of police style.”

  I looked up slightly nervously. I must behave as if there were nothing to feel odd about.

  “Yes,” I said. “Just the normal sort of style.” I know I'm not a good liar. Is that what a person would have said who was telling the truth?

  “Are you all right?” Morris asked.

  “Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?” My mind was now racing. There was too much to think about, too much to go over in my mind. “I mean, it couldn't be a policeman, could it?”

  “What do you think, Josh?”

  Josh was shaking his head in puzzlement. “No, it couldn't be. It's just too weird. Except, I was . . . no, it's stupid.”

  “What?” I said. “Out with it.”

  “I don't know if you heard that before my mum . . . well, you know, they actually picked up my dad because of something belonging to my mum that had been planted in the flat of the other woman, Zoe. Who else could have done that?”

  There was a silence like a dark cavern.

  “I've got to get my head round this,” I said. “It's like a crossword puzzle. I'm not intelligent enough.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Morris. “I seem to have started something. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “No,” I said. “Don't be stupid. It's worth thinking about. I just can't believe it. What do I do?”

  Morris and Josh just looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Just look after yourself,” Morris said. “Keep your eyes open.” He winked at Josh. “We should go,” he said.

  I walked with them to the door.

  “What do I do?” I repeated pathetically.

  “You think about things,” Morris said. “And we'll think as well. Maybe we'll come up with something. Remember, we're on your side.”

  I closed the door and I didn't even sit down. I stood there by the door, thinking and thinking, trying to put it into a shape that fitted. My head hurt.

  I am there, right at the heart of things. Invisible. I stand in front of her and she smiles at me in that way she has, that crinkles her eyes. She giggles at my jokes. She puts her hand on my shoulder. She has kissed me on the cheek: a soft, dry kiss, burning into my skin. She lets her eyes well up with tears and doesn't wipe them away. There aren't many people she trusts anymore, but she trusts me. Yes, she trusts me perfectly. While I am with her I must not laugh. The laughter builds up inside me, like a bomb.

  She is strong, resilient; she bends but she doesn't break. She has not collapsed. But I am strong. I am stronger than she is, stronger than anyone. I am clever, cleverer than those fools who snuffle around for clues that are not there. And I am patient. I can wait for as long as it takes. I watch and I wait and, inside, I laugh.

  TWENTY

  “You,” I said.

  “Me,” Cameron said. We stared at each other. “I'm Lynne for the day. Orders.”

  “Oh.” I had gone to the door wearing a skimpy robe and with my hair unbrushed, expecting Lynne, or Bernice. I didn't want him seeing me like this. His eyes dropped from my face to my chest, my bare legs. Instinctively I put my hand up to my throat and I saw him give a tiny smile. “I'll get dressed,” I said.

  I put on jeans and a T-shirt, good and plain. I brushed my hair back from my face and tied it up. It was a cooler day; I almost thought I could smell autumn in the air, a sense of freshness. I wanted to see the autumn: trees turning, fast gray skies, and rain in the winds. Pears on the tree out in the yard, blackberries from the cemetery up the road. I thought about walking through the coppice near my parents' house, boots crunching on leaves. I thought about sitting by a fire at Janet's house and eating buttered toast. Little things.

  I could hear Stadler in the kitchen, familiar with all the appliances. I remembered what Morris had said yesterday, and I thought: Yes, it could be, it could be true. I let myself think about what had happened between me and Cameron, remember it while he rattled the cups next door. He had hidden his head between my breasts, groaning; pinned me down; been savage, brutal, gentle. When he had stared at me with his hungry eyes, what had he seen? What did he see now? Should I be scared of him?

  I took a deep breath, went to join him in the kitchen.

  “Coffee,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  There was a silence. Then I said:

  “I've arranged to go and see my parents today. They live near Reading.”

  “Fine.”

  “I'd like you to wait outside. I won't tell them about you.”

  “Are they very anxious?”

  “Not about this. They don't know. I haven't told them.”

  They were always anxious, though, I thought. That was why I hadn't said anything to them. Every time I'd picked up the phone, I had imagined my mother's mild and fretful voice with its submerged note of panic. She was always waiting to hear bad news from me. Each time she heard my voice on the other end of the phone, she thought I was going to break some unwelcome event to her and her unfocused fears were going to find a point. She had never been sure about me, I don't know why. She didn't trust my capacity to look after myself and make a life for myself. But I was going to tell them today. I had to.

  “Nadia, we need to talk. . . .” He put his cup down and leaned toward me.

  “I wanted to ask you something . . .” I told him.

  “About us. You and me.”

  “I wanted to ask you about Zoe and Jenny.”

  “Nadia, we need to talk about what happened.”

  “No, we don't.” I tried to keep my voice businesslike. I concentrated on holding the coffee steadily in my hands.

  “You don't mean that,” he said.

  I looked at him. Tall and solid, like a wall between me and the rest of the world. He had strong, thick hands with hair on the knuckles. Hands that had held me, touched me, felt for all my secrets. He had eyes that stared at me, undressed me.

  “I've fallen in love with you,” he said hoarsely.

  “Have you told your wife?”

  He flinched, then said, “She's got nothing to do with this. This is just about you and me here in your flat.”
<
br />   “Tell me about Zoe and Jenny,” I said insistently. “You've never told me about them. What were they like?” He shook his head irritably, but I persisted. “You owe it to me.”

  “I owe you nothing,” he said, but he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, then closed his eyes for a moment. “Zoe: I didn't know Zoe so well; I hardly got the chance. . . . I saw her first in a huge photograph from a newspaper that was put up on the wall at the station, you know, after she poleaxed a mugger with a watermelon. She was like a heroine to the guys, and a kind of dirty joke too.”

  “What was she like, though?”

  “I never met her.”

  “What about Jenny? You must have known Jenny well.” I watched his face.

  “Jenny was something else.” He almost grinned at the memory, then checked himself. “Small, too. You're all small,” he added musingly. “But strong, energetic, dense, dark, angry. Coiled wire, Jenny was. Clever. Impatient. Seriously insane sometimes.”

  “Unhappy?”

  “That as well.” He put a hand on my knee and I let it lie there for a moment, though his touch sent a wave of repulsion through me. “She'd have bitten your head off for saying it, though. Bit of a dragon.”

  I stood up, to be free of his hand; poured myself some more coffee, to give myself something to do.

  “We ought to go soon,” I said.

  “Nadia.”

  “I don't want to be late.”

  “I lie in bed at night and I see you, your face, your body.”

  “Keep away.”

  “I know you.”

  “You think I'm going to die.”

  Before we left, I phoned Links, while Cameron was in the room with me, and told him that Detective Inspector Stadler was driving me to see my parents, and that we should be back mid- to late afternoon. I could hear the note of bemusement in Links's voice: He couldn't understand why I should be ringing up and telling him my arrangements. I didn't care, though. I repeated myself loudly and clearly: So he couldn't help but hear, so that Cameron couldn't help but hear, either.