by James Dawson
Sally gave a slight nod. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a grown-up who’d spoken to her like Rosita was: like an equal. Because she was so shy at school, teachers always treated her like she was a simpleton, while her parents treated her like one of her mother’s decorative porcelain figurines on the sideboard.
Rosita, somehow, seemed to understand her despite having known her for less than ten minutes.
Walking back to the display wall, Sally allowed herself to look once more into Molly Sue’s eyes. She was everything Sally wanted to be – not just cupcake-pretty, but cool, aloof, bold . . . strong. Sally would be satisfied with just one of those traits. If she was more like Molly Sue, she’d tell Melody Vine to curl up and die. She’d be Audrey. She’d tell her mum and dad she wasn’t going back to church to pretend to pray to a God she didn’t believe in. She’d tell Todd Brady that she thought about his lips each night as she fell asleep . . .
She staggered back as though the floor was swaying under her feet. It was all too much. Her head felt wobbly, like the time she’d sneakily downed two glasses of champagne at her cousin Alba’s wedding.
‘Are you OK?’ Rosita asked.
‘Yeah. I’m fine . . . I just . . .’ Sally raised a hand to her temple.
‘You want her. I can tell.’ Rosita, materialising at her side, reached out and stroked the glass. ‘Perhaps on the small of your back.’
‘I can’t.’ Sally was surprised at how much she did want her. She remembered crying outside the pet shop the day they’d had puppies in the window. She hadn’t even known she’d wanted one until she saw them and, when her mother dragged her away citing allergies, it had felt like her heart was being stretched – like an invisible piece of elastic from the little dog. She’d never wanted anything so much. This was the same.
‘Of course you can. Our little secret. She’ll be all yours too. Boris never does the same tattoo twice.’
Jealousy snapped, crackled and popped at Sally’s core. The thought of anyone else taking Molly Sue was almost more than she could stand. A tattoo as stunning as Molly Sue should only belong to someone who felt as strongly as she did.
Her heart deflated like a punctured balloon. ‘Even if I wanted to . . . I don’t have any money. I’m broke. My mum won’t even let me take a babysitting job.’
‘Well, isn’t this just your lucky day? Most of our clients are, let’s say, a little older than you. Boris takes a special pride in tattooing beautiful young skin. It’s extra special. No charge.’
‘No charge?’
‘On the house, as they say. It would be a treat for Boris. Pure, unmarked skin like yours will make his day. His week.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’
Rosita clamped her hands on her hips but smiled warmly. ‘Why ever not? What reasons do you have left?’
Sally opened her mouth but no sounds came out. She had no reasons left. She imagined the looks on their faces – them being the rest of the world. What would they say if they knew? Shy little mouse Sally Feather has a tattoo? She imagined the horror and disbelief her mum, dad, Melody, Stan, Jennie would wear on their faces.
She thought about how naughty she would feel having a secret – not some lame crush on a football player – a real secret. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Rosita clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Boris will be thrilled! Are you sure?’
Sally appreciated Rosita offering her a way out, but the seed had taken root in her mind. ‘Yes.’ She looked at Molly Sue one last time and felt like the girl was welcoming her into some sorority. ‘She’s just too gorgeous to refuse.’
A smile danced on Rosita’s lips. ‘Spoken like Molly Sue herself! Come, child. Follow me.’ Rosita placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her towards the partitioned archway.
The back room was now silent, the needle had stopped its intermittent buzzing. ‘Isn’t there already someone in here?’ Sally asked.
‘No,’ Rosita said simply. Sally was confused – why was the needle going if there was no one back here? Sally stalled as they passed over the threshold. The back room was a far cry from the opulent waiting area. Stark grey tiles covered the walls floor to ceiling, while the floor was wipe-clean linoleum. In the centre of the room was a reclining dentist’s chair next to a steel trolley housing an array of inks, black latex gloves, piercing guns and, finally, the tattoo needle – a wasp-like metal gun.
A green-tinged angled lamp cast strange, jagged shadows up the walls. The room was dark, claustrophobic and windowless.
A hulk of a man waited in the shadows, his broad shoulders filling an entire corner. As he stepped into the light, Sally saw that he wore a surgical mask over his mouth and a black rubber apron over his unusually smart clothes: a crisp, stiff-collared white shirt, a black tie and matching sleeve garters. In the dim pool of the lamp, his eyes sparkled as he saw her for the first time. Behind the mask, he growled appreciatively, hungrily.
Perhaps I should just be going . . .
Sally backed away instinctively, colliding with Rosita. ‘Oh, I should have said.’ Rosita pushed her further into the studio. ‘Boris speaks no English.’ She said something to the artist in his native tongue. Sally had no idea what she said, or even what language it was. She’d done French and Spanish at school, and it sounded nothing like either of those. It was a strange, guttural sound. Maybe Slavic? Rosita did most of the talking, with Boris growling and grunting by way of reply. Rosita stroked Sally’s lower back, presumably directing Boris as to where Molly Sue was going.
Sally’s heart galloped. This was wild, but it felt like she’d been led here for a reason. It felt right. Today was the day she grew up – like the season two episode of Satanville where Taryn’s grandmother died and passed the Amulet of Forbidden Truths to her. She tried to draw strength from that . . . if Taryn could leave childhood behind, so could she.
As Rosita spoke, Boris never once took his eyes off her. Sally felt the weight of his stare and shrank back. His eyes, almost feline, were the most unusual amber shade, somewhere between brown and gold.
Rosita turned back to her. ‘Come, child, sit.’ She pulled up a simple metal chair and gestured for her to be seated. ‘Sit sideways on and lean against the big chair. Oh, and you’ll need to take off your shirt.’
Sally had expected nothing less. With nervous fingers, she unbuttoned her plaid shirt and laid it on the dentist’s chair, which was fully reclined, before pulling her T-shirt over her head. Her mother bought all of her clothes and her bra was the plainest, most nun-like one they sold at Lucy’s Locker in the shopping centre. It was almost military issue and Sally was deeply embarrassed, folding her arms across her chest.
‘Sit,’ Rosita prompted again, before adding, ‘you have a beautiful body, Sally . . . and the most exquisite skin.’
Was her unease that obvious? ‘Um . . . thanks.’ Sally sat side-saddle on the chair, pulling her long braid around the front of her shoulder. She couldn’t believe Rosita thought her body beautiful – it was angular and bony, not comely like Rosita’s curves.
‘Lean forward,’ Rosita instructed and Sally folded her arms on the armrest and lay her head on them.
‘Will it hurt?’ She already knew the answer.
‘Yes. But it’s unlike any pain you’ll have known. Do not worry, though, the soft part of the back isn’t the worst place to have done.’
Boris snapped on a pair of the black latex gloves.
‘OK.’ If her dad ever found out she’d be dead. Her mouth was desert dry. What was the worst he could do? Throw her onto the streets? She was leaving for university next year anyway and then she could be as tattooed as she liked. In fact, she cherished the idea of starting afresh in a new town with a new identity she’d curate for herself. She’d be the cool girl with the awesome tattoo. Just do it.
Wordlessly, Boris sat on a wheelie stool and pulled himself close behind her. She smelled alcohol disinfectant about a second before she felt the icy cold stuff being smeared over her skin
on a cotton-wool ball. He grunted at Rosita.
‘Are you ready?’ she translated.
Sally nodded, feeling far from sure. Once that needle touched her skin she was past the point of no return. Whatever happened, there was no way she was leaving this room with a half-finished squiggle. That would only prove to the rest of the world that she was weak. She wasn’t weak, she was quiet. There’s a difference.
With gloved fingers, Boris turned a dial on what looked like a voltage box. The meter jumped and the needle started up, buzzing like an angry bee. And then it stung. She wasn’t ready for it. The pain shot up and down her spine like a bolt of lightning. Boris held her still with a bear paw. He kept going. Why it came as a surprise that it felt like there were needles burrowing into her skin was beyond her, but that was exactly what it felt like. He dragged the thing across her flesh.
She bit her lip to stop herself screaming. She screwed her eyes shut, blinking back tears.
Only then it changed. It was as if the pain drilled down into her bones. It was no longer a sharp, stabbing agony, but more of an ache. It was warm and it was manageable. Sally breathed again. She imagined a pink tide, the warmth spreading in waves from the base of her spine, washing across her torso and down her legs.
It hurt, but it hurt in the way a massage hurts. It was excruciating and blissful at the same time. A cocktail of pleasure and pain.
The wave reached her fingertips and toes, all of her skin buzzing in time with the needle – finding a resonance. The warmth reached her lips and then her eyes, like she was filling up with bathwater, and Sally completely zoned out.
When she came to, the buzzing had stopped. She sat upright with a jerk, wondering if the whole thing had a been a blue-cheese dream and she was still dozing in the library with Stan. But no, she was still in the tattoo studio. Her back felt warm and tingly.
‘All done.’ It was Rosita. ‘Would you like to see?’
Boris washed his hands over a stainless steel sink in the corner.
‘Yeah . . . you’re finished?’ She’d closed her eyes for like a minute – how could it possibly be done already?
‘Yes. She looks beautiful.’
‘Oh.’ Sally stood, tempted to reach around and feel. ‘Did I pass out or something?’
‘I don’t think so. You sat very well, though – no wriggling. Boris was impressed.’ From the corner, he growled by way of agreement.
‘I . . . I thought it’d take longer.’ She reached for her back, but Rosita pulled her hand away.
‘Don’t scratch it, no matter how itchy it gets.’ Rosita guided her to a full-length, freestanding mirror. ‘Can you see over your shoulder?’
Sally closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What have you done? You stupid, stupid little idiot. There was always laser removal, she figured. She opened her left eye a fraction, terrified she’d see a hideous bloody mess running onto her jeans.
It was fine.
It was more than fine. Sure, the skin was a little red and raised, but there was no blood and Boris had apparently smeared her back in some sort of shiny ointment so it didn’t even feel too sore. ‘Oh, wow.’
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Rosita beamed.
She really, really was. The Molly Sue on her back was an exact replica of the one she’d seen in the gallery, only this one looked even more real, if that were possible. The pin-up girl looked delighted to be on her flesh and Sally was delighted to have her. ‘That’s . . . that’s amazing.’
‘Do you like her?’
All of Sally’s nagging doubts dropped away in a second. Molly Sue made her whole body look different, her slinky walk following the curve of Sally’s own spine. Sally looked older, her waist and hips curvier and more womanly somehow – although she was quite sure it was all psychological. ‘I don’t like her. I love her.’
Chapter Five
Hazy, lazy sun was still shining through thin cloud when Sally reached the top of the basement stairs outside the House of Skin. It was warm too, sunset still a while away. Sally squinted against the light, confused. She was sure she’d heard that tattoos take hours and hours – Molly Sue was quite large too, covering the expanse of flesh from under her shoulder blade to the small of her back.
Sally started in the direction of home, before remembering why she’d come to this god-awful part of town in the first place – her father’s golf shoes. Still a little wary of the drunk, she looked around anxiously, ready to pelt back down the stairs if necessary. He was nowhere to be seen – he must have got bored and given up ages ago. Sally let out a calming breath and set off towards the parcel depot.
Like the anaesthetic wearing off after a trip to the dentist, the full horror of what she’d done didn’t hit her until she walked through her front door.
What have you done to yourself? You’ve scarred yourself FOR LIFE.
By that time the sun was setting and a chill breeze shivered the trees of her cul-de-sac, although she couldn’t be sure if it was the wind or her nerves making her back teeth clatter.
‘Where have you been?’ Her mother skittered from the kitchen into the hall, brandishing a whisk. ‘You said you’d be back before dark.’
Sally almost vomited then and there on the welcome mat.
She’s going to know. She’s going to know as soon as she looks at me.
Sally had always been a terrible liar; she was going to be in so much trouble. In her parents’ eyes, girls had been locked in iron masks for less. Her skin was suddenly unbearably hot, the tattoo at the epicentre of the heatwave.
Her mum just looked at her. ‘Well?’
‘Sorry – I forgot to get Daddy’s parcel. I had to go back.’
Her mum brushed a lock of hair out of her face. ‘Oh, you’re such a scatterbrain, Sally.’ She took the box out of her hands and headed back to the kitchen. The conversation was apparently over. ‘I can’t trust you with the most basic errands. Go and wash your hands for supper, please. It’s your favourite. Corn beef hash.’
Number one: Sally hadn’t liked corn beef hash since she was about five – it’s a meat tumour. Number two: she’d got away with it. She looked around the frilly house – the lounge to her right and dining room to her left. Everything was as it should be: the grandfather clock ticked away, the immaculately polished photographs lining the staircase, the vases overflowing with fresh hydrangeas. If she angled her ear towards the lounge, she could hear Tweetie, her mother’s canary, picking through the seed in her cage. Everything was the same, but she was different.
And no one else knew but her.
She recalled Rosita’s words about secret strength. Supressing a smile, Sally dashed upstairs towards the bathroom.
Getting through dinner was a struggle. She was sure her dad would spot something was wrong, but he seemed far more concerned about uncovering the identity of the co-worker who’d dinged his car outside the bank.
As Sally tried to stomach supper, her initial dread turned to something like hysteria. She had to supress the urge to giggle manically. The words, ‘I GOT A TATTOO,’ sat right at the very tip of her tongue. The more she thought of potential punishments her father might dole out (being dragged through the town centre behind a horse-drawn cart, being made to wear an I’m a heathen sandwich board while ringing a bell outside church), the more she wanted to laugh.
It was so clear now. They might well be her parents but these were not her people. Despite her and their best attempts to make a cookie-cut daughter, Sally did not belong in this house – a fact pencilled in since birth. Getting a tattoo signed it in ink. It didn’t bother her so much, though. In fact, admitting it was quite freeing.
After maintaining invisibility over dinner, Sally ducked through the fence to Stan’s house. She was sore and exhausted, but she figured if she didn’t go over like she’d promised, he’d know something was up and she wasn’t sure she’d hold up under interrogation.
Stan was in the kitchen when she arrived, waiting for microwave popcorn to finish. He was w
earing his pyjamas even though it was only a little after seven. ‘Hey,’ he said after she’d run the gauntlet of their cluttered hallway. ‘Can you get the Coke out of the fridge? Kareem lent me Hacksaw 5 on DVD. We can watch that if you want.’
‘Is that the one with the evil clown?’ Sally went to the fridge.
‘It sure is!’ He gingerly pinched the steaming bag out of the microwave and tipped it into a bowl, sucking his burned fingers. Job done, Stan turned round and looked at her for the first time. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’
‘You look different.’
Sally’s heart plummeted into her feet. She steeled herself and avoided the truth. ‘I’m wearing exactly what I had on at school.’
Stan scrutinised her. ‘Yeah, but . . . I don’t know . . . you just look different.’
‘Nope. Same as ever.’ She wasn’t even sure why she lied. It popped out of her mouth before she could reason that he and Jennie would probably think it was quite cool. But they might tell people at school and they might tell a parent and then her parents would know within the hour. The town worked like that.
They’d only just reached Stan’s room when they heard the front door close and Jennie chatting to Mrs Randall in the hall. She made her way up the stairs at half her normal speed. As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, Sally could tell that she’d been crying. ‘Hey, what’s up, Mitten?’
‘Nothing.’ Jennie took her jacket off but wouldn’t look her in the eye. This was not the pastel-grunge-bubblegum Jennie they were used to.
‘Jen . . . something is clearly wrong.’
Stan pushed the popcorn to one side. ‘Is it Kyle?’ His nostrils flared along with his temper.
‘We had a fight and now he won’t return my texts. I don’t know where he is. I’m really worried about him.’
Stan muttered something under his breath, but Sally guided Jennie to the bed so she didn’t hear him. ‘I’m sure he’s fine. What was the fight about?’
Jennie blinked back fresh tears. She fiddled with her Satanville bracelets as she spoke. ‘It’s so stupid. Kyle read some stuff I’d written on the Order of the First forum and he saw that I’d been chatting to some guy in America.’
