by Various
“Will there be any more visitors?” asked the voice sarcastically, the eye examining the studio.
“No, I swear it,” said Anton. “Although—there is a favour I’d ask. To bring someone, a woman, with me, back home.”
“Someone from this world?”
Anton nodded. “She has no place here. She needs to come with me.”
“On your own head be it,” said the voice. “If she changes her mind, which she surely will once she’s here, you must deal with her.” Anton nodded gratefully as the voice continued. “You’ll rejoin us soon, then. I am curious to see what becomes of the canvas afterwards, should another Storm have such an unfortunate outcome.”
Anton pretended to look interested. Frankly, as long as the canvas held until he was home he didn’t care. He wanted to be with Treve when the last piece slotted into place; the tattoo, its picture full of colour and a life the people here were incapable of imagining, might drive its host insane or tear her body apart, but not before he and the divine Autumn—the woman who’d made the years in this Hell bearable—had made their escape, through skin that would, he hoped, be as easy to walk through as water.
The eye closed, the mouth fell silent. Anton picked up the skins and threw them over Lew.
“Have a good look,” he whispered. He took down the easel and when he turned back for the skins, Lew was gone. There was no sign of him in the studio or in the road outside. Anton quickly packed his bag and left, feeling unsettled despite the promise of the day to come.
Treve found herself in the hallway of the flat, naked except for her slippers. Had she sleepwalked here from the service road? Or had she been standing there all along, dreaming of the moon-music and the strange woman? She crept back into the bedroom and looked out of the window. The moon loomed overhead. Nothing was out of place. The woman—Autumn—was nowhere to be seen. Even the stool she’d sat on was back in the bin, the records gone.
Sarir stirred then yelped as Treve got back into bed.
“You’re freezing! Where have you been?”
She had been outside, then.
She told Sarir that she’d gone to hear the music that she’d apparently written when she created her tattoo. Autumn had appeared and had reiterated her belief that all would be clear once the jigsaw was complete.
Sarir visibly tensed at the mention of Autumn.
“She keeps turning up and she doesn’t want us to stop whatever’s happening to you. I don’t trust her.”
Treve switched on her bedside lamp. She wanted to see what the tattoo was doing, how close the jigsaw was to being complete, what on Earth the picture in it was. She got up and stood in front of the mirror. And then Sarir was screaming.
Lew was staring out from Treve’s buttock.
Autumn was nearly spitting with impatience. She was desperate to see Treve again, to see the amazing tattoo and the world it depicted that she would soon be a part of. The world she’d been born into was one she’d found constantly lacking, its people uninterested in their own possibilities. She’d travelled for much of her life, trying to find something she could be inspired by, a landscape she could live in. Of all the places she had been, only Iceland had come near to being enough. She’d stayed there for years, almost happily, her body gradually taking on the state of flux of its sulphur fields, glaciers and volcanoes, but when she’d met Anton she’d learnt how much more she could become.
No amount of cajoling or emotional blackmail would shift Anton—he had to see Treve alone. He couldn’t risk suspicions being aroused and Autumn would give the game away. Eventually she agreed to wait in a nearby café. The picture would be nearly whole; it was a matter of keeping Treve—and Sarir—placated for a short time. They would listen to him. He could spin them a tale of magical mumbo-jumbo, (nothing close to the magic he’d actually used), and they would swallow it, at least for as long as they were needed.
Then what? Not chaos, Anton hoped, the Storm that had swept him here unleashed in reverse, sucking him back home. He hoped for a gentler, more coherent ride, time enough to gather Autumn to his side and savour their escape.
To his dismay, chaos was what he found. He had rung the bell to the girls’ flat several times and got no reply, so he walked around to the back. The screaming could be heard as soon as he stepped into the service road; one moment joyful, the next distressed. He broke into a run.
Treve was standing in the road, her arms raised to the sky, turning tight circles. Although she was naked, only a few inches of flesh remained bare.
The woman was a work of art, one even the imbeciles of this world would worship if they knew of her existence.
A picture flowed across her body, up and down her limbs and over her face. She was host to a living tattoo, her skin swathed by the finest tattoo artists in history. The only pieces of flesh that had been spared was the skin that had already been tattooed—there was a respectful distance between the old tattoos and the new—and two winding paths that had been left for the remaining jigsaw pieces to find their allotted places.
Two pieces left! Anton suddenly had the scent of home in his nostrils. Treve’s tattooed body made his heart ache with homesickness. He had to take control of the situation. He walked up to Treve, stopped her in mid turn and tried to lower her arms. She glared at him.
“No! I can’t block his view.”
Anton looked around. Sarir was making her way down the fire escape with a dressing gown. He could see no one else.
“Who are you talking about? There’s no one here. You need to get inside.” He beckoned Sarir over. “If someone sees you and calls the police, we shall have all kinds of trouble.”
Sarir wrapped the gown around Treve. She had a wild look in her eyes.
“Lew’s in the tattoo! He was looking at me. Then he ran away.”
Anton’s stomach flipped. “That’s amazing,” he said, in genuine confusion. “His picture’s part of the tattoo? How can that be?”
They gathered around Treve and escorted her back inside.
“I rang Lew to tell him,” said Sarir. “He’s not answering and he’s not at the studio.”
“I saw him last night. He was fine,” said Anton. “We can try him again later. I have some things to tell you.”
The gown, like all clothes now, felt heavy. Unnecessary. Treve cast it off as soon as they were indoors. Now she looked at Anton through eyes that were just visible amongst the heavy tattoos on her face, tattoos that had a life of their own; flowers bloomed, bees came collecting pollen. A distant mountain zoomed into close-up with a pair of goats, horns spiralling around their faces, perched near the summit. Anton’s world, etched lovingly onto human skin. Lew had no right to be depicted there.
Anton sat at the kitchen table and the others followed suit. He was worried about the women—they were both agitated and could easily become hysterical again. He hoped he could bore them into composure.
“I broke down the ink from your tattoos. It’s made from an extraordinary mixture of ingredients. Some, like the charcoal I mentioned before, I expected; others I didn’t. There’s copper and tin, sea salt, mud and lava. And gold! Real gold and silver. Traces of rock, too, but not like you get here. It’s more like asteroid dust.”
“It sounds like a witch’s spell,” said Treve. “So, you know what. I need to know why and how. Those last two pieces are moving into place. We’ve tried stopping them but we can’t. I can feel the picture moving on me now. You must stop it. I’ll disappear.”
Anton clasped her hand. He felt something wriggle under his grip and almost grinned.
“This is an incredible phenomena, it’s true,” he said. “But similar things have happened. People have cried blood on Easter Day, stigmata’s appeared on their wrists. These people are healthy, living beings. Some call them Blessed. Perhaps that is what you are. And the jigsaw may come apart once it’s been whole, once the picture has been completed. I’m still working on it. I’m learning more all the time.”
Sarir stood u
p and began pacing the kitchen. Did Anton actually have anything of value for them? Was he deliberately stalling? There was bound to be money, fame or notoriety to be made from the situation. Or was he just curious, an onlooker at a freak show? She stole a look at Anton, hoping his expression would give his intentions away.
His face was frozen in shock.
He was looking at Treve. Sarir followed his gaze. A figure was climbing down from the tree that currently featured on her face. His large frame, shirtless and covered in tattoos of his own, was unmistakable.
The tattoo version of Lew looked around to see if it was safe, then crept up and stared out from Treve’s cheek.
“There he is again!” Sarir was close to screaming.
Lew was silently pleading for help. Treve could feel him there. She closed her eyes but could not stop the tears from falling and running down both her face and his.
It was then that the miracle happened.
Lew wiped the tear from his cheek.
“He felt it! He felt your tears, Treve!” shouted Sarir. “Can he see us? Does he know we’re here?”
Treve pressed her hand to her face, hoping he would understand, somehow, that they were there, trying to help him. For a few moments it seemed that he was close by. As she took her hand away Lew frowned and then he pointed to where Anton was sitting and mouthed something slowly and clearly.
It. Was. Him.
Sarir turned on Anton. “I knew it! You’re not here by accident. What did Lew mean? Is this all down to you?”
Treve picked up a make-up mirror and looked at her face. Lew was still there, pointing an accusing finger. Then the moment was gone. Alone again, he returned to the shelter of the tree.
Anton stood up. “What’s he doing there? I should be there, not him! How did he do it?” He pushed Sarir aside. “This is more important than any of you. Now shut up and just wait for the jigsaw to finish. It’s all that matters.”
Now Treve jumped up. Her decorated body made her look formidable, like a warrior, and when she spoke it was in a voice that demanded acquiescence.
“We matter. All of us. Tell us what’s going on.”
Anton tried to keep the two women at arm’s length. “The tattoo is showing you another place, another world. My world. I got lost here in the Storm and I’ve finally found a way to return. All I need is the puzzle to complete and I’ll be gone. Maybe Lew can come back here then, too. I don’t know how he got in the picture. If I did, I’d be there now.”
“And what happens to Treve when you’ve gone?” said Sarir. She stopped struggling with him. “Oh my God. You don’t know, do you?”
Anton was losing patience. “Treve’s immortal. Even if she dies. Especially if she dies.” He looked her in the eye. “You are extraordinary. No one else could do this. Your name will be sacred in two worlds.”
Treve looked down at her body, more frightened than she’d been before, yet part of her did feel exhilarated; did wonder what changes would take place once the jigsaw was complete. She had been different all her life, had revelled in it most of the time, despite having no control over it. Was this just the next stage in something that was always meant to happen?
The second to last piece of the jigsaw made its way around the back of her hand and found its place on the top of her thumb. At the same time, the movement in the picture on her skin became more pronounced. A mountain top spewed lava, lightning struck a bird—a beautiful kingfisher—and sent it spinning to the ground. An oddly shaped figure made a loping run for cover.
Anton, ecstatic, saw it all. “One more piece! Have courage, Treve, it won’t be long.”
Sarir, who had backed off and was standing by the window, was suddenly aware of being watched. There, across the road, was Autumn, oblivious to everything except what might be happening in the flat.
It was her and Anton, then. They were in this together. In hours, or even minutes, she would lose Treve forever. She picked up a bottle from the table and tried to give a valiant, rallying war-cry. All that came out was, “You fucker!” but the blow that struck Anton’s head was strong and courageous. He hit the floor and pieces of smashed glass rained down upon his hair and the threadbare carpet around his head. They were soon covered in blood and the remains of the cheap, red wine they’d drunk the night before.
“We haven’t got long,” she said. “Autumn’s outside. She must be with Anton. Treve, we’ve got to stop that last piece.”
Treve was crouched at Anton’s side, feeling his neck for a pulse. “Is he dead? I don’t know how to do this properly.” She looked up at Sarir. “We’ve tried to stop the pieces from moving. Nothing’s worked.”
They’d used plasters, bandages, even a tourniquet, as barriers to stop the tattoos from moving. Treve had lain in freezing cold and almost scalding hot bath water and covered her skin in crèmes, aromatherapy oil and mud; all in vain. Sarir had one last, desperate plan. To contemplate it made her sick to her stomach and her face became so pale, Treve thought she was going to faint.
“There’s one thing we haven’t done; remove the piece. Then the picture can’t be completed.”
Treve stood up and stepped back, away from Anton, away from Sarir. But then, knowing that Sarir was right, she crept forward again, into her arms.
After the briefest of preparations—a cupful of vodka to clean the area and two for Treve’s nerves, a clean towel for Treve to lie on—Sarir broke up a disposable razor and took out one of the blades. The final jigsaw piece was on the sole of Treve’s right foot, although it had moved up to her shin by the time they were ready, its place in the jigsaw diagonally opposite on Treve’s left arm.
Sarir glanced once more at Anton. He was still unconscious. Or dead. She looked out of the window to see Autumn pacing up and down, becoming more agitated with every moment. She took the bottle of vodka from Treve’s hand. “We’ll need it to clean the wound afterwards,” she said. And I’ll need some to blur the memory of the bravest, cruellest thing I’ve ever done, she thought.
The tattoo had stopped moving. She picked up the razor blade. How deep should she cut? Tattoo ink was usually injected into one of the lower layers of skin. She should cut through all of them to be sure of getting rid of it.
In the end the cut was shallow. It was as much as Sarir could bear to do. Treve screamed and tensed her leg, ready to kick Sarir away should the pain become unbearable, but Sarir was quick and neat, cutting around and underneath the shape and then peeling it off. She dropped it on the towel, splashed vodka over the bleeding wound and held Treve tightly as she screamed again. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of crying. They both trembled so hard it seemed their bones would rattle. When they were both able, Sarir cleaned the wound again, dried it off a little and dressed it.
Treve took another swig of vodka and reached for the jigsaw shaped piece of skin.
“We should burn this,” she said. “Get rid of the fucking thing forever.”
Sarir nodded. She found an empty tobacco tin and put the fragment of flesh in it. As she searched for a lighter, Treve sat up and grabbed her arm.
“We can’t! What about Lew? He’s still inside the tattoo. What if he needs the last piece to get out?”
For a moment, Sarir was inclined not to care, but remembered Lew’s expression, how lost he had been, looking out at them from the picture. He didn’t deserve to be abandoned. And what if the whole puzzle was needed in order to free Treve? They still knew so little about it. She picked up the tin and took it to the kitchen. Salt was a great preserver. She filled the tin with it, making sure the bloody piece of skin was covered. Then she pushed the lid on and taped around the rim.
A phone began ringing. She didn’t recognise the tone.
“That’s probably Anton’s phone,” she said as she made her way back to the lounge. “And it’s probably Autumn ringing him.” She looked down at him. Did his fingers just move? Was he coming to? “We either take them both on or we get away. I suggest we make a run for it.”
She helped Treve to her feet. She looked weak and when she spoke, her words slurred a little.
“Walking’s okay. Just as long as nothing goes near my leg. I can’t fight anyone in this state. Where will we go?”
They discussed ideas as Sarir helped her dress. It would not be enough to go into hiding. They needed to find someone who knew the place that Anton came from, who knew of what he’d done in order to return there. If Anton was still alive he was too desperate to be anything other than a danger to them. Someone more sympathetic to their—and Lew’s—predicament was needed. Sarir packed a rucksack of essentials; some clothes, a cash card, painkillers and, tucked deep inside the bag, the tin containing the last piece of the puzzle. She gave Treve some chocolate to counter the shock of the operation. Autumn was downstairs, ringing the doorbell; time had run out.
“She’ll go around the back in a minute,” said Treve. “We’ll wait until then and leave by the front door.”
Sarir put the rucksack on her back, took Treve’s hand and gripped it tightly. They risked a look out of the window. Sure enough, Autumn was heading for the service road. Behind them Anton, groaning, was beginning to come round. The couple, then, would pursue them. Endlessly. Relentlessly.
“Don’t worry,” said Treve. “We’ll start at The Modern Primitive. Anton had other friends, in London, Amsterdam and who knows where else. He spoke to someone about where he came from. And somewhere there’s a tattooist who’s seen what’s happened to me before.”
She spoke with certainty; she knew it to be true. For this was something wonderful after all. They would be searching, tracing myths and legends to their source, finding more of the extraordinary and those who had experienced it. A rush of euphoria and knowledge surged through her, an ecstasy of pain and lucidity. She felt better in her skin—her fantastic, tingling tattooed skin—than she ever had before. She was a masterpiece. More than that; her body was an eye looking out over a different world. It—she—was like the fish that sometimes rained from the sky, the impossible creatures spotted in forests or the English countryside.
