Chapter Nineteen
The house is still empty when I get back. I open my notebook and draw the mark I made today. On paper it looks like a passable drawing of a leaf, but on the woman’s back it looked alive. I am torn between my pride and excitement at this milestone and my total terror that someone will find out. I close my eyes and try to remember how it felt to become so in tune with someone that their feelings become your feelings. I can’t help but smile. I hold her face in my mind and, I know I shouldn’t, but I wish her happiness.
I put the chicken in the oven and peel and chop the vegetables. When I check the clock it’s not as late as I thought. I’m desperate to share my news with someone and Mum won’t be back for a bit. I scribble a note to her, promising to be home in time to finish cooking, and then I grab my bag and head out to Verity’s.
She’s still out at her training when I arrive, but Julia is home and we sit chatting at the kitchen table while I wait for Verity. I can’t stop thinking about the woman I marked, and I end up asking Julia about her work at the hospital. She’s a midwife – she always oversees the babies getting their birth marks. It must be an amazing moment, to be there when someone is named and marked for the first time. I say as much to Julia and she looks thoughtful, tucking her wiry chin-length grey-brown hair behind her ear.
“You’re right – it can be amazing.” She smiles tiredly and I am about to ask more – about what it must be like for those parents of babies who aren’t marked – when Verity clatters in, dumps her bag on the table and gives me a hug as she stands behind my chair.
“You’re here! My inker friend, you have no idea how cool the people at work think I am for knowing a female inker! You’ve done me all kinds of good! It doesn’t feel like we’ve only been there two days, does it? Oof, I’m exhausted!” I smile at Verity’s mass of words. Julia attempts to hang Verity’s bag up but the hooks are so full of coats and shawls and bags that it just falls on the floor. Julia sighs, leaving it where it is, and gives Verity a kiss on the cheek.
“You two can catch-up, I’m going to try to get some sleep – my shift was busy. Listen out for Seb – he should be home soon.”
We decide to stay at the kitchen table rather than go up to Verity’s room – we’re less likely to disturb Julia if we’re down here. Verity looks through some mismatched tins in one of the cupboards and emerges with cake. She uses the lid of the tin as a plate, slices the cake, and we eat, letting the crumbs scatter on the table.
“Is it going all right then?” says Verity, her mouth full.
“I actually really love it, Vetty. The guy training me is a bit serious and hard to work out but I think he sees potential in me. Oh! You’ll never guess who I’m training with, though.” Verity’s eyes widen in a question – her mouth is still too full for her to speak properly. I pause for dramatic effect. “Only Karl Novak.” Verity splutters and sprays cake out her mouth. “He makes me shudder.” I say.
Verity swallows what’s left of the food in her mouth. I’d told her all about the party, and Karl lunging for me and she knows enough about him to understand why that made my skin crawl. She shakes her head and exhales loudly.
“Well, that’s impressively bad luck – only you, Leora. Maybe he won’t last?”
“He seems pretty committed,” I tell her with a grim smile. “And he’s actually being fine. I’ll survive.” The cake is really good – it’s gingery and sticky, one of Seb’s finest, and I’m eyeing a second piece. “Anyway, tell me about working at the government. Just look at how smart you are!” She’s wearing a slim-fitted, blue linen dress with a wide leather belt that shows her waist beautifully. She has a huge sash with the government crest on it. Of course, she would get the flattering uniform. Verity smiles, gets up and twirls.
“It’s an all right uniform actually, isn’t it?” She sits down. “And yours is, um, very grey?”
We both laugh.
“I’ve been given a good project to work on already – it’s quite interesting.” I raise an eyebrow – I can’t really imagine anything at the administration being described as interesting. “No, really it is!” Verity grins. “Honestly! I might even get to meet Mayor Longsight tomorrow!” She squeals and pretends to swoon, making me laugh. “He’s coming in for a briefing.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” I can’t help feeling a little envious; it makes my news about making my first mark feel feeble.
“Apparently he’s bringing in all sorts of new reforms, really radical – people are buzzing with what he plans to do. It affects the whole country, not just us. I’m not in on it all, but there’s a definite … feeling about the place.” She shrugs, but her eyes are shining. “People are excited, that’s it.”
“I remember at the marking…” I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. “He’s serious about the blanks, isn’t he? They’re really a threat?”
Verity nods, eyes wide. “It’s real, Lor – more than we ever realized. To be honest, I’m a bit scared. But we’re doing everything it takes to strengthen our position. I’m sure Mayor Longsight has it all in hand.” She grins shyly. “Actually, what I’m working on is all part of that.” I raise an eyebrow. She leans in. “Until they decide I’m ready to start at the Funerary and Soul-Weighing Department, I’m creating complete lists of everyone’s marks.”
“Um, exciting, Vetty,” I smirk. She flashes me an annoyed look and I reach for a second piece of cake. “Anyway, inkers have to report all the marks they make to the government. I’ve seen the paperwork. So that list must already exist?”
“Well yeah, but let’s just say that inkers aren’t renowned for their admin skills.” She looks at me pointedly and smiles wickedly. I roll my eyes, but she’s right – I’m far more scatty than her. “The record-keeping has been pretty atrocious up until now, and it’s been allowed to become very slack under previous governments – but all that’s changing. They need to know exactly who has been marked and when, and what their marks mean.” Verity presses her thumb on the cake crumbs in front of her and pops them into her mouth. She looks thoughtful. “I think they had stopped believing it mattered so much, but Mayor Longsight wants that to change. He knows that for his reforms to work, everything and everyone needs to be recorded. Nothing can hide under the radar any more. We’re going to…” she makes a serious face as though reciting from memory, “Return to the roots of our tradition and remember that marking isn’t just for self-expression – it’s about remembrance and proving we are worthy.” She laughs at her impression.
The image of the marked man at the square flashes into my mind and I remember Mayor Longsight’s promise that we would be seeing more public markings in future. I remember the conviction in his voice, the sense I had that, amidst my terror, he would always make things right.
“So that’s why he’s going back to public markings, then?” I ask. I keep my voice casual but my heart is beating fast. I can’t get the image of the man in the square and his broken, defeated face out of my mind. And I can’t stop thinking about Dad. Why was he marked? What had he done?
Verity nods. “Yes – that was the first. Like I said, the threat from the blanks is increasing – has been for years, because the old regime weren’t tough enough. We’re cracking down on any treachery. Mayor Longsight has a big job to do – to root out all that dissent. First of all, he’s making sure that anyone who is in support of the blanks is made an example of. The government are investigating potential rebels. They have information that rebel cells are helping the blanks – even wanting them to be able to move freely amongst us – and now Mayor Longsight is putting a stop to it. There will be more people marked as forgotten, if my guess is correct. It’s no longer just an ancient tradition; it’s becoming a reality.”
I watch Verity, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and inside I just feel hollow. Cracking down. More people marked as forgotten. Investigating potential rebels.
Has this got anything to do with why Dad’s book is missing?
“Who wou
ld support the blanks though? After all they’ve done – why?” Could Dad have had something to do with these rebel cells? I shake myself – he wouldn’t. Joel Flint, model family man, loving father, wise husband, pillar of the community – there was no way. Suddenly I am desperate to confide in my best friend – and not just about Dad’s mark but about his book being confiscated, and Oscar taking me to the café and how Mum won’t tell me anything.
“Verity—” I begin.
We both look up as Julia comes into the kitchen.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she says with a sigh, slumping down on the bench beside us. She seems so slight next to Verity now. I remember when I thought she was the most grown up grown-up I knew, apart from Mum, of course. She looks at the cake and absently cuts a slice. Now is not the time for confessions. Then I notice the time and get up to go home; if I don’t leave right now I’ll be late. I think of the chicken in the oven and the silent dinner Mum and I will have.
“Do you have to go?” Verity asks. I nod and go to give her a hug. “Sorry, we’ve hardly talked about you – I’ve just been nattering on. Let’s meet up at the weekend for a proper catch-up, yeah?”
“Sounds perfect, Vetty. Give Seb a hug from me.”
She’s giving me an odd look so I reassure her with a smile that feels plastered on, and head home, waving and beaming till I get out the door when my face slumps. Digging my hands deep into my pockets I feel the leaves I’d picked up that last day of exams. So much has happened since then; Verity is still the same; happy-go-lucky and sure of herself, and I’m a different person. I clench my fists and they close around something else – something that is at once hard and soft.
I pull the object out and stand under a street lamp to see what it is.
A gleaming black feather.
The sign of the blanks.
I hold it only for a moment before the wind catches it and blows it from my hand. I look around me, half expecting to see a blank right there behind me. I run home feeling like I’m six again, and the blanks are chasing me ready to steal my soul.
Chapter Twenty
Mum is back when I get home, and the house smells warm and comforting with food. She is sitting at the table, drinking a cup of tea, reading one of our ancestors’ books. Her face is calm and peaceful and I can’t imagine what is going on underneath – nothing? Or everything?
Trying to catch my breath, I hang my coat up and take off my shawl. There’s part of me that wants to pretend everything’s fine and just tell her about my day – it’d be nice to share it all with someone who will be excited too.
But I know she’s keeping so much from me.
“How did day two go?” she asks, giving me a small, expectant smile. It’s her attempt at a truce. I pause.
“I’m going to tell you, because it was so exciting, but don’t think it means you’re forgiven,” I scowl. “In fact, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you my stuff at dinner and then you can tell me yours.” Mum rolls her eyes and smiles as though I’m just an amusing kid; I glare at her and she has the decency to look sorry.
“So. Me first.” I say, when I’ve nearly finished eating. Mum puts her knife and fork down and looks at me expectantly. I can’t stop my smile. “Today was amazing. I did my first mark!” Mum gasps and claps her hands to her face. I feel a warm glow of pride which turns to shame when I remember what I’ve done. It may be my first mark, but it was also my first crime. What was Obel thinking? I try to keep my face calm. Mum can’t know. “I’m exhausted, Mum. I never realized how much of their soul an inker leaves in each tattoo. I know it sounds weird, but it felt almost spiritual.”
“Oh, Leora, that is amazing!” Her eyes look a bit wet. I hope she’s not going to cry. “And it is exhausting. That’s why marks are alive – can be read as living things – because of the energy poured into them. The life.”
I’d never thought of that.
“So, what was the mark of?” Mum asks. She’s just interested, but I change the subject.
“I can tell what you’re doing,” I say and Mum raises her eyebrows. “You think that if you get me talking about all this, I’ll forget about your side of the bargain.”
“I don’t remember actually agreeing to anything, Leora,” she says as she pushes her plate away, and goes back to the book.
“Don’t, Mum.” Suddenly the cosy evening falls away and all my calm evaporates. “I know, OK?” She sits back in her chair and looks at me in apparent confusion. “I know about Dad, I know that he had the mark – the crow. I remember seeing it, when I was little. That time he hurt his head – remember?” She closes her eyes and I know she does. “And I think – I think that’s why his book’s been confiscated.” I let my breath out in a sigh. I’m relieved to be able to admit what I know, but it’s scary talking about it.
Mum sets the book to one side. She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “Do you trust me, Leora?” she asks.
My eyes fill with tears. This is one question I don’t know how to answer. “I want to,” I say, and my voice sounds small. “I always have trusted you. But now I don’t know what to think. Show me I can. Tell me what’s going on.” I blink back the tears. I won’t cry; even though my cheeks are hot and my nose is running, I refuse to cry. I’ll show her I’m not a child.
“There are things that I promised your father I would never tell anyone – not even you.” Her eyes implore me to listen, to believe her. “I can’t betray him, love. I’m sorry.”
I gulp back my anger. “But Dad is dead. He’s not here. Those promises don’t count any more.”
Mum shakes her head and I see her eyes shining with tears too. I go round to her side of the table, trying to make her look at me: to really listen. I kneel next to her.
“All these secrets, they’re not helping Dad. He’s going to be destroyed – somebody knows he was marked as forgotten, and unless we do something he will be.” Mum puts a hand on my shoulder. “Why?” I whisper it. This is the question I have dreaded asking. “Why was he marked?”
She moves to hold my hand and sits straighter in her chair. I’m looking up at her, so hopeful. But then: “I can’t tell you, Leora.”
I pull away in anger and she grips my arm. “Leora – please. Look at me. I want you to think back, Leora. Think back to the man you knew.” I try not to close my eyes. I try not to remember. “You may hear rumours. You may hear gossip and whispers. But all that matters is that he is remembered for what he was: truly good. That … that mark didn’t belong on his skin. He didn’t deserve it.” I try to interrupt but she holds up her hand. “And so it is gone. We have a friend who did all that was needed. We’ve known this was coming, Leora. We’ve saved money and planned everything. Your father won’t be forgotten. You mustn’t tell a soul, but you have nothing to worry about. I promise.”
I stare at her. “What did you do?” I whisper. “You and this friend – what did you do?” She stands up from the table and takes her mug to wash it in the sink, leaving me kneeling on the floor looking after her.
“Mum!” I cry, and at the sound of my voice, she drops her mug in the sink and I hear it break. She turns to me with tears on her face and icy frustration in her voice.
“Leora. This is the only time I’ll say this – so listen carefully. Do you remember seeing your father’s book?” Slowly I nod. “We sat and looked through it together, didn’t we? And did you see the mark?” I shake my head, mutely. She’s right. We looked at every page, and there was no crow to blot those perfect pages.
“Well then – you should stop worrying. That book is all anyone will see. A good life. No one will know any different.” She wipes a hand across her face and I see how tired she is. “I will not speak of this again, do you understand? And you must not either. Don’t tell a soul, not even Verity. I mean it.”
Mum leaves the room silently, a cold draught in her wake, and I’m left to pick the shards of broken ceramic from the soapy water. She’s never spoken to me like that.
I gra
b a dirty plate and plunge it into the sink, distracted by my thoughts. I feel for the washing-up brush under the water and catch the back of my hand on a chunk of broken mug I hadn’t seen under the suds. The bubbles turn pink as blood wafts through the water. I draw my hand out and see I’ve sliced deeply across the skin – as though my age marks were a “cut here” dotted line. The skin is already looking bruised around the cut and it’s bleeding profusely – dripping down my wet wrist towards my elbow. I swallow as the pain begins to blossom and I call out: “Mum – I need you.”
That night I dream I’m being flayed.
My skin is being sliced. Only, instead of my marks being preserved, each one is being divided by the knife in two, or three or four. Every bit of my meaning and my memory is being shattered and scattered. I am a puzzle that will never be pieced together.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m fairly useless at the studio. My hand doesn’t hurt so much, but the bandage I need to wear means I can’t do a lot. Obel tuts at me when he sees me trying to draw – badly – with my left hand. I can’t quite meet his eye, not after yesterday. He’s been clever, I realize now; he must have known that getting me to mark that woman was his best way of making sure I’d keep his secret. If I tell anyone about the marks he does out of hours, he can report me for inking a mark of remembrance for a blank.
My time is filled by thinking about Oscar, and worrying endlessly about his note. When it comes to Friday, the day he wants to meet, I talk myself into and out of going a hundred times that morning. I don’t know anything about him, other than that he’s the son of a convicted criminal. That’s reason enough not to meet. But he could help me, I argue with myself. My dad was a marked man too.
In the end I decide I’m curious, and that’s enough of a reason to go.
My thoughts help to break up the monotony of the day, spent helping to tidy shelves and organize things, greeting new clients and doing my best to avoid Karl. He’s being extra mean to me today – messing up things I’ve tidied, jogging me to make me stumble and appear clumsy. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was the one who put the feather in my pocket, just to freak me out; he’s childish and vindictive enough. That’s probably all it is – a prank – Karl trying to knock my focus on training, trying to put me off competing for the permanent job here. I don’t want to think about how much it frightened me.
Ink Page 11
