As if to punish me for my clumsiness, Obel lets Karl do loads of studio time. Karl is gloating and I’m nervous that he might be better than me. I’ve seen some of the drawings he’s done and he’s good.
As I hang up my apron at the end of the day, Obel opens the door, but stops me before I leave. He’s hardly spoken to me since I made the mark. “What were you today?”
I look at him in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
He looks at my hand and his lips thin. “You were nothing. An inker is nothing without his hands.”
“Or her hands,” I remind him.
“Or her hands. Be more careful, Leora. That’s all.”
I mumble an apology. Obel gives me a quick smile.
“See you Monday, girl.”
I pull on my shawl and pause as I leave the door, taking a deep breath to harden my resolve. I can’t help feeling that this meeting with Oscar will mean something – that I might find something out – and a large part of me doesn’t want to. The same part that wants to believe Mum when she says everything will be OK.
But the curious part wins and I set off.
I check the town hall clock as I walk – it’s almost six o’ clock. I arrive at the square with a few minutes to spare and wait outside the gloomy government building. I shelter under a tree, listening to its remaining leaves rustling in the cold breeze. The statue of Saint watches over us, and the sun makes the bronze of his sinewy features gleam. He looks like the human body pictures in our science textbooks; all you see is the muscles and tendons taut and defined over bones. With his flayed skin held like a robe around him, and despite the vulnerable flesh on display, he is poised and strong. The statue represents his tale perfectly – immortalized in the moment that should have been his undoing, at the hands of the White Witch. Being flayed couldn’t kill him; it only set him free.
The little sections of grass are so leaf-covered and patchy with mud now, it’ll be spring before they’re used for lunch-break picnics again. I read some of the people as they walk past to pass the time. One woman stops near me to rearrange her shopping bags. I see her wrinkled hands as they weigh and repack the bags. Her age marks melt into movements that speak loudly of her life: a happy one. Until recently – I see the last few years are sodden with sadness and drenched with lonely tears. Without seeing more I can only guess at the reasons for her misery: maybe a death, maybe a different kind of loss, maybe a quarrel that never got resolved. I look at my own bandaged hand and wonder what my marks will say when I’m old. I’m so afraid of the sadness I’ve felt since Dad got ill. I’m so scared of it lasting for ever. Is that it for me now? Will all my years be tainted by his absence?
Just as I’m dwelling on my cheerful thoughts I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn round and see Oscar. He wears his bag strap across his chest and has rammed his hands back in his pockets. His glasses are slightly awry on his nose, and his curls are rumpled.
“You came,” he says with an interested look on his face.
“You seem surprised!” I can’t help but smile. It all seems so silly, as though we’re playing at being grown-ups. Or spies. “I didn’t feel like I had much choice.” At that he lets out a laugh.
“Yeah, sorry about that – it was probably a bit more mysterious than it needed to be.” He shuffles his feet in the fallen leaves and looks around. “So, do you fancy a walk?” I nod, and we set off at a slow pace, kicking the leaves as we go.
We walk in silence away from the government building. At least, we don’t say anything, but my mind is anything but silent. Before we’ve walked ten steps my brain has already tried to decide what his tattoos mean (I see one that looks like tree bark climbing his neck), and suddenly a thought pops into my mind: Does he have a girlfriend? I turf that thought out quickly.
He glances at me. “Same café as last time OK?”
I hesitate. “Actually, I have somewhere else in mind.”
“Sure.” His expression is mildly curious.
“Come on then.” He follows as I set off walking towards the museum. It’s just across the square and it’s still open. A curator I don’t recognize murmurs, “We shut at seven,” as we walk past the welcome desk. I smile and nod. Plenty of time.
“The museum – really? You don’t mind coming back?” Oscar whispers as he takes off his hat and folds it into his bag.
“I can’t stay away for ever,” I whisper back. “Besides, there’s something I want to show you.”
There are two staircases either side of the entrance foyer that curl their way up to the same floor. I used to make Dad wait for ages until I chose which side to go up.
I start up the steps and Oscar follows. I know exactly where I want to go. Dad used to bring me to the museum on a Saturday morning while Mum had a lie-in. We would try to see a different part each time, but we always ended up in the same place. Our place.
There are inscriptions in the stone walls, framed pictures, a worn brass handrail. The steps are worn too – just on one side, as though everyone throughout history has chosen the quickest route up and down. I always walk up on the other, neglected side of the steps.
Our steps echo as we climb the stairs – a little song of ascent.
When we reach the first floor we pause. If we carry on up the next flight of steps we would reach the floor with the skin books – the ones that belong to people who don’t have family to care for them any more. They stay here, in the museum, so that the community can honour and remember them even when they have no loved ones to greet them each day.
Instead we walk through the arched entrance off the first staircase to the floor dedicated to our history. The rooms filled with our fables.
Everything about this place reminds me of Dad. It’s like he’s here, as though if I just turn the corner he’ll be bending over a display saying, “Leora, come here – look at this one.” He loved this place so much. He loved all these stories.
“Right.” Oscar looks around at the glass cases housing so many pages and relics: the artefacts of our past. Some cases have books of fables open so we can read our town’s tales, others have beautiful artwork and handmade figurines telling our history: the stories that tell us how our community began and the way its beginnings continue to shape it. “So why are we here? Did you fancy a bedtime story?” He wanders to a case and looks in. “I don’t think I’ve properly been here since I was a kid.” The lights shine on the exhibits and, because there is no daylight coming from the atrium, it leaves the rest of the space in shadow, the displays glowing like ghosts.
“Are they just stories?” I ask, curiously. “I mean, this is our history, our faith.”
In the gloom I see his eyebrows furrow. “I suppose that’s what we’ve been told,” he says, leaning against one of the glass cases. “The stories are our past. Through our past we shall live our present.” It’s a quote from the town’s creed, which we all had to learn at school.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I look round to see if there’s anyone nearby who might hear us. There’s only one other person browsing, and he’s on the other side of the room. I don’t know why I’m nervous – we’re just talking, and that’s no crime. Is it? “You don’t really choose whether to believe history.” I’m grateful for the half-light that hides my blush. I’m not used to arguing. I’m not used to needing to.
“So you think all this actually happened?” There’s an odd little smile playing about his mouth. He gestures at the displays and I look around at the pictures of Saint and the White Witch and all the other players in our community’s story. I take in the old texts opened at the pages where their stories have sat for years. I think of Mel with the tales drawn on her skin and the statue of Saint and all that I learned at school.
“Of course it did.” I am defiant, feeling brave in the low light, not able to see his reaction. “I mean – some of them sound like stories because they’re so old. Some of them have made up parts, because that was how people thought of things
back then. But the truth is in there. It’s like…” I close my eyes and think of how my dad used to explain them to me. “It’s like a flower: the pretty part with all the petals are the bits that are made up, and the root is the truth. The stuff that really happened.” There’s something about not being able to see his face perfectly that makes me feel I could whisper secrets and it would almost be like talking to myself. “Everyone knows that.”
“Maybe.” He sighs quietly and turns to the exhibit of the White Witch, leaning to look more closely at the glass case. “This one always scared me when I was little. When I still believed in fairy stories.” He rests his hand on the glass, over the illustration of the White Witch and her chilling, ghostly face.
I move to stand next to him and point out one of the smaller illustrations. Beautiful Moriah is shown discovering her marks for the first time, while her new husband looks on in delighted astonishment. Meanwhile, the White Witch stares out, her skin blank and terrible. The pages of these old books remind me of the stained glass in the hall of judgement. “Actually, this is my favourite story.” My hand is next to his and the glass is starting to fog from the heat of my skin.
“Why’s it your favourite?” He turns and his face seems very close to mine. “I wouldn’t have thought witches were your kind of thing.”
“How would you know what my kind of thing is?” I realize how prickly I sound. “Anyway, I just love the story. It’s comforting.”
“How is it comforting?” he asks.
“Well, Moriah’s marks appearing as her father told her they would – his dying wish coming true. And the White Witch being banished. I love that the good sister wins.” He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body and I breathe him in. There’s a warmth in my lungs that makes me nervous, but it’s a kind of nervous I don’t mind. He doesn’t move, so I take a step back.
“The good sister wins,” he repeats slowly, musingly. He walks on, further away from the little light there is and I think I hear him sigh.
“Anyway, my dad used to bring me here. It reminds me of him.” I feel a little defensive. It’s like sharing a book you’ve loved only to have that person say they thought it was silly.
“When did he die?” he asks, still standing with his back to me.
“Almost three months ago. Sometimes it feels like yesterday—”
“—and sometimes it feels like years have passed,” he finishes. I nod and blink back tears.
“You know. Who have you lost?” There’s silence and I feel awkward. I sit down with my back against the display case. The other visitor has left and we’ve got the space to ourselves now. The carpet is rough and I let my finger trace the ugly pattern. I keep my bandaged hand on my lap and feel it throbbing with my frustrated heartbeat. The silence drags until Oscar sits down next to me.
“My mum. She died when I was eleven. She got sick.” He brushes invisible fluff from his knees. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“I’m sorry about your mum,” I reply.
We sit quietly and minutes pass. Or maybe seconds. I can’t tell.
“What did you do to your hand?” Oscar asks.
“A washing-up accident,” I giggle.
“Ah, it’s a dangerous business – I’d avoid it if I were you.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“I saw you. At the marking,” I tell him, and my fingers pause from their tracing.
“Oh?” He is unnervingly still.
“It was your dad, wasn’t it?” There. I’ve said it.
He sighs and straightens his legs. He rests his head against the display cabinet as he looks towards the ceiling. “I wondered whether you had seen me. I saw you there, at the back – I recognized you. Dad had pointed you out to me once in the street.”
I frown at this. Pointed me out? Why would his father have known who I was?
“But yes – that was my father. Marked in the town square. Forgotten now. He’s still in prison, they’ve not let him go free yet, even after what they’ve done to him.” His hand slams down on the floor. “And, now, that’s it.” He pauses and starts drawing with his finger on the floor between us too, his hand scarily close to mine. “But you’d know something about that, wouldn’t you Leora?’ His little finger brushes mine and I freeze.
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“Your dad.”
“Whatever you think you know—” I swallow down my fear, but I can feel my breath and my chest shaking. I stagger upright.
“Leora, it’s all right,” he says calmly as he gets to his feet. “I don’t know anything – I’m just putting two and two together. Why else would your dad’s book be confiscated? Why else would you be so afraid? Just tell me, just say it – he was a forgotten too.”
I drop my head into my hands. I’ve said nothing and yet I’ve said too much. In the darkness behind my hands I hear Oscar whisper:
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
With my face still hidden by my hands I tell him the story of seeing my father’s mark, when I was a little girl. I leave nothing out – telling it for the first time feels cathartic. Dangerous too.
“Mum’s right, though,” I finish, emerging with my face flushed. “There was nothing there when we saw his book. It must have been removed somehow.” Am I imagining it, or does Oscar’s face flinch when I say that? “But if they haven’t found the mark, then why would his book be confiscated?” I finish and look up at Oscar. “Mum says it will all be OK, but how can it be?” A tear spills out on to my cheek and before I can dash it away, Oscar brushes my cheek with the cuff of his jacket. I take some deep breaths and thankfully he gives me a moment to recover.
“Leora…” Oscar is looking at the ugly carpet now, as though he’s trying to find the right words. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
I sniff hard. “What?”
He is still looking at the floor and suddenly I feel my neck prickle. I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I see it before?
“Just say it, Oscar,” I say roughly.
He looks at me then. “My dad – well, you know what he was punished for. For stealing someone’s skin.” He passes a hand over his eyes. I am right. I know the words he’s about to say before he says them, and my heart nearly stops in horror. “The skin he stole – it was your father’s.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Tell me a story, Daddy.” I would beg. “Tell me the one about you and Mummy.”
Mum would protest, “Oh, not again, Leora. You’ve heard it so many times.” But Dad’s eyes would sparkle and, with a grin, he would begin.
“You’ve heard of love at first sight? You’ve heard of a prince that falls in love with the beautiful maiden the moment he sees her? You’ve heard the fairy tales and the happily ever afters?”
I would nod, eyes wide.
“Well, that’s not our story.” And Mum would try to hide her smile.
They met when Dad moved to Saintstone. Back then, readers were more respected; it wasn’t just bereft children asking Mum to find out family secrets from their dead relative’s skin book or possessive lovers asking her to read infidelity on their partner’s skin. She had a contract with the government that meant she would read any newcomers to the town and ensure they were suitable for employment. She would make recommendations for their work placements and vouch for their trustworthiness.
The story goes that she arrived for Dad’s reading in the government building and that he was there, waiting nervously in a bare room, ready to be examined. The way Mum tells it, it was just a routine appointment; she saw all she needed to see, recommended him for flaying and that was that. But Dad’s version is different.
Dad would say that Mum came in, all frowns and paperwork. She didn’t look at his face, just at his skin, and all the time Dad was trying to talk to her. Mum, ever the professional, ignored him and kept reading, making notes as she did so. She made him turn around so she could read his back, and the next thing Dad knew, she was weeping with la
ughter, completely helpless, tears running down her face as she covered her mouth and laughed and laughed and laughed. Eventually someone knocked on the door to see if Mum was all right, took one look at Dad and ran off, only to return a moment later with some underpants for him to wear, scolding him: “You’re not meant to take everything off!” Eventually, once Dad was a little more clothed, Mum calmed down enough to continue the assessment, letting out the odd giggle and apologizing for her impropriety.
When Dad told the rest of the story Mum would nod and smile; they had become friends that day and had fallen in love soon after, and although Mum’s parents disapproved of the match, they married a year later.
It was only when I got older that I really thought about the story and, well, no one wants to think about their parents naked. Utterly mortified, I never asked for the story after that. Now I would do anything to hear it, just to listen to his voice again.
When I wake the next morning, I wonder if my conversation with Oscar was all some strange anxiety dream. I wish it had been.
I go down to the kitchen early, shivering in my nightclothes. Mum is up already, or maybe she never slept. Of course, she knew it all. When I told her about Connor Drew last night, she cried. For the first time since this all happened I feel like I’ve seen a wave of uncertainty, a little chink in her resolve.
Now, this morning, she comes to me and clings to me and I break her grip on my hand as gently as I can and reach to get a mug.
“I’m happy you know the truth, Leora.” Her eyes follow me anxiously. “Did this boy – Oscar? – did he say anything else? Connor hasn’t … hasn’t let anything slip has he?”
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