Beneath the Skin

by Sandra Ireland

  But what did he care? It was their shit. He had enough of his own, and any day now he was going to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Mouse made the appropriate phone calls and within fifteen minutes the home manager herself rolled up in a new Audi. She had a nurse with her, all starchy and pressed. Walt almost expected them to produce a hypodermic needle like in a bad horror film.

  The fight had gone out of the poor old boy. He stood up when commanded, docile as a sheepdog, with Mouse hanging onto his arm. Mrs Petrauska was fussing around him with the coat; when it slipped off his narrow shoulders she folded it neatly and laid it over the back of one of the chairs.

  ‘You did give us a fright, Mr Morrison,’ the manager cooed. Walt noticed that she didn’t handle him herself, just stood back and observed. She was itching to write things down, he could tell. Any morsel of conversation that might exonerate her from blame.

  ‘The police have now been stood down, Maura,’ she said, as if this was a full-scale terrorist attack, ‘though I expect they will have questions as to where he was, who found him, et cetera.’

  ‘I expect so.’ Mouse remained tight-lipped. They shuffled into the hall.

  ‘We’re going to take you back with us, Mr Morrison. In the car,’ she said loudly into his face.

  ‘Coby,’ said the man. No one let on he’d spoken, except William, who caught Walt’s eye. There was a smudged look about his cheeks. The kid had definitely been crying.

  The old boy was loaded into the car. The nurse sat beside him in the back, like a prison escort.

  ‘Better that you don’t come.’ The manager tilted her head at Mouse, found an appropriate smile. ‘You can visit tomorrow, once we have him settled back into his routine.’

  Mouse nodded mutely. The manager got behind the wheel and strapped herself in. She waved as they drove off – relieved, perhaps, that there hadn’t been more of a fuss. In the back, the old man was leaning into the window, looking up at the sky. There was a lifetime of sorrow in his eyes, as if he’d lost all the good bits and couldn’t quite remember why he was sad.

  Mouse stood for a long time on the pavement, just watching the empty road.

  ‘Good,’ said Mrs Petrauska. ‘All is well. I will take myself home.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you so much,’ Mouse said.

  The woman stepped lightly up the steps to the dance studio, leaving Mouse and Walt together on the pavement. Mouse turned to him. She didn’t have to say anything. He held out his arms and they bumped into each other, and stood like that for a long time.

  37

  They sat close together on the green couch, so close he could feel the heat from her thigh, although she was careful to keep from touching him. Mouse’s body language had always been pretty spiky; even now she was drinking her wine with one arm cradling her abdomen and the elbow nearest him sticking out. They’d been quiet for too long, and when they did speak, they spoke together. She said, ‘Sorry this place stinks of cats,’ and he said, ‘It’s bloody freezing in here,’ and they both laughed and fell silent again.

  ‘We could go up to my room,’ she said eventually. ‘I mean, it’s not just a bedroom . . . It has more than a bed in it.’

  He nodded, amused by her embarrassment. ‘Sure. Sounds good.’ He picked up the bottle and they went out into the cool hall. He followed her up the stairs, admiring her hips, and telling himself not to. This was Maura. When she said come up to my room, it was not an invitation. He didn’t want to break the mood, but the mood was sort of broken anyway; a bit frayed. Maybe he needed to blow the mood right out of the water.

  ‘Your dad was out looking for Coby,’ he said.

  She turned around. ‘What?’

  ‘Coby. He kept saying the name Coby. He was saying it last time, when we were in the home and he was all agitated.’

  ‘Shit. Why didn’t you say?’ She resumed climbing, her feet heavy on the stairs.

  ‘Who’s Coby?’

  We don’t talk about Uncle Coby. A part of him didn’t want to know, the part that should have been far away from here. They passed his door and crossed to the attic stair; the treads were narrow, peeking through the carpet, and the risers were plain varnished wood instead of polished teak. The banister gave slightly under his weight. At the top, he stood on a narrow landing and contemplated two white-glossed doors. He’d only been up here once, that night he’d seen William to bed. He smiled slightly at the hand-crayoned sign tacked to the left hand door: ‘William’s Den – Privat. Keep Owt.’

  Mouse pushed open the other door. ‘Come in,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you.’

  The room was a grown-up bedsit. An estate agent might have called it a ‘studio’, given the porthole window in the peak of the roof. No doubt it diffused a very classy, architectural daylight, but now it was a black circle of night. This was another window he hadn’t noticed. He made a mental note to stand on the pavement the next day and look up.

  Mouse had made an effort to make the place warm and cosy with pale lilac walls and yellow prints. There was a white sheepskin on the floor and a saggy couch draped in an ethnic blanket. A small coffee table bore a pile of paperbacks, a coffee mug and one of those room refresher candles in bright pink. He spotted a single bed in the corner, messy and unmade, and a pair of knickers on the floor, which she rushed to pick up and bundled into a laundry basket. He wondered whether her frantic cleaning was confined to Alys’s bit of the house. Maybe Mouse could relax here, off her guard. He preferred the off-guard version.

  Walt placed the bottle and the glasses on the nearest surface. He was regretting this now, wondering why he’d sabotaged himself. Human contact – raw, physical, needy – would have settled like a quilt round that guilty boulder in his belly. He had a feeling that whatever he was going to hear instead would involve more guilt, more boulders.

  He didn’t speak, just unscrewed the bottle cap and splashed wine into the glasses. It was cheap plonk and not very chilled. He felt suddenly weary.

  They’d swapped one couch for another, but the space was smaller, more intimate. Mouse looked everywhere but at him, sipping her wine and staring into space. Her knees were pressed tightly together. If I touch her she’s going to jump out of her skin.

  ‘It’s too difficult to talk about,’ she said. ‘Too hard to put into words. It’s not a conversation I’ve had with anyone else.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s time,’ he replied.

  ‘Uncle Coby was – is – Dad’s brother. He came to live with us when I was about William’s age. I don’t know where he came from, or why he needed a place to stay. I don’t ever remember asking, or being told. He lived in a caravan in the orchard and he sort of fitted in with us, in a way. He spent a lot of time with Dad, messing about in the shed, doing whatever men do in sheds.’

  Walt smiled, remembering. ‘My dad turns wood in his.’ He wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say. Mouse’s expression clouded and she inched away from him, like she couldn’t get this out if he touched her.

  ‘One day, Mum said he was coming to stay in the house. It was too cold in the caravan, she said, and I remember getting really upset, saying he likes sleeping in the caravan . . . Mum made me help make up the bed for him in one of the spare rooms.’

  ‘No wrinkles in the sheet,’ Walt murmured. ‘Keep the skin in tip-top condition.’

  Mouse smiled in surprise, pleased he’d remembered.

  ‘I used to spy on him a lot. I was a curious kid, always hiding behind things, taking it all in.’

  ‘Bit like William.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose all kids are like that. Grown-ups don’t talk. You have to find things out for yourself. I found out more than I ever wanted to.’ She broke off abruptly, and swallowed. ‘He didn’t bother too much with me. Alys was the . . . favourite. I tried to tell Dad about it – but my parents, they didn’t want to know. They told me I was wicked, thinking like that. So Coby had the run of the place and when Alys was old enough to use a knife, he taught her taxider
my. That’s where she got it from, this passion.’

  ‘Obsession.’

  ‘Maybe. They spent hours out in the shed.’ She was gazing at her feet, mind far away, back in that castle. ‘I would watch him, Coby, traipsing about the place. He was a wiry little man, had lots of bushy hair that made his head look big, and these little bandy legs . . . Like one of those spanners with the big end and a small end.’

  ‘You’re not selling him to me.’

  ‘Oh, there’s more. I wanted . . . I used to wish Alys would turn the knife on Coby, and we’d all be free.’

  Her violence shook him. She clammed up, and he knew better than to keep the conversation going. He didn’t want to know any more. She shouldn’t be trusting him with her secrets.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I’m a crap date.’

  ‘This is a date?’

  She shot him a look. ‘It’s kind of the end of a date, isn’t it? The awkward end. At least I know you’re not going to call me, seeing as you don’t have a phone.’

  ‘Maura.’ He liked the way her real name felt on his tongue. He took her hand, locked his fingers with hers. ‘It’s late. I should probably go.’

  ‘Probably.’ She removed her hand, raised it to cup his face. She held his cheek like that, so gently, and he turned his face to lay his lips against her palm.

  ‘But I don’t want you to,’ she said. ‘Stay.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before,’ he said, and was shocked that he’d said it. She’d relaxed a bit against the cushions; her knees were still tense but her top half had a comfortable bow in it. She looked soft in the middle, pale pink top stretched over her belly and breasts. He laid his hand on her diaphragm, feeling it swell with each breath, the heat and the tautness under there. She started to say something, some smart remark, but when he looked at her, when their eyes caught, she didn’t say anything. She looked young, suddenly, and vulnerable, and he leaned in and kissed her, very gently. Her glass tilted and wine splashed on his hand and they both laughed, and she said sorry half a dozen times until he took the glass and kissed her again, like he really meant it. She wound her arms about his neck, like she really meant it too.

  At some point in the night, Mouse whispered, ‘You’d better not be here in the morning.’ They were in bed. She was hot and sticky against him, curled under his arm. For now, all the spikiness had gone from her. He liked to think he’d worn away some of her sharp edges.

  ‘Just in case William comes in. Did you hear me?’

  He realised he hadn’t replied. His arm tightened around her.

  ‘Ssh, it’s okay. I’ll get up early. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea.’

  She giggled, a soft purr near his heart. ‘I can’t remember the last time someone brought me tea in bed.’

  He thought about that. ‘I don’t remember the last time I did that either.’ He hugged her a bit closer. Tea in bed seemed suddenly more intimate than anything they’d done in the past few hours. And he was okay with that.

  38

  He stirred as the first light came creeping in through the porthole window. Trying hard to place himself, he lay rigid for a few seconds, before remembering what had taken place the night before. His left arm was dead – Mouse was lying heavily upon it, and had been for some time – but other than that, the usual aches, pains and nagging anxieties were curiously absent. A smile spread over his features. He felt fuzzy and elated, and even the act of reaching for his watch on the bedside table was transformed. He had to extricate himself gently from beneath Mouse, all sleep-warm and floppy. He stroked her hair and pressed his lips to her brow, almost hoping she’d wake up. He really wanted her to wake up. It was just after six, and he had no idea what time William normally got up. He’d promised he wouldn’t be there come morning. And, more importantly, he’d promised her tea.

  Scooting to the edge of the bed, he strapped on his prosthesis. He didn’t have much to offer, but tea was one thing he could do. Getting to his feet, he turned back briefly to the bed. Even asleep, Mouse looked happy. Joy bloomed in his chest like a soap bubble. He felt washed clean, and the feeling was so sudden, so unexpected, it made him catch his breath. He wandered slowly down the stairs, trying to take in this newness. He even caught himself whistling, which was absurd. When was the last time he’d done that? Chuckling softly, he paused on the last step, in the shadow of Shackleton. The bear reared up at him in the gloom, his fur the colour of pissed-on snow, eyes slightly crooked. Shackleton had a squint? Walt had never clocked that before.

  He made his way carefully towards the kitchen, noticing how the hall felt somehow odd. It took him right back to being a kid again, when you come back from holidays and the house feels cold and damp – has a distance about it. He remembered how his mam used to stand in the porch, sniffing, in case she’d forgotten to chuck out the milk, or the cloths had rebelled in her absence and gone sour. And here he was, sniffing, like his mam used to do. A house with a kid in it shouldn’t feel this way. He tried to recapture the soap bubble. It had felt so good, like nothing could hurt him again. He didn’t want to be hurt, and Maura and William . . . He knew he had to keep them safe.

  Still puzzling over this new direction his thoughts were taking, he opened the kitchen door. He could get another job, perhaps; find them all somewhere better to live. This house didn’t want him in it – he could sense its hostility. It wasn’t a good place to bring up a family. The thought of family made the bubble grow bigger, wider, higher. It swelled inside him, made his whole body smile.

  The kitchen was full of cats, or it felt that way. They’d just been fed and were sitting on surfaces meant for humans, preening and licking the backs of their thighs as only cats can. A heavy smell of cat food lingered in the air, and there was a presence, as if whoever had fed them wasn’t far away. The hairs on the back of Walt’s neck bristled. Had Alys been down this early to feed them? A quick glance at the table told him her place setting remained undisturbed, and yet when he touched the kettle it was warm. His face creased with concern, and he peered around the kitchen, not even sure what he was looking for.

  He didn’t want to find trouble. He wanted to be normal again. Being with Mouse had shown him that normal was still an option. Possibility shimmered all around him as he made the tea, adding extra milk to Mouse’s, because she liked it that way. He found some chocolate biscuits and arranged them on a plate, picturing her mock disapproval: chocolate for breakfast? He’d kiss her and tell her she was worth it.

  He was grinning like a prize fool as he climbed the stairs, taking care not to spill the tea, or let the biscuits slip from the plate. As he passed his bedroom door he noticed it was open, even though he could have sworn he’d closed it. Faulty catch again? He mounted the attic stairs. Mouse’s door was open too. Had he closed that? The light was on; he could hear voices. Something didn’t seem right and it caught at his heart.

  Mouse was awake, sitting up in bed with her hair all ruffled and her T-shirt slipping from one shoulder. William was perched at the end. There was something between them, something more than tension. There on the duvet was a black, ragged, horribly familiar shape. The rope. His rope. His mother’s washing line. Mouse looked up at him with such coldness he felt something shrivel inside him.

  ‘You have got some explaining to do.’ Even her voice was icy. She was formidable, her arms folded tightly across her abdomen as if she was hurting there, and way too calm, staring right into him.

  But when she spoke, it was to her son. ‘William, go and get dressed.’

  ‘But, Mum, I want . . .’

  ‘William!’

  ‘Can I have a chocolate biscuit?’

  Walt handed him the plate. The kid took one and scarpered. Walt placed the mugs and the biscuits carefully on the coffee table, as if he might need both hands to defend himself. This was crazy, after the night they’d had; her in bed and him standing like a lemon in the middle of the tiny space. He wanted to close the gap between them. He had a physica
l need to be beside her, to seize her shoulders, make her listen to him, but she was so brittle he thought she might crack into pieces like cinder toffee.

  ‘William found this rope,’ she said. Her voice was so sharp it hurt.

  ‘He didn’t find it; it wasn’t lost.’

  ‘What sort of person carries a rope around?’

  Mouse’s face swam in front of him, white and intense. She looked very afraid. The truth began to filter into his consciousness.

  ‘You think I . . .’

  ‘Tie up little boys?’

  They were both speaking together, jagged fragments that added up to something so unpalatable he started to laugh. The hollowness of it escaped Mouse; she propelled herself from the bed and slapped his face. Wincing at the sting of it, he grabbed her by the wrist before she could recoil. There were tears in her eyes, big, unshed crystals. His grip loosened, slid along the soft underside of her forearm, feeling the tension, imagining the blood pulsing beneath the skin.

  ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know why I carry a rope,’ he whispered. ‘But it’s definitely not what you think.’

  She dropped her eyes then; he was looking at the top of her head. Her hair sparked in the harsh overhead light. She muttered something that he didn’t quite catch. He thought she said, ‘I’m scared.’ That’s what she’d said in bed, and he’d kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her, recognising it somehow. He was scared too. What was passing between them, it was life-altering. There’d be no going back, and it was scary and exhilarating.

  ‘What’s past is past,’ he’d whispered then. ‘Forget about it now.’ And he’d made her forget, for a while. And now the bloody rope had been exhumed, a dark relic of a time he didn’t want to think about.

  I’m ashamed. That’s what she was saying. I’m ashamed I didn’t see you as a threat.

  He felt wounded and pulled away from her. There was no place to go, so he just stood, with his back to her and his face in his hands. Now she was remembering. She was seeing in her head all those things her parents had chosen not to see. He risked a glance at her: her face was stony, the only movement a fat tear sliding down her nose.