Beneath the Skin

by Sandra Ireland

  ‘Tell me.’ She moved forward and gripped his arm. ‘Tell me what you’re doing with a rope.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me, or I’m calling the police.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I’m a single mother with a vulnerable child and a lodger with a rope. What would you expect me to do?’

  ‘Oh, I’m still just the lodger, am I?’ He slid into a chair. ‘Even after last night, I’m just the lodger.’

  ‘Let’s not even go there.’

  He recognised her obstinate look, the closed-down mouth that said, I’m not going to discuss that. And anyway, he couldn’t think how to start the conversation he wanted to have. It was special. You’re special.

  ‘If you can’t tell me . . . if you don’t trust me enough to tell me, then you need to go,’ she said finally. ‘Just go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, and it was the truth. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  39

  ‘I tried to end it. All this stuff kept coming up, flashbacks, panic attacks. I wanted to make it stop. The things I’ve seen – I can never un-see them. I can’t outrun what happened. I can’t drown it in booze. When I got back home from Afghan . . . it was worse, somehow. Out on the frontline, you’re doing something. You’re being somebody. Back home I was just a guy who lived next to a guy who’d bought it in the desert.’

  ‘Your friend was killed out there?’ Mouse had sat back down on the bed, head bowed. She wasn’t making a fuss, like his mam used to do when he talked like this. She was just listening. The old rope lay coiled, inches from her bare leg, and she’d been giving it the eye, like it was a living thing and she didn’t want it creeping too close. She cocked her head up at him when he mentioned Tom, and he realised he’d never told her about his best mate, even though he’d mentioned him to William, that day he’d picked him up from school.

  It was as if sharing Tom might lessen the pain, when all he wanted to do was hold on to it. The pain was all he had left of Tom, of the men they both had been. He slumped down on the couch, sucked in a ragged breath.

  ‘Yeah, Tom was my mate. We grew up together. The Three Musketeers – Tom, Steven and me. Used to get in a lot of scrapes, believe me.’ Glancing up, he shared the ghost of a smile with her. ‘We enlisted together, went through basic, got posted to Afghan. He bought it on our second tour. Lost his legs. Died as they were evacuating him.’

  Suddenly she was on the couch beside him, and her hand found his. It was a tiny gesture, but he squeezed her fingers until she flinched.

  ‘Did he have a family?’

  ‘A wife, Sara. Two little kids, and his mam and dad, of course. They still live next door to my folks. It’s hard to see them . . . really hard.’

  ‘Tell me about the rope.’ Her voice was gentle, coaxing.

  He glanced at the bed. ‘It’s my mam’s washing line. Been tied to a tree since Adam was a lad, but one day I cut it down. Made a noose.’

  ‘Oh Walt . . .’ She stroked the back of his hand.

  ‘It’s okay, I didn’t make a good job of it – obviously!’ He tried to turn it into a joke, but it sounded hollow. He swallowed. ‘Steven found me, cut me down. They carted me off to the hospital, but it’s hard to patch up something you can’t see. My family were gutted, but I came out all the more determined to finish the job. I just didn’t want them – me mam – to have to witness it. So I took off. Left a note. Left my wallet and my phone. I camped in the hills for a while. I don’t remember how long. I packed the rope in my Bergen. It was my safety valve, a constant reminder that if things got too bad, I had a way out.’ It seemed like brutal logic when he said it out loud. He was scared to look at Mouse. Just when she’d made him feel good on the inside, it was all starting to come apart. She’d been right. What normal person carries around a rope?

  Suddenly William’s voice piped up from behind them. ‘You should just get rid of it, Walt.’

  How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?

  Mouse jumped to her feet, still in just a T-shirt and knickers. She grabbed her jeans from the back of a chair. ‘Didn’t I tell you to get dressed?’

  ‘I am dressed.’ William looked offended. ‘Don’t you think Walt should just dump the rope?’

  ‘I think . . . I think that’s Walt’s decision.’ Fully dressed, she tried to steer the kid from the room. She paused in the doorway, but the light coming in behind her made it hard to read her expression. ‘Come on, let’s get some breakfast. I think . . . I think Walt has some choices to make.’

  He let them leave before getting up slowly from the chair. She was right. He could choose to let this destroy him. Or not. He looked at the rope, nestling in the flowery duvet, and the rope looked at him.

  He made a decision.

  40

  Ur not the same guy any more.

  The final break-up is played out in text messages. He stares at his phone, not knowing what to reply. The truth hurts. Jo has always been truthful. That’s what he loved about her. Loves.

  We need a break.

  It was the best he could do. Wasn’t that the modern way, to have a break? There’d been two days of radio silence after the station incident followed by a bleak meeting over coffee in a shopping mall. Nothing had been resolved and they’d parted awkwardly, chairs scraping back with a noise that scratched his heart. And now the texts.

  Yeah. Get help Walt.

  I will. I am.

  Text me when ur fixed.

  He is laughing at that, and the laugh comes out silently, like a dry sob. It comes from somewhere deep down. He’d thought all the raw, hurt parts had been exposed with the therapy, with all the help he’d been getting, but there’s always more to discover, always something untapped, a fresh ache.

  He decides that he will never be fixed enough for Jo.

  41

  They were both sitting at the kitchen table when he came down. William was ploughing his way through a bowl of cereal, Mouse buttering toast at the kitchen counter. Walt’s heart opened painfully. Could he allow himself to believe that he was a part of this? William looked up and smiled, cheeks bulging like a hamster.

  ‘Walt, can you help me build a Lego train today? After school?’

  Walt made a noncommittal noise, looking to Mouse for approval; she usually had some excuse ready, some barrier to hand that he could never hope to get over. Now, she placed the plate of toast on the table between them and gave him a look he couldn’t fathom.

  ‘That depends.’

  His eyebrow shot up. ‘On what?’

  ‘On how good you are with Lego!’

  She shot him a grin and whirled away, back to the sink, picking up her cloth, wiping away crumbs. She was humming to herself. Smiling, he pulled out a chair and plonked himself down.

  ‘I’ll have you know I’ve served my time at the Lego yard.’

  ‘Really?’ William’s eyes grew round as saucers.

  ‘Oh aye. I’ve built a pirate ship and the Battlestar Galactica. I’m no novice.’

  The kid looked suspicious. ‘Who did you build them for?’

  ‘My niece and nephew.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Ooh . . . bit younger than you.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Ella and Jack.’

  ‘Where do they . . .’

  ‘William, eat your breakfast. There’ll be time to talk later,’ said Mouse. She looked pointedly at Walt and placed a mug of tea in front of him. ‘Thanks for the tea this morning, by the way.’

  He thought of the two mugs, stone cold and abandoned on her bedside table, and caught her eye. Something shivered between them.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘You’ll get tea in bed tomorrow morning.’

  Her smile made something spike inside him. William was talking but he couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying.

  ‘. . . and I always eat Maltesers when I’m building Lego.’

  Walt’s attention settled ba
ck on the boy. ‘You mean you want me to provide the Maltesers?’

  The kid nodded, his spoon in his mouth.

  Walt smiled. ‘It’s a deal. But there’s just one thing I have to do first.’

  His hands were shaking so violently, he let Mouse dial the number. It was the only number he knew by heart, and he dictated it to her. She handed him the receiver, squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘Mam! It’s me . . .’ He heard his own breathing in the mouthpiece, scared and shallow.

  ‘Robert?’ It was a whisper he’d barely caught. His grip tightened on the phone and something swelled in his upper chest.

  ‘Aye, it’s me, Mam.’

  ‘Oh my God! We’ve been so worried, son! Here’s your dad. Pete? Pete!’ Her voice rose to a shout and he winced. ‘It’s our Robert! Steven’s here as well. We’re minding the bairns and he’s just back from . . . What? It’s Robert!’

  A muffled handover, and Steven’s voice came on the line, his accent as rich and broad as it had been when they were lads, before he went off to college. ‘Ee, Robert! Where aya, man? We’ve been worried sick!’

  Walt tried to smile but his mouth wouldn’t stretch. ‘Steven, I’m that sorry, man. I wanted to get in touch but . . .’

  His mother’s voice was hectoring in the background. Is he all right? Ask him if he’s all right. Tell him we had to call the police.

  ‘Ee, man, divvent worry. Where are ya? Am coming to get ya.’

  We filed a missing persons. Tell him! It was on the news.

  ‘No. No. I’m in Edinburgh. I’m fine, I’m just . . .’

  The voice on the other end was firm. ‘Stay where you are. I can be in Edinburgh by . . .’

  ‘No, Steve.’ Equally firm. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’m all right. Honestly, I’m all right.’

  He put the receiver down. His heart was thumping and the swelling feeling in his chest hurt.

  I’m all right.

  42

  William was sitting on his bed with about eight boxes of Lego at his feet. Of the other boxes – the red box and the black box and the rest – there was no sign. This felt healthy. They were in the top tier of the doll’s house, so cramped it was as if the walls had been squeezed together after the house was built. Walt chose a small wooden stool, painted with an image of the sun, and sat down carefully.

  ‘I always knew the sun shone out of my arse,’ he quipped.

  ‘My mum wouldn’t like you talking like that.’

  Walt picked up a Lego box and examined the picture. Some kind of Mad Max automobile piloted by chubby yellow men with boot-black hair. One of them had a moustache and looked like a Colombian drug lord.

  ‘So where’s the train? Bring it on.’

  William put his head to one side. ‘Are you really going to help me with this?’

  ‘Sure. I said I would.’

  William’s wardrobe door was a collage of frayed stickers, photographs and drawings. Miles of Sellotape glistened by the light of a forty-watt bulb. The one tiny window was pretty useless; too high up to provide an outlook, too poky to illuminate the room naturally. There was a daubed painting of a horse sitting on a rocket; another one of two females, a baby and several cats. A colour photograph of a toddler on a beach caught Walt’s eye.

  ‘Is that you? Which beach was that?’

  William nodded slowly. ‘I was three then, so I don’t remember.’

  The idea of a family holiday, of the baby William making sand pies and eating ice lollies seemed bizarre, like imagining the Addams Family on Blackpool Pier. Did Auntie Alys take Hector the stuffed cat with her, wrapped in a bath towel? He tried to visualise Mouse in a bikini; a shiny, smiling Mouse with a teak suntan and a flower in her hair. A delicious frisson ran through his body.

  ‘Kid, I’m going to be around for a while. Bring on the Lego train.’

  ‘But you were going to leave, weren’t you, the day Granddad went missing? I saw your bag stuck behind Shackleton.’

  ‘You knew I was planning to leave?’

  The kid nodded. He was chewing his bottom lip, the way he did when he was upset.

  ‘How? It was a spur of the moment thing.’

  ‘I went through your bag.’

  ‘No shit.’ Walt tried to hide his amusement.

  ‘I just wanted to find out more about you. That’s when I saw the rope for the first time and I thought . . . Well, I watch the films they put on in the afternoon. There’s always a man like you in them.’ William had been talking to some spot on the carpet. Now he looked up, catching Walt’s eye. ‘There’s always a man who doesn’t stick around for long.’

  Walt’s heart contracted painfully. He tried a little humour. ‘You think I’m Clint Eastwood? Make my day, punk!’ He stuck out his jaw and stroked the stubble, but the joke fell flat.

  ‘They’re usually robbers.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Or murderers.’

  Walt narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s get back to the Lego. Trust me, kid. I’m going nowhere and I’m not planning to do anything bad. Not even to myself.’ The declaration was oddly calming.

  William’s face broke into a smile, and he upended one of the boxes. Coloured bricks spilled out across the floor. Walt took a deep breath and picked up the instruction leaflet.

  Building the train was more complicated than Walt had thought and after ten minutes he was dying for a fag. He persevered though, because the kid was obviously totally into it, correcting his mistakes and singing some funny little song.

  ‘You never got me Maltesers,’ William said eventually.

  Walt perked up. ‘Neither I did. I’ll away out and get them now.’ He got stiffly to his feet, brushing Lego pieces from his clothes.

  ‘Walt . . .’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘You know how I showed you my box collection?’

  ‘The colour-coordinated one, aye.’

  ‘Well, you know the black box?’

  ‘I do. I remember the black box.’

  ‘And I had those old photos in it . . .’

  ‘The ones of your granddad and uncle . . .’ Walt’s voice tailed off. It felt a bit like Voldemort – he who must not be named.

  William nodded. ‘Well, when you were away finding Granddad, Aunt Alys raided my room and took all the pictures.’

  Walt looked at him sharply. ‘Really?’

  The kid nodded. His eyes were full and watery, threatening tears. ‘She took them. She said if I told anyone about Uncle Coby she would . . .’ He faltered. ‘If I told anyone, she’d take me down to the basement and stuff me and put me in a glass case next to the kittens.’

  Walt was shocked. ‘Kid, this is serious stuff. I don’t think Alys is . . .’ He searched for a word that wouldn’t freak William out, although having your auntie threaten to practise taxidermy on you was about as freaky as it got. ‘Reliable. She isn’t reliable.’

  ‘She’s crazy.’

  ‘We’re all crazy. It depends how far you take it.’

  ‘I know you can stuff humans. I saw it on the telly.’

  ‘You watch far too much telly.’

  ‘There’s a college in London and the head guy asked to be stuffed in his will.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Am not.’ William shook his head. His bottom lip looked a bit wobbly. ‘They’ve got him in a cabinet and they show him to visitors. They took out his organs and stuffed him with straw and wool and lavender. The head went wrong though, so they had to make a wax head.’

  ‘Ugh, that’s gross.’ Walt felt himself shudder.

  ‘True, though.’

  ‘Whatever. She won’t touch you. And anyway, why didn’t you tell your mam?’

  William was definitely crying now, in an angry boy way, with lots of sniffing, the tears swiped away before they could fall. ‘Because she wouldn’t believe me. She’s afraid of upsetting Alys.’ Sniff. ‘And she won’t talk about Uncle Coby.’

  She talked to me. Walt sunk his head to his chest for a mom
ent, pressing the heel of his hands against his eyes. The darkness cooled and sparked behind his lids. He sat upright, flexed his shoulders as if trying to shift a great weight. ‘What do you know about Uncle Coby?’

  William shrugged uncertainly. ‘Nothing, really. But I’m sure there’s somebody in the house.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I keep thinking I hear things. Doors opening. I think someone comes into my room at night.’

  Walt’s heart began to speed up. ‘It’s an old house. Things creak and stuff doesn’t always work. Look at my door catch. How many times has that bad boy woken me up in the night?’

  The kid had got himself into a spin and he wasn’t going to be coaxed out of it. The half-built train lay forgotten on the carpet. ‘And I keep smelling onions.’

  ‘That’s Mrs Petrauska and her funny stew!’

  ‘No.’ William shook his head. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘I dunno what to say, kid. There’s no one around, and anyway, I’m here now. How about I go and get us some Maltesers?’ And some much-needed fags, he thought. William nodded and Walt ruffled his hair. ‘Good lad. See how much of that train you can build before I come back.’

  He turned to go. William got up suddenly, scattering Lego in his wake. ‘Wait . . . I wanted to give you this.’

  He dropped something into Walt’s outstretched palm. It was the overcoat button, with the glinting eagle.

  ‘Thanks, son.’

  ‘You can keep it, if you promise me something.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Get rid of the rope.’

  Walt chucked his mother’s washing line into someone else’s bin on his way to the newsagent. It felt good. Liberating.

  He thought about his mother, though, and the pang bit deep. She’d be pleased, wouldn’t she? To think he’d taken up with a nice girl. That’s what she’d always wanted, someone kind to settle him down. Mouse would get on well with his Dad, too, and Steven. Give him a bit more time and he would ring them again, arrange to meet up. When he was ready. As he walked, he imagined William sharing his toys with Ella and Jack, and it was so alien to his normal thoughts that he started chuckling, right there in the street; an old lady tutted at him like he’d broken some bylaw. He would phone them as soon as he got back. He would make contact again. He felt ready.