Original Skin

by David Mark

  On the other side of the patio, two couples are chatting animatedly about the rising cost of fuel. The tall, dark-haired man who arrived with a younger, bespectacled girl in a PVC catsuit and red knitted cardigan is complaining that it cost him eight pounds more to fill up the car than it did the last time they made the drive over here from their home in Morecambe Bay. The younger, stockier man he is talking to looks genuinely interested. He is complaining that he just spent twenty thousand pounds on a new car, but that it has no cup holder, and beeps at him when he doesn’t wear his seat belt. It is a pleasant conversation, and neither of the men seems to mind that the younger chap is wearing an unfastened white dressing gown and wellies.

  Later they will pair up and team up. They will drink and smoke and giggle and splash in the hot tub that sits at the bottom of the far field, next to a cheap imitation Hawaiian bar.

  Those brave enough will stride naked to the small stream with its halfhearted waterfall that bisects the apple orchard half a mile from the house, where Suzie and Simon once sat and smoked a joint with a gay couple from Leeds.

  “Everybody, this is Jarod and Melissa. Say hello.”

  Big Dunc, the home owner and husband of the birthday girl, Christine, is introducing two newcomers to the rest of the group. Jarod is no more than twenty-five years old. He has short blond hair and an unremarkably pleasing face. He is wearing a black muscle vest that shows a slim but well-defined physique, and looks happy, if slightly ill at ease.

  The lady is older. Larger. Expensive and imposing. Black hair, cut short. She could be his mum, were it not for the fact she is holding his hand.

  “Just the one single,” says Christine, smiling and pointing at Suzie. “Plenty of couples to pick from soon enough. We’re really pleased you could join us. Now can I get you a drink?”

  Suzie takes a sip from her glass as the newcomers look at her. Jarod smiles. Melissa does, too, but it comes a moment later and is not so wide.

  “Where do we put our stuff?” asks Jarod of the lady in the waxed jacket. He gestures at his sleeping roll and overnight bag.

  “Big Dunc will sort all that,” she says. “Just leave it there for now. You can trust everybody. There’s nobody comes up unless they’re here for this, so there’s never any thefts.”

  Jarod smiles a thank-you. The woman in the parka, who Suzie seems to think might well be called Karen, gives the man a once-over with her eyes. She looks at her partner and they share a grin.

  “First time here?” she asks the newcomers.

  “Yeah, thought we’d try,” says Jarod. “Game for anything, us.”

  “Couple are you? Or just a swinging couple?”

  Melissa turns to her. “We’re just here to play,” she says, and there is something in her voice that suggests no further questions are welcome. Those present respect her wishes. Such gatherings are based on trust. All participants in these parties have told some lie or another about where they are going. Some are with playmates they met on the Internet. Others lead completely separate lives with other partners and spouses, only coming together with their “swinging partner” for such parties and club nights as these. And others are here with their husbands and wives, keeping their relationships fresh and exciting by fucking strangers, and terrified at the prospect of their kids finding out what Mummy and Daddy were up to when they went away for the weekend.

  Suzie feels a bit of a spare part. She had not felt in the mood to be chauffeured by J & J, and so had driven here on her own. If they turn up later, she will apologize and if need be make it up to them. She is resisting the urge to drink alcohol so she can drive herself home if and when she feels like it, but is beginning to feel an eagerness to claim a glass of wine.

  She has not switched on her phone yet. Does not know if Anthony has called. Has vague memories of him putting her in a taxi and sending her home, but the thought of switching on her phone and sifting through the last four days of messages and voice mails fills her with dread. She’s thinking of him though. Remembering the puzzled little smile with which he listened to her ramblings. The tenderness with which he had held her in the street as she wept in his arms. The way he stood his corner in the bank and saved her with his white-knight generosity.

  “Here.”

  Suzie has been staring across the flat, green fields and trying to work out if she can see Lincoln Minster in the distance, and is startled when Melissa places a bottle of beer in her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she says nervously, taking the drink. “Miles away.”

  Melissa looks at her. There is an intensity to her gaze. “I like your mask,” she says. “That would have been a good idea. Do people usually wear them?”

  “Only if they want to,” says Suzie, absentmindedly sipping the beer that she had not asked for but is grateful to receive. “It’s not about secrecy. Everybody knows everybody.”

  “Yes?”

  Suzie thinks about it. “Well, no. I guess everybody trusts everybody.”

  “These people know you?”

  “They know my face.”

  Melissa gives her first real smile. “I bet they know more than that.”

  Suzie takes another drink, and points with the bottle at where Jarod is talking to another couple of newcomers about the difficulty he had in getting this location to show up on the GPS. “Jarod, was it? Interesting name.”

  Melissa shrugs, as if to suggest that not much about Jarod interests her at this moment. Suzie feels vaguely uncomfortable under the older, larger woman’s stare. She has played this game before, of course. She has experimented time and again. She did not think she was averse to doing so again tonight, but at present there are no stirrings of desire within her. She is just enjoying looking across the fields and not really existing for a while. The events of the week are a mound of cold coins in her gut. She feels weighted down and toxic. She fancies she can taste blood when she swallows. She is existing in moments of exhilaration and numbness, unwilling to let any of her thoughts develop into questions. She knows she cannot ignore what happened. Knows that she left a man to die. Knows, too, that she feels somehow fearful for her own safety. But she cannot distinguish this feeling from the loneliness and solitude that have been constant since Simon died. More than anything, her thoughts keep returning to Anthony. It has been a long time since she had these feelings. Is feeling the lovely terror of wondering if somebody likes her . . .

  “You’ve polished that off,” says Melissa, pointing to Suzie’s empty bottle. “I’ll get you a proper drink.”

  Suzie lifts her mask, then drops it again. She likes being half hidden like this. She readjusts her dress. Exposes the lilies inked on her skin.

  “Hi,” comes a voice, close enough to her ear to goose-pimple her skin.

  She turns. Sees Jarod staring into her eyes, his own a piercing green.

  “Beautiful ink,” he says, tracing a hand over the design. His touch makes her tremble.

  “Thank you.” Her voice catches. In her throat.

  A half smile on the young man’s face; his eyes on her tattooed skin.

  “I feel like I’ve been looking for you.”

  • • •

  NIGHTTIME. A shapeless landscape in northern Lincolnshire; green fields and neatly tended apple trees. Two figures laughing: stick drawings etched in tar.

  “Are they okay with this?”

  “Of course,” says Suzie, laughing. “They’re okay with everything.”

  This is a pleasant drunkenness. Suzie does not feel sick, and the dizziness is that of a carousel rather than a fairground waltzer. She feels light. Not content, but happy enough with this sensation of giddiness.

  “You cold?”

  “I’ll live.”

  The night sky is the color of bruised fruit, but remains cloudless, and though the air is cold and close, the wind has dropped.

  Both Suzie an
d Jarod are wearing dressing gowns over naked skin. Until a few moments ago they had been drinking wine in the hot tub with a married couple who had driven up from Reading, and a large Asian man with an extreme amount of body hair whom nobody seemed to know.

  Suzie has been drinking for seven hours. She has long since given up the notion of going home. Here, intoxicated, giggly, excited, she can see nothing to rush home for. Cannot bear the thought of the empty flat. Shudders at the thought of sitting at her kitchen table, trying to think of something wholesome to do, before giving in and searching dating sites and porn channels for something that will divert her attention from the fact that somebody tried to kill her, and that her best friend took his own life . . .

  “Down here,” she says, holding open an old wooden gate and pointing to the six stepping-stones that lead to the river.

  “Pretty,” says Jarod, touching her hip with his palm. He takes the lead and follows the sound of tumbling water.

  “Anybody there?”

  He and Suzie pull expectant faces as they listen for answers, then giggle at the silliness of it. Suzie feels her insides warming. Enjoys herself, throwing herself into silly games with this young, attractive, playful man. Imagines, for the smallest of moments, that the past few months have not happened. That she is giggling with Simon and that death has not touched her life.

  “Is it deep?”

  The stream is at its widest point here, beneath the miniature waterfall. It is perhaps six feet across. The riverbed is silt and stone, and sandbanks slope upward to soft, damp grass.

  “Up to your waist,” says Suzie, cautiously tiptoeing to the water’s edge. She is cold—the water from the hot tub turned icy cold on her flesh during their walk across the fields.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” says Jarod, and laughs. He leans in and gives Suzie a light kiss on the cheek. It is friendly and not sexual. They may have been naked in the hot tub together, but there has been no suggestion so far of anything happening besides giggles and laughter. They have enjoyed each other’s company. They are the youngest people here. Have laughed themselves drunk at each other’s gently barbed comments about the other guests. Have talked football and music, stayed away from anything that matters.

  “Do you think she saw us?” asks Jarod, peering into the darkness. “She’s like a bloodhound.”

  Melissa, the lady he came with, has not been a popular party guest. She has barely taken her eyes off Jarod or Suzie all day, and anybody who has approached her with an offer of finding a private room or a place to get to know each other better has been rewarded with an icy stare. Suzie does not want to know the dynamics of her new friend’s relationship with the older lady, but fancies it is not destined for marriage and kids.

  “Ooh, it’s freezing!” Suzie has dipped a toe in the water. She winces. Takes her glasses off and lays them on the bank. She pulls up the hem of her borrowed dressing gown and steps, ankle deep, into the water.

  “I’m game if you are,” says Jarod. He doesn’t look particularly game. In truth, he suddenly looks cold and reluctant.

  “It was your idea,” says Suzie, and her laugh rings out, the only sound besides the tumbling water.

  “How did we end up here?” asks Jarod thoughtfully. He appears to be trying to distract Suzie from making him good on his skinny-dipping promise.

  “You said you wanted a plunge pool. You said you were too hot in the hot tub. Which you would be. That’s its job . . .”

  “No, here,” he says, casting an arm around. “What did you say you were? Twenty-six? I’m twenty-two. They’re all, like, old.”

  Suzie frowns at him. “They’re just people having fun,” she says. “You’re not going to get Angelina Jolie at a place like this.” She pauses. “You might, actually. She seems into all sorts.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be like this.”

  Suzie pouts. “You’re not having fun?”

  Jarod waves in the direction of the house. “We’re not a couple,” he says a little drowsily. “We’ve done it a few times. Met her on the Internet and it turns out she lives near me. I don’t fancy her or anything. I don’t even know how we ended up in bed.”

  Suzie is shivering now, up to her knees in the water, not really listening.

  “This is her fantasy,” he says. “She says she wants to see me do it to somebody else.”

  Suzie shrugs. “She doesn’t seem like she wants to.”

  Jarod nods enthusiastically. “I’m not really called Jarod, by the way. I’m Luke. I just liked the name Jarod.”

  Suzie smiles. “I’m really called Suzie. Some people call me Blossoms.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Thanks. Jarod is a good name. You’re more a Jarod than a Luke.”

  They smile at each other, half drunk, half happy, here, knee-deep in a silted-up stream.

  “Fancy getting soaked?” asks Jarod, looking at the water.

  Suzie is not sure now. She knows it will be exhilarating to plunge into the water, but it suddenly seems too cold. Too dark, even. Her thoughts turn to Simon before she can stop them. To the last time she threw herself into this water, hand in hand with her best friend.

  “Next time,” she says, and begins to inch her way back to the bank.

  Above the sound of the falling water she hears voices. She looks up the slight slope to see a naked couple and the Asian man in a giant bath towel appear at the top of the stepping-stones.

  “Hi,” shouts Jarod, to alert the newcomers. “Water’s lovely.”

  The trio of fellow bathers wave and laugh. “Is it freezing?” comes a woman’s voice.

  “Too cold for us,” says Jarod.

  They pass one another, awkwardly, wet and naked, on the stepping-stones. Suzie gets a whiff of beer and marijuana. The fat Asian man gives her a smile that is guileless and innocent. She wonders if he has turned up here by mistake.

  Suzie and Jarod begin to walk back toward the house. They are barefoot and the wet grass feels nice on their feet. Behind them, they can hear fading shrieks of alarm and excitement as the three bathers enter the pool.

  “Do you think Melissa is making friends?” asks Suzie quietly as they pass under the low-hanging branches of an apple tree. She lets the leaves play through her fingers.

  “Doubt it,” says Jarod, with a laugh. “Here, did you—?”

  He does not get to finish his sentence.

  Suzie turns at a sudden movement in time to see Jarod falling to his knees. He is crumpling as if demolished from beneath. Even in this darkness, she can see the sudden explosion of crimson that colors his expressionless face as he folds in on himself.

  Suzie begins to shriek, but finds no words. She spins, her world chaos and movement, darkness and noise, and then there is a hand in her hair and she is being pushed to the ground.

  Her face is in the grass, her mouth full of dirt. There is pressure on her back, now. Strong arms upon her shoulders, a fist in her hair.

  She feels a frenzied tugging at her clothing and, for a moment, she knows what will happen. Knows she is to be raped. Knows that without Simon to protect her, her fears are coming true . . .

  She is yanked back and down again as the dressing-gown belt is tugged free. Suzie tries to throw elbows backward, to claw at the pressure upon her, but she is suddenly aware of her weakness, her glasses pressed painfully into her face, the sudden taste of blood in her mouth as she mashes her teeth on her tongue.

  Now the belt is free. Her bare stomach and breasts are pressed into the grass. There is more dirt on her tongue.

  A hard yank, her hair tearing at the roots, and now the belt is around her throat: a hissing sound fighting the blood in her ears as her neck is squeezed shut.

  Simon. Please. Simon . . .

  “What the fuck?”

  A chorus of shouts. Sudden protests.

&nb
sp; “Who . . . ? Get off, you bastard.”

  The pressure suddenly loosens. She can breathe. She can breathe!

  “Come here, you fucker . . .”

  “Stop!”

  Suzie: coughing up blood and earth, gasping for breath, trying to turn herself. To see who did this to her. To see who it is that is trying to end her life.

  Tears in her eyes. Blood streaking her face.

  Suddenly feeling lighter than air. Flying. Rising high: a half-drunk rapture.

  Being picked up in the arms of a fat Asian man. Her face pressed into a wet, hairy chest. Heart thudding, masking the sound of running footsteps, and distant shouts . . .

  SUNDAY, MIDMORNING.

  A LEG OF LAMB roasting in the oven and the smell of garlicky meat and fat filling this small two-bedroom house.

  McAvoy looks at his wife. She is wearing a purple velour tracksuit top and shorts. She has taken her makeup off, and her dark, tanned skin looks kissably soft in the half-light of the bedroom, illuminated only by the ghost-shaped lamp that sits on Fin’s chest of drawers.

  “You happy, darling?”

  Roisin gives her husband a huge grin. Then playfully shouts, “Catch,” and pretends to throw him their daughter. He adopts a rugby player’s stance, and they share a laugh together over his instinctive response.

  “Are we going to watch the film now?” asks Fin.

  The lad had been upstairs, playing with his toys, when he had asked if his sister could come and join him. Roisin had taken Lilah up and told him he had to play nicely and not let her near the toys that could come to bits. Ten minutes later Fin had shouted for his parents and told them his sister had given a noise that was a definite laugh. His parents had needed proof, and set about putting on a comedy routine. Lilah had not responded to silly voices or Roisin’s jumping jacks, but had started showing signs of mirth when McAvoy plucked his wife out of the air and threw her on the bed.