Shifting Skin

by Chris Simms

  ‘I’m sorry. It just seemed a bit dodgy to me, especially given the wink . . .’ He realised he’d slipped up in his eagerness to appease his partner.

  ‘Wink? What wink?’ Rick leaned forwards. Jon looked away, cursing himself. ‘Just something McCloughlin did.’

  ‘I don’t follow you. Just something McCloughlin did when?’ Jon sighed, realising he was cornered. ‘When McCloughlin told me I was being paired with you, he gave me this wink.’ Rick frowned and Jon knew he was turning over the implications of what such a signal could have meant. ‘As in suggesting something about me?’

  Jon sat back, wondering how often Rick had suffered with this kind of thing in the past. ‘I suppose so.’

  Anger shone in Rick’s eyes. ‘Word soon gets round, doesn’t it? Apart from you, I’ve told two people in the force that I’m gay. I thought I could trust them both.’

  Jon drank from his pint, considering whether to offer some insincere assurance that, career-wise, it didn’t make much difference. He decided to stay silent.

  After a few seconds Rick took a massive swig of his drink and breathed out. ‘Fuck him.’

  ‘Who? McCloughlin?’ Rick nodded.

  Jon clinked his glass against Rick’s. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Both men sat with their own thoughts, but this time the silence between them was relaxed. Jon traced his mind over their encounters with McCloughlin during the investigation so far. In retrospect it seemed obvious there was no agreement between Rick and their SIO. He realised McCloughlin’s bitter attitude toward him was, in turn, souring his own perception. He’d have to make an effort not to let it affect him.

  Still thinking about his partner, he said, ‘So when did you know you were gay?’

  ‘That old chestnut.’

  Jon wondered if the question had caused offence. But Rick didn’t seem bothered. ‘I’ve always known. It wasn’t like a bolt from the blue at eighteen.’

  Jon thought about this. ‘How do you mean always? You fancied men even as a little kid?’

  Rick toyed with his drink. ‘Did you fancy women even as a little kid?’

  ‘I don’t know. I remember watching Top of the Pops and getting pretty excited by Pan’s People’s dance routines.’

  Rick laughed. ‘Well, Brian Jackson doing press-ups on

  Superstars made more of an impression on me. But I didn’t

  consciously fancy him – it was just that he was more interesting, somehow.’

  ‘But how did you find it at school? Playgrounds can be pretty brutal places.’

  ‘Never a problem,’ Rick stated. ‘I’m not a screaming queen. In fact, if it wasn’t for this one girl, most people would never have guessed.’

  ‘A girl you turned down?’

  ‘Basically, yes. I confided in her, thinking we were mates. She went off and told her friends, so pretty soon I was rumbled.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘One particular bloke tried to turn things on me. I walked straight up to him and burst his nose. It’s the only punch I’ve ever had to throw. Luckily it was a beauty.’

  Jon smiled. ‘Sounds it. So no problems after that?’

  ‘None.’ Rick finished off his drink ‘Again?’

  Jon found himself reassessing another preconception about gay men. ‘When you started on the gin and Cokes I thought, here we go.’

  ‘Here we go?’

  ‘You know,’ Jon faltered. ‘Well, I thought, that’s a bit of a ladies’ drink. Then I thought, two of those and he’ll be all over the place. But fair play, you look more sober than me.’

  Rick grinned. ‘Think about it. Which thing more than any other drains people’s money, time and energy, ensuring they have to get up early every single day of the week?’

  Jon frowned. ‘I don’t know. Kids?’

  Rick clinked his glass against Jon’s. ‘Precisely. And what would a segment of the population do if they had no parental responsibility, plenty of cash and lie-ins every weekend? They’d go out and have a good time. Restaurants, bars, clubs, nice holidays. Here’s to the power of the pink pound.’

  Jon was left to stare into the dregs of his pint, mind wandering to the early-morning feeds now only weeks away.

  Chapter 17

  The manager of the women’s refuge wrapped her arms round Fiona, engulfing her in a fiercely protective hug. ‘You take care of yourself,’ she whispered, tilting her head back to look Fiona in the eyes. ‘And let me know how you’re doing.’

  Fiona smiled, thinking about the six precious nights she’d spent in the refuge. ‘Thank you so much, Hazel. You’ve been a life-saver. You are a life-saver.’ Waving once more to the women on the doorstep, Fiona turned to her car. Her bags were packed safely in the boot and she climbed in.

  The drive to her bedsit took less than a quarter of an hour. She had chosen a place with good transport connections to Melvyn’s salon. After all, in the absence of anything else, it was now the main part of her life.

  She could accept how the majority of her friends had been slowly driven away by her husband’s cold and suspicious welcomes every time they tried to visit. Her resolute denials that anything was wrong had hardly helped.

  But the rift she’d opened up with her parents was a deep and aching wound. She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, supported and encouraged by a mum and dad she rarely heard argue. That made it all the more painful when she began to realise her marriage to Jeff wasn’t destined for the same level of success.

  She’d married him in her late teens. At first everything seemed great as he got a graduate job at a firm of surveyors and she completed her final health and beauty qualifications. Then she got pregnant and gave up work. With the birth of their daughter Jeff became more preoccupied with work. He’d been given new responsibilities and they made more demands on his time. Time he seemed only too happy to give.

  He started coming home later and later, often smelling of whisky. It was a way of relaxing, he assured her. The management encouraged a bit of bonding outside work hours.

  But his promotion never came and he became more irritable, forever screening the household bills. She was no longer earning and he made her feel guilty about spending money he said wasn’t her own. The balance of their relationship had shifted and her role edged more and more to the subservient. It resembled, she realised one day with a mixture of surprise and disappointment, that of her own parents. Dad the breadwinner, mum the housewife. Only her mum had never seemed unhappy with her role. Perhaps she was being selfish in wanting more. So she kept quiet about her doubts, playing the part of happy mum, hoping things would improve.

  Then one day he punched her. A simple movement of his arm, but an action that set in motion a chain of events that led to the death of their daughter. After that he retreated into himself, drinking more and more, questioning every penny she spent. Getting his permission to start working again was a huge struggle. He feared the loss of control it would entail and paranoid fear began to consume him: ‘You’re going to leave me...You’ll meet someone else . . . Isn’t what I earn good enough?’

  He didn’t lay another finger on her for many years. But gradually the bullying moved from mental to physical. Pushes and slaps at first, then heavier cuffs. Finally, punches.

  She thought about her parents. She’d shut them out after their granddaughter’s funeral, too ashamed to admit how the accident had happened. But they’d known something was wrong. She couldn’t stand her mother’s entreaties, her father’s furious stares. Both of them powerless to help her while she refused to admit there was a problem. Now she wanted to make amends but pride prevented her from calling them. Not until she was properly back on her feet.

  The bedsit occupied the corner of the ground floor in a large Victorian house in Fallowfield. It was a student area, the bus shelters permanently full of people in faded jeans, baggy tops and battered trainers. How they chose to carry their books vaguely amused her. Some went for simple sports bags, others opted for ethnic-looking canvas po
uches. All avoided briefcases, but that was just a matter of time. She smiled wistfully, wondering what

  Emily would have chosen if she was still alive.

  After reversing into the yard at the back of the building so her car was facing towards the road, she removed the spare car key from her purse. Once out of the vehicle, she checked that no one was watching, then slipped it into a crack between two bricks at the base of the wall. That was a quick means of escape, if it was ever needed. After all, if he did somehow track her down and turn up with a few drinks inside him, she knew what he was capable of.

  The hallway of the house was littered with unwanted junk mail and a couple of old copies of the Yellow Pages, still wrapped in plastic. A door opened and a man appeared, a box of old cooking utensils in his arms. He looked to be in his late twenties, but he still wore student clothes.

  ‘Morning. You just moving in?’ he asked cheerfully.

  ‘Yes,’ Fiona nodded, holding her handbag tight against her stomach.

  ‘Me too.’

  She smiled, glancing at the box.

  ‘Cooking things. If you ever need any, just help yourself. People have dumped loads of stuff down in the cellar.’

  Fiona looked at the door he’d just emerged from. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Are you a mature student?’

  Fiona felt herself flush slightly. ‘No. I’m, I’m...just in between places at the moment.’

  His smile faded as he assessed her answer, eyes shifting to her damaged eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. So, are you? A student, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m doing an MA.’

  ‘Which subject?’

  Now he looked embarrassed. ‘Classical studies. Latin, Greek. Don’t ask why. I think it was my mum’s idea, really. She wants me to be a journalist.’

  Fiona smiled. ‘Well, I’d best get sorted out...?’ She raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘Oh, it’s Raymond. Raymond Waite.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Raymond. I’m Fiona.’ As he carried on up the stairs, she looked with amusement at his cumbersome trainers, complete with little Perspex windows in the thick soles.

  Then she opened the door to her room and looked around, refusing to be dismayed by its dour interior. It was hers, that was the important thing. Another small step towards freedom.

  She paused to sniff the air. The fusty smell she’d noticed on her first look-around still remained, despite the window being open. She brought her suitcase in, eyes lingering on it, attracted by the bottle of gin inside. Fighting back the temptation to have just one drink, she picked up her handbag instead. Air freshener, bleach and scouring cream were what she needed. The bare mattress on the single bed was patchy with stains. With some difficulty she lifted it up and saw the underside was only worse. As she headed out of the door, she added a duvet, sheets, towels and a new mattress to her list, aware that the cash Melvyn had given her was rapidly running out.

  She returned a while later, ferried the smaller things through to her room, then returned to the car and began trying to pull the new mattress out from where it lay across the boot and folded-down back seats.

  A first-floor window opened and she heard hip-hop music before a voice said, ‘You need a hand, Fiona?’

  She looked up to see Raymond leaning out of the window.

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘No problem.’

  He shuffled round the corner a few seconds later, crouching to tie the laces of his absurd trainers. The oversized tongues lolling from the tops reminded her of a pair of thirsty spaniels.

  They carried the mattress through to her room, and placed it by the side of the bed.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with the old one – it’s disgusting,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Yeah, I see what you mean,’ Raymond replied. ‘Why not dump it in the cellar? That’s what everyone else seems to do with unwanted stuff.’

  ‘Do you think it would be all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’

  They hauled it off the bed and carried it out into the hall.

  Raymond kicked the cellar door open, then pushed the mattress down the short flight of stairs. It came to a lopsided halt at the bottom. He flicked the lights on and carried on down, Fiona following uncertainly behind.

  ‘There are all sorts down here,’ he said, pointing to the haphazard stacks of boxes. ‘Old clothes, crappy portable televisions, records, textbooks, files of work. Do you need any saucepans? There’s a whole crate of them in that corner.’

  Fiona looked around, shoulders hunching up at the sight of the huge cobwebs nestled in the exposed rafters above her head. Raymond tipped the mattress on its side and slid it across the dusty floor into a side room. In the centre of the room was a table with what looked like a stone top.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Fiona asked.

  Raymond leaned the mattress against it. ‘This house would have been built for a wealthy merchant. This room was the pantry. In the days before fridges, the servants would have stored meat on it.’ He slapped the bare stone with his palm. ‘It’s always cool down here. See the gutter running round it? They’d cover the meat with muslin and ladle water over it occasionally. It would have kept for days.’

  Fiona shivered. ‘Well, I never knew that.’

  Two hours later, she peeled off her Marigolds and looked around her room. That was more like it. A bunch of flowers on the windowsill; the bed covered by a plump duvet, the creases still showing on its cover.

  Once again, she found herself looking at the suitcase. No, she thought. A good vacuuming, that’s what this place needs. She smiled. It was the perfect excuse to call in at the salon. Melvyn wouldn’t mind her borrowing the Dyson.

  ‘Hi there,’ she chirped, stepping through the door. She caught a tense look in Melvyn’s eyes before his face broke into a smile.

  ‘Fiona!’ he said, taking in her designer jeans and crisp white shirt. ‘You’re looking more shaggable every day. If I didn’t swing the other way . . .’

  ‘Oh, stop it, Melvyn,’ she laughed.

  ‘Cuppa?’

  ‘Thanks, yes.’

  Melvyn turned to Zoe, who was replacing curlers on a rack.

  ‘Zoe, will you be Mum?’

  Fiona waved a hand. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll do it.’ Without waiting for a reply, she walked across to the kitchen area and started setting out the cups.

  ‘So how are you, darling?’ Melvyn asked over his shoulder while wrapping a strand of his customer’s hair in tin foil.

  ‘Great, thanks. I’m feeling so much more positive.’

  ‘Brilliant – you look like you do.’

  ‘I’ve just moved into my own little place. It’s not much, but it’s a start.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Ridley Close in Fallowfield.’

  ‘Near City’s old ground?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Melvyn adjusted the towel round his customer’s neck. ‘OK, that’s you for a half-hour. Are you fine with those magazines? The latest Heat’s around here somewhere. It’s got a great article about the contestants for that plastic surgery show they’re doing on telly soon.’

  ‘I’ve read it, thanks.’ She sat back in her seat and began reading one of the magazines on her lap.

  Melvyn scooted over to the kitchen area. ‘I bet you’ve got it all spic and span.’

  Fiona nodded. ‘Just about. Though I was hoping to borrow the Dyson. Once the place is properly clean, you’ll all have to come round for a drink.’

  ‘Just say when.’ Melvyn picked up the biscuit tin and gave it a rattle. ‘Empty again? God, do we get through them in here. Zoe, be a love and nip down the street for some more biccies.’ As the door shut behind her, Alice appeared from her side room. ‘Fiona. I thought I heard you.’

  Fiona looked at Alice and her eyes widened. ‘You sure your due date is still a few weeks away?’

  Alice’s shoulders s
agged. ‘Oh, don’t. I feel like a beached whale.’

  Laughing, Fiona pointed to the kettle. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Alice perched on the edge of a stool and made a cradle for her stomach with her hands.

  ‘Fiona was just saying she’s moved into her own place,’ Melvyn announced.

  ‘Where is it?’ Alice asked.

  Fiona grabbed a pen and paper from her handbag. ‘Flat 2,

  15 Ridley Close. Over in Fallowfield.’ She handed the scrap of paper to Alice. ‘You’re all welcome to come round, but obviously the address has to stay secret. He has no idea where I am.’

  Fiona caught that tense look on Melvyn’s face again. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said with a little shrug.

  Fiona turned to Alice, but she was watching Melvyn. Fiona looked back at him. ‘He’s been here hasn’t he?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘The bastard,’ Fiona hissed, fear and anger flaring up. ‘What did he say? What did he do? Did he threaten you? He did, didn’t he?’

  Melvyn gave her a brief smile. ‘Nothing more than a raging poofter like me’s used to. Don’t worry, he soon ran out of steam. Especially when I blew him a kiss.’

  Fiona gasped, one hand over her mouth. ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘That was a bit much,’ Alice added with a grin. ‘I thought the veins in his neck were about to burst.’

  Fiona felt sick. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Her eyes cut to the front of the shop: could she be seen from the street? ‘What if he comes back?’ Now she felt genuinely scared.

  ‘That’s probably why it’s best you stay away for a bit,’ said Melvyn. ‘I told him you don’t work here any more. He’ll soon give up.’

  Alice went over to the reception desk and tucked Fiona’s address into the back of the appointments book.

  ‘Thanks, Melvyn, I really appreciate this,’ Fiona said more quietly.

  Melvyn fidgeted on his stool. ‘Only thing is, Fiona, I can pay you your holiday money. But, you know how it works in here. Without you doing any treatments . . .’

  ‘You want me to leave? Find a job somewhere else?’ Her nausea increased.

  ‘No!’ Melvyn protested with a dramatic wave of his hands.