by J. F. Penn
"We're looking for someone," Jamie said. "He – or she – works with human tattooed skin, preserving it after death. Do you know of anyone like that?"
"There is a man …" The young woman hesitated, her eyes guarded. "He doesn't really advertise but I've been to his place once – a while ago. He might not be there anymore."
"We'd really like to try and track him down," Blake said. "Can you give us his address?"
"It's more of a squat than a residential place," she replied. "Out by Limehouse Cut."
Jamie pulled out her smartphone and opened a map application. The young woman showed her an approximate area.
***
As they walked out of the convention, Blake turned to Jamie.
"That place was not what I expected, but it makes me want to mark my skin." He touched his gloved hands together gently. "With something more than scars." He thought about the runes in the Galdrabók, how they would look on his caramel skin. Would inking them on his body help him to claim their power or perhaps even tame his curse? He looked at Jamie. "What about you?"
"When we came in here, I was still unsure. But now I have a clearer idea. I want birds on the wing." Jamie touched her neck on the right side. "Maybe here, down my shoulder onto my back."
"Escape? Freedom?" Blake said, thinking that tattoos on Jamie's skin would also be damn sexy. "A desire to transcend this physical life, perhaps?"
Jamie grinned. "It's rude to ask the meaning of someone's tattoo."
"Even one that doesn't exist yet?"
They walked to Jamie's bike and she pulled a second helmet from her pannier. "Can you come?" she asked, offering it to him.
Blake hesitated. Every hour he was away from the museum was another nail in the coffin of his research career. He looked down into Jamie's hazel eyes and saw that she needed him. Her friend was missing and perhaps he could still help find her.
"Of course I'm coming," he said. "I work in the museum with a load of mummified remains. I can't miss out on meeting a real-life skin preserver."
Chapter 13
Thirty minutes later, Blake shook his head as he pulled off the motorbike helmet, running his gloved fingers over his buzz cut.
"That is too much fun," he said, handing the helmet back to Jamie. "Even if I have to ride pillion."
"One of the pleasures of life," Jamie said. "Not really enough open road around London though."
She looked up at the sixties concrete block in front of them. It had been a technical college once, later abandoned and now inhabited by an eclectic group of artists, many of whom also lived in the building. Some might call them squatters but in this part of East London, turning a derelict building into something this productive was akin to a miracle. Rejuvenation of the old Docklands was happening slowly and the artists were often the first to move in.
"Nice place," Blake said with raised eyebrows as he stepped gingerly over a bare needle on the broken concrete path.
"Let's take a look inside," Jamie said.
She pushed open the front door to reveal a neglected corridor strewn with the detritus of people living rough. Cardboard boxes and string, a folded blanket and old tins of beans. It smelled of stale sweat and sweet marijuana smoke. Music thumped through the building and they followed the noise along the corridor to the back of the structure. It had a deafening bass that Jamie recognized as "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. A hymn to finding God in desecration and violation, a song to bring alive the crazy in anyone. A song she remembered playing as a teenager bent on escaping a mundane existence, desperate for something more than suburbia. Strange to hear it again here.
A metal door barred their way. Jamie rapped on it, but there was no chance that anyone would hear them inside with that racket. She pushed at the door but it was firmly locked from the inside. She hammered with her fist as the song came to an end, but no one came to let them in. The bass kicked in on the next song and their knocking was drowned out once more.
"Let's go round the outside," Jamie said, and they walked back out.
The building was on the edge of the Limehouse Cut, a waterway that ran from the River Lea down to the Thames. The sun sparkled on the slow-moving water, bringing a moment of beauty to this urban junkyard.
"Come look at this," Blake said, as he walked towards the side of the building. A ramshackle houseboat was tied up there, its moorings rusted and weed-covered from its long-term berth. He pointed at the name of the boat, the paint chipped and faded but still clearly visible.
"Pyx?" Jamie said. "I don't get it."
"It's one of the oldest doors in Westminster Abbey," Blake said. "Anglo-Saxon and over a thousand years old. What's more interesting is that it has panels of skin upon it that some believe were from the bodies of flayed criminals, left there as a warning to those who would attack the church."
They walked along the narrow path behind the building. Huge windows dominated the back section and a door stood open a little further on. A man stood on the back step blowing smoke rings into the air, his eyes closed in bliss as the bassline pumped from the studio behind him. He was tall and thin, his body held with the slumped posture of one who worked hunched over most of the time and often had to bend in the presence of others. His limbs were long and gangly, as if he had never had the nutrition to help him grow into them. His skin was pale, his head closely shaven and smooth, reflecting the sun.
His eyes flicked open at their approach and he quickly stubbed out the cigarette.
"Please wait," Jamie shouted, waving at him.
The man stepped inside the studio and Jamie ran to the open door, reaching it as he tried to force it closed. She wedged her foot into the crack.
"Please," she shouted above the music. "We only want to talk to you."
"I don't have anything here. No money, no drugs," the man pleaded, his face desperate as he tried to push Jamie out. Blake stood behind her.
"We're not here to take anything," he said. "We're looking for a friend and we heard you could help."
"I'm a private investigator on a missing persons case," Jamie added. "Please just talk with us for a second."
The man's features softened as he realized they weren't there to steal from him. Jamie could understand his anxiety in this part of town.
"Alright," he said, moving back from the door. "Let me turn the music off."
Jamie and Blake stood by the door as the music quietened and the man returned.
"Great album," Jamie said. "I always loved Trent Reznor."
"Forgive me, I don't get too many visitors in this part of town. Most are here looking to score." He took a deep breath. "I'm Corium Jones." The man's features softened and he held out a hand. The skin was red and raw with evident chemical burns but Jamie shook it without flinching, meeting his eyes as she did so.
"I'm Jamie Brooke and this is Blake Daniel."
"What can I help you with?" Corium asked.
"We were at the tattoo convention," Jamie said, "and heard that you provide an unusual service for those with body art."
Corium nodded, a wry smile on his lips.
"Yes, people pay me to preserve their tattoos after death," he said. "It's a growing industry. After all, they may have paid thousands to emblazon their skin with meaning in life and so they want to pass that on somehow. Their lifetime stories are inked into their skin, and they don't want it to rot away. They can't imagine the worms devouring it, or the fire consuming it. Skin preservation is an ancient art with few of us left. And, of course, much misunderstood."
"Can we have a look?" Jamie asked, glancing behind him into the dark of the studio.
Corium paused and Jamie felt the intensity of his gaze as he assessed her and Blake. Perhaps he sensed the death around them both, because after a moment, he stepped aside and waved them in.
The room had several workbenches with tools lined up neatly on one side. There was a vat of salt in one corner and a skin pegged out on a frame in the shade of an open window, the faint blue lines of a tattoo barely v
isible on the opposite side.
The smell of chemical preservative hung in the air, reminding Jamie of the studio of Rowan Day-Conti, the artist who had worked with the plastination of dead bodies. She shuddered when she remembered how the Jenna Neville case had ended for Rowan, trying to keep an open mind about what they might find here.
"How does your service actually work?" Jamie asked. "Do you cut from the bodies directly?"
Corium laughed. "I don't deal in bodies, only in skin. My clients pay for services, the skin arrives, usually rough cut in medical boxes. I prepare it, mount it as directed and then return it to the specified address. There's actually no personal contact – except with the skin, of course."
He stepped to a bench and indicated a piece of what looked like leather.
"This one is ready for mounting." He stroked the edge of it, his face showing pride in his work. "You can touch it if you like. It's very soft. Young skin, I think."
"So you don't actually know where the skin comes from?" Blake asked.
"Not at all," Corium said. "It's not my job to ask, either. I merely act as the preserver."
Jamie shook her head slowly. The man's words seemed logical in one way, and he was just a leather worker of a kind. But how could he touch these skins and not feel that they were once a thinking human?
"Can I ask what body parts you work on?" she asked.
Corium went to a row of shelves and pulled out one of the large photo albums stacked there. He laid it on the table and flicked it open.
"These are some of my favorite works," he said, a note of pride in his voice. He turned the first page. "These are the most common. Full-back tattoos which result in a rectangular finished piece, or two longer panels, depending on how close to the spine the skin was excised. There are also cross shapes where the shoulder and arm pieces have been saved."
Jamie swallowed her revulsion as she looked down at the pages, but the pictures were artistic, the skin turned into something beautiful. There was incredible skill in the ink and the colors: a waving riot of flowers that seemed to grow across the skin with blooming roses and curlicues in a feminine design.
A gigantic pair of strong angel wings, each feather inked in detail, the size of the skin indicating it came from a large man.
A tiger prowling through a verdant jungle, its eyes staring out at the viewer.
There were quotes, too. In one, calligraphic handwriting flowed across the skin: I'm the hero of this story. I don't need to be saved. It seemed terribly sad that the hero was no more.
"Then there are the full-sleeve tattoos which result in a long tapering shape," Corium continued. "Very pleasing to the eye."
He indicated a lion's head in profile, its mane rippling over what had been muscles in life. A school of hammerhead sharks swimming over a submerged ancient city.
A list of coordinates with passport pictures and snapshots of faraway places.
A kaleidoscope of galaxies and stars in hues of cobalt blue, luminous greens and pinks.
The variation was incredible and Jamie could see how preserving these works of art was as much of a skill as inking them.
"I also have a number of head tattoos, which are more or less oval in shape, although it can be hard to get the edges right on those. They're the main ones," Corium raised his eyebrows, "but now and then I get some more intimate parts. Quite unusual, I must say."
Jamie looked at the shelf of photo albums.
"How long have you been doing this?" she asked.
"Since I was a child," Corium said, and the look in his eyes spoke of the deep loneliness of the misfit. "It started with taxidermy of small animals and tanning of found hides, but then one day a dying friend asked me to help preserve a part of himself and I couldn't say no. My reputation spread in the tattoo community and here in London these days there's no shortage of preservation work. There are also people who are willing to pay a lot of money for human leather products, from unmarked and inked skin."
Corium ran a hand across his smooth head. "I want ink myself of course, but I suffer from the tyranny of choice. After all, I have all these examples of fine art and I can't decide what I want on my own canvas. We have such a small amount of space and to get it wrong would be …" He shook his head and sighed. "Well, I can't abide the thought that my own legacy would be inferior to the skins I work on all day."
While Corium spoke, Jamie could see that Blake had wandered down to the far end of the studio to a tall bookcase. He bent more closely to look at the books, and then turned to call back to them.
"Could you tell us about this particular book?"
Corium's head snapped round and his eyes narrowed. He had the look of a man who would protect his domain at any cost.
"It's an early edition of Francis Galton's Hereditary Genius. For a very private client." His voice was cold as he stalked down the studio, Jamie following close behind.
The shelves were mostly filled with photography books of tattoos and body art, with others on taxidermy and skin preservation. But one shelf had a thin book bound in soft leather. The pattern inked on the skin looked like dragon scales in hues of purple.
"Is it bound in human skin?" Blake asked.
"Anthropomorphic bibliopegy is a great tradition," Corium said. "Anatomy texts bound in the skin of cadavers, judicial proceedings bound in the skin of murderers –"
"Lampshades made from the skin of murdered Jews …" Blake whispered, looking more closely at the books. "Where do you draw the line?" He turned back to look at them and Jamie saw his blue eyes were steel-hard. "May I touch them?"
It wasn't a question. Corium nodded slowly. Blake removed one of his gloves and reached out to touch the book.
Chapter 14
Blake could sense vibrations on the surface of the skin through his fingertips, as if it held within itself the energy from the dead soul it had once bound in flesh. The veil of consciousness clouded his vision and he dipped into memory.
He found himself in a basement with high ceilings, the walls and floor tiled so they could be more easily hosed down. There was a copper smell in the cool air, the bitterness of blood. Empty meat hooks hung in a line on a railing above. There was an animal shriek in the darkness, a sound of terror that echoed through the empty space. Blake shuddered and tried to move, but the body he could see through was chained to the wall and couldn't escape.
He heard footsteps coming towards him and a whimper of fear echoed in the basement. He wanted to pull out of the trance, but he needed to see who was there. A man came out of the darkness, a skinning knife in his hand, his face obscured by the mask of the plague doctor, hooked beak swaying as he approached.
As panic escalated, Blake pulled himself from the trance, ripping his hand away from the book and collapsing to the floor. His breath came fast, his chest heaving as he tried to calm himself.
"It's OK, Blake," Jamie whispered, stroking his forehead. "You're safe now."
She gave him some water and he sipped at it, slowly recovering his breath. Corium Jones stood looking at them, his eyes narrowed in interest but not judgement or doubt. Blake supposed that the man was used to the odd in his line of work. But how much did he know of the provenance of the skin he worked on?
"The skin was taken," Blake said after a moment. "This person was murdered for it but the man who did it hid his face. He wore one of those Venetian plague doctor masks with the long beak for herbs to prevent the smell and decay from reaching them."
"Do you have some kind of psychic ability?" Corium asked, fascination in his voice.
Blake stood up and put his glove back on.
"You could call it that," he said. "I can read the emotional resonance of objects."
Jamie pointed at the book. "Who gave you this skin?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent.
"I can't possibly divulge information about my clients," Corium said, turning to walk away from them towards the door. "I think it's time for you to leave now."
Blake took a quick step f
orward, his blue eyes blazing with anger.
"Don't you understand? This skin is from a murder victim."
"You have no evidence of that," Corium said, pulling open the door.
Jamie picked up a vial of chemicals from a bench next to the bookcase. She put the book of human skin next to it.
"What does this do?" she asked, waving the bottle. Corium's face fell as she pulled the stopper out and held it over the book.
Corium put his hands up in a gesture of supplication.
"No, please. That will burn the skin. It will ruin the book."
There was fear in his eyes, whether for the object itself or the person he made it for, Jamie didn't know. She tipped the bottle a little, splashing the bench next to the book. It made a sizzling sound and the smell of bitter berries filled the air.
"No!" Corium shouted, rushing across the room. Blake stepped in front of Jamie and pushed the man back, a rough shove in the middle of his thin chest.
"Tell us who the client is," Jamie said, holding the bottle over the book again.
Corium's body drooped, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"I'll give you what I know," he said. "But it's not much." He walked to a filing cabinet in the corner and pulled out a thin cardboard file. "Here, that's everything. Now please, leave the book alone."
Blake checked the file quickly and nodded to Jamie. She put the stopper back in the bottle and put it down next to the book on the bench. Corium rushed to it, cradling the book to his chest like a precious child as he sank to the floor, sitting with his back to the bench as he watched them with hollow eyes.
Jamie pulled out the pages in the file. "There are regular payments here," she said with surprise. "How many of these have you done?"
"Six so far," Corium whispered. "But it's an ongoing contract. I'm expecting more skin in the next day or so and then I produce a book within the following month."
