by Tim Major
As soon as Ellis had left the building, Russell jogged after him. He jammed his foot to stop the outer door from closing. The security guard frowned and then returned to his magazine.
A black saloon car was waiting outside with its engine running. Ellis slumped into its rear seat without speaking to the driver, who was hidden behind smoked glass. The car began to move away as soon as the door closed and barely paused at the car park exit. Its wheels spun as it accelerated along Marston Street.
Russell glanced at his battered old bike, chained to railings at the side of the building. He had intended to follow Ellis, whenever he left, as far as he possibly could. He laughed at the thought of pedalling alongside the car, tapping on the window.
* * *
“No, please don’t,” Gerry said. “I’ve already been on hold for the twenty minutes since I last spoke to you.”
The other end of the phone line went silent. Then, the scratchy voice said, “It’s not our department. You need Health.” The line clicked and the voice was replaced with tinny muzak.
Gerry squinted up at the window. Daylight pierced the gap between the heavy curtains – it was nearly midday. She had started researching contact details for government departments when it was still dark, and had made her first phone call at nine. She realised that she was humming one of the inane hold-music melodies.
Last night, she had stared for hours at the faded photocopy, willing it to make sense. The variety of line items in the table was baffling. Third-party cleaning and maintenance services. Infrastructure and admin. Lighting. But it was the numerical values beside each item that had caught her interest. Hundreds of thousands of pounds spent in a single month. Many of the largest figures were tagged against unexpected items that made the least sense to her. Location services. Refuse and collection. Public relations.
It was a leaked government document, that was clear enough. The digital watermark included the initials GBP several times – Great British Prosperity. But why had the hooded stranger given it to her?
Then it hit her.
The financial data wasn’t for a single month. That wasn’t what the all-caps word at the top of the document meant.
JANUARY.
The Snakeskin care home. It wasn’t something the Party tended to talk about much, nor anything related to Snakeskins, these days.
The realisation had galvanised her for the first handful of hours that morning. However, her conviction had faded with each new obstructive person she spoke to on the phone. Perhaps it was wrong to dedicate so much time to a vague tip-off from an unknown source. The amounts of money listed in the spreadsheet were pretty obscene, but she had no idea how much it might cost to run such a large institution. Even if her following up on the tip could be defended from a journalistic point of view, her being so eager showed that she was desperate for a lead. She wished she had something more important to do.
“Can I help you?” a buzzing voice said.
Gerry fumbled with the phone. “My name’s Gerry Chafik. I don’t think we’ve spoken before, although I’ve had conversations with your colleagues in other departments.”
“They said you’re a reporter?”
“Yes. Sort of. Yes, I am a reporter. I’m looking for information about the January care home in Reading.”
“What kind of information?” It was only now that Gerry decided that it was a male voice, made squeakier by the bad line.
“Specifically, about their funding. There doesn’t seem to be any mention of January in the budget information available to the public. Even a rough figure would be a start, some kind of overview. Do you think you might be able to help me?”
The man coughed. “Yes. One minute.”
Gerry exhaled and stretched in her chair. Finally.
“Right. I’m putting you through to Budgetary Affairs.”
“No, don’t, please. I’ve already—”
The line clicked. A synthesiser waltz started midway through a song. Gerry watched a sliver of sun creep past the gap in the curtains. The track looped three times before a voice said, “Budgetary Affairs. How can I help?”
Gerry recognised the voice – she had spoken to the woman half a dozen times already. “Sylvia? It’s Gerry Chafik again.” A pause followed. “Yeah, sorry. No offence, but I didn’t ask to be put through to you. I know I’m ruining your morning. Could you put me through to Health again, please?”
She increased the phone volume and, without thinking, began to hum along to the reedy rendition of a song half-remembered from her childhood. In the kitchen she pulled cereal boxes from the cupboard, shaking each in turn. All were empty.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”
Gerry grimaced and nodded. Then, realising the voice hadn’t actually been merely her own thoughts, she dashed to the phone. “Hi. Look, don’t worry. I know you’ll have been told to get rid of me. But I have a different question now, an easy one. Could you point me towards the overall budget for the Department of Health, please? Maybe with a breakdown of the other normal services – as in, not specifically for Charmers.”
It wouldn’t be much, but at least if she could compare January’s costs to the costs of running a standard commercial hospital, she might be able to gauge if there was anything amiss in the levels of spending. It was possible that the shadowy stranger had been trying to alert her to overspending for exclusive services. Charmers were only a tiny fraction of the population, after all. Given the lack of any nationalised health provision, any public spending on Snakeskins was dubious and a source of ire from the general public, who were overtaxed and yet were forced to spend a high proportion of their meagre salaries on their own healthcare.
The line clicked several times. Gerry held the phone away from her ear. Then she recognised the sound as the man clucking his tongue.
“Yes,” he said. “I can do that. Do you have a postal address related to an authenticated establishment?”
Gerry groaned. The chances of Zemma Finch allowing her onto the premises at Folk were low. She gave the address anyway.
“You’ll receive it within the next ten working days,” the man said with a note of triumph in his voice. “Goodbye now.”
Gerry threw down the phone in disgust. The handset skidded across the coffee table, coming to rest against the stack of books from Ilam Hall.
She flipped through the phone directory, called British Rail, and ordered return train tickets to Reading.
* * *
Caitlin made a wide berth around three protesters with placards outside the January care home. Their signs read, CARE FOR US, NOT SNAKESKIN HUSKS and GREAT BRITISH PROSPERITY PARTY, with PROSPERITY crossed out and DISPARITY scrawled above. Two police officers with truncheons and pistols conspicuously visible watched in silence. One had her head cocked, perhaps listening to an earpiece. Legally, it took four or more protesters to constitute a mass outdoor assembly which could be stopped by any means necessary, but Caitlin was certain the officers would receive orders that this protest could be curtailed, too. One of the scruffy protesters was in discussion with one of the January staff who had emerged from a side door, who seemed intent on getting rid of them before the police could intervene. Caitlin overheard the woman saying, “I assure you that there are no Skins belonging to Party members in residence. You’d be far better addressing…”
Caitlin slipped through the revolving doors and plodded over to the red sofas. She wished she were somewhere else. She also wished that whoever was brewing coffee would knock it off. The smell permeated every part of the enormous lobby of the care home and it was beginning to make her retch.
She had spent another night in the hotel on the outskirts of Reading. Her back ached from the too-soft bed.
It had been Evie who had convinced her to return to the care home, though Evie herself didn’t know it. Hey, u OK hun? her pager message had read, yesterday afternoon. Caitlin hadn’t called her. Her normal, everyday life was too far away for her to summon the e
nergy to get involved. A few hours later, Evie had sent another message: Forget Caitlin Mk II. U R the real deal. Love you.
The trouble was, Caitlin was less and less sure that she was the real deal. At least the Skin knew her own mind – she was angry and scared and full of resentment about the hand she’d been dealt. Caitlin, on the other hand, felt only a creeping numbness about the whole situation. She couldn’t remember having been apathetic about anything in her life. Her mum was the one who had taught her to be opinionated, and political, and proud of her heritage. This passivity was unbearable.
So she returned to January. If her Skin was going to be a contrary prick, then she was too.
“They’re making you wait, then?” a voice said.
It was the old woman, Dodie. She dropped heavily onto the sofa.
Caitlin managed a smile. “You too?”
“I’ve already been in and out,” Dodie replied, waving a hand airily. “Visiting a few friends, making new ones. Now it’s time for a sandwich before the drive home, even though it’s only a hop. Something about this place makes me ravenous.” She reached into her large handbag and pulled out a cling-filmed package, then placed it on her knees. Her grey hair flopped and covered her face as she bent to unwrap the sandwich. “You know, if they make you wait then that shows you’re important. They let me in lickety-split, every day.”
“You really come here every day?”
“I see it as a duty of sorts.” Dodie munched her sandwich. “So, what kind of VIP are you, my love?”
Caitlin frowned. The bright sunlight made it hard to read the woman’s expression. “Other than being what they call the ‘originator’, you mean?”
Dodie puffed out her cheeks. “My goodness. Now I see why you’re being made to wait. They’ll be rolling out the red carpet, no doubt. You’re a rare breed.”
“Yeah.” Caitlin watched her carefully. Dodie gave no sign of recognition. “You told me more or less the same thing when we met yesterday.”
Dodie’s expression clouded. She put down the sandwich. “Oh. I see.”
It might have been a trick of the light, but Caitlin thought she saw the glistening of tears.
“I’m sorry,” Caitlin said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I’m a little forgetful.”
“Right. But please don’t be upset. Maybe I have the sort of face that doesn’t stick in people’s minds.”
Dodie’s eyes shone. “No, my love. You’re positively beautiful. You may have told me this yesterday, too, but what’s your name?”
“Caitlin Hext.”
“Caitlin. Hext.” Dodie repeated it to herself, twice, under her breath. “I have it this time.”
Dodie glanced up. Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw somebody approaching them from the direction of the metal detector. She tried to gather herself. She wasn’t in the mood to take any of Dr Scaife’s passive-aggressive crap.
But it was her dad.
“Cait!” His voice was hoarse. When he reached her he looked as though he might try and hug her, but then crossed his arms over his chest. His shirt was crumpled and he hadn’t shaved.
Their argument at Ivy Cottage now seemed ridiculous. Caitlin couldn’t recall seeing anybody look quite so crushed as her dad did right now. She was hugging him tight before she knew it. He felt small in her arms.
After a while Ian extricated himself. He glanced at the gate that led to the visitors’ lounge. He must have been with her Skin moments ago. “I’ve been so worried. Are you okay? Sorry. Of course you’re okay. Where have you been? Here, I suppose. I don’t know what I want to say to you, now that I’ve found you.”
“Stop, Dad. I’m fine,” Caitlin replied. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call.”
She felt awkward and exposed, even though the other people in the lobby were paying them no attention. She turned. Tactfully, Dodie had already left. Caitlin saw her making her way through the revolving door.
Ian cleared his throat. “So, you decided to come after all.”
“It’s my second time. If she’ll let me back in.”
His eyes widened. “You were here yesterday? In the morning? She didn’t mention it.”
“Yeah. She’s sort of a bitch, isn’t she?”
Ian’s response was half laugh and half cough. “That’s a dreadful thing to say.”
“I figure I’m allowed to, of all people. So, anyway. You came back too.”
“It’s not what it looks like. I wasn’t trying to—”
“Replace me?” Caitlin took his hands in hers. She had been an idiot, before. “Don’t be stupid, Dad. Me and her look the same, but we’re different. Or we mean different things, at least. You can visit my Skin all you like. I won’t be angry with you. Okay?”
He sniffed. “Okay. You won’t want to hear this, Cait… but maybe it’s true about sheddings being a milestone. You’ve changed.” He must have noticed her grip tighten. “No, no. I mean you’re growing up. You’re becoming a woman.”
“Oh God. Dad, really? Because if you’re going to start explaining to me about the birds and the bees…”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I’ll leave it there. Just… I’m proud of you, Cait. For everything. For coming here, especially.” He rubbed his eyes. “Hey, is your uncle here too?”
She frowned. “Why would he be? I mean, why on earth would I know, and you wouldn’t?”
“Tobe hasn’t been with you, these last couple of days?”
She shook her head. “No offence, but I don’t think he’d be much of a travelling companion.”
“No. No. Okay.”
Caitlin remembered seeing Tobe leave his shed with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. “There’s been no word from him at all since he left?”
“No. It’s no big deal. I think I remember him talking about seeing some friends, playing cards. You know what he’s like. He probably didn’t think to tell us. He gets like that.”
“When he’s upset, he does.” Caitlin remembered the fairy lights that Tobe had strung up for her shedding. She’d never known him to go to any trouble for anything. Maybe sheddings were more important to him than he let on. Or maybe she was.
Caitlin saw Dr Scaife approach. “Urgh. Looks as though I’m about to be summoned.”
Ian glanced around and scowled. “That old battleaxe. Do you want me to come back in with you?”
Caitlin imagined how awkward he would feel, stuck in a room with his daughter and her identical twin. “Thanks. No, you head home. I’ve got a return ticket and I think I might prefer a bit of time on my own, after the visit. But I promise I’ll be home later and I promise I’ll perk up. Sound good?”
He beamed and planted a stubbly kiss on her cheek. He nodded curtly at Dr Scaife and then scurried away.
“Miss Hext. Your loved one is ready to meet you,” Dr Scaife announced.
Caitlin glared at her. Loved ones didn’t usually have to be restrained with belts to stop them from leaving their seats.
Once they had passed through the security gate, Caitlin hurried along the glass-walled corridor, more to annoy Dr Scaife than from any sense of urgency. By the time she reached the door to the visitors’ lounge, the doctor had to sprint to prevent her from walking further along the corridor. Caitlin noticed a plainer door on the same side as the door to the visitors’ lounge. That must be the one that led to the Skins’ annex within its transparent barrier.
“What’s down there?” Caitlin said, pointing towards the junction where the parquet flooring ended and the sterile white flooring began.
“That leads to the living quarters and leisure areas,” Dr Scaife replied, panting slightly. “But they’re only for staff and patients.”
“You mean residents.”
The doctor’s face darkened. “Yes. Residents, of course.”
Caitlin smiled. Then, without warning, she dashed to the junction. Dr Scaife made a strangled blurting noise behind her.
Caitlin skidded to a halt at the junction. The passage
s in either direction were more like those in a standard hospital and were interspersed with plain, windowless doors. At one end of the left-hand corridor were the steel double doors of a lift beside a fire exit. She was almost disappointed at how ordinary it all looked.
When Dr Scaife caught up, Caitlin allowed herself to be led back. “Sorry. I got mixed up for a second. I could get lost anywhere.”
“Then we will make sure that you are not left alone.”
“Right then. In we go?” Caitlin pushed open the door to the visitors’ lounge before the doctor could reply. Dr Scaife remained in the corridor.
Caitlin strode to the transparent wall. She didn’t sit down.
This time, the Skin was sitting less upright. The seat belt restraint dug into her belly. She reminded Caitlin of a rag doll that had lost most of its stuffing. Did Skins decline physically before they disappeared? Most ashed so quickly after they appeared that there could be no telling.
Beside the Skin’s chair, within the semicircular barrier, stood a man wearing a white nurse’s uniform. Caitlin noticed immediately that he appeared more human, more alive, than most of the staff she had encountered. His eyes were alert and his black skin shone with health. He watched Caitlin silently as she paced up and down before the wall.
The Skin spoke first, as if there had been no interruption to their conversation the day before. “I do know that those aren’t my memories, not really. They’re yours. Because no matter how much I feel like you, I know that’s not the case. I’m not you. But I’m hardly me, either. There is no me.”
There was no anger in her voice. Her speech was slower and a little slurred.
Caitlin had no idea her features could crumple like that. “That’s not what it looks like. You look like a real person. And you talk like one. If you have my memories of my life, then you have my memories of other people’s opinions about Skins, too?”
A nod.
“Then you know how the argument goes. Nature versus nurture. So what if you arrived fully-formed instead of as a baby? Good for you for missing out the grossness of childbirth. The point is this – the exact second you arrived, your experience of the world was different to mine. You knew you were a Snakeskin. And that means that everything you saw and felt from that moment on was affected by that knowledge.”