Snakeskins

by Tim Major

  “This is childish, Miss Chafik. From what I’ve read in Folk, I thought you were a serious journalist.”

  Gerry grinned. “From what I’ve read in Folk, I think there are no serious journalists left. But do go on.”

  “The money goes towards providing an appropriate end of life for Snakeskins, some of whom may remain with us for substantial periods. All that care costs money, Miss Chafik. And I think it’s admirable that the Party is prepared to foot part of the bill. Don’t you?”

  Gerry chose not to point out that Party members were Charmers, for the most part. “Of course. Like all journalists, I prefer to assume that the government is doing the very best it can.”

  “Be sure not to rely on sarcasm in your articles. It isn’t your forte.”

  Gerry had stopped listening. She replayed Dr Scaife’s earlier words: The Party is prepared to foot part of the bill. There, that was something. But Dr Scaife had mentioned it casually, and it wouldn’t help to draw too much attention to it. Another bluff was required. “The Department of Health sent me their budgets. Only top-level, with no breakdown, obviously, but it was interesting all the same.” Her mind raced. She must guess at a conclusion, based on only her hunch. “Now, comparing the overall budget against the care home’s spending might make any lesser journalist jump to conclusions.” As she had hoped, Dr Scaife bristled. She must be on the right track. “But I can read between the lines. It doesn’t imply that there ought to be money available for health provision for non-Charmers, because only a fraction of January’s costs are funded by the government. The majority comes from private donors.”

  Dr Scaife’s eyes rose to the ceiling. Which direction did people look when they were about to lie?

  Gerry continued in a casual tone. “It’s okay. That much was already in the public record. Folk covered it years ago. You’re unlikely to have seen it, because it hardly made a ripple.” She grasped for another on-the-fly deduction. “If anything, readers were grateful that Charmers were prepared to pay up, to look after their Skins. It made them seem more sympathetic.”

  The stiffness in the doctor’s shoulders disappeared. Gerry had guessed correctly. Still, she mustn’t congratulate herself. There was something else.

  She pushed herself away from the desk and strolled towards the row of filing cabinets that lined one wall of the office. “Look, we could dance around like this all day, but the fact that you haven’t chucked me out yet shows that you’re sizing me up as much as I am you. And that tells me that there’s something here worth looking into. So, why don’t you tell me one thing I actually want to know, and then I’ll leave? I appreciate you’re not going to show me your receipts – fine. But tell me, what’s going on in the rest of those buildings I saw out of the corridor window? Because I’d put money on them being the reason for needing so much cash.”

  “Kitchens and a laundry,” Dr Scaife replied, too fast. “And no, I’m not going to give you a tour, if that’s what you’re angling for.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. But you do understand that not doing so only looks more suspicious?”

  Dr Scaife shrugged. The motion was awkward, as though it was a gesture she had only recently learnt.

  “And the thing about journalists,” Gerry continued, “is that obstacles only make us more dogged. I could go through other channels, over your head.”

  “You can try. There’s nothing to hide, but I’ll make certain that you won’t be allowed entry.”

  It was time for the blunt approach. “What happens when the Skins ash?”

  “There is a modest commemorative service among the other residents and the staff.”

  Gerry tried to recall the line items in the photocopied spreadsheet. “And is there enough ash to warrant disposing of the remains in some manner?”

  “Hardly. You know as well as I do that it simply mixes with the atmosphere. There’s a beauty to it. And rest assured that the premises are thoroughly cleaned afterwards. We pride ourselves on sterility.”

  Gerry stifled a laugh. “Naturally. But it might be traumatic. What happens if a Skin ashes while they’re in the visitors’ lounge, for example?”

  “It has never happened yet, I’m happy to say.”

  Gerry nodded. Once again, she sensed a point at which she ought to drop her current line of questioning. As she stretched and yawned she scanned the notes pinned to the noticeboard, the stacks of paper on the desk. She tried to commit everything to memory. There was no chance she’d get in here again.

  Her gaze settled again on the snow globe on the desk. Something about the shape of the house inside struck her as familiar. One end of it was arched and the other ended in a blunt, square tower.

  It was Ilam Hall.

  Ilam and the Fall were inextricably linked, of course. It might simply be a nod to Charmers’ heritage.

  “Miss Chafik,” Dr Scaife said sternly. “You’ve occupied enough of my time. Please leave.”

  Gerry’s mind raced. Perhaps these new revelations about funding could be linked to Ilam Hall. She remembered the faded magnificence of the building. Perhaps the Hartwell family were donors to the January care home, along with other wealthy Charmers?

  Dr Scaife lifted the phone handset and said hurriedly, “Please come to my office. Immediately.”

  Gerry realised she might have only seconds remaining.

  “Tell me about Hartwell,” she said.

  Dr Scaife replaced the receiver. Her hands shook slightly. Gerry couldn’t tell whether it was from anger or panic.

  “Is Anise Hartwell responsible for the funding?”

  Now the doctor appeared confused. She recovered herself quickly and glanced at the door. No, this was nothing to do with Anise Hartwell. It was impossible to believe that she might be supplying money and leaving herself in poverty, despite the grand shell of Ilam Hall.

  Her ancestor, Lord Hartwell, on the other hand…

  No. That couldn’t be right. Ilam Hall was built years after the Fall. Hartwell had only been a small-town mayor at the time, and had been made a lord much later. But Gerry realised that the fact had always troubled her, deep down. Rubbernecking tourists couldn’t explain Hartwell’s promotion and sudden wealth.

  “No, not funding,” Gerry said, speaking more to herself than to Dr Scaife. “The money went to Lord Hartwell, not from him. He was involved, wasn’t he? In setting up the care home. And he was rewarded for it.”

  Dr Scaife was making an effort to let no particular expression settle upon her features.

  The door opened. Two burly men in grey uniforms entered. They had batons fixed to their belts and pouches that might hold pistols.

  Gerry smiled, then shook the snow globe once more and replaced it on the desk. She held up both hands.

  “I’ll come quietly.”

  * * *

  Caitlin watched Kit’s face carefully, noting the fractional changes in her expression as she processed the news. Surprise became shock, shock became grief, and grief became something altogether more complicated.

  “Was it suicide?” Kit said, finally.

  “We don’t know. The autopsy came in this morning, but it wasn’t conclusive. He didn’t drink and we both know he wouldn’t have a clue where to find drugs, or even what to do with them. Those are pretty much the only other reasons I can think of to end up floating face-down in a hotel swimming pool at three in the morning.”

  Kit began to cry softly. Caitlin experienced a sudden surge of anger. Since receiving the news about Tobe she herself hadn’t cried once. Seeing Kit’s reaction made her feel like an emotionless monster.

  Ayo, the nurse, stood beside Kit. He shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily and looked at the door. Dr Scaife hadn’t accompanied Caitlin to the visitors’ lounge, but she or another member of staff might appear at any moment.

  Kit bent almost double, still sobbing. The restraints dug into her belly.

  “Nurse,” Caitlin said. “Ayo. Please. Let her breathe.”

  Ayo was
clearly startled; this was the first time Caitlin had addressed him directly. He nodded. Moving cautiously, as though he had previously believed himself to be invisible and now felt suddenly exposed, he bent down to unclip the restraints. The moment she was free, Kit turned and pressed her face into his shoulder, holding on to him so that he couldn’t straighten up. Finally, she patted his arm and turned.

  As Caitlin stared at the girl’s face, crumpled and blotched with red, her only thought was: Am I really capable of looking as ugly as that? She hated herself for her shallowness.

  Of course it made sense that Tobe’s death meant something different to the Skin than to her. Death, in general terms, meant something different. Part of Caitlin’s cool response to the news of Tobe’s death was because it would have no practical impact on the course of her life. For Kit, it was a reminder that she, too, would be gone very soon.

  Perhaps Kit prized life more than she did. Even though she was only days old as an independent being, perhaps she was already diverged enough from Caitlin that she felt differently about her uncle. Perhaps Kit loved Tobe in a way that Caitlin could never have.

  She had been wrestling with a decision all morning. With a jolt she realised that she had suddenly reached a conclusion. The fact that it made her feel a martyr was part of its appeal.

  “I can’t go,” Caitlin said.

  Kit wiped her nose, leaving a glistening snail trail on her wrist. “Go where?”

  “To the funeral. It’s tomorrow. Everyone wants it over and done with.”

  “Why are you telling me?” Caitlin shrugged.

  Kit chewed her cheek, watching her. “Because you can’t tell Dad. Sorry. I mean your dad.”

  Caitlin nodded. She glanced at Ayo, who seemed to be making a deliberate show of not paying them any attention. She was certain that he genuinely liked Kit. He hadn’t even glanced at the mucus stain that Kit had left on his otherwise pristine white uniform. He would help them if he could. Still, the security in the care home meant that Caitlin couldn’t appeal to him directly. Instead, she would have to trick him and take advantage of his good nature.

  “I know I’d regret it if I didn’t go, though,” Caitlin said. “Remember how awful it was, missing Aaron Henson’s funeral?”

  Kit’s head jerked up.

  Aaron Henson was alive and well. Now that he had been diagnosed, he no longer suffered from the fits he used to have at secondary school.

  Caitlin prayed that Kit had got the message. Her plan was the only way she could think of assuaging her guilt about Tobe, about her dad, about Kit.

  “I assume you do remember him?” Caitlin said. “And how he died?” She widened her eyes.

  Evidently, Kit understood. Her eyes widened, too. A slight tilt of the head: Are you certain?

  Caitlin nodded slowly and deliberately.

  Instantly, Kit burst into tears again. She began to wail. Her body bucked and spasmed.

  “Nurse!” Caitlin yelled. “It’s a seizure. I’ve had them since I was tiny. She’s the same as me.”

  Ayo looked panic-stricken. Clumsily, he bent to hold Kit in his arms. “What should I do?”

  It was quite possible that January nurses had no real medical training. Ayo stared down at Kit, who shuddered and jerked, mimicking Aaron Henson perfectly.

  “I’ve got pills,” Caitlin said. “Here, in my pocket. Let me in there, quick!”

  “Throw them over the barrier!”

  Caitlin ignored him. She dashed to the door and into the corridor.

  The next door along the corridor – the door to the Skins’ annex of the visitors’ lounge – was locked. Its cold surface suggested that it was made of steel. Caitlin hammered at it and after a few seconds she heard scrabbling from the other side. It opened. Ayo was utterly distraught.

  The room was small and dark. It reminded Caitlin of working backstage at a performance of The Canterbury Tales at school, scurrying about behind the painted backdrops. Ayo stood to one side to let her pass through a low door. She emerged within the clear-walled annex and immediately experienced a strange sense of vertigo. For a moment she half-expected to see herself still out there, looking through the transparent barrier. The effect was made worse by the sight of Kit slumped on the floor, one arm over her chest and the other pressed against the barrier, her fingers making streaks on its polished surface.

  Caitlin bent beside her, positioning herself carefully so that she blocked Ayo’s view.

  “Here,” she said loudly. “Take this, quick.”

  She pushed Kit’s lank red hair aside. Kit winked at her and opened her mouth to receive the peppermint that Caitlin offered.

  Caitlin made a show of helping Kit sit up.

  “She’ll be all right,” Caitlin said to Ayo, who hovered awkwardly behind her.

  Kit made a hoarse, croaking sound.

  “What’s she saying?” Ayo asked.

  “She’s exhausted. The after-effects are sort of like a hangover. She’ll need rest.”

  Ayo stepped forwards but Caitlin shook her head. “You have to let me take her.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” He tried to take Kit by the arm. She pushed him away roughly, then corkscrewed with the momentum, ending up crumpled in a heap on the floor. She sobbed and sobbed. Ayo tried again to help her, but she spasmed and crawled away.

  “Can’t you see that she’s in shock?” Caitlin said, introducing a note of pleading into her voice.

  “Even so, I’m not allowed to—”

  Caitlin scrunched up her face. She thought of Tobe, but still felt no grief. Instead, she thought of her mum and of her unfair suspension from college. She dug her fingernails into her palms. The tears came.

  Ayo looked less and less certain of himself. The sight of two identical girls weeping pushed him over the edge.

  “We have to be quick,” he said.

  Kit rose to her feet. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks. Caitlin supported her weight, trying not to flinch at the strangeness of being in contact with her duplicate.

  They made their way through the antechamber and out into the corridor. Ayo darted ahead to the junction. Once he was out of earshot, Kit whispered, “You’re sure about this?”

  Caitlin squeezed Kit’s waist in reply. “When we get to your room, you’ll have to put up a fuss, okay?”

  “You don’t need to worry.”

  Caitlin wondered whether their imaginations were enough alike that this entire plan had occurred to Kit, too. “Shush, now,” she said.

  Ayo beckoned them towards the junction. They increased their pace. Being spotted by Dr Scaife would end the whole charade.

  Ayo turned left at the junction and scuttled along the passageway, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. Kit moaned every so often to dissuade him from offering to support her. They passed door after featureless door before Ayo came to a stop before one of them.

  “That’s me,” Kit whispered. “Home sweet home.”

  “Time to ramp it up, then.”

  Kit grew heavy and loose in Caitlin’s arms. She began to sob and wail again.

  “Please, stop shouting,” Ayo hissed. He wrung his hands.

  “I’m not going in there!” Kit cried.

  Caitlin held up a hand to Ayo. “It’s all right. I can deal with this.” She bent to Kit’s ear and made nonsense whispering noises, pretending to be talking her around. At the end of the string of nonsense, she whispered real words. “I trust you.”

  Kit whimpered. Her weeping was convincing even up close.

  “I can get her to go inside,” Caitlin said to Ayo. “Give me a couple of minutes to settle her. Don’t worry.”

  Ayo hesitated, then fumbled with a pass card that hung on a lanyard around his neck. When he pressed it against a black panel on the wall, the door emitted a click and swung open. Caitlin guided Kit inside and yanked the door shut.

  The room was tiny. The bed wasn’t large, but it still filled more than half of the space. Instead of a proper window, a
thin rectangular panel let in dull light but no view. The walls were bare plaster.

  “Quickly,” Caitlin said.

  Kit had already begun pulling off her clothes. It didn’t take her long, given that she was wearing only the blue smock and leggings over her underwear. Caitlin pulled her jumper over her head, snagging her hair. She tripped on one leg of the bed as she wriggled out of her skinny jeans.

  For a moment they stared at each other. Now that they were each wearing only underwear, Kit was far more Caitlin’s mirror image than before.

  A knock on the door shook them from their trance. Caitlin whirled around, expecting Ayo to enter. The door remained closed.

  “It’s all right,” Kit cried out. Now her voice sounded clear and controlled. She smiled at Caitlin. “It’s all right.”

  Caitlin felt a sudden compulsion to back out of the whole thing. But she knew it was too late. Kit held up the blue smock.

  In a flurry of limbs and fabric, they pulled on each other’s outfits. The creases of the blue smock settled on precisely the same contours they had covered on a different body only seconds earlier. Caitlin pulled on the leggings and black slippers. When she raised her head she saw Kit dressed in the clothes she had picked out for herself that morning. Kit fished around in her back pocket to retrieve the slim wallet that contained Caitlin’s rail tickets, a couple of notes and her ID card – without it she wouldn’t get far. She nodded and avoided meeting Caitlin’s eyes as she slid it back into her pocket. Caitlin felt she might burst into tears any second.

  Kit smoothed her jumper and ruffled her hair so that it looked less obviously unwashed.

  She was about to say something when the door opened.

  Immediately, Kit adopted Caitlin’s former role. She gripped Caitlin’s bare arms and bent to look into her eyes. She mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Then she glanced over Caitlin’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Ayo. She’s okay now. She’ll be fine, I think.”