by Tim Major
Gerry returned to reality with a start.
A face appeared in the bushes at the roadside. It took her a moment to recognise him as Ayo, the nurse she had spoken to at the January reception desk.
She leapt from the car. “What the hell are you doing?” she hissed.
“Will you help me?” he said in a strained voice.
“Of course. Come out of there.”
As he emerged, Gerry saw that he was injured. His left eye was swollen shut, and when she reached out to support him he shook his head vigorously and clutched at his ribs.
“Who did this?”
“A colleague of mine started the job, but then a couple of gents in black suits finished up. Friendly types, but a bit clumsy. One of them hit me with a chair, the daft thing.”
“Seriously? Were they GBP?”
Ayo shrugged.
She guided him carefully to the passenger seat. “For what?”
“I picked a side, I guess. And it wasn’t theirs.”
“Whose side did you pick?”
He eyed her with suspicion as he eased himself into the seat. “I appreciate the help. But how do I know I can trust you?”
Gerry dashed around and hopped into the driver’s seat. “I can save you the trouble. This is about Caitlin Hext, isn’t it? I came here to help her.”
His look of immense relief was followed by a wince of pain. “Her Skin. Yes. I wanted to help her too. She’s gone.”
“She ashed? Turned to dust?”
“No. Gone gone. Got away. The senior staff are furious, and the Party emissaries even more so. And not just furious. Panicked. Terrified.”
“And do you know where the Skin might have gone?”
After a pause, he nodded.
Gerry jammed her foot down. She flicked two fingers in the direction of the security guard as she accelerated away.
* * *
Russell opened his eyes then shut them again, fast. The sting of daylight was unbearable.
He focussed on how his body felt. His arms and legs were bare and covered with a soft sheet. As he moved his head a pillow remoulded to accommodate him, tickling his cheeks. The back of his skull throbbed dreadfully at the point—
—where he had been hit.
He sat up sharply.
Blackness pressed in from the corners of his vision. He sank into the bulky pillows. He squeezed his eyes tight, breathed deeply and prayed not to be sick.
Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He bunched the covers in his fists and waited for the nausea to pass. He felt his pupils contracting against the golden glow from the curtains.
The room was plain but decorated tastefully in shades of peach and white. A hotel?
On a chest of drawers beyond the foot of the bed stood an ugly statue. The carved wooden figure was squat, with a bulbous head and large concave eyes like two dishes sunk into its face.
Another odd aspect of the room took him a while to register. Hotels always had the artificial smell of cleaning products and the chemical sweetness of perfume to mask them. Here, the scents of bread and coffee mixed with the smell of people, a particular mix of bath products, deodorant and sweat. It was oddly calming.
Familiar, too.
He recognised this decor. It was the same as in another room that surely must be within the same house. A similarly plain room containing only a bed, side table, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe hiding a cast-iron safe.
This was Ellis Blackwood’s house.
Which made sense, of course, because—
Pain bloomed at the back of his head, then enveloped him, smothering like a tight bandage.
“Jesus fuck!” he bellowed.
The door opened soundlessly. He tried to blink away the tears that had formed in his eyes.
“Spencer,” he moaned. “Don’t.”
He flinched as something cool touched his forehead. A hand. Small. The fingers of another hand danced around his jawline and his neck.
“Don’t,” Russell said again.
“I won’t,” a voice replied. “Yikes. There’s a bump right here. It’s a whopper.”
Russell blinked rapidly, desperate to clear his vision.
That voice.
He wiped at his eyes to clear the tears. A face hung over him. Freckles and dark, wild hair.
It didn’t make sense.
“Nell?” he managed to croak.
“It’s all right. Don’t make any sudden moves. I mean, you’ve hurt your head. I’m not trying to threaten you.”
Her fingers walked carefully along his skull. His teeth clenched, though he noticed that the stroke of her fingertips actually lessened the discomfort.
Why was Nell covering for Spencer? Did she know what he was capable of?
“I’m afraid for your safety,” he said. “Is he here?”
“No. Don’t worry.” Her face showed only kind concern. Where her cheeks creased, the bands of freckles touched.
“Don’t worry?” he repeated. “You’ve seen what he did to me. Why are you—” He winced again, more from confusion than pain. There were all sorts of ways he could complete the question: —defending him? —here? —so absurdly wonderful?
“I don’t love him, you know,” Nell said.
“Your own son?”
Nell frowned, then clapped a hand to her forehead. “I was talking about Ellis.”
Of all the implications that occurred to Russell at that instant, the foremost was, Whatever trouble she’s in, she’s free of her husband. But not far behind this was, I’ve got every single thing wrong, somehow.
He drew himself deeper into the nest of pillows in order to look Nell over. Her slight frame, her rounded shoulders. He tried to recall her body language as she walked.
“You,” he whispered. “It was you.”
Nell smirked.
“It was you that I met you in the underground car park. I noticed you were small.”
“Hey!” Nell exclaimed. She straightened. “I’m a tough customer, I’ll have you know. Sculpting’s physical work. Here, feel this bicep.” She leant forwards with her arm outstretched.
Russell touched it. It was true – beneath the skin he could feel a tight knot of muscle. He tried to suppress a shudder of delight. As a distraction, he groaned and pulled his hand away to rub at his neck even though, suddenly, it didn’t hurt a bit.
“You have to tell me what’s going on,” he said.
Nell chewed her cheek.
“Nell,” Russell said. He reached out again but missed another chance for contact when she folded her arms. “All this time. You could have just spoken to me.”
“If it had been up to me, perhaps I would have.”
Russell sighed. “So I was right. You and Spencer are in this together.”
Nell hopped off the bed. “Can you walk?”
“It hurts a bit.”
“I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t know what else to do.”
He gaped at her. “It was you? You hit me?”
“I couldn’t have you blurting out what you knew – or what you thought you knew – in public. There was a Guinness Book of Records in the car, wrapped up for Spencer’s birthday. It’s what I had to hand. It’s kind of hefty. Seriously, though. Can you walk?”
Russell shuffled to the edge of the bed. “Probably. Let’s go and chat to Spencer, then. Enough of the secrecy.”
Nell looked as though she might say something, but then she only smiled. She took his hand. “This way.”
The house was still and silent. Russell noted the twin guilty pleasures of being barefoot in Nell’s home and of her warm hand in his. Her skin was smooth. Perhaps all that woodworking had rubbed away at it, eradicating her fingerprints.
He wondered again how he ought to treat Spencer. Despite everything, he was an insecure teenager. Russell ought to let the boy speak before accusing him, otherwise he might clam up.
Nell turned right at the foot of the stairs. Russell glanced into the kitchen to see Spencer bent over a
collection of circuit boards arranged on the farmhouse table. The boy raised his head and gave a wistful smile, then frowned again at his computer project.
To his surprise, Nell led Russell away, past the dark doorway of Ellis’s study and towards the front door.
Russell glanced down at himself. He didn’t recognise the shorts and T-shirt he was wearing – they must belong to Ellis. He shuddered at the thought of his boss’s body in these same clothes. The unpleasant idea occurred to him that the outfit was a shed skin that Russell had wriggled his way into.
“I can’t go outside like this,” he said.
Nell didn’t turn. “You won’t need to.”
She started along the narrow servants’ passageway, her slim arm trailing behind her to pull Russell along. She tapped on the keypad on the wall. Five beeps and the metal door swung open.
Russell craned his neck to see over Nell’s shoulder. He had been right in his earlier deduction – a flight of steps led down from the small store cupboard.
Nell squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. Any further questions were pointless. Despite all this mystery, he trusted her.
The steps were carpeted. The staircase ended at another heavy door that took all of Nell’s weight to push open. Above the door was a handwritten sign that read, Welcome to Tartarus.
Inside, wall-mounted lamps marked the perimeter of a large lounge dotted with leather sofas, tables and chairs. The low ceiling gave the room the atmosphere of a gentleman’s club or a den. The man-cave effect was heightened by the presence of five men assembled in a horseshoe shape around the entrance.
“Guys,” Nell said. Her tone was both mocking and scolding. “You could have gone easy on him and shown up one at a time.”
She stepped aside.
One of the men sniggered. Russell blinked in the dim light.
Moving as one, each of the men held out his right hand.
Russell stared at the collection of podgy hands. Then his gaze travelled slowly upwards, to the five Ellis Blackwoods standing in a semicircle around him.
* * *
Caitlin allowed herself to be guided by Kit towards an armchair in the bay window. White, veil-like curtains obscured the view. She sat down heavily. Dodie – the Dodie who had brought her here – perched on a stool to remove her shoes. She had already taken off her tweed coat and hat. If Caitlin looked away for too long, she might easily lose track of which person had rescued her from the care home.
The other women took their seats. Caitlin realised that the Dodies weren’t identical. For a start, they all wore different outfits. The woman to her immediate left wore a dark trouser-suit; her neighbour a long plaid skirt and white blouse. Another wore tatty denim overalls spattered with paint, and one wore a pale green dressing gown, beneath which Caitlin could see cotton pyjamas.
At first Caitlin thought their physical differences might be an effect of their having arranged their hair in different styles. But no, the faces weren’t identical, either. She turned to the Dodie she knew, studying her features as a method of calibration. A Dodie to her right had a face that appeared far more lined. The crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes met the vertical creases either side of her mouth. In contrast, the Dodie closest to Caitlin had a face that was relatively smooth. Her cheeks shone like polished marble.
There was one thing they all had in common, though. All of the women were smiling.
* * *
Russell’s knees buckled. Nell darted forwards to hold his arm.
“I don’t understand,” he said. He looked around at the pack of Ellis Blackwoods, trying to determine which one was his boss. “Sir.”
One of the Skins stepped forwards and took Russell by both shoulders. Russell batted him away weakly but the man renewed his grip. Reeling from claustrophobia, Russell managed to push him away, but then fell to the floor on his backside. His palms hit the lino with twin slaps.
“It’s okay, Russell,” Nell said quietly.
He gazed up at her, then at the semicircle of Ellis Blackwoods. All of their faces held the same expression – concern, with a hint of amusement.
“It’s not okay,” he murmured. “It’s not bloody okay.” What did it all mean? Nell, working with Ellis, in order to spy on Ellis… None of it made sense.
“He isn’t here,” Nell said.
It took Russell a moment to realise who she was talking about. “Ellis. My boss.”
She nodded.
All of the men were dressed identically in black pinstripe trousers and white shirts. The top button of each of their shirts was undone.
“None of you are the originator?” Russell said. “You’re all Snakeskins?”
“And proud of it,” one of the Skins replied. His voice sounded a little different to the Ellis that Russell knew. Stronger.
“Do take a seat,” another of the Skins said, gesturing at one of the black leather armchairs.
“No. Thanks all the same. I prefer to stand.”
One Skin turned to his neighbour. “He prefers to keep near to the exit, more like.”
The other man snorted with laughter.
* * *
Kit knelt beside Caitlin’s armchair. “Now would be a good time to say something, I reckon,” she whispered.
Caitlin took a breath. Some of the Dodies leant forwards expectantly.
“Hi,” she said. She glanced at the Dodie who had driven her here. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”
All of the women spoke in sync. “It’s a pleasure.”
The Dodie wearing the plaid skirt laughed at Caitlin’s startled response. “All right girls, knock it off.”
At this, all of the women appeared to relax. They fidgeted, played with their sleeves, chewed their nails. Caitlin immediately felt calmer.
“You’re hiding,” she said. “But why here and not some-where more remote?”
“In this cul-de-sac, you mean? It does feel rather that we’re being watched by our neighbours, doesn’t it?” The plaid-skirt Dodie smiled. “There’s method in our madness. We chose this place precisely because it means we can never afford to lower our guards. If we can manage to avoid alerting our neighbours, we can rest easier in the hope that our subterfuge is convincing enough to fool anybody else who might pry into our affairs.”
“How long have you been hiding here?”
The plaid-skirt Dodie replied. “Sixteen years.”
The Dodie in the trouser-suit said, “Twenty-three years.”
Someone at the other side of the room said, “Forty-four years.”
Plaid-skirt snorted. “What nonsense. We only bought this place twenty-five years ago.”
“That’s splitting hairs.” The Dodie who spoke wore a lilac dress of a style that Caitlin had only ever seen in old Pinewood or Elstree films. She was one of the few women wearing lipstick and would have been at home at a cocktail party. “What the girl wants to know is how old we are. Am I correct?”
Caitlin wilted under her gaze. “I don’t know. Yes, probably.”
“Well,” cocktail-party Dodie continued, “let me give you the broad-brush overview, then.” She stood up and moved to the centre of the circle. She pointed at each of the women in turn. The motion made her dress flare out at the knees, as though she were dancing. “Two years old. Nine years old. Sixteen. Twenty-three. Thirty – you met her today, of course. Thirty-seven. And I’m forty-four, as I say. Fifty-one.” Then she turned to the Dodie with the polished-marble cheeks. “Sixty-seven.”
“You’re the originator?” Caitlin said, addressing the final woman. “The human?”
The woman’s marble cheeks turned pink. “That’s a loaded term. Furthermore, we don’t care to make any distinction. But yes.”
* * *
“You have to explain what’s happening,” Russell said. He addressed Nell. The shifting collection of Ellis Blackwoods was beginning to make him feel queasy.
Nell laughed. The sound eased Russell’s mind a little.
“Of course,�
� she said. “You think I’m going to bring you down here to see the singular occupants of this room – handsome though they are – and then send you away again without an explanation? Do you really think I’m that kind of a tease?”
Russell felt his cheeks glow. He shook his head.
“So. Where would you like us to start?”
Russell struggled to his feet, then wished he’d stayed on the floor. Suddenly, all he wanted was to go back to sleep. “I’ve been speaking to one of you, all this time? The hooded stranger. Ixion. It wasn’t you, Nell, was it?”
She smiled. “Today, it was. I was very much the understudy, a part forced upon me by recent developments. Ellis – my husband – ramped up the house security. There are cameras and sensors everywhere. I think you might have been involved in installing them? Thanks a bunch, Russell.”
A thought struck Russell. He looked down at the Skins’ feet. A couple of them noticed and lifted their trouser legs to reveal thick black bands around their ankles. Blue lights flashed – the same blue lights Russell had noticed on more than one of the occasions they had met in secret.
“Radio-frequency tags, steel-reinforced and permanently attached,” one of the Skins explained. “You can trust the Party to import technology in areas that suit them. One step outside our allocated zone and Ellis knows about it instantly.”
Of course. That would explain why they could only meet in certain locations. If their rendezvous points were plotted on a map, Russell expected they would describe a circle around the Blackwood house.
From her pocket, Nell retrieved a small, black object. She raised it to her mouth and spoke into it. “I’m not sure my performance was a patch on the original.” Her voice came through the mouthpiece at a lower pitch, crackling a little.
One of the Skins raised his hand. “You spoke to me.”
Another did too. “And me.”