Snakeskins

by Tim Major

  He almost dropped the thing as he fumbled to turn it over, searching for the controls. It was too small to hold a tape, so he hoped that it contained one of the hard drives that Spencer had demonstrated at his home. There was only one switch, and when Russell pressed it an LED blinked. He palmed the device, microphone outward, and shrugged the arm of his jumper so that it was hidden from view.

  The truth was the only weapon he and Spencer had, now.

  Ellis glanced at Russell as he sidled up. But his attention was occupied with the boy, bound and dragged before him.

  In a hoarse voice, Spencer said, “Why?”

  Ellis took a breath before speaking, as though he had rehearsed his answer. “The world needs change, son, and we need the world. British isolationism is a dead end. The country has progressed as far as it’s able. We must impress the world beyond our shores with our sole trump card – our unique abilities – before it loses currency. I believe that I, and others who think the same way as me, can lead a global government… a government comprised of Charmers, of course, but it’s our duty to be selective this time. We have the opportunity to select those who deserve the gift. No random, chaotic elements. Charmers have enormous responsibilities, son, and few are capable of meeting those challenges.”

  So that was it. Up to now, Russell had been preoccupied with the idea of rival factions within the Great British Prosperity Party. But this was bigger. It would explain why he hadn’t recognised many of the names in Ellis’s file. Ellis and his fellow conspirators must have been offering Charmer powers to select people from around the world, presumably in return for substantial donations. All with the pretext of building a Charmer cartel that spanned far beyond Britain, and which would rule the world unchallenged.

  “You think that’s what I care about?” Spencer hissed. His eyes shone.

  Ellis blinked. “Oh. Dear Nell. She—”

  Spencer turned his head to one side and spat a gobbet of red phlegm. The police officer really must have had to fight him to bring him here. Good lad. “No. Don’t you dare try and justify what you did to Mum and the others. You set fire to our house…” His voice faltered. “…and you burned her to death.”

  “I had to.”

  Russell stifled a gasp as he almost fumbled and dropped the recording device. This clear admission of guilt was somehow more shocking than his detailing of the Charmer plot. He prayed that there would be an opportunity to use the audio recording against Ellis.

  “But that’s not what I meant either,” Spencer said. “I’m asking: Why all this? Why bring me here? Is there any possible way you can make what you’re doing any worse?”

  Ellis’s cheeks flushed. “It’s for your own good, son.”

  He reeled in response to the hateful look that Spencer gave him.

  “I’m a Charmer,” Spencer muttered. “I wish to God I wasn’t. It’s a curse. If I could cut out whatever part of me will trigger the shedding in a couple of months – whatever part of me that was given by you – I would.”

  Ellis simply shook his head. He looked old and tired.

  “You’re not.” He turned to look out at the green streaks in the sky. They were growing in intensity by the minute. “You’re not a Charmer. But you will be. Then we’ll be the same. Given time, you’ll understand why it had to be this way.”

  Spencer looked as if he had been struck in the face. “But… how can I not be a Charmer? Mum was, and you are.”

  Ellis simply shrugged.

  Spencer fell silent as he processed the information. “Oh. I get it now.” A crooked grin spread over his face. “And you know what? It’s more than I could have hoped for.”

  Russell saw Ellis’s hands curl into fists.

  “Who is it?” Spencer demanded. He writhed, pulling against the straps that bound his hands. “Or are you going to make me guess?”

  After a few seconds’ hesitation, Ellis replied, “Peter.”

  Russell frowned. The name rang a bell. Hadn’t he met a Peter recently? He watched Spencer’s reaction. An expression of delight flashed across the boy’s face, then crushing regret. Then Russell remembered the list of names: Jules, Peter, Lewis, Christopher and poor, brave Clive. Ellis’s Snakeskins.

  “Of course,” Spencer whispered, speaking more to himself than to his father. “Your first. The one that Mum fell in love with. The reason she stayed.” His eyes were wet with tears. “Peter. My dad. And you killed him.”

  Ellis turned his back on the boy. One of the technical operators looked up as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “The radius has narrowed once again, sir, as you hoped,” she said. “Pinpointing the location is becoming more accurate as the meteors come nearer.”

  “And the Hext girls?”

  “Even if they are detained at this point, we ought to keep them secure in their current position to avoid any last-minute swerves. With the additional visual information—” the operator indicated the streaks visible in the sky “—we’re confident of the timing, too. Twenty-five minutes, with an error margin of only a minute either side.”

  Ellis stared out over the seafront. “And still definitely inland?”

  “All current data suggest that will be the case, sir, though it’s a close call.”

  “Inform me at once if there’s any hint of movement east.” Ellis flinched slightly as the door to the cafe opened and Angela McKinney entered, scowling, flanked by men and women in business suits. Ellis’s posture stiffened as she busied herself examining each of the terminal screens in turn.

  As he waited for Angela to make her way over to him, Ellis turned to face Spencer. All of the emotion had drained from his face.

  “It was a mistake,” Ellis said to his son. “The child of a Skin isn’t a Charmer. You received no gift. Not a single thing. But you should have been mine, Spencer, you should have been one of us. And now you can be.”

  * * *

  Caitlin waited and watched, measuring the passing of time by the regular thudding of boat hulls knocking together. The army had done a good job – there was nobody around. The desolation was eerie and the creep of the meteors across the sky gave the sense of an apocalypse already having occurred.

  Kit had volunteered to be the one to return stealthily to the seafront shops and sneak, little by little, over to the far side of the harbour, keeping out of sight of the soldier guard. She had made it clear that there was no point in risking them both being on the move, as long as they kept their distance from one another. Caitlin suspected that Kit thought she might be a liability.

  She tried to see Kit amongst the piles of crab cages where the harbour wall curved around the bay, but there was no sign of her. Nevertheless, she was certain that Kit could see her and was waiting for the signal.

  When it came, Caitlin’s sudden shift into alertness almost made her jump from her hiding place behind an A-board advertising pleasure-boat cruises.

  The voice rang out again from behind Caitlin. “You’re not taking me anywhere! I’m staying right here!”

  The soldier’s head whipped around in the direction of the Museum of Automata. Its rear door was wide open, now.

  “Get your hands off me, or I swear to God you’ll get a bullet between your eyes!”

  Gerry was doing an excellent job. She sounded dangerous and desperate.

  Both Caitlin and the soldier on the harbour wall flinched at a loud cracking sound that echoed off the seafront buildings. Caitlin wondered what Gerry had found within the museum to make such a noise.

  Immediately, the soldier broke into a run. He sprinted past Caitlin’s hiding place, making a beeline for the open back door of the museum.

  Then Caitlin set off in the other direction. Kit appeared from nowhere and reached the harbour before her. They held hands for balance as they scurried down the stone steps to the jetty.

  “Can you relax your grip a bit?” Kit said. “You’re crushing my fingers.”

  “And your palm’s all sweaty. Shut up.”

  They scurried alon
g the jetty, ducking behind coils of rusted cable, keeping close to the water in order to examine the boats.

  “That one,” Kit said, pointing. “Look. It’s named Evie.”

  Caitlin’s immediate instinct was anger. Evie was her friend, not Kit’s. In fact, Kit had only met her twice, technically, at the shedding and at the funeral.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “It’s a speedboat.”

  “I’ve always wanted to drive one. I mean, you’ve always wanted to. So now I want to, too. You can’t blame me for that. I’m only a poor Snakeskin with no original thoughts of my own.”

  Caitlin tried to ignore her. What Kit said was true enough. Caitlin only had herself to blame for being so insufferable.

  “You can’t have that one,” she hissed. “Even if you knew how to operate something that big, you don’t have the keys. It has to be the kind with an outboard motor.”

  Kit lapsed into silence. Then, “There! And another close by!”

  One of the boats was tied to the side of a much larger yacht, bumping against its white hull. The other was tied with a rope at the foot of a flight of moss-green steps that led down to the water.

  “You can take the nearest one,” Kit said, “but you’ll have to drop me off at the other one. Hold on while I untie the rope.”

  As Kit bent to the task, Caitlin yanked at the starter cord. The motor coughed and fell silent. From here, the door of the museum was obscured. She prayed that the soldier was still searching the premises and wouldn’t hear the engine. She gritted her teeth and pulled again. Nothing at all this time. She pulled with all her strength and the cord whipped out of her hand. She fell back, gasping.

  Kit stood over her looking scornful. In one hand she held the cut end of the rope, in the other a utility knife. She had come prepared. She tossed the rope away and turned to the engine.

  “It’s no good getting frustrated,” she muttered.

  With a single tug, the motor spluttered into life. Caitlin made a show of rubbing her spine where she had fallen, in an attempt to hide her annoyance.

  Kit made short work of cutting the rope attaching the second boat to the yacht, and starting the second motor. She hopped between the boats and settled herself into position beside the outboard.

  She grinned at Caitlin. “So this is it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re looking so pleased about.”

  “Give me a break. Compared to the way I thought I was going to die, this is a doddle. Out on the ocean waves. Way better than disappearing in a puff of ash. Should we hug or something?”

  “I think you’ve had enough of me. Right?”

  “Right. But hey. I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.” Then Kit exclaimed, “Oh! I’ve always wanted to say this. Synchronise watches.”

  Caitlin looked down at the wristwatch she had stolen from the museum gift shop. In its centre was a blank-faced automaton and part of the dial was cut away to reveal tiny cogs clicking. “Eight-thirteen. And five seconds… six, seven.”

  “Close enough,” Kit said.

  “It feels like we should take a second and say something profound.”

  “Figure it out later and assume I’d have said the same thing,” Kit said with a grin. “Right. See you on the other side, then.”

  She swung the motor and her boat lurched towards the mouth of the harbour. Caitlin cursed as she struggled to keep up.

  * * *

  Gerry stretched out her limbs, pressing herself onto the flat roof of the Museum of Automata. Gravel dug against her arms. She desperately wanted to scratch them, but she didn’t dare disturb the camera she was holding against the lip of the roof. Beneath her, somewhere within the museum, she could hear the shuffling movements of the soldier, still searching for the source of the shouting.

  Caitlin and Kit in their boats were now hidden behind the stone wall that cradled the harbour. Resourceful kids, both of them.

  In the last ten minutes the sky had turned from peach to a sickly green. She could no longer look directly at the meteors or even their trails, due to their intensity. It was impossible to tell if they really were changing direction.

  A squeal of tyres made her almost upset the camera. Carefully, she repositioned it so that it pointed towards the harbourside, where six cars had parked messily. The sound of doors slamming carried across the still air like distant gunshots. She pressed herself flatter as the soldier burst from the museum with his gun raised, and ran towards the cars.

  The disposable camera had no zoom. She grimaced at the thought of the high-end SLR still sitting on her coffee table at home. She ought to have recognised the limitations of the gift-shop camera earlier, should have hidden within the harbour itself, forfeiting the high angle this position gave her but lessening the distance. But it was too late now. She peered into the viewfinder, trying to make out the faces of the people emerging from the cars. Several more vehicles arrived. Soon, the harbourside was thronging with people.

  Two strode ahead of the group and along the concrete jetty. She recognised them immediately. The man was Ellis Blackwood, the MP. Beside him stood another minister, Angela McKinney, who Gerry had recently, reluctantly, featured in an article about ‘fashion secrets of the snappiest-dressing Party members’. Gerry took several shots and then trained the camera on the throng that followed them.

  Several of the faces were immediately familiar. The Brinkley siblings, low-ranking cabinet ministers about whom there had always been rumours of attempted coups to seize power within the Party. Alvin Routledge, the fast-food millionaire. A Shepperton comedian turned producer whose name Gerry couldn’t recall. Most of the group looked as though they were dressed for a party. Others wore the dull uniforms of drivers or the conservative attire of personal assistants. She gasped as she identified Zemma Finch at the rear of the group. Gerry swore and hammered at the shutter release button.

  The members of the group pushed at each other for positions behind Ellis Blackwood and Angela McKinney as they strode along the harbour front. Ellis shouted something and pointed ahead to part of the harbour wall, which must be where Caitlin and Kit were hiding in their respective boats. His body language betrayed his anxiety: Gerry presumed that he had only moments ago reassured Angela that the Fall would occur on land, and this close to the seafront his certainty would be tested. He wouldn’t have had time to requisition a boat large enough for his entourage.

  She shielded the camera lens from the flickering of the sky. Eight-twenty-five. Any moment now.

  She saw the boats before Ellis or Angela did. Caitlin and Kit – it was impossible to tell which was which – each steered their craft at forty-five degrees from the other, rapidly increasing the distance between them as they burst away from the harbour.

  Even from this distance she could hear Ellis’s roar. He stood with his back to Gerry, teetering on the edge of the jetty with his arms aloft as he bellowed at the departing girls. Angela clutched her head with both hands. The group behind her fragmented and turned to disarray as its members tried to understand what was happening. A few stumbled down to the collection of tiny boats moored in the harbour, but simply stared at them and shouted back up to the rest of the group.

  Caitlin’s and Kit’s boats soon appeared to reach the horizon. They must be hundreds of metres apart by now. Their outlines shimmered, swallowed up by the bloom of light from the sky. The two girls were now stick figures with burning green halos that enveloped their bodies.

  Gerry looked up at the fireballs hanging overhead. If she squinted, she convinced herself that she could see kinks in the trails. It was working. The meteors were redirecting to follow the Hext girls.

  Despite herself, she felt a pang of regret. All her life she had dreamed of being a Charmer, of rejuvenating and enjoying the status of those anointed for greatness. Today, a new image had occurred to her, a fantasy tinged with guilt, in which she commanded a gang of willing, subservient clones. Or perhaps her Skins might h
ave been friends as much as lackeys. Either way, she had come within a hair’s breadth of being granted that gift, and without paying for it as, presumably, the gaggle of people standing on the harbour front had. And she had sabotaged her chances. She had aided Caitlin and Kit in their plan. If she was ever miserable about her ordinariness in future, she had nobody to blame but herself.

  She switched to a second disposable camera and took a dozen more photos.

  At least she would have the story.

  * * *

  The light from above was almost unbearable now. Caitlin could no longer make out the individual meteors or their trails. Their heat warmed the top of her head. The sea shone with green reflections and the lurch of the waves made her constantly disoriented. Her arm braced against the vibration of the outboard motor began to feel numb. She felt less and less as though she was on a boat and more as though she were falling, upwards, into the sun.

  She twisted around. It was impossible to tell whether she was still heading in the agreed direction, but she was certainly travelling away from land. The beach was a thin stripe to her right, appearing more grey than sand-coloured in contrast to the vivid green light. As long as Kit acted as a mirror image, keeping the seafront to her left, they must both still be on track.

  There. She could make out the other boat in the distance, if she screwed up her eyes against the brightness. Searing light slashed somewhere between the two craft, appearing to pierce the sea.

  Kit was standing up in her boat. Her arms looked as thin as straws. She was waving.

  Caitlin stood too. She raised both her arms.

  She meant to shout ‘Goodbye’, but it came out as a wordless bellow.

  The sea fizzed before her—

  —and something plunged in—

  —and then more and more and more—

  —until all Caitlin could hear were stomach-punching thuds—

  —and all she could see were plumes of rising water—