by Neil Randall
To confirm this, Hepworth asked, “Is that Miss Franklin?”
“That it is. For every image I scrape across a person’s skin I have the image of that person scraped across mine. Here. I’ll show you.” He turned around, pulled up his vest, and showed them his bony back, covered in hundreds of tattoos of heads, all around the size of a chicken egg, all intricate and detailed. “See.”
Hepworth leaned forward to get a closer look.
“So, Mr Bogdanovic, what you’re telling us is that every time you tattoo something onto someone’s body, you have their face tattooed on yours? But who, may I ask, performs the work on your body? Do you have an assistant or –?”
“No, no.” Bogdanovic pulled his T-shirt down and turned back to face them. “I’d never let another’s needle profane my body. I scrape these faces across my skin with my own hand.”
This was completely preposterous – no person could tattoo their own back; it was a physical not to mention artistic impossibility. Not wanting to get bogged down in irrelevancies, let alone argue such a plainly ridiculous point, Hepworth let it pass.
“Okay. Let’s forget about your body art for a moment, and concentrate on Miss Franklin. We understand that you’ve known her for several years, that she approached you for a tattoo and -”
“Incorrect,” said Bogdanovic. “She were sent here by special envoy, by spirit guides, who told her she should have the face of Chief Wanayama, the wise and vengeful one, tattooed on her forearm, for he is the embodiment of the righteous struggle, of the indigenous people’s battle against the white man’s genocidal greed, a greed which wiped Wanayama’s descendents from the face of the earth.”
Heavy rain started to hammer against the roof.
“Ah!” Excited, Bogdanovic raised his elbows, chicken-wing like and jigged on the spot. “What’d I tell you? Rain!”
“Forget about the weather,” said Hepworth, “– this is a very serious matter. Miss Franklin’s parents tell us that she had her first tattoo when she was under-age, and that you were the man who did it. Now, we’re not here today to look into that particular matter, but are you an officially trained and qualified tattoo artist? Have you certificates? Do you adhere to all the health and safety standards required, with regards to needles and hygiene and so forth?”
“I have no need of such things.”
“But those things, the various accreditations, are a legal requirement, if you want to be a practising tattoo artist.”
Bogdanovic waved his words away
Patience stretched, Hepworth shifted position and rubbed a hand across his clean-shaven chin.
“Look, Mr Bogdanovic, Miss Franklin went missing two days ago. No one has heard from her or seen her since. It’s our understanding that you were quite friendly, that you not only tattooed her skin but spent time with her and her former partner, here, at your home. So can you please tell us about the nature of your relationship, and when you last saw her?”
Bogdanovic scrunched up his face, raised a bony hand, and, counting off with his fingers, did some mental calculations in his head.
“I haven’t seen nor heard from her in weeks – not since she fell ill.”
“Ill?” asked Priestly, a note of surprise and intrigue in her voice.
“I could tell by the eyes,” said Bogdanovic. “I offered her some herbal infusions to help clear the infection, but she refused to admit that there was anything wrong with her.”
“And was this meeting here?”
“That it was. She often came here to get away from things, to forget her troubles, who she really was in relation to who she so badly wanted to be.”
“And what kinds of things did you do? What kinds of things did you talk about?”
“In the main, we worked the yarrow sticks, formed the hexagrams, and discussed our future conduct in accordance with the ancient judgments.”
“Yarrow sticks? Hexagrams?” said Priestly. “Are you talking about the I Ching now, The Book of Changes?”
Bogdanovic nodded enthusiastically, rifled through some papers lying on the nearby dining-table, dusted off a layer of grime, and handed a single crumpled sheet to Hepworth.
“Here, this was our last hexagram, the one that no doubt sealed her fate.”
Hepworth studied the sheet of paper: a six-line hexagram, the words WU WANG/INNOCENCE, THE UNEXPECTED printed out in incredibly neat block capitals, below it, in lower case: means misfortune from without. Beside that the commentary:
If someone is not as he should be, he has misfortune, and it does not further him to undertake anything. By turning back one is freed of guilt.
Hepworth looked up from the sheet of paper.
“And you discussed this hexagram with Miss Franklin?”
“That I did,” said Bogdanovic. “Were sat round this here table for hours, we were, looking at it from every conceivable angle, so long, in fact, she were late collecting her children from school. But this were far too important to ignore, this changed everything.”
“Changed everything? How so?”
“’Cause she were a very conflicted young woman, lots of psychic pain burning in her heart, lots of regret, but she knew she couldn’t simply turn back as the book had told her, knew there was no way to escape her own sense of guilt, knew there was no way out, that she’d have to take radical action.”
“What kind of action?”
Bogdanovic hunched his thin shoulders, but not in perplexity, more resignation.
“There be more than one way to skin a cat.”
A long silence.
“Okay, Mr Bogdanovic, that’s very interesting. So you hadn’t seen Miss Franklin for some time, but were you aware of any other problems she was having, any arguments or disagreements she may’ve had with local people? Was there, to the best of your knowledge, anyone who may not have been very well disposed to Miss Franklin? Did she have any enemies, anyone who may have wanted to do her harm?”
“Her biggest enemy was herself.”
“Right, I see, and…” to a series of further general questions Hepworth received a series of similarly vague, cryptic answers, things he could make little or no sense of.
Frustrated, he changed tack.
“Did you and Miss Franklin take drugs together? Did you ever supply her with illegal substances?”
“Course I did,” said Bogdanovic. “But that be strictly off the record, ’cause, for one, I know you ain’t really bothered ’bout no drugs today, but in getting information ’bout the girl. For two, you’d never find nothing incriminating on these here premises, not if you brought in a whole team of sniffer dogs, not if you turned the place over with a fine toothcomb.” As if to emphasize the point, he dug around in one of his pockets and pulled out an old, tatty comb missing several teeth. “Yeah, she were a great one for trying to cleanse the doors of perception but found no palace of wisdom, only one dead end after another. Completely lost and alone, she weren’t so much a searcher now as a destroyer, but it were a journey she had no other option but to take.”
“Journey?” said Hepworth. “Are you talking about some specific destination, a place Miss Franklin might be now?”
“Course,” Bogdanovic replied. “Whether earthly or spiritual in being, the soul never dies, never ceases to wander, like Chief Wanayama, she must avenge herself on those who oppressed her, before she will ever be at peace again.”
Chapter Sixteen
Three Days Earlier: The Friday Evening
“Nice place.” Nicky Thomas smiled nervously. “Sort of up market, flash, but with a few traditional touches.”
“That looks so good.” Jacqueline ignored him, making pointed reference to the food the waiting staff was taking over to nearby tables. “Been so rushed today, not had a chance to have anything to eat, feel so hungry right now.”
But he was so caught up in trying to make a good impression, to be charming and funny, it went right over his head. Why do men have to be so stupid, she thought to herself, so slow on the
uptake?
“So what sorts of things do you like to get up to, then?”
She felt like telling him the truth: smoking and drinking myself into oblivion every night, just to forget how truly shit my life is. But instead said, “Oh, I’m big into music. I like going to gigs, festivals, which type of thing. I read a lot, too…” but quickly tired of regurgitating personal details to someone she didn’t have much interest in getting personal with. “You know, I get a bit bored of beer sometimes, but it’s just so easy, isn’t it? What shall I have to drink tonight? And the lager pumps are the first things you see, all lit up, staring you in the face.”
Only this time he took the hint.
“Really? Me too. I drink a lot of wine at home, you know, mid-week, in front of the Champion’s League football.” He picked up the wine list. “Do you fancy ordering a bottle of red or something? They’ve got some nice stuff on here. My treat.”
“Yeah, yeah, why not? That’d be great.”
***
“So to be honest with you,” Anita Jones said in a shaky voice, “I’m not really looking to jump straight back into a big relationship or anything like that.”
“I understand,” Aaron replied. “When you split up with someone you’ve been with for a long time, you feel a bit, erm…lost, like you don’t know what to do with yourself. Going out on the lash, meeting new people, nothing heavy, is all you really want to do.”
“Exactly,” she said, visibly brightening. “You know something? It’s been good talking to you, Aaron. You know what I’m going through, and I’ve really enjoyed meeting up tonight, you’re such a good listener.”
“Yeah, well, a problem shared and all that.”
A brief silence – Aaron could feel her eyes all over him.
“You know something else? I can’t believe you haven’t got a girlfriend. I know you and Jade only split up a short while back, but you’re such a good-looking lad, you tick all the boxes. Isn’t there anybody you fancy? Haven’t you been out on dates or anything?”
Aaron took a sip of lager. “Well, there was this one girl,” and he really emphasised the past tense, even though it was very much a here and now set of emotions. “I thought loads of her, but she was really intelligent, a bit posh, out of my league, I s’pose you’d say. And I ended up making a bit of a twat of myself.”
Anita reached over and touched his hand.
“Oh, don’t say that, Aaron. Brains aren’t everything. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to be a good person, a good boyfriend. Besides, you probably just weren’t compatible with this posh girl. And let me tell you, she’s the one missing out, not you.”
Laughter broke out at a nearby table. Aaron turned his head, could see Jacqueline sat at an intimate table in the far corner of the room, sipping wine from a deep and wide wineglass, and he so badly wanted to be the man sitting opposite, talking, touching her hand, he felt like banging his fist against the table.
“Maybe she is,” he said without any conviction whatsoever. “I guess when you’re in our position, on the rebound, you need to get blind drunk, jump into bed with someone you like and trust, a fuck buddy.”
He meant it as a bit of a joke, but Anita clearly didn’t take it that way.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit risky? When you feel a bit all over the place, emotionally, wouldn’t that just lead to you getting hurt again?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Not if we both know the score, if we just want to be there for each other, and know that nothing might come of it.”
Anita drained her glass of wine. “Yeah, perhaps you’re right.”
***
Jacqueline leaned her back against a cold brick wall, could hear frothy waves crashing against the shore, ocean spray splashing against the promenade.
“Wait,” Nicky panted, bending his knees, taking her weight. “Isn’t this a bit risky? What if someone comes?”
“That’s what’s so exciting. Besides, I’m the only one you should want to come.”
He laughed breathlessly, and started to thrust away, cradling her naked buttocks with each hand.
“Wait,” he said, stopping mid-thrust. “I – I haven’t got any condoms. Shouldn’t we really use –?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She bounced up and down, kissing his neck, “I’m on the pill.”
***
“Jacqueline.”
Startled, she swung round, leaving the keys dangling from her front door.
“Aaron? Is that you?” She squinted up her eyes in the darkness. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to come and see you.” He walked up the garden path. “We need to talk.”
“Look, Aaron, it’s really late. I’m tired. Can’t this wait until next week?”
“No it can’t. Can I come in, just for five minutes?”
***
“Like I said – be patient.” Jacqueline drew deeply on a joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Once I hear that that Jason bastard has been implicated in all of this, we can move on, just the two of us.”
Aaron reached across the kitchen table and touched Jacqueline’s wrist, near the tattoo of an Indian chief.
“Where did you get these done?” he asked. “Who are they supposed to be?”
She brushed his hand away. “That one’s Chief Wanayama, a Native American, a famous freedom fighter, a symbol of purity, of standing up for your rights; of fighting oppression. It was done by the Boge. Do you know him?”
Aaron gave a start. “What? That weird bloke who lives in those caravans in the woods, the one who catches stray cats and dogs and hangs ’em?”
“He doesn’t do that. That’s just stupid small town gossip.”
“Really? Well, yeah, maybe it is. My dad says that this town is so bad for chin-wagging, that if you sneeze by the church, by time you’ve got to the bus station you’ve shit yourself.”
“Ha! Very perceptive.” Jacqueline laughed. “And the Boge’s just different, that’s all. And that’s what fucks me off about people around here, people in general. If you don’t do or think or dress the same as everybody else, it makes you into some kind of freak, when really, the people who conform like bloody robots, getting up for work each day, paying their taxes, being good little boys and girls, are the freaks, because they haven’t got an original thought in their heads.”
She yawned, picked up her phone and made a big show of checking the time, going so far as to let out a staged gasp: is it really that late?
“Maybe I should go and see the Boge, then, eh?” said Aaron, oblivious. “Maybe I should get myself a tattoo, and stop being a bloody robot.”
“Yeah,” she replied, feeling like she would say or do anything got get rid of him right now, “maybe you should.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jason poured more wine into Christina’s glass and then sat next to her on the sofa.
“Oh no,” she said. “I, erm…do not think I should drink so much, already I feel a little tipsy, and – and I only came to see you to get something to help me sleep.”
“Don’t worry.” He shuffled that little bit closer. “It’s your first night, after all – new country, new place to live, new job. You need to relax. You’ve had a long journey. A couple of glasses of wine and a movie are just the ticket.”
“Erm, well, maybe you’re right.”
“Course I’m right.” He grinned and looked her over, eyeing her full rounded breasts, soft tanned skin, the shiny blonde hair that fell over her shoulders. “Besides, all the other girls have crashed out now, and if you can’t get off to sleep, what’s the point of lying in the dark, tossing and turning, eh?”
He picked up the remote control and aimed it at the plasma screen television.
“What’d you fancy, then? Gravity? Avengers Assemble? The new James Bond?”
“You have all these movies, to watch now, on screen, here?”
“Course.” He flicked through the menu. “At my fingertip
s, anything you want.” Still scrolling, he stole another greedy glance at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Maybe we could, erm…make this a regular thing – movie night, me and you, a nice bottle of wine.”
“Really? I think I would like that very much. Back home, I do not get the chance to go to movie theatre very much, and films that they show are not always the best, not like this.”
“Well, consider your wish granted. Here, Gravity, starring no less than Sir George Clooney himself.”
***
The orchestral music reached a rousing crescendo, the final credits started to scroll down the screen.
“Oh, thank you so much, Jason.” Christina flashed a wonky drunken smile and tried to sit up properly. “I enjoy very much, so exciting, especially when Sandra Bullock goes spinning off into space, amazing special effects. I jumped so many times, I nearly fall off sofa. Ha!”
“I know,” he said, an arm still around her from the first time she gave a start. “Lucky I was here to catch you, eh?” He leaned close and breathed in the delicate scent of her hair and skin. “And I’ve, erm…really enjoyed tonight, hanging out with you. You’re good company, Chris.”
“Me too,” she said. “And you will really speak to your boss? You will ask if he can get me better job, with better money?”
“Yeah, yeah, course. I’ve got quite a lot of pull up at the factory. In fact, me and Michael, the official owner, the bloke with his name above the door, like, are practically partners.”
“What? So you own half the factory?”
“Yeah, only I like to keep it low-key, you know? And I can tell you’re a cut above the average worker who comes over here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He touched her cheek with his free hand. “You’re sharper, more intelligent.” He pressed his lips against hers, softly, testing her out, seeing how far he could push things. But she didn’t respond; her body stiffened. “What is it?”