Beneath the Skin

by Nicci French

  There was a knock at the door. I don't mean the front door. A rap at the bedroom door.

  “Mrs. Hintlesham?”

  “What?” I said, startled.

  A face peered round the door. I was completely baffled for a moment. You know when you see a face completely out of its normal setting. A good-looking young man in jeans and a T-shirt and a black work jacket. Long dark hair. Who was he?

  “Hack. What are you—”

  “That's not my real name. That's just something that impresses the boys.”

  “What's your real name?”

  “Morris,” he said. “Morris Burnside.”

  “Well, Morris Burnside, I'm in a bit of a rush. I'm off to the airport.”

  “The game,” he said, brandishing a gaudy package. “I rang, remember? Sorry, the door was open and I wandered in. I shouted from downstairs.”

  “Oh. Well, you're lucky you caught me. The cab will be here at any moment.”

  He was actually panting, as if he'd been running.

  “Yes, I'm really glad because . . . It's not just the game. I saw the evening paper. There's something in it about your husband being charged.”

  “What? Oh, God. I thought that might happen.”

  “I'm really sorry, Mrs. Hintlesham. And I know how difficult it will be for Josh.”

  “Yes, I know. Hang on, I'm just reaching down these shoes. There.”

  “That's why I wanted to come and see you right away. You see, I've been thinking about it, and Mr. Hintlesham couldn't have done it.”

  “That's very nice of you, er, Morris, but . . .”

  I slipped my shoes on. It was almost time to go.

  “No, it's not just that. I know how your husband can prove that he's innocent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It's absolutely foolproof. When they find your body they'll know he can't have done it.”

  “What?” I asked dully and felt a wave of alarm.

  He was close to me and there was a very sudden movement, something flashing over my head and drawn tight around my neck. He was now right against me, his breath hot on my face, and looking down on me.

  “You can't speak,” he said to me almost in a whisper. His face was so close to mine he could have kissed me. “You can hardly breathe. One pull on this and you'll be dead.” His face had gone red now, gorged with blood, his eyes staring at me, but his voice when it came was almost gentle. “It doesn't matter now. There's nothing you can do.”

  I lost control. I felt warm and wet between my legs. I was peeing myself. I heard it trickle and splash on the floorboards. I thought of my waters breaking. That was a good thing. Christo was away. Christo was with my parents. Josh and Harry were far far away. That was good.

  His face crinkled in disgust.

  “Now look what you've done,” he said. “With your clothes on as well.”

  This was the last thing I was ever going to see, his face, and I wanted to ask why and I couldn't.

  “Pity about the cab,” he said. “I thought I'd have a long time. I wanted time to show my love for you but now I've only got a little time.”

  He tightened the cord again and held it in place with one hand. He reached to one side and the other hand reappeared. I saw a blade.

  “I love you, Jenny,” he said.

  All I wanted was blackness, to sink into numbness. But I didn't. I couldn't.

  PART THREE

  Nadia

  ONE

  I was in a hurry. Well, I wasn't in a hurry at all. But I thought if I created an impression of hurry, I might trick myself into getting something done. By the time I realized my mistake, it would be too late. I would be back in control of my life.

  I found an old cotton skirt under my bed and pulled that on, with a black sleeveless T-shirt over the top so the chocolate stain was hidden. An overexcited child must have rammed into me holding a Mars bar or something. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair looked like a cartoon of a swarm of bees and I still had a smear of face-paint on my cheek.

  Coffee. That would be a start. I found a cup and rinsed it out in the bathroom, where I also filled the kettle. The sink in the kitchen was unreachable: a tower of encrusted dishes and pans. When I'd completed my tax return, I'd wash them. That was another good idea. That obnoxious unsanitary pile of dirty crockery would be my way of blackmailing myself into getting things in order.

  I took my coffee over to my desk, along with a half a bar of chocolate. I'd also start having breakfasts of muesli and chopped-up fresh fruit. Four servings of vegetables and six servings of fruit. That was what I was meant to have every day. Chocolate came from a bean, didn't it?

  I might as well get this over with. The final demand from the Inland Revenue lay on top of the computer keyboard. It had been sent several weeks ago, but I'd put it in the drawer with all my other unopened letters and tried not to think about it. Max used to say that I should go to see a therapist, just about my inability to open my mail. Sometimes I let it go for weeks. I don't know why. I know I'm stacking up trouble for myself. And it's not as if it is all stuff I don't want, like bills and library fines. I also leave unopened checks, letters from friends, invitations to jobs that I could certainly do with at the moment. Later, I tell myself. I'll do it later. When the drawer's full up.

  This was the moment when later had arrived. I swept a packet of biscuits and a straw hat off the chair and sat down; turned on the computer and watched the screen glow green. I clicked the mouse on “Accounts,” and then on “Expenses.” It was good. It was very good. I worked for an hour. I rummaged around my desk, behind the desk, in pockets of jackets. I opened envelopes. I unscrewed old receipts and invoices. My life was taking shape. I decided to print it out to be on the safe side. A small window appeared: “Unknown error, type 18.” What did that mean? I clicked again, but the cursor didn't move. Everything was frozen. I jabbed at the keys furiously, really hard, as if I could move the cursor by physical force. Nothing happened. Now what? Now what was I supposed to do? My life, my new ordered life, was there somewhere behind the screen, and I couldn't get at it. I put my head in my hands and cursed and whimpered. I banged the top of the monitor. I stroked it pleadingly.

  “Please,” I said. “I'll be good from now on.”

  I needed to look at the manual, but I didn't have a manual. The computer had been bequeathed to me by a friend of Max's. Then I remembered the card that had been slid under my windscreen wiper last week. Help with your computer. At the time I had laughed and tossed it aside. But where had I tossed it? I opened the top drawer of my desk: tampons, chewing gum, leaking pens, cellotape, wrapping paper, a travel Scrabble set, a handful of photographs I didn't even recognize. I tipped out the contents of my shoulder bag: lots of spare change, a scrumpled ball of tissues, an old key, a pack of playing cards, a couple of marbles, one earring, several rubber bands, a lipstick and a juggling ball and a few pen tops. I looked through my wallet, among the credit cards, the receipts, the foreign bank notes and the photo-booth snap of Max. I threw away the photo. No card.

  Nor was it under the sofa cushions, or in the chipped teapot I use to store odd things, or in my jewelry drawer, or in the pile of papers on the kitchen table. I'd probably used it as a bookmark. I went in the bedroom and leafed through the books I'd read or looked at recently. I found a dried four-leaf clover in Jane Eyre, and a flyer for takeaway pizzas in a guide to Amsterdam.

  Or had I stuffed it contemptuously in my pocket? What had I been wearing that day? I started riffling through my jackets, trousers, shorts, all the clothes that were lying about my bedroom and bathroom, waiting for wash day. I discovered it inside a suede boot under an armchair. It must have landed there like a fallen leaf when I had tossed it aside. I straightened it out and looked at the writing: COMPUTER TROUBLE? it read in bold type. BIG OR SMALL, CALL ME AND I'LL SORT YOU. In smaller type was the phone number, which I immediately dialed.

  “Hello.”

  “Are you the computer thing?”<
br />
  “Yeah.”

  He sounded young, friendly, highly intelligent.

  “Thank the Lord. My computer is paralyzed. Everything's there. My whole life.”

  “Where do you live?”

  I felt my spirits lift. Great. I had pictured myself carrying it across London.

  “Camden, quite near the tube station.”

  “How about this evening?”

  “How about now? Please. Trust me. I wouldn't ask unless it wasn't a major emergency.”

  He laughed. It was a nice laugh, boyish. Reassuring. Like a doctor.

  “I'll see what I can do. Are you in during the day?”

  “Always. That would be great.” I quickly gave him my address and phone number before he could make an excuse. Then I added: “By the way, my flat's a complete tip.” I looked around. “I mean, really a tip. And my name's Nadia, Nadia Blake.”

  “See you later.”

  TWO

  Less than half an hour later, he knocked on the door. It was almost insanely convenient. He was like one of those handymen my dad's always going on about, who used to exist in the great old days of lamplighters and chimney sweeps. He was the sort of person who comes straight around to your house and fixes something. Even better, he wasn't really from the old days. He wasn't one of these middle-aged men in a uniform who calls you madam and has a clipboard and a van with the name of his company written on the side and then gives you an invoice at the end for an amount that makes you realize it would have been cheaper to replace the toilet rather than have it unblocked.

  He was just one of us, except a bit younger. A bit younger than me, anyway. He was tall, casually dressed in sneakers, gray trousers, a T-shirt, and a battered jacket that must have been hot in this tropical weather. He had pale skin, long dark hair that reached his shoulders. All-right-looking, and not actually tongue-tied at all, like computer nerds are supposed to be.

  “Hello,” he said, holding out his hand. “I'm Morris Burnside. The repairman.”

  “Fantastic,” I said. “Fantastic. I'm Nadia.”

  I showed him inside.

  “Burglars?” he said, looking around.

  “No, I told you on the phone it was a tip. Doing a cleanup is at the top of my priority list.”

  “Can't you take a joke? I think it's nice. Lovely big doors leading out into the garden.”

  “Yes, very horticultural. The garden is also on the list. A bit lower down.”

  “Where's the patient?”

  “Through here.” The offending machine was in my bedroom. You actually have to sit on the bed to operate it. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Coffee. Milk, no sugar.”

  But I hung around, waiting for his response to my problem. In a perverse way, it was like going to the doctor with some small ache. If it turns out to be something reasonably serious, you feel quite proud, as if you've offered the doctor something worthy of his attention. On the other hand, if you turn out to be almost not ill at all, you feel rather ashamed. I wanted to have a healthy computer and yet at the same time I wanted to have something that provided a challenge for Morris the Nerd and made his journey worthwhile. It wasn't to be.

  He took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. I was surprised. I expected thin, stringy arms, but they were muscled and sinewed. He had a large chest. This was a man who worked out. With my five-foot-nothing height and general wispiness, I felt puny next to him.

  “Space Buddy,” I said.

  “What?” he said, and then looked down and smiled. “My shirt? I don't know who makes these slogans up. I reckon it's a computer in Japan where somebody joined up the wrong wires.”

  “So,” I said. “As you can see, it's just frozen. Usually I can just tap on the keyboard and in the end something will happen, but I've bashed and bashed and nothing has any effect.” He sat on the bed and looked at the screen. “I mean, it says that there's a type-eighteen error, as if that means anything to anybody. I was wondering whether it would just be best to pull the plug out and try to restart it. But maybe that would damage it.”

  Morris leaned forward slowly. With his left hand he held down several of the larger keys on the left of the keyboard, then with his right hand he pressed the Return key. The screen went black and then the computer relaunched itself.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  He stood up and grabbed his jacket.

  “If it happens again, press these three keys together and the Return. If that doesn't work, there should be a little hole at the back of this unit.” He picked it up and blew some dust away. “Here. Push a matchstick in. That will almost always work. If all else fails, pull the plug out.”

  “I'm so sorry,” I said breathlessly. “I'm just hopeless with this stuff, I feel very bad about it. One day I'll learn. I'll go on a course.”

  “Don't bother,” he said. “Women aren't meant to know how to operate computers. That's what men were invented for.”

  I was in a bit of a rush because I had to get my stuff together, but I didn't feel I could just push him out the door.

  “I'll get you the coffee,” I said. “If I can find it.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Yes, it's through there. Can I apologize in advance for it?”

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

  “Don't worry,” Morris said. “I wouldn't take your money for what I did.”

  “That's ridiculous, you must have a call-out fee.”

  He smiled. “The coffee will be fine.”

  “How are you going to make a living if you go around doing things for nothing? Are you some kind of mahatma?”

  “No, no, I do lots of computer stuff, software stuff, some schools, whatever. This is just a hobby.” There was a pause. “What do you do?”

  I always had a sinking feeling when I had to launch into this particular explanation.

  “It's not exactly a job, and I wouldn't portray it as a career, but just at the moment I'm working as a sort of entertainer. Children's parties.”

  “What?”

  “That's it. Me and my partner, Zach—I mean my business partner—we go to parties and do a few tricks, let them stroke a gerbil, tie some balloons into shapes, do a puppet show.”

  “That's amazing,” said Morris.

  “It's not exactly rocket science, but it's more or less a living. Hence the need for keeping accounts, et cetera, et cetera. And I really am sorry, Morris; I don't feel good wasting your time like this. I don't expect you to be amused by my impersonation of a helpless female.”

  “Couldn't your boyfriend fix it for you?”

  “What makes you think I've got a boyfriend?” I said with a slightly sly expression.

  Morris went red.

  “I didn't mean anything by it,” he said. “I just saw the shaving foam in the bathroom. Extra toothbrush, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, that. Max—i.e., this person I've been involved with—left some stuff behind when he scarpered a couple of weeks ago. When I get around to my clear-up, all that will be right at the bottom of the bin bag.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  I didn't want to get into all that.

  “So my computer is fully functional,” I said brightly, finishing my mug of coffee.

  “What is it? Three years old?” he asked.

  “I don't know. It used to belong to a friend of a friend.”

  “I don't know how you can use it. Isn't it like walking through a swamp wrapped in cotton wool?” Morris said. He looked at it with narrowed eyes. “You need some memory. Faster hamsters. That's what it's all about.”

  “I beg your pardon? Faster hamsters. What are they?”

  He grinned. “Sorry. An expression.”

  “I had a hamster when I was a girl. It wasn't at all fast.”

  “All I mean is that your machine is a Stone Age implement, anyway.”

  “That doesn't sound good.”

  “For a grand you could have a machine that was a thousand ti
mes more powerful. You could be on-line. You could have your own Web site. There's a spreadsheet that could handle all your own accounts. I could set it up for you if you like. You could see me being a grown-up computer consultant.”

  I started to feel a little dizzy.

  “That's fantastically nice of you, Morris, but I think you may have got me mixed up with a woman who can cope with the world.”

  “No, Nadia, you're wrong. A proper system will make everything easier for you. It will put you in control.”

  “Stop,” I said firmly. “I don't want a computer that can do more; I want one that can do less. I don't want a Web site. I've got six months' ironing to do.”

  Morris looked disappointed. He put his coffee mug down on the table.

  “If you change your mind,” he said. “Then you've got my card.”

  “I certainly have.”

  “And maybe, we could, you know, maybe we could meet for a drink sometime.”

  There was a ring on the front doorbell. Zach. Thank God. It is a statistical fact that seventy-nine percent of male people I meet ask me out. Why don't I intimidate men more? I looked at him. The harps were not playing. No.

  “That's my partner,” I said. “I'm afraid we're going to rush out. And . . .” I gave a sensitive pause. “I'm feeling a bit wobbly at the moment. I'm not quite ready. I'm sorry.”

  “Of course,” Morris said, not meeting my eyes. “I completely understand.”

  That was nice of him. He followed me to the door. I introduced Morris to Zach as they passed in the doorway.

  “This is a man,” I said, “who comes and fixes computers for nothing.”

  “Really?” said Zach, looking interested. “I'm totally baffled by mine. Any chance of taking a look?”

  “Sorry,” said Morris. “It was a once-only offer. Never to be repeated.”