Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Sally pointedly avoided the cordoned-off scene of the road accident yesterday, taking the long way around the back of the school. She walked away from the playing fields, on which Year Nine girls were scowling their way through a hockey lesson, and towards Old Town. Beyond the school perimeter there was a petrol station, a faux American diner – Howdy’s – and a few shops that survived on trade from students. The diner was a staple for the afterschool crowd – Oreo milkshakes and chicken wings were a must – although Sally, Stan and Jennie had never really felt popular enough to monopolise a whole booth there.

  Anything American fascinated Sally, it always had. There was just something shinier about American stuff – the TV shows and films make life seem so much glossier, that sunny, soft-focus haze over everything. High school looked so glamorous, with cheerleaders and valedictorians ferried to proms and pep rallies in yellow buses. One day she’d move there, she was determined. She’d live on ‘biscuits and gravy’ and chilli dogs and Mountain Dew.

  She reached the corner with the hardware store, took a right and headed towards the depot. This wasn’t the best part of town, but it was still broad daylight, so she felt safe enough. The shops in Old Town were mostly off-licences, bookies and cash-for-gold shops – not the boutiques and restaurants of Mulberry Hill or the New Quarter. Before she knew it, she was absentmindedly humming ‘Skid Row’ from Little Shop.

  An electric saw growled from the garage on the junction, sparks flying out of the open double doors. Sally darted over the street, past the scrap metal yard, the smell of molten rubber catching in the back of her throat. From inside the garage, a gruff, bearded mechanic glared out at her. His eyes peered through thick smoke, seemingly questioning what a lone girl was doing walking around this neighbourhood.

  Sally kept her head down. The grimy brick walls were strewn in graffiti and weeds sprouted up through cracks in the pavement. She came to the rec ground, signalling that she was only a few roads away from the depot. The park was perhaps in an even sadder state than the street. The swing set only held one intact swing and the roundabout was covered in spray-paint squiggles.

  Sally sensed she wasn’t alone. Sure enough, a trio of street drinkers sat on one of the benches in the park. Holding her head up high, Sally walked with purpose, remembering some assertiveness seminar she’d sat through last year about how victims of crime often carry themselves like victims.

  ‘You all right, darlin’?’ a toothless man catcalled. ‘Spare change?’

  Sally pretended not to hear him. She couldn’t do this again; it was like the previous night all over again. She quickened her pace.

  ‘Oi! Where you goin’?’ The man rose from his bench. His cheeks and nose were bright red with drink, his white beard stained nicotine yellow.

  Her eyes were so fixed on the pavement that she didn’t see the dog until it was too late. A sleek black shape reared up against a chain-link fence, its claws rattling the metal. Sally screamed and staggered into the road. She threw her hands over her face before she realised the Doberman was held securely behind the fence that ran around a gas canister warehouse. It was just a guard dog. Breathing again, Sally backed away. The animal barked and barked, drool spraying from its curled lips, baring white needle-sharp teeth. The black eyes were wild, rolling back in its head as if it were rabid.

  There was something familiar about the deranged expression; something in the eyes. The same madness as the man with no arms. Sally’s legs suddenly felt hollow and unsteady. She dearly wished Stan had come with her.

  ‘Oi!’ It was the drunk. He was staggering towards her. She whirled around, looking for a safe place. At least the people in the shops would be sober, if not exactly friendly. Breaking into a run, she looked for a safe haven. ‘Where are you goin? I ain’t gonna hurt ya!’

  Find help. The nearest shop was boarded up, a downbeat notice thanking loyal customers taped to the door. So was the next. With horror, she realised everything on the street was closed or derelict. An old jeweller’s, a burned out Kebab Palace – even the pub had metal grills over the windows. There was nothing. Sally’s trainers pounded the pavement, but, chancing a look over her shoulder, she saw that the man still pursued her.

  Something caught her eye: down a narrow side street there was a flashing neon light. A sign of life. Instinctively, Sally ducked into the alleyway. Sure enough, a flashing, hot-pink sign pointed down to a basement shop. It read, HOUSE OF SKIN. While the neon light flashed, a painted sign below read, Tattoo & Piercing Parlour.

  The tramp turned the corner into the alleyway, which Sally now saw was a dead end, with bin bags piled up against a brick wall she had no hope of getting over. At the foot of the steps, she heard the electric whirr of what could only be a tattooist’s needle. Sally careered down the worn stone steps and almost fell into the tattoo parlour.

  As the door swung open, a bell chimed above her head. Sally slammed the door behind her and released the latch, locking herself inside. She hoped the shop owner would understand. Peering though a glass panel in the door, Sally saw the homeless guy hovering uncertainly at the top of the stairs before backing away. For now, she was safe.

  The air inside the parlour was treacly with smoky incense, which failed to mask a whiff of antiseptic. Sally took in her surroundings. The shop wasn’t as seedy as she might have expected. Rich crimson drapes hung down the walls, parted and tied with gold rope to allow curving bronze wall lights to snake into the dim room. There were towering palms in every corner of what seemed to be a reception area or waiting room; there was a plush, emerald green chaise longue next to a coffee table and receptionist’s desk, although it wasn’t presently manned.

  ‘Hello?’ Sally said, stepping properly into the waiting room. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Beyond the desk, a further blood red curtain hung over an archway to a back room. The buzz of the needle was louder now that she was inside and it set her teeth on edge, reminding her of a dentist’s drill. She took a nervous step towards the studio, a little wary of who she might meet in this part of town, but unwilling to go back outside just yet.

  The wall nearest her was lined with framed pictures containing dozens of images for clients to choose from – a colourful catalogue of mermaids, pirates, anchors, swallows and skulls. There was a bookcase filled with tattoo books but also candles, statues of the Madonna and leering Dia de los Muertos skulls. Sally ran a finger along the nearest shelf.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Sally yelped and twirled around, tripping over her feet in the process and knocking a Virgin Mary to the floor. A woman stood behind her. How? How was that even possible when the door was locked? Sally guessed she must have been lurking in the alcove next to the barred window.

  ‘I-I-I’m sorry,’ Sally stuttered. At first, Sally thought the woman was wearing face paint, but then she realised her whole face was tattooed. She looked just like one of the Day of the Dead skulls – a spiderweb covered her entire face; thin black lines made it seem as if her lips were stitched shut, and gaping dark circles surrounded her eyes, making the sockets look hollow. She was deathly pale, with midnight blue-black ringlets tumbling around her shoulders. In her hair she wore a single red rose, the same sanguine shade as the curtains.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She had a faint accent, possibly Portuguese or Spanish, maybe Eastern European, Sally wasn’t sure.

  ‘I . . . I was being chased,’ Sally blurted out. ‘I had nowhere else to go and I saw your sign was on.’ She stooped down to pick up the fallen statue.

  It was hard to tell because of the tattoos, but the woman seemed to soften. From the middle of the haunting black holes in her face, green eyes sparkled. ‘You poor thing. You must have been so scared.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sally nodded, embarrassed about making such a fuss. ‘Can I stay in here for a minute? I won’t be any trouble.’

  ‘Well, of course. Stay as long as you want. Young girls like you shouldn’t be wandering around this part of town alone. It’s dangerous
. Do you want me to call the police?’

  Sally considered this for a moment. ‘No, it’s OK. I . . . I think he’ll go away now he knows I’m with you. It was, erm, just a homeless guy.’

  A hand covered in fingerless lace gloves reached for Sally’s arm. ‘Come, child, be seated. Can I bring you some tea?’ The lady wore a rib-crushing black velvet corset from which silk skirts erupted like a scarlet fountain at her waist.

  ‘No. I mean, no, thank you. I’m sure it’ll be safe in a second.’ Sally perched on the chaise longue, hands nervously in her lap.

  ‘Such a polite little girl. What’s your name?’

  Don’t talk to strangers, but what about saviours? ‘I’m Sally.’

  ‘And you can call me Rosita.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me . . . hide.’

  A smile danced on Rosita’s bruise-coloured lips. ‘Not at all. Welcome to the House of Skin.’

  Sally wasn’t sure what to say. ‘It’s . . . it’s very nice.’

  Rosita smiled broadly. She was picking up on her unease, Sally could tell. She doubted they had very many clients like her: shy schoolgirls with plaits. ‘Why, thank you. Boris, the artist, is one of the most respected tattooists in all of Europe . . . all the world. Men and women come from all around the globe to be inked by him.’

  ‘Really? To Saxton Vale?’ Once upon a time their town had been famous for its mills, but now it was famous for nothing except its commuter links. Nothing good ever came there.

  As she moved, Rosita almost seemed to float on air, her skirts hardly shifting as she glided across the shop floor. ‘For now Saxton Vale. Who knows where tomorrow? He and I are circus people at heart – wanderers.’

  Sally decided it might be best if she sat on her hands to stop them fidgeting. ‘OK.’

  Rosita paced the far wall, the one that held the array of tattoos. ‘Do you have any piercings?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Sally said, aware her over-the-top reaction was a touch Amish. ‘My mum and dad wouldn’t even let me get my ears pierced; they think it’s common.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Rosita smiled. ‘I think that would look pretty. I suppose a tattoo is out of the question, then?’

  Sally laughed, feeling more relaxed. She’d probably brave leaving the parlour in a minute if Rosita didn’t mind checking the coast was clear – like, who was going to mess with tattoo-face lady? ‘Are you kidding? They’d kill me!’

  ‘Oh, how would they ever know?’ Rosita said with a conspiratorial wink. With the tattoo elongating her lips, each smile almost seemed to split her face in two, like the Cheshire Cat from Alice In Wonderland. ‘There comes a time in her life when every girl must defy her mother and father. It’s all a part of becoming a woman.’ She ran a gloved hand over the contour of her chest, her fingers tracing her ample bust. Sally looked away, embarrassed. ‘Don’t be shy,’ Rosita said. ‘Come and have a look.’ She gestured at the wall of designs.

  ‘Oh, I’m OK.’

  ‘It’s fun! Humour me! If you were going to have a tattoo, which would it be?’

  Hmmm. Well, if she absolutely had to . . . ‘Do you watch Satanville?’ Sally asked. Rosita shook her head. ‘It’s this TV show and the demon assassins all have a tattoo on their wrist to show what order they belong to. That’d be cool. I’d get Dante’s order, the Order of —’

  Rosita cut her off. ‘Come. Show me what it looks like.’

  Sally bounced off the sofa. She scoured the images on the wall. The Order of the First had an ornate numeral I in a wreath of ivy. Sally could see nothing like it, although there were both numerals and floral designs.

  In her whole life, Sally had probably spent a sum total of about twelve seconds thinking about tattoos, but she saw now that some of them were quite beautiful. Orchids, lilies and roses so lifelike she was compelled to reach out and touch the petals. Swallows, doves and peacocks with such intelligence in their onyx eyes, they almost seemed to follow her as she moved along the wall. Rosita watched her keenly.

  There was a whole frame containing hearts. Some broken, some on fire, some with daggers through their core. All had blank scrolls underneath, waiting to be dedicated to a loved one. Sally smiled. How love-addled would you have to be to get someone’s name branded on your skin?

  Finally she came to a slightly grander frame, sturdy and gold, a little larger than the rest. The contents were less busy. This frame contained four beautiful 1950s pin-up girls and they were all breathtaking. ‘Oh, they’re so cool,’ Sally murmured, almost to herself.

  ‘Aren’t they?’ Rosita replied. ‘Each of those girls is very special to me.’

  ‘They’re based on real people?’

  ‘Of course! People Boris and I met on our travels.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Sally looked at the first girl, an exquisite geisha. She held a paper parasol to match her kimono. ‘That’s Kazumi. We met her in Osaka. She’s our winter girl, pure as fallen snow.’

  The incense fumes made Sally’s eyes heavy; a wave of sleepiness hit her. She could so easily imagine snowflakes swirling around Kazumi, her waist-length hair billowing in the wind. The next pin-up was a perky, busty blonde, her Easter eggs almost tumbling out of her basket as she tried to keep her bonnet on. Her red lips formed a shocked O. ‘That’s Marilyn.’

  ‘Monroe?’ The similarity was striking.

  ‘Of course not,’ Rosita said with a smirk. Her eyes twinkled. ‘How old do you think I am?’

  The third girl was a stunning redhead, her skirt blowing up as russet autumn leaves twirled around her bare legs. For a second, the leaves almost seemed to move on the paper.

  ‘Adelaide in Autumn,’ Rosita explained.

  ‘She’s love—’ Sally started and then stopped because she saw the next drawing. Drawing didn’t really do her justice, because her violet eyes burned from the poster. Unlike the other three girls, the final figure had no props or gimmicks to show she represented summer. She was quite hot enough by herself.

  The final girl had raven black-and-blue hair curled at the nape of her neck. She cast a come-and-get-me look over her left shoulder, inviting the viewer to follow her off the straight and narrow. Her ruby lips curled into a smile full of men’s secrets. She walked with her hands on her denim-clad hips, jean shorts cut high to emphasise the curve of her bottom. Sally could tell that her checked shirt, although she had her back to onlookers, was unfastened and secured in a knot under her breasts. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘That’s Molly Sue.’ Rosita smiled. ‘And she’s trouble.’

  Chapter Four

  So captivated was she by Molly Sue’s eyes that Sally entirely phased out whatever Rosita said next, as if she were underwater. ‘Sally?’

  ‘Sorry . . . what?’

  Rosita smiled. ‘I asked if you liked her.’

  ‘Erm . . . yes. Very much so. She’s beautiful.’ Sally still couldn’t break the tattoo’s gaze.

  ‘Well, then,’ Rosita interlaced her fingers under her chin with glee, ‘why don’t you get her?’

  That snapped Sally out of her funk. She backed away from the frame, shaking her head. ‘Oh, I couldn’t. There’s no way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if my mum and dad didn’t kill me, they’d ground me forever. Seriously. There was this one time I giggled because someone farted in church and they cancelled my birthday party.’

  Rosita laughed before turning her back on her. She swept her hair to one side like a curtain. On her left shoulder blade there was an octopus tattoo, its tentacles making elegant curves and curlicues all over her back. ‘See this little guy? I had him done when I was fourteen years old. My first.’

  ‘It’s . . . very nice.’

  Rosita faced her once more and guided her back to the sofa to be seated. ‘My father was . . . an angry man.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘He was . . . how would you say? A bully. I would take his beatings so that he might leave my little sisters alone. Once I got my octopus, he became my secret stren
gth. Something only I knew about. He made me powerful because, if nothing else, it was I who was in control of my own body.’

  The octopus suddenly seemed so much more than just a tattoo. It stood for something. Sally turned back to Molly Sue and wondered what the pin-up girl could mean to her. ‘I guess I’m not really a tattoo person.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Then you are a woman. You have your own secret strength, Sally. I can feel it.’

  ‘I . . . I really don’t.’ Warmth rushed to her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, it’s there, we just need to bring it to the surface, perhaps. Molly Sue can make you powerful. We could put her somewhere out of sight. No one but you would ever know, until you felt it was time to unveil her – share her with someone special. A young man, perhaps?’

  For some reason, Sally imagined Todd Brady’s eyes light up when he saw there was something wild and exotic etched on her thoroughly vanilla skin. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she muttered, and although it was meant to sound empowered, it came out so, so lonesome.

  ‘Not yet.’ Rosita’s eyes sparkled. ‘But you’ve thought about it, I can tell. What it would be like.’

  Sally said nothing, letting her red cheeks do the talking.

  ‘Or maybe it’s not a boy,’ Rosita went on. As she moved, she ran a finger around the gold frame containing the girls. ‘Maybe it is a girl? Or . . . maybe it’s status your heart desires . . . friends and popularity, money and clothes? We all have our little wants.’

  Sally shook her head, but thought of Melody Vine and that hair. ‘I already have friends.’ Just not many.

  ‘I am sorry, I have embarrassed you. I forget what it’s like to be you.’

  ‘To be me?’

  Rosita smiled. ‘To be a teenage girl. Lots and lots of rules. So many things you shouldn’t be doing. So many things you’re not supposed to say. So many things you’re not supposed to even think.’