Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Sally nodded, although tears still ran down her face.

  There’s a talking tattoo on my back. NO. I’m cracking up.

  Hearing voices: never a good sign.

  ‘C’mon,’ Molly Sue said. ‘You got this. Get up. Get up an’ knock ’em dead.’

  Sally hauled herself to her feet. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t pretty – she looked like a wreck: her eyes, nose and lips soggy.

  ‘Atta girl. Splash some water up on your face.’

  Sally did as she was told and looked fractionally better.

  ‘There. Now let’s go hear this angel voice I been hearing all about.’

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Sally got home, she was starting to think the whole thing had been in her head. That was fine with her – a hallucination was probably better than a talking tattoo. Maybe it was a ‘psychotic episode’. That’s a thing – sometimes her Uncle John had them and you could get pills for it. She’d gone back into rehearsal only to be taken out by one of the other music teachers to start learning the songs. Her tattoo stayed true to her promise and shut up, although the other singers in the group kept their distance, wary of the girl who’d obviously been crying.

  Straight after they’d finished, Stan and Jennie had headed up to the lake with Kyle, so Sally made her excuses and left them to it.

  She let the front door slam behind her and headed for the stairs. Her mother swooshed out of the kitchen in a cloud of steam. Sally could hear pan lids tapping away as potatoes bubbled. ‘Sally, how many times have I asked you not to slam the . . . ? Where are you going?’

  ‘I feel ill.’ Sally didn’t even look at her.

  ‘But I made your favourite. Shepherd’s pie.’

  She still didn’t turn back. ‘Save some for me.’ Sally headed straight for her room. Not taking any chances, she drew the curtains and switched on her laptop. As soon as it was fired up she Googled multiple personalities. She’d seen enough TV to know that that’s what this was.

  The first result thrown up was for Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Sally clicked on the link. ‘A mental disorder characterised by the presence of at least two enduring identities . . .’ she muttered to herself. As best as she could given how much medical jargon there was in the description, Sally read through the article and learned DID was extremely rare indeed, although the first onset of so-called ‘alters’ was most likely to occur in girls around her age.

  Her fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the desk. Perhaps this was it. As she continued to read, her heart sank. There were so few confirmed cases and they nearly all went hand in hand with other mental illnesses or following a great trauma.

  ‘You don’t buy that horse dung, do ya?’ The southern twang struck again.

  Sally recoiled, expecting there to be someone standing behind her. Gathering her wits, she leaned forward and started the radio streaming on her computer.

  ‘I told ya – no one else but you is gonna hear me and ya don’t even have to speak out loud back if ya don’t wanna.’

  Once again, the voice seemed to be coming from right next to her ear. ‘You aren’t real . . . this is . . . a sickness,’ Sally said, gritting her teeth.

  ‘You read it, sugar! Most people saying they got voices in their head are makin’ it up so they don’t get sent to the chair!’

  She had a point; on Wikipedia, doctors were advised to check for ‘malingering’.

  Pushing away from her desk and entering the bathroom, Sally pulled off her shirt and vest to get a better look at Molly Sue. She’d moved around to the front so Sally no longer had to contort herself to see the tattoo, and had formed a new position – sitting insouciantly on her hip, long legs crossed, one hand behind her head.

  ‘It is you,’ Sally breathed.

  ‘Is a pig’s ass pork?’ Molly Sue grinned. When she spoke, her cherry lips moved like Betty Boop’s.

  ‘What are you?’ Sally asked. Her voice shook, but if this was really, truly real, she had questions now. Lots and lots of them.

  ‘I told you – ya don’t have to speak out loud, I can hear you anyway.’ Molly Sue relaxed her pose, letting her arm fall. She sashayed over Sally’s torso in fluid, sensual moves. She almost danced. But Sally could feel her moving, like an itch deep under her skin. Molly Sue wasn’t just ink. Although Sally had nothing to compare her to, she could feel something solid moving inside her, shifting, squirming and twisting within. The tattoo was alive.

  Sally covered her mouth with her hand, afraid she might vomit. ‘I want to. I want to speak out loud. It feels more . . . more normal.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I’ll ask again: what are you?’

  ‘Now don’t be gettin’ uppity, darlin’! Y’already know who I am. I’m Molly Sue Savannah Claybourne the Third. Oh, shoot, I made that last part up, but I always did want a last name.’ Sally glared at the tattoo, scarcely believing what she was seeing. ‘You better believe it, sugar, cos this whiny racket in yo’ head sure ain’t getting any more fun.’

  Sally closed her eyes. Like it or not it was real: Sally’s hip, her skin, her belly button . . . it was all flesh and bone and, somehow, incredibly, so was the tattoo. The voice was crystal clear and the phone calls were coming from inside the house. It really was like Molly Sue was in the room with her, and in a way, she was. She was right there, waiting for Sally’s next move. No amount of gormless blinking was going to erase Molly Sue.

  No. This wasn’t Dissociative Identity Disorder. Sally knew when it was time to move on, and denying what was happening in front of her eyes wasn’t going to get her anywhere, she understood that. But how she wished it was something there was a pill for.

  Then the wishy-washy confusion solidified into a red-hot anger. She’d been so stupid! Free tattoo . . . what had she been thinking? There’s nothing for free in this life was one of her father’s favourite mantras. It was too late now, though.

  Sally tried again. ‘I know who you are. I want to know what you are.’

  ‘I heard the question, I just didn’t like the question. Kinda nosy question. I’m all woman, darlin’.’

  ‘You’re a tattoo.’

  ‘No kiddin’.’ Molly Sue sighed and sat on her left hip, resting her face in her hands. ‘I used to be a gen-u-wine woman, long time ’go. Some people move on when they’re done, others . . . stick around is all.’

  Sally clutched the rim of her sink. ‘You’re a ghost?’

  Molly Sue laughed. Even now, she was so beautiful, her smile radiant. ‘Well, I ain’t never walked through no walls, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But this is impossible!’ Sally couldn’t help herself, even though there were early episodes of Satanville where Taryn had said that a lot and they’d all wanted to slap her, saying, ‘Get with it, Taryn! He’s an angel – deal with it!’

  ‘Don’t ya think I don’t know that? I just had more time to get used to my situation is all.’ Molly Sue smiled, uncrossing and crossing her legs. ‘But the good news is we got a whole bunch of time for you and me to get acquainted now! We gon’ be together for a long old while.’

  Sally fought back a sob with all the strength she had left. ‘So you’re like a haunted tattoo or something?’

  A perfect eyebrow shot up. ‘Oh, now that just sounds so tacky!’

  ‘Sorry. What else am I meant to call you?’

  ‘I’m a wanderer, sugar,’ she said, a wistful, faraway look on her cartoon face. ‘I’m a lost soul, rollin’ stone kinda gal. I’m just a-lookin’ for a friendly port in a storm, always was, always will be.’ Molly Sue winked. ‘Look, darlin’, I know this musta come as a shock . . .’ Sally balked at that. ‘But I’m the best friend a girl can have. I’ll keep quiet unless ya want me to, I swear on my dear old mama’s grave.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t ever . . .’ Sally blinked back a tear.

  ‘Well, if wishes were fishes, we’d all cast a net.’

  ‘Stop! Just go away!’

  ‘What? Yo
u sure as hell wanted me yesterday. What changed?’

  Sally laughed bitterly. ‘Are you kidding? I just wanted a tattoo!’

  ‘I’m the same girl you fell in love with yesterday. Look!’ Molly Sue swam back into her original position on Sally’s back. ‘See? Ya won’t even know I’m here. Quiet as a mouse!’

  ‘What if I never want you to speak?’

  Molly Sue walked back around to her stomach, strutting, hands on hips. ‘I won’t lie, my feelin’s would be pretty darn hurt, but if that’s what you want . . .’

  ‘That’s what I want.’

  Molly Sue lay down on her stomach, resting her head in her hands and kicking her kitten heels up. ‘You sure, darlin’? You seemed pretty lonely to me. ’S why I chose you.’

  ‘What? I chose you.’

  ‘Oh, please! I felt your sadness from miles away, sweetheart!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’re a lost girl too. Takes one to know one an’ I never seen anyone so lost my whole life. All that fire inside o’ you with nowhere to go – you done well not to scream, darlin’.’

  Sally’s mouth fell open. It was true. In a few words Molly Sue had captured how Sally felt she’d been sitting on a bulging suitcase of frustration her whole life, willing it to stay shut. These were the darkest, cobweb-strewn thoughts at the very, very back of the cupboard. How does she . . . ?

  ‘I know it all, sugar! I seen inside o’ ya and it’s pretty blue up in here. You ain’t OK.’

  Sally looked her in the eye. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Who you tryin’ to kid? I felt all that pain and a-sufferin’ as soon as you walked in the store. I know about your mama and daddy. I know about them teachers that don’t know you exist. I seen the way them pretty girls talk about ya. I know all about that mighty fine Todd Brady too. And you . . . the loneliest girl there ever was. I thought you could use a friend.’

  ‘I’ve got friends!’

  ‘Some friends. They don’t know the real you and you don’t show ’em.’ Sally went to argue but Molly Sue carried on. ‘Stan keeps you around to do his homework, and little Jennie . . . well, all she can think about is that scrawny asshole.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Honey, those aren’t my thoughts, they’re yours. But if that’s how you wanna play it, go on . . . go next door and watch your stories on TV. I ain’t gonna stop ya.’

  Sally was gripping the basin so tightly her knuckles were bleached bone. If the tattoo could hear her thoughts she’d never have privacy ever again. Ever. Every thought, every single wicked thought would be Molly’s to hear. Sally grinded her teeth. ‘Just . . . just please . . . shut up. I . . . I can’t handle this.’

  ‘If that’s whatcha want . . .’

  ‘That is what I want.’

  ‘Suit yourself, darlin’. But you know where I am . . .’ Sally caught a faint smile on Molly Sue’s lips before she floated around her torso and disappeared onto her back. The writhing under her skin ceased and Sally took that to mean that, for now, Molly Sue was still . . . for now.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Sally awoke to dappled magnolia light pouring through her curtains, while birds twittered in the garden. For a gorgeous second, everything was ‘Morning Has Broken’ before the skin on her back started to sting and itch. Everything that happened yesterday could so easily have been a dream, although Sally somehow knew that wasn’t the case.

  Experimentally, Sally thought, Are you there?

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ Molly Sue replied at once.

  Go away.

  ‘You just asked if I was here! Jeez!’

  And now I want you to go away again.

  ‘Oh, this sure is fun.’ But Molly Sue fell quiet again.

  Sally pushed her duvet back, imagining how she felt was what it must be like to wake up with a hangover. At least it was a Friday and at least Molly Sue had let her sleep through the night – well, what little restful sleep she’d been able to get, for her dreams had been full of Molly Sue, of Rosita and of Boris. She’d dreamed of saying no to having the tattoo done, only to stir and remember the awful reality of things.

  After she’d showered – very gingerly washing her back – Sally fired up her laptop, the loading time agonisingly long – why is it, she wondered, that when you’re desperate to get on the internet your computer decides it needs to install updates?

  Very much hoping that Molly Sue was looking elsewhere, Sally Googled laser tattoo removal. She found a clinic in the city and looked at their website. It was all pretty confusing, but she saw before and after pictures – they could erase anything apparently.

  She sensed she had to do this quickly, like tip-toeing around a sleeping lion. Sally made a mental note of where the clinic was before clicking onto their price list. She still had about a hundred quid left over from her last birthday and she hoped that would be enough. Her heart sank as the page loaded. She saw that, for a tattoo the size of Molly Sue, a single session would be one hundred and fifty pounds – and they recommended between four and eight sessions. What? That could be over a thousand pounds!

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Molly Sue drawled.

  ‘I’m not talking to you. Go. Away.’

  Sally was so tired that she felt like she was out of sync with her classes and friends – one of those YouTube clips where the dialogue doesn’t match the mouths. She looked awful, even worse than usual, and Stan and Jennie pestered her all day with concern. In the end, she did something she’d never done before – she cut class. Period five and six on a Friday was double chemistry and there was no way she’d be able to sit through ninety minutes of molar equations. And it’s not like Dr Farmer would even notice she was gone.

  Molly Sue, true to her word, stayed silent the whole day, and Sally didn’t rouse her.

  As soon as she’d registered for the afternoon, Sally slipped out of school the back way, knowing that anyone who saw her would assume she had a reason to be out of school – she wasn’t the truancy type. She took the same route into Old Town, past the diner, garage and rec ground. Today the disinterested Doberman licked a paw, half in and half out of his kennel.

  But it was there Sally found herself lost. Where am I? This isn’t right. She passed three side streets, keeping an eye out for the flashing neon House of Skin sign, but by the time she reached the derelict video-rental shop, she realised she’d gone too far. She doubled back on herself, paying better attention. From what she could remember, it had been down the first alleyway past where the dog had jumped up at her.

  She knew there was nothing Rosita or Boris could do for her, but she hoped to glean more information about Molly Sue – if she was a real, live woman perhaps they had known her. Rosita did say they were based on people they’d met.

  OK, I’m clutching at straws.

  Fairly confident she’d got the right side street, Sally walked down the alley. She stopped. The end of the street looked the same: rubbish spilling from the mountain of bin bags at the dead end, but the House of Skin sign had gone. This was the right alley though, Sally was sure of it – she recognised the peeling paint on the railings leading down to the basement shop.

  She approached the stairs. There was no evidence the sign had ever existed, no outline in the grime, no holes for the bracket. At the bottom of the stairwell was the door, but instead of the ruby red wood veneer was a rusted metal security gate.

  What the hell is going on? Sally felt a sting of tears behind her nose. She had not imagined this place and she was not hearing things. The frustration felt almost physical, like a hand around her throat. She clomped down the stairs, utterly resigned. The door was open a fraction, perhaps from squatters, and so she pulled it open, sweeping away a tide of plastic bags, fliers and beer cans that had built up on the floor.

  Her hand flew over her mouth and nose. It was nothing. Just a rank, urine-scented cellar with stained mattresses on the floor. For now, at least, it was deserted. Sally threw her hands up, blinking bac
k tears. Oh look, she thought, there’s something underneath rock bottom. She shook it off. Crying wasn’t going to help her.

  A haunted tattoo parlour? Why not? No more ridiculous than a smart-mouthed tattoo. She remembered what Molly Sue had said – how Sally had been ‘chosen’. Maybe the House of Skin was some sort of urban Hogwart’s Room of Requirement that had only appeared when she needed it. But I don’t need her . . . I don’t need any of this.

  The smell was threatening to make her gag, so Sally turned and left the cellar, taking the worn stairs two at a time. She considered asking Molly Sue how any of this was possible, but she already knew the answer. None of this was possible, and three years of solid Satanville fandom had done nothing to prepare her for what would happen when fantasy bled into the edges of her tedious little world.

  Or is this what happens? Sally thought. Does too much TV rot your brain like Coke does teeth? Had her brain finally given up on the real world? It was certainly tempting, to swap spotty schoolboys for muscular guardian angels; to let go of reality for good because reality’s not worth clinging to.

  A stiff breeze rolled rusty lager cans and plastic bags down the alley. Sally hugged herself almost like she was ready for the straitjacket. There was nowhere left to go and no one she could talk to. Wherever she went she couldn’t get away from her. There was this thing on her back and she was stuck with it.

  And that was when divine intervention struck. Literally. At the end of the alleyway, Sally could see the spire of St Francis De Sales church.

  Well, that’s what you do when you’re possessed, she thought. You see the exorcist.

  Sally wondered why she hadn’t thought of this before – all those hours watching fallen angels and she hadn’t thought to speak to a priest. As she understood it, going to her mother’s Methodist chapel wasn’t going to cut the mustard. For demons you go hard or go home – you go Catholic. More importantly, no one would know her here.

  The church was graffiti and litter-free, as if even the dregs of the town knew to leave it alone. Sally ran up the grand white stairs, only pausing to look at the serene Virgin Mary statue, which seemed to regard her with her sad eyes. Mary seemed disappointed in her.