Under My Skin

by James Dawson

  Worrying momentarily that the church might be locked – do churches shut? – Sally tapped on the door before trying the handle. With a pained screech, it swung open and Sally grimaced. Could you be more conspicuous? Stepping inside, she was greeted by the overwhelming smell of church – this one even more pungent than her mother’s – that musty, incense-laced, Bible-pages fustiness.

  The door creaked shut behind her, echoing through the chapel. She hadn’t burst into flames on entering, so that was a good sign. Sally couldn’t see anyone else around, the pews were empty and there was no one at the altar or organ. There was a sign saying, Open for private prayer and contemplation.

  ‘I might need something a little stronger,’ Sally muttered. She wondered if the priest was in confession – isn’t that what they did at Catholic churches? She wasn’t even sure what her confession was. ‘Hello?’ she said quietly. There was no response.

  Stroking the pews as she passed them, she wandered down the aisle towards the confession boxes but found the first one empty, although there was another on the other side and the curtains were drawn across it. Sally cut along one of the pews and bent down to see if she could see feet underneath the curtain.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a soft voice said.

  Startled, Sally spun around, almost stumbling into the booth. In the aisle stood a nun. Sally wasn’t a fan of nuns. In one episode of Satanville a hoard of floating ghost nuns with no faces had tried to recruit Taryn into their faceless hoard.

  ‘Are you lost, child?’ the nun said. She had the most gentle Irish accent Sally had ever heard, as soothing as the babbling streams that ran down from the lake.

  ‘No . . . no . . . I . . . I was, well, looking for the priest.’ Sally held her hands together to stop them fidgeting.

  The nun came closer. As she approached, Sally saw she was young – surprisingly young. The sister wore a simple, austere kilt and cardigan rather than flowing robes while her wimple framed a pretty, delicate face from which huge doe eyes peered. They were the most unusual shade, such a deep blue they were almost violet. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my child, he’s at St Joseph’s Primary on Friday afternoons. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  Sally’s heart sank. ‘No. It’s OK.’

  Perhaps the nun picked up on her tone, or perhaps it was just so unusual for someone her age to be here, but the nun glided up to her and took her hand. ‘Young women like you don’t come looking for Father Gonzales when things are OK.’ She said things like tings. ‘Why don’t you talk to me? My name’s Sister Bernadette. You don’t have to tell me yours if you don’t want.’

  Sally fought back tears. The nun reminded her of Miss Dorset, the classroom assistant from when she’d been in Year One. Their teacher had been a tough old boot, but Miss Dorset – who even looked a bit like Sister Bernadette – would always pick them up when they fell or give them a hug when they missed their mums. She could use a hug now. ‘No, it’s OK. I’m Sally.’

  ‘And what seems to be the trouble, Sally?’

  ‘I’m not Catholic.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter now, does it?

  ‘I’m not even sure I believe in God.’

  The nun didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘And yet you came to a church. Now. Tell me: is it a boy?’

  Oh. She thinks I’m knocked up. ‘Oh, God – sorry. No, it’s not that kind of trouble!’

  Bernadette let her hand fall and led her to an alcove filled with shelves of votive candles of all shapes and sizes – some long and white, others stout and blood red. ‘I thought not.’ Taking a long match, Bernadette lit the nearest candle.

  Sally had no idea where to begin. ‘I . . . I . . . this is going to sound nuts, but do you believe in demons?’

  Sally whispered the final word, but the question didn’t throw the nun in the slightest. ‘With all my heart.’ Sister Bernadette looked her dead in the eye.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. They come in all different shapes and sizes and we all have them. Once they take hold, they sink their claws in ever so deep. Like wee limpets, they are. Jealousy, anger, hate, fear, lust . . . and they make us do such shameful things.’ Sally looked into the pools of her eyes and saw that the sister, perhaps surprisingly, was no stranger to these demons, but they weren’t what Sally was talking about.

  ‘No. I mean real demons . . . like Satan.’

  ‘So do I, child. He lives in the hearts of men.’ A brief smile. ‘And women. There’s darkness in all of us, Sally. Just some people give it a name.’

  Yet Sally couldn’t bring herself to pull up her T-shirt and scream, ‘I have a tattoo demon on my back!’

  Sister Bernadette continued. ‘Now don’t go around telling people I told you this, but there are no black and whites in this life, Sally. Only greys. Of course there are those who do harm – to themselves, which is sad, and to others, which is wickedness – but I don’t think there are fundamentally good and bad people. Just people, tussling with their demons – some succeeding more than others. The ones you really want to watch out for,’ she said with foreboding, ‘are the ones who claim to be perfect.’

  Sally didn’t need a sermon. ‘But how do you get rid of them? The demons?’

  Sister Bernadette said nothing for a moment, her hand hopping from candle to candle the way a bee travels between flowers. ‘I don’t rightly think you ever lose them, you just learn to keep them somewhere where they can’t cause harm. We build cages inside,’ Bernadette said wearily. Sally wondered what her demons looked like and how long she’d been holding them at bay.

  ‘How do you do that?’

  ‘You pray for strength, child. You pray for the strength every day.’ Her pale hand trembled over the candles. She closed her eyes and exhaled. ‘I was so lost once upon a time, Sally. I hurt people, people dear to me, so now I help others, I do what little I can. I found solace in our saviour, but everyone has their own path to find.’

  Sally feared she could pray all she wanted but it wasn’t going to remove the tattoo from her back. ‘But what if that isn’t enough? Don’t you do, like . . . exorcisms?’

  Sister Bernadette smiled to herself and blew out her match. ‘You’ve been watching too much television.’ Sally couldn’t argue with that. ‘There are rare cases where a priest might carry out an exorcism, but the priests have to be specially trained and then act only in exceptional circumstances. Myself, I’m not so convinced.’

  ‘You don’t think people get possessed or you don’t think exorcisms work?’

  ‘I don’t think the devil makes it so easy. If only it were so simple that a priest might say the right words and all the evil in the world would go away.’ Bernadette’s smile fell. ‘Sally, you don’t think you might have a friend in need of an exorcism, do you?’

  She so wanted to say yes, but her mouth wouldn’t form the word. She shook her head. ‘I should go. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

  Although the nun looked disappointed, her face remained so kind. ‘Not at all. I’m always here, Sally.’

  More tears pushed behind her nose. ‘Thank you.’ Sally bowed her head and hurried out of the church. The sunshine was a hundred times brighter than she was expecting and she put up a hand to shield her eyes.

  ‘If you really think that’s gonna work,’ said a familiar Texan voice, ‘you been watching way too many bad movies.’

  ‘Oh, who asked you?’ Sally said aloud.

  Chapter Ten

  I should have gone straight to Stan.

  On reflection, he should have been Sally’s first port of call – who knew more about demons than Satanville’s biggest fan? By the time she got back to Mulberry Hill, Stan was already home and had changed into a pair of cut-off tracksuit bottoms and an oversized New York Knicks jersey. ‘Where were you this afternoon, abandoner?’ he asked as they trotted up to his room. ‘I can’t believe you left me with Jennie and the Knoblin King.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Sally said. ‘I came home. Women’s problems again.’

&n
bsp; Stan sat on his beanbag and unpaused the game he was playing. He appeared to be toting a very large gun/penile extension through a derelict art-deco hotel that was suffering a zombie infestation. ‘OK, I know that’s a lie because you had your women’s problems, like, two weeks ago.’

  Sally felt her cheeks redden. ‘We spend way too much time together.’

  He paused the game again to pay full attention. ‘I didn’t want to push it the other night, but what’s actually wrong? Is someone giving you a hard time? I’ll duff them up for you.’ Sally avoided his gaze and wondered if she could change the subject. Stan had a mountain of uneaten toast and Nutella next to his computer. He’d even toasted the end crusts. Who does that?

  ‘No. Well . . .’ Sally thought on her feet. ‘I’m just massively freaking out about Little Shop. I don’t want to do it, but I can’t pull out either. If you really must know, I have a nervous tummy,’ she fibbed.

  Stan grimaced. ‘Ew. Nutella?’ He grinned.

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘Says Miss Poopy-Pants.’ He shoved a whole slice of toast in his mouth. ‘What are we doing tonight? Can we not go to the lake? I say sleepover! We could watch this week’s STV again or we could see what’s on Netflix? Mum and Gary said we could have the lounge.’

  Sally wondered how to tackle the Molly Sue issue subtly. ‘What’s that episode of Satanville in season one where Zeke had the parasite demon thing?’

  Stan’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, The Hitchhiker. That episode blew so hard.’

  Nodding, Sally sat on the bed and plopped Mr Squid in her lap. It really hadn’t been a classic episode, not one that she rewatched. ‘What was that demon called?’

  Stan ran a hand through his mop of hair. ‘Erm . . . Parasite Demon? I don’t think it had a name, to be honest.’

  ‘Can we watch that one?’

  ‘Really?’ he said with mild disgust. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘If we’re going to watch season one, we should watch the one where Taryn turned into a cat.’

  Ooh, that was a good one. ‘You know what? We should probably just watch season one from the start.’

  And that was what they did. Nine hours, two stuffed-crust meat feasts, one tub of Phish Food and two litres of Diet Coke later they had finished the boxset and it was a little after one a.m. With Satanville as her catnip, Sally was wide awake and had agreed to sleepover despite her previous vow. It was a Friday, after all.

  But she was no nearer to understanding Molly Sue. The Parasite Demon took the form of a grotesque baby ghoul thing that latched onto Zeke’s back, while the only other comparable demon was a succubus who took the form of a beautiful woman, although her MO was to drain the life-force from hot guys by having sex with them. So far, as Molly Sue hadn’t tried to do that, Sally figured she wasn’t a succubus. There was also a homunculus demon – a tiny version of a guest star that lived in a fold in his stomach, but that didn’t feel right either – although she guessed Molly Sue was a homunculus in some ways.

  ‘I gotta say,’ Molly Sue said as Sally changed into some of Stan’s pyjamas while he brushed his teeth in the bathroom down the hall. ‘I’m pretty darn hurt you think I’m a demon.’

  Shut up.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, girl, can’t we just get along? We gotta show the ladies some love.’

  OK, we’ll start with some questions. Sister Bernadette and Satanville hadn’t provided any answers so there was only Molly Sue left to interrogate. Where did the House of Skin go? Where are Boris and Rosita?

  ‘Somewhere safe.’

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  ‘They look after me, an’ I look after them. They been very good to me down the years.’

  That doesn’t answer my question and Stan will be back any second.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m gonna give you your privacy. You get yours, girl!’

  Ew! No! It’s not like that!

  Molly Sue laughed a low, throaty laugh. ‘Maybe not for you.’

  Or him. He’s like my brother!

  Right on cue, Stan ambled back into the bedroom, a blob of toothpaste on his chin. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine!’ Sally said brightly, pushing Molly Sue out of her head.

  As ever, Stan let Sally take his bed and he went sidecar in a sleeping bag on the floor. They chatted about Satanville and school for a while as Sally grew sleepier, before Stan promptly changed the subject. ‘Are you going to go to the Year Twelve dance?’

  That woke her up. It was months away. ‘What? No. As if.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘Oh God, why? This play is bad enough – I think I’ve reached my “joining in” quota for the year.’

  Stan rolled to his side and propped himself up on an elbow. ‘Yeah, I know they kinda suck, but we only have three socials left until we leave school for ever.’

  ‘I’m striving for a hundred per cent non-attendance rate.’

  ‘But it’s like prom! Taryn went to prom!’ He paused. ‘Why do you think Americans always say “go to prom” instead of “go to the prom”? Surely that’s bad English?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Jennie’s going with Kyle.’

  ‘All the more reason to stay home.’

  ‘Come on! We could go together . . . just as friends. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Told ya so . . .’ Molly Sue said in a sing-song voice.

  Sally ignored her. ‘Sorry, Stan. I honestly think I’d rather die.’

  Stan pouted. ‘OK, whatever, but don’t come crying to me when you’re thirty and sad you didn’t go to prom.’

  ‘Goodnight, Stan!’

  ‘Sweet dreams, Feather.’ He rolled away from her and rested his head.

  ‘Sweet dreams . . .’ cooed Molly Sue.

  Oh, pipe down.

  The following day Sally was presented with a rock / hard place duo of options for her Saturday. The first was accompanying her parents to the garden centre to look for new border shrubs (staying at home wasn’t an option, apparently – her dad felt it wasn’t healthy to spend such a pleasant weekend stuck indoors). The second, slightly less hideous, option was heading up to the lake with Stan, Jennie and some of Kyle’s music friends. There was talk of getting rowing boats out to one of the islands in the middle of the lake. Stan promised they could get their own rowing boat, so she agreed.

  Once again, Sally layered up like she was getting ready to visit a mosque – every inch of skin covered in case anyone got a glimpse of Molly Sue. Today she wore a long vest top and a lacy cardigan, which would at least allow some ventilation. They didn’t really team well, but it’d have to do.

  It was about a twenty-minute drive from Mulberry Hill to the lake in Kyle’s mum’s car. As they drove even further up the valley, Kyle all the time lecturing Jennie on why she was wrong for liking pop – it’s not real music because they don’t play instruments – Sally relaxed for the first time since she’d had Molly Sue. The tattoo had stayed quiet all through the night and all morning, and Sally started to think that cohabitation might be an option. Two days had passed and nothing disastrous had happened, after all.

  Through the trees, Sally caught glimpses of the lake, glimmering like mercury in the sunshine. The lake was so beautiful. Even though she’d lived near it her whole life, she knew to never take it for granted. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you got a little cove to yourself; no kids paddling, no screaming babies, no raucous guys from school swinging off the rope into the water – it was dictionary-definition tranquillity. Every so often she and Jennie caught the bus up the hill, found a boulder to sit on, and simply read together in companionable silence.

  His bandmates already at the lake, Kyle pulled into the car park next to the boat kiosk, and they stocked up on water, crisps and sweets before hiring a pair of rowing boats. Sally was left to row while Stan devoured a sausage sandwich he’d bought.

  ‘You’re doing a great job there, Feather,’ he said as the b
oat veered in the wrong direction. A blob of ketchup squelched out of his sandwich and landed in his crotch. He cursed loudly.

  ‘I’m hopeless,’ Sally laughed, ‘and you’re hopeless!’

  ‘You’re better than Kyle!’ Jennie shouted from their boat. Kyle did seem to be rowing them in circles.

  ‘I’d like to see you try!’ Kyle snapped, his ego obviously dented.

  Stan rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, here we go . . .’

  ‘Stan, don’t start,’ Sally warned under her breath.

  ‘You want me to take over?’ Stan asked, shoving the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

  ‘I can cope. You can do the return journey.’ Sally had found her rhythm, but a lifetime of avoiding PE (she’d discovered at quite a young age that some teachers really will believe you have your period every week) hadn’t prepared her arms or back for the exertion, and halfway across she let Stan take over.

  Cormorant Island, as Stan had christened it, was the biggest clump of trees in the centre of the lake. On one side, the edges were sheer and eroded, with tree roots dangling into the water, but around the circumference were several beaches. In reality they were little more than muddy slopes into the lake, but they were the nearest thing to beaches in Saxton Vale.

  After much, much hilarity trying to steer, both boats arrived on one such beach. ‘That was really hard!’ Kyle said, lightening up.

  ‘I can’t lift my arms!’ Sally agreed. Then she heard someone laughing. At first she thought it was Molly Sue, but then she realised it was coming from the other side of the island. ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘Yeah. There must be someone else out here.’

  ‘Man, I hoped we’d have it to ourselves,’ Jennie pouted.

  ‘On a day like this? No way,’ said Kyle, pulling a crate of beer from the bottom of their boat. ‘And can you smell that? They have pot! Let’s go see who it is!’ He darted into the trees with the beers.

  ‘Kyle! Come back!’ Jennie moaned. ‘For God’s sake. Why doesn’t he ever listen to me?’ She followed him into the forest.