Skin Lane

by Neil Bartlett

  “You’d like to kiss me, wouldn’t you,” the boy exulted in a whisper, deliberately manoeuvring his lips within reach of Mr F’s. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Then he moved his mouth round to Mr F’s left ear, and lowered his voice to a soft, salacious drawl, the one he specialised in using with his girl.

  “Well I’ve got news for you. I’m all fixed up in that department. So you, Mr F, can go and fuck — ” Beauty put a full stop between every word; “Right. Off. Alright?”

  Mr F couldn’t open his eyes, and he couldn’t breathe — but he tried; he tried. He knew what it was he had to say — could even hear the sentence in his head. Only three of the words would come out, however, and even they were too quiet; he sounded exhausted.

  “ … leave me alone”

  “What did you say?”

  With a great effort of concentration, he tried again.

  “Why — ”

  “Yes?”

  “Why can’t. You. Leave me alone.”

  The boy couldn’t resist enjoying himself for just one moment more. He smiled, and made his victim wait. Then, finally, still smiling, he whispered, right in his ear,

  “Leave you? Oh, alright Mr F — if you say so. I’m sure Uncle won’t mind — and I quite fancied going home early anyway. It being a Friday. My mother will be pleased.”

  He wondered for a moment about whether he ought to add insult to injury by telling Mr F about his uncle’s plans for him next week, but no — he’d let the old boy get the bad news later. Let him stew. Beauty pulled his hands away from the wall, settled his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. For his parting shot, as he sauntered back down the stairs, all he called out over his shoulder was:

  “I’ll see you on Monday morning, Mr F.”

  Mr F listened to the sound of the footsteps going away down the stairs, and waited for the moment when he couldn’t hear anything else except his own breathing. He knew he had to pull himself together, because he didn’t want Mrs Kesselman coming and finding him like this and asking him that dreadful question again. With his eyes still closed, and his head leant weakly back against the wall, he gradually got his breath back. Then he started quietly whispering that dreadful word to himself over and over again;

  Why? Why can’t you? Why can’t you? Why?

  The word hammered round his head for the rest of the day, thumping at him like the beat of his blood — or like a pile-driver. As he crossed the concourse at London Bridge Station that evening, Mr F found himself wishing that someone would stop and ask him Mrs Kesselman’s dreadful question again, or at least stare at him — anything, anything just so long as he could justify turning on some rush-hour stranger and releasing all the dreadful pent-up feelings of the day by screaming or shouting at them Yes, what is it? Tell something is wrong with me, can you? Read it written all over my fucking face? Well do tell me, Doctor, please — it would be such a relief to know. But no one did stare at him, of course. People are used to their fellow passengers looking half dead on a Friday night. Like the cherubs of St Michael’s, they avert their eyes.

  thirteen

  It was a warm night again.

  The man with the worn-out face climbed his stairs slowly; he was in no hurry. The treads, as always, creaked and sighed beneath his feet. As always, when he crossed the threadbare carpet on the second floor landing, the scarlet light from the window momentarily stained the white skin on the back of his hand as he fished for his front door key in the breast-pocket of his jacket. He seemed not to notice; he slid the key in the lock, and it turned. The front door swung silently open, just as it always did; just as it always had done. Everything was the same.

  But the man who heard the front door click shut behind him so loudly, and who then stood aimlessly in the hallway of his flat with the key still in his hand for several silent minutes, was not. The suit was identical — but this is surely not the same man who we met at the beginning of our story. Tonight, as he goes into his bedroom and stares at himself in his wardrobe mirror, he barely even recognises himself. He cannot account for himself; he cannot describe what he sees. If what he is feeling is a disease, then why is it that he no longer wants to be cured? If it is grief he feels (grief, that distorts his staring face), then it must be grief at losing something he’s never even had — he thinks (maybe it’s just the light in here) that he can see his face is burning with shame — but for what? For what, exactly? Looking at the unmade bed behind him, he remembers waking up, twisted in those very same sheets, his mouth distorted by a kiss.

  He knows that if he could be sure of that particular dream returning, he would lie down and close his eyes this very minute.

  Not knowing what else to do, he crawls onto his bed — unwashed, unfed and still fully clothed. The room is hot, and dark, and red; the curtains are drawn, but all the heat of the day has collected in that small, stuffy bedroom. The evening light is making the curtain-linings glow like embers. Despite what he said back there on that narrow staircase, he doesn’t want to be left alone at all; that sentence was a question, not a demand. Like a dog to his vomit, he goes back to that moment. Back to the obscene whisper in his ear. Back to the boy’s hot breath on his face.

  Back to knowing how close his lips were.

  The pictures won’t come of their own accord, he knows that. He’ll just have to make them.

  Some people use drink; some people use magazines. Mr F lies down on his bed, unbuttons his trousers a bit, screws his eyes up tight and uses anything he can lay his hands on.

  First, for want of anything better, he goes back to that strange dark room in the National Gallery, the one where that mysterious stranger accosted him in front of the painting. If only he could meet him again; he’d love to pick his brains. He looked like he knew a thing or two. He’d ask him if he had any good advice to give, or if he knew anyone, or could tell him of anywhere he could go. But it’s closing time; the room’s completely empty. Just like the last time he was here, there is a drumming sound (it must be the rain on the ceiling), and it is too dark to really see what’s on the walls. He concentrates. Ah! — that’s more like it. Somebody’s flicked the invisible switch; all the lights come on together, and there they are, the paintings, framed in gold, and glowing. He prowls slowly round them, counting. After all, he’s got all night. There are seventeen of them, just like before. But saints and soldiers and statues and Jesus won’t do, not tonight, and so he makes the pictures change. What he wants to see is all those men he used to stare at in the street back in the early days — especially that one in the dark suit who he lost sight of in Leadenhall Market. There he is. Naked, now, of course. Naked, framed, lit and labelled. Open to inspection. Laid out across the canvas as if he was stretched across a bed. All the pictures are like that; white limbs, dark sheets. In some of them, the varnish is so heavy that he can’t really see all the things he wants to see — almost the whole picture is darkness, swallowing up the arms and legs and straining, thrown-open mouths in deep, peaty shadows. He gets up close to one, to see if he can make out any more of the details, but they’ve put a sheet of glass over the picture to protect it, and of course the more he stares, the more all he can see is the reflection of his own anxious face getting in the way. That’s no bloody use; he doesn’t want to be looking at himself. He’s sick of the sight of himself. He wants to try something else.

  So he goes to visit one of his other favourites, another gloomy gallery — except that this one isn’t full of paintings, but stacked with rows and rows of glass cases. Maybe the mysterious stranger with the glasses will be in here — it always makes him feel like that, being in these big empty galleries just as it starts to get dark, that maybe he’s going to meet somebody. Just before closing time is always best. Best for catching somebody’s eye. All the animals are certainly watching him — he knows that. He stares back at them — at all those rows and rows of labels; all those bright, glass eyes. They’re all here, just as he remembers them: the dusty peacock; the shambling rhino with t
he straw stuffing spilling from the splits in its hide; the snarling black panther crouched forever on its forest branch, baring its discoloured teeth and painted red tongue; all watching. As he moves slowly through the gallery, the silence thickens; all he can hear is the sound of his own feet. And now this dead menagerie is not enough; he decides he wants to see them come to life. He remembers how it used to be at the zoo, with his father holding his hand — that hot excitement of the lion house, the coughing of the wolves, the lunatic chattering of the monkeys. He remembers the sight of hairy fingers plucking and pulling at the wire; remembers paws, determinedly pacing the gravel at the bottom of a cage. When he was little, he always wanted to know what would happen if the animals ever got out — what would happen if the bars of their cages were discovered prised apart one night. Would he hear them coming up the stairs in the dark? And if somebody had left the bathroom window just wide enough open for something or someone to crawl in through — what then? Would they come to him? Now he is grown up, and knows that he can do anything he wants; so he begins to fill the gallery with muffled, echoing screams, with the noise of wings thrashing in a desperate attempt to escape, and with the sound of frantic, scrabbling claws. Soon, his wish is granted; the howls and bellows begin to be punctuated by staccato notes of shivering glass, and one by one the rows of cases begin to smash and splinter, birthing their captives into freedom. He watches wide-eyed as all around him the beasts twist, dig and tear at the pins and wires they’ve been threaded and maimed with; he smiles. There’s blood everywhere; the animals are so desperate to escape, they slice themselves open on the broken glass. Some writhe and die in spitting, thrashing fury — but some get free. Quickly pulling on his white coat, he calls out their names, and the survivors assemble. They’re all here. The solitary panther shakes the dust from his petrol-black fur; the colobus perch in screeching pairs high on a window-frame; the foxes prance and bite and pirouette? mixing their colours (steel, ivory, flame), filling the room with their hot, generous stench. As the menagerie swells in number, he continues to bark out the names: Civet; Chinchilla; Fitch; Coney; Miniver; Marten. He calls, and they come; as the ranks swell, his feet are lost in a living carpet of bickering, swarming mink. Fur flies, guard-hairs sparkle, teeth are bared; the rich, animal stink rises around him. Then something in him senses another presence in the room. The animals can evidently feel it too, because they all begin to stir. Hackles rise. Muzzles and snouts are lifted to the air, scenting for clues. Then the cacophony of cries and calls begins to intensify; as if in welcome, the wolves throw back their heads, and sing. The colobus leap to a higher vantage point, peering and craning their necks, hissing and chattering as they bare their gums, tearing the curtains as they swing and climb. The panther digs in its talons, curls its tongue and lets out its unearthly, eldritch scream.

  There he is, at the head of the stairs. Coming down step by steady step; accompanied at every elegant pace by a glorious chorus of howls, shrieks and snickers. The animals fawn at his naked feet, and dance, eager to touch his hands — but he never looks down, never once stumbles. The heaving rout of bristle, hair and fur obediently parts, and he continues his descent uninterrupted. The smell and the heat are overpowering, but he doesn’t care; down he comes, with his arms outstretched and a strange, gentle smile beginning to flicker across his face. Oh yes, here he comes, with his superb arms, his dark hair and his never-so-black eyes; with his lips, parting in welcome; with his outstretched hands, offering to gently lead his guest of honour forth into the magic kingdom of everything he has never had.

  Well, you know what it can be like, those hot summer nights. By the end of that weekend, Mr F’s sheets were stained, and knotted, and heavy with sweat.

  As I said; like a dog to his vomit. Like a beast.

  fourteen

  That Monday morning, his eyes didn’t open until ten minutes to seven. Even without shaving, by the time he had scrubbed away the stink of the night, it was too late to run for the seven twenty train. The seven thirty-nine was then delayed at South Bermondsey, and so it was gone ten past eight when Mr F found himself stooped in an ungainly run down the cobbles of Skin Lane, trying to make up for the lost time.

  Because it runs more or less directly east to west, most of the Lane is in clear sunlight by that time in the morning; not the black-painted front door of Number Four, however. Set back from the street at the top of its iron-railed flight of eight stone steps, that remains in shadow. This means that the steps, if the front door is closed, are probably the nearest thing the Lane has to a private place at that time of day. Of course, the front door isn’t ever closed, not during working hours; but if two people from Number Four should want a moment’s privacy, they could do a lot worse than slip out onto the steps and pull the door almost closed behind them. At ten past eight, after all, everyone in the building would already be hard at work; so long as they slipped out unnoticed, and then kept their voices down, they should be fine.

  But on this particular morning, they weren’t.

  They should have heard him coming, half-running on the cobbles like that — but I suppose they were too intent on their conversation.

  Mr F had already got his foot on the second step before he saw them; he stopped in mid-stride, catching his breath, his hand resting on the iron rail. When he saw them standing there like that, his first thought was to wonder how he could ever have missed it — they were so obviously a couple. There could be no other reason why the girl was looking up into the boy’s face like that, and holding on so tightly to his sleeve. Then he realised that something must be wrong; the girl looked terrified, and the boy’s face was dark with anger. They were both in their work clothes (Beauty in his coat, Christine in her overall), and they clearly shouldn’t have been out on the steps at that time, but Mr F knew at once that it was more than being discovered that they were scared of. When Christine saw him, her face went white, and her voice died half-way through her sentence — Mr F only caught the first half of it;

  “But you’ve got to,” she was saying, “You’ve to got to help me, otherwise — ”

  The words trailed away to nothing, and she stared helplessly at Mr F. She almost looked as if she might be going to cry. Then she looked back at the boy, as if she was expecting him to tell her what she ought to do next. But he didn’t; he stared straight past her, at the wall, tight-lipped with fury. The girl half-turned back to Mr F, as if she was going to come down the steps to him and ask him not to tell anyone what he’d seen, please — but the boy grabbed her arm so hard that she winced. She stopped, tore herself free of the restraining hand, wheeled round to face the boy (Mr F thought for one moment that she was actually going to hit him) — and then turned and fled back into the dark interior of Number Four in a clatter of heels.

  Mr F waited; he expected the boy to say something now that she’d gone, to explain what was happening — but he didn’t. He scowled, and stubbed at a stone step with the toe of his shoe, biting his lip. Then he turned and followed the girl, pushing the front door in so violently it swung halfback on its hinges behind him.

  After a decent pause, Mr F followed him in, taking care to go slowly up the stairs — partly so as to give himself time to think what this strange scene could have been all about, partly so as to give the boy time to calm himself down. But when he got up to the workroom, the boy wasn’t there. He assumed he must have stopped off at the office to see his uncle about something, and carried on without him. Just before lunchtime, when the boy still hadn’t appeared, he went downstairs and asked Mrs Kesselman if she’d seen or heard anything of him; but she hadn’t. Christine was there at her machine, and when she saw Mr F come in, she got up and pretended to go and look for something in the opposite corner of the room, keeping her back well turned — he thought about it, but decided that he couldn’t ask her if she knew anything, not with Mrs Kesselman there. He spent the rest of the day not being able to concentrate; under the circumstances, he didn’t know if he should be grateful for the boy
’s absence or not — but then, when one of his colleagues enquired where Beauty was, immediately offered up a complicated story about Mr Scheiner having sent him up to a warehouse on Golden Lane to enquire after some delayed stock. He wondered why he’d concocted such an unnecessarily elaborate lie. By five o’clock, he’d got so little done that he felt he ought to stay late and make up for it, but for once, even the quiet of the empty workroom couldn’t calm him. At just gone six, he put down his knife and hung up his white coat and made his way downstairs.

  Beauty was waiting for him at the bottom of the steps. He must have been waiting for some time, because he looked anxiously up the moment he heard the front door open. Maybe it was because Mr F was looking down at him, but he immediately thought the boy looked different. He looked younger, and smaller — and though he was working hard at not showing it, the strain in his face made him look scared. Clearly he was worried someone might see them, because he stepped back out into the Lane and looked left and right to check who else might be around. He was smoking, nervously, the cigarette cupped in the fingers of his right hand. Mr F stopped when he saw him, of course, but then, seeing that whatever had been troubling him that morning was still making him frown, he came down the steps — slowly — fully intending to ask what was wrong, and if he could help — but then Beauty suddenly flung his fag-end down on the cobbles and stared aggressively straight up at him, making him stop half-way. Squinting up at him, and trying to make it sound as if he wanted to talk shop — but with a very odd and belligerent crack in his voice — the boy said