Isabel's Skin

by Peter Benson

  “What’s your favourite?”

  “That depends. I love Shakespeare. You know… ‘To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still.’”

  “That’s beautiful…”

  “It is. And yours?”

  “I don’t have favourites.”

  “Favourite music?”

  “It depends on the time of year.”

  “Place?”

  “At the moment…” She narrowed her eyes. “At the moment I’d like to go back to Charmouth. I want to go fossiling.” She moved so her head was resting on my chest, took one of my hands and rested it on her right breast. It was hard, and when I ran my finger around the yellow scales that circled the nipple, she gave me a little smile. I opened my mouth to say something, but closed it again. I felt hot. “And I want to see my family,” she whispered.

  “They must be worried sick.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I could feel her heart beating, and when she looked at me she reached up and touched my cheek. I said, “And I don’t know about this.”

  “I…” she said, but then she shivered.

  “Isabel?”

  “…think.” She stiffened and a spasm shot through her body. “David…”

  “What?”

  “David…”

  “You need some of your stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coming…”

  “It’s coming. It’s hot… flushing.”

  “I’ll fetch it.”

  “Quick, David. I need it now…”

  “Half a minute…”

  “Please… now…”

  I ran to the kitchen, found a phial and a syringe and dashed back to the bedroom. I passed it to her, but now she was shaking and itching, and her eyes were rolling back in their sockets. She twisted her head, beat it against the pillow and started to wail. I filled the syringe, tapped the air out, found a soft place for the needle and stuck it in. She gasped and I waited, but she did not stop wailing, and the wails grew to screams, and she said she had to have more.

  As the needle went in the second time she turned and gasped at me, raised her head and kissed me on my mouth. It was a light kiss, like nothing against my lips, feathers or flour drifting on a spring day. She pressed harder and I felt the tiny scales. She broke away, dropped back onto the pillow and smiled. “I feel better,” she said, and closed her eyes.

  I watched her for five minutes, and when she was dozing I went back to the veranda, sat down and watched the night creep around the house. It moved slowly, like it had a mind, dreams and better things to do with its time. It wanted to be away scaring children and frightening horses, or covering wooded hills. I thought about my father in his own house and how when we were a family here he used to sit with my mother and watch the marshes. And I thought about how I had just been in bed with a woman, touched a woman’s breast and felt her hands on me. And although the circumstances had not matched the imaginings that had plagued some of my adolescent nights, I supposed I had passed some sort of rite. A nipple was a nipple and tumescence was tumescence, and hot breath was hot breath whatever the skin. Yes – I thought – some expectations do match the idea. And as I thought this and felt myself cool, I watched stars and the night light as it rubbed the tops of the reeds. The horizon was banked with clouds, and as I listened I heard the last gasp of summer. The last of a warm breeze. A rustle. It turned cold suddenly, as if everything was tumbling down. I shivered. I shivered, crossed my arms, rubbed my shoulders, stood up and went indoors.

  In the morning the wind was blowing a gale and whistling round the house. The walls creaked, and one of the corners of the roof flapped. I found a hammer and nails and a ladder, climbed up and fastened a piece of loose shingle. When I got down, Isabel was waiting for me with a cup of tea. She was wearing a coat she had found in the wardrobe. It was one of my father’s and she had buttoned it to her chin. We went indoors. I stoked the fire, and then we sat in the front room and listened to the wind.

  “I love it when it’s like this,” I said. It started to rain. “When it’s really rough it’s like being on a ship.”

  “Good fossiling weather,” she said. “There’s nothing like a good storm for stirring up the rocks.”

  “I don’t think there’re any fossils round here.”

  “I know there aren’t.” She cradled her tea in her hands and stared at the floor. “And I don’t think we can fly a kite in this.”

  “We could try.”

  “We could,” she said. So when we finished our tea we walked down to the shore again, to the place we had been before. The sea was churning, spume filled the air and clouds thundered over our heads. The shingle boiled and dragged, and here and there, lumps of driftwood upended through the surf and smashed onto the beach. It was difficult to walk upright, but I did not try to persuade her to turn back. Her face was set. “Come on!” she yelled, and our scarves whipped around our necks and lashed at our faces.

  This time I held the kite while she played out the string. She ran away from me, lifted her arms and tugged. The kite whipped out of my hands, flew towards the sea, doubled backed on itself and soared back into the sky. As it climbed I heard her laugh, and as it dipped she shouted at it to “Climb! Climb!” – and it did as it was told.

  I ran down the shingle and joined her as she played out the last of the line. The wind sang, gave her an extra tug and almost picked her up and carried her into the waves. I grabbed her round the waist, and we fell and tumbled towards the surf. As we rolled, the string tangled, she let it go and the kite climbed before stalling. It hung for a moment and then dropped, and nothing we did could stop it. It landed on the crest of a wave, the wave curled over and then it was gone and we were lying on the beach together.

  I shaded my eyes, but did not see the kite. “You lost it!” I yelled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she laughed in my ear.

  “I’ll have to get another.”

  “I really am.”

  “A bigger one.”

  We moved to a place where the shingle was banked in low ridges and we could shelter from the worst of the weather. We sat down; she pointed and said she could see the kite in the waves. “There! Look!” I looked but could not see anything, and when I said it was not there she said maybe she had imagined it and her eyes were playing tricks. I said that I did not believe eyes could play tricks. “What we see,” I said, “is what we see.”

  “Do you always think in straight lines?”

  “I used to.”

  “Used to?”

  “Until I met you.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “I became confused,” I said, and I lay back, and for a moment the sun cut through the clouds. It shone a strip of light on the waves. They foamed and beat and this time we both thought we saw the kite, but the clouds closed and the wind strengthened and it started to rain. Thin drizzle at first, but then bigger drops, and within ten minutes the sky was a solid wall of water. We started to walk away. She took my hand and squeezed it like she meant it, and I squeezed back. We had a moment in the rain, a moment that stretched and pulled and still pulls me, pulls me back to that place at that time, and then we put our heads down, shouted at the weather and ran.

  We were soaked. By the time we got back to the house, Isabel was shivering and crying, but she was not unhappy. I stoked the fire, stripped off her clothes, wrapped her in towels and dry blankets, and put her to bed. She put her arms around me and said, “That was a shame.”

  “What was?”

  “Losing the kite.”

  “I told you. I’m going to buy another.”

  “I know. But that was a special kite.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it was.” She kissed me, I kissed her, and then I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I stood and listened to it hiss and bubble, went to the sink and started to wash some cups. One of them was blue and the o
ther was white. My father used to drink from the blue one, and as I was wondering how he was and what he was doing, I heard the sound of a horse on the track.

  At first I thought I was imagining things, but when the hooves got closer I went outside, stepped across the veranda, down the steps and walked down the garden. The rain was still pouring, sheeting across the marshes and whipping the reeds into a frenzy. I patted the dog statue as I passed it.

  The dog statue has history, a history I know and a history I do not. My father found it in Norwich, sitting outside a furniture shop with a resigned expression on its blank face, and when he asked the shop owner how much it was he was told it was not for sale.

  “Not for sale?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Then why has it got a price?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  My father pointed. “I’m talking about that.” There was a label tied around its neck.

  The man came from the shop, stared at the label and said “You must be pulling my leg. It’s worth more than that.”

  “I don’t joke,” said father. It was true.

  The man tore off the label, screwed it up, tossed it into the street, looked at my father and looked at me. He was bald, his face was covered in fine, veiny lines and he gave me a sympathetic look. I thought he might explode. His nose started to turn purple, and his tongue flicked out. “I wouldn’t let it go for a hundred times that price,” and he patted its head.

  Angry and frustrated, father walked away, but after a few days he went back to the shop. This time the dog was labelled with a real price but the owner was away. His wife came out instead, and when she saw us looking at the dog she said “Make me an offer.”

  “Two pounds.”

  “I couldn’t go lower than three.”

  “Two pounds ten.”

  The woman scratched her head and said, “I’ve wanted to get rid of it for months. Two pounds ten it is.”

  My father paid for the dog and was carrying it away before the woman had a chance to change her mind or her husband returned from wherever he was. “It’s perfect,” he said, and when we got back, I helped him carry it down the garden to a place by the pond where it could sit and watch the gate and warn visitors this was a private house.

  A statue of a dog might have warned some people, but it did not worry Professor Hunt. He had tied his horse to the garden fence and now appeared at the gate, kicked it open and yelled, “And it’s the librarian!” He had a bandage tied around his head and was carrying his walking stick. He swiped at the ground and the rain, and aimed a kick at some weeds.

  “Hunt!”

  “Thought I wouldn’t find you, did you?” He walked towards me. He had not shaved for a few days, and the stubble looked like frost on his face. His eyes glittered and there was dampness around his nose. There was a large cut on his cheek and another on his hand. He was dribbling and his lips shone. “Thought I’d be too stupid to ask Mitchell’s where you take your holidays?” His voice had cracks in it.

  I took a few steps back. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “Repeat?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’m not welcome? Is that what you said?” He cocked his ear towards me, as if he was going deaf. He could hear everything I said.

  “Yes. So you’d better leave.”

  “Leave?” He shrugged. “You’re asking me to leave without asking why I’m here?”

  “I know why you’re here.” “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray tell me – why?”

  “Don’t treat me like a fool.”

  “Why not? It’s seems perfectly reasonable to…”

  “She’s not leaving. She’s staying here.”

  He laughed and absent-mindedly decapitated a hollyhock with his stick. “Is she?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. And you’ll bury her in the garden, will you?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. In a week or so, when she dies, you’ll bury her…”

  I took a step towards him. “Go!” I yelled.

  He smiled, reached up and touched the bandage around his head. “I think you two suit each other. Your tempers match…”

  “Do you blame us?”

  “Blame you?” He laughed. “Blame you? No. I don’t think I believe in blame. It’s a complete waste of time.” He looked at his watch. “And I don’t have much time, so if you’ll tell me where she is, we’ll be on our way.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “But a minute ago you said she was. If you’re as good a liar as you are a librarian…”

  “I’m a book valuer.”

  “Of course you are. You put a value on art. And your art is money.”

  “I love books.”

  He spread his arms. “As all civilized people do. And maybe I should believe you, but it’s difficult. I know she’s here.” He lifted his stick and took a step towards me.

  I did not move. “And how do you know that?”

  “Oh. Your eyes tell me so much.” He sniffed. “And I can smell her. It’s a strong smell, isn’t it? Unusual…”

  I shook my head. “All you can smell is the sea. And this is private property, so unless you…”

  “Private property? How I wish I’d said that when you came calling on me.”

  “I’ll call the authorities.”

  Now he roared with laughter. “The authorities? What authorities?”

  “I’ll find someone.”

  “I see. And when you do, what are you going to tell them?”

  “I…” I said, as the door opened behind me and Isabel appeared on the veranda. She looked at me and smiled, looked at Hunt and shook her head, and Hunt said, “Ah…” She shrugged, arranged the scarf around her neck and walked down the steps.

  She moved like a princess in a fabulous dress making an entrance down a grand staircase, with smartly dressed people waiting and music playing. The wind is beating against the windows, but the windows are secure, and rain is falling on people who stand outside and wait. Leaves ripped from trees, candles burning on tables, waiters carrying trays of drinks. Carriages sweeping up a long drive, liveried men opening doors. The gentle burble of conversation, the smell of delicate food. She held the coat tightly around her, and when she reached the bottom of the steps she stopped, looked at Hunt and said, “Back so soon?”

  “I couldn’t keep away.”

  “And how is your head?”

  “Stronger than you’d think,” he said.

  “That’s a shame.”

  He touched the bandage again. “Geniuses have stronger skulls than other people. It’s a well-known fact.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, and he flailed his stick, pushed past me and ran towards her.

  I remember his face – full of anger and expectation and pride – and I remember hers – calm and scaled and hating – and I remember hearing birds through the rain – terns, I think. They made squeaking sounds, and sounds like distant guns firing, then more squeaks. And the rustle of the reeds layered the terns like music from a long time ago, when I did not have the sort of worries I have now. And I thought I heard a string quartet playing something slow and stately, something composed by a man who should have worn a wig but did not. A beautiful melody, a quiet section, the melody returned.

  Isabel pulled a kitchen knife from her coat a moment before he reached her. I looked at it, not with surprise or shock but with curiosity, an object out of its element, like someone reading a book in a rain storm or a horse smoking a cigarette. She looked at him and he could not stop himself. He was running too fast, and as he ran onto the blade his expression changed in exactly the way you would expect. He looked totally surprised and gave a gasp of astonishment. His eyes widened. His tongue popped out of his mouth, then popped back in. His head tipped to one side. He looked at her, looked at me, looked back at her, looked down at his stomach, gripped the knife and sank to his knees
.

  “There,” she said, and she sank with him and for a moment they looked as though they were locked in embrace, two lovers in the rain who would not break apart. She whispered something in his ear and stood up. As she did she twisted the knife and pulled it in a curve from his belly to his chest. Blood spread across his shirt; he gasped and wheezed. His eyes stayed wide, frozen and glaring, and his tongue stuck out. His lips peeled back and all his teeth shone at me, yellow at the back and whiter in front. She gave a tug, stood back and dropped the knife.

  “Isabel!” I ran to her, but she stepped away and headed back to the house. “Isabel!” She did not turn or say anything. She climbed the steps, crossed the veranda and slammed the door behind her. As it banged I waited for the glass to break, but it did not. It stayed in the frame and the terns called again.

  I went to Hunt. He was still kneeling, his head bowed, and he was making a low gurgling sound. I touched his shoulder and he tipped over and lay on the grass. The knife was under his knee, and blood was pulsing from his belly and pooling around him. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but spat more blood. His eyes had lost their glare and looked something like a child’s eyes, innocent and uncomprehending and waiting for something they could not imagine. I felt faint and sick, and all my nerves were singing under my skin. My nose was clogging and I said “You…” but could not think of the next word.

  “She…” he said, and he made a sound like a ball bursting. His eyes closed, a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and his right leg gave one last twitch. I waited, but he did not move again, and when I looked up my house was quiet and still, the curtains closed, the door shut, the veranda empty.

  I sat on the lawn for half an hour. I stared at the body as it seeped on the lawn. It wheezed for a while, but then went quiet. The rain did not stop. It pattered on the coat, soaked through to the skin and washed the blood into the grass. As I stared, I breathed steadily and thought carefully. I did not panic. I thought methodically, running through the things I would have to do one at a time, then going back and starting again.

  I did not want to go to prison and wait a few months for my trial and listen to lies or half-truths, and I did not want to face the judge as he slipped the black cap on his head and lowered his eyes at me. I did not want to sit in a cell and brood, and I did not want to die on a gallows. I did not want any of these things to happen, and so I did not panic. It is difficult to get rid of a body when the first time you have to get rid of a body is the first time you see one. A dead body with a terrible knife wound. A murder. I did not want to go to prison. I was wet. Murder is a terrible crime.