The Skin Room

by Morgan Fleetwood

  Run away? Oh no, Inspector, she’s not the sort. But she does have a problem with … drugs.

  Could I mention that? What if it would land her in even more trouble? Drugs, indeed. I knew what the next question would be, after the policeman’s obligatory frown and a moment of snowman-like silence.

  What kind of drugs?

  The whole thing was a minefield. Bombs hidden all over, dug deep.

  So what did I do? I did what any concerned brother would do. I decided to dress up in drag and take my chances at the nearest police station on rue Glesener.

  I looked in the mirror and saw an unpleasant image. Perhaps it was the dirty grit of Sonia’s mirror, the semi-sheen of grime that provoked an unflattering reflection, but … heck, my looks were caved in. My slightly androgynous face had new lines and scratches. I tipped out Sonia’s make-up bag on the black marble counter and acquainted myself with her small palette of colors, pencils, tubes and pads. I attempted dabs and layered dashes. I fouled up the first time and had to wash it off and start all over again. I found my female face on the second or third attempt.

  I stepped out of the flat with my shades on, staring at my feet, not looking anyone in the eye. I even put on one of Sonia’s hats, and slanted it down over my face. I could see my bare ankles flashing as I stepped through the puddles. It was a risk I had to take—I needed the right clothes, right now.

  What did I need to perfect my disguise? I would begin with a wig: it seemed the smartest entry point. Brunette or blonde? I felt like being a blondinette, a little blonde. Why not push the boat out? I could be a Sandra or a Susie—I would need a fake identity.

  I went to a store that sold wigs near to the station. The young black female shop assistant, a twenty-something with violet eyes and dreadlocks, folded her arms and stared at me, her mouth turned down at the corners. She had probably witnessed a few pervs and wannabes passing through her store, the usual troupe of low-assed Tootsies. I was trying to play it cool and simple by pretending the wig was not for me but for my girlfriend, but she appeared to doubt my line, particularly as every time she had her back turned I was lifting the weaver’s work off the cold white skull-heads and trying it on in the mirror, just for size.

  “She should come by herself,” she said, turning round once too soon and seeing the wig in my hand as I jerked it away from my ear.

  “Oh, that’s impossible.” I licked a finger and smoothed back a tuft of hair in the mirror. “She’s away, I mean, she’s sick.”

  “Ah.” She seemed troubled by my answer.

  I said, feigning impatience, “It’s quite simple, you know, she’s a big-headed girl and funnily enough her skull is the same shape and size as mine which is why I was…”

  “I see.”

  “Right. So if we try that hay-colored one over there,” I said, pointing, “on me, then we’ll see if it fits her, won’t we?”

  She shuffled across the floor, shaking her dreadlocks. She had definitely seen a few men pass through her doors attempting similar tactics with an equally low degree of panache.

  “I’m quite busy, I’m afraid.” I tapped my watch.

  She handed me the wig and I tried it on in the mirror. I would need more make-up work to produce an utterly convincing effect, and I would need to go bald first, no doubt, to make the wig settle down at a comely angle, but it was a pretty good start.

  “I’ll take it.”

  I bought food, alcohol, fake eyelashes, everything I needed for male hair removal. I purchased a make-up set in a small boutique that also sold perfume, and spent the next quarter of an hour sampling everything from Butterfly Dreams to Devil For A Day. I doused several white paper straws with industrial spritzer and in the end could smell nothing but an eye-itching potpourri. My eyes half closed, I plumped for Valentina by Thomas Tallis, if only for old time’s sake. If I remember rightly, Valentina’s perfume had been more fruity, smelling of apricot and lime. This perfume, by contrast, smelled of crooked vanilla sticks and the inner thighs of a pale lady.

  I left the boutique and set off home, pausing only to buy some men’s clothes for emergencies, and the rest of the female attire I required: a white blouse, size 44 high heels, and a woman’s brown suit.

  I hurried upstairs to try on my new gender uniform. A hell of a switch. Was this a new game for me? A struggle or a stretch? As a wide-eyed adolescent, I had often borrowed my mother’s and my sister’s clothes. Once I had tried on a pair of my mother’s high heels and stood analyzing my own reflection as it wavered there in the mirror: an unsteady boy with an unsteady heart. Now, at my sister’s apartment, I assessed my reflection and was not yet content with the result. There were hairs on my hands, wrists, even my neck. I had no hourglass figure. I took more painkillers and waited over an hour, hoping to make the experience of waxing less painful. I leered into the mirror, tweezed out my nasal hair and reduced my eyebrows. Each pluck brought a gasp and a quiet swear word.

  I stripped naked, rubbed an antiseptic cleanser on my chest and legs and patted them dry. I applied long wax strips to my body, planted them as close to one other as possible. I held my skin taut with one hand while pulling away the strip in one swift movement against the direction of the hairs. The back of my hands I stripped smooth. I tried to avoid the tender areas, where the skin was broken or inflamed, as I did not want to risk infection.

  I shaved my head, slipped on the wig, stepped into my woman’s clothes, and checked out the final effect in the mirror. Could I look like Lauren Bacall? Could I walk like Marilyn Monroe? Could I sulk like Scarlet Johansson, or pout like Monica Bellucci?

  The look was more convincing, yes, I was getting there. But I was not yet ready for a face-to-face confrontation, not with the police. Besides, the pants were a tight fit and cut in at the waist where the wound still hurt. I sat in Sonia’s flat and decided on a phone call—more abstract, more distant, no make-up problems, no gait to mimic, no role to play ... oh, just the voice perhaps.

  I practiced over and over, talked to myself, closed my eyes. A woman’s voice was not an easy proposition. And of course I had to get my story straight: who was I? A friend? A distant relative? A cousin sounded about right. Close, but not too close.

  Once I had mastered the tone—a smooth drawl with a ladylike timbre—I flicked the phone open and dialed 112, emergencies.

  “Who would you like to speak to?”

  “Police.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The phone line clicked, warbled, and echoed like the sea inside a shell.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to report a missing person.”

  “Name?”

  “Sonia Melville.”

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “19, November, 1981.”

  “OK. It’s best if you come down to the station. We can file an official report.”

  “No, please, wait a moment. Could you just tell me if she’s in some sort of trouble?”

  “How should I know that?”

  “You’re the police, aren’t you?”

  “Who are you? What do you want to know?”

  “I’m her cousin. Please, just tell me if you’ve heard anything.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t give out any information over the phone. You’ll have to come down to the police station and make an official request. I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

  Clunk. Dead end. So I would have to go eyeball to eyeball, after all.

  The question was: should I go as a man or a woman? I hesitated for a long time. The female attire had the advantage of disguising my appearance, though I was not yet convinced I could pull it off. Going as myself, on the other hand, as a bald Alex Melville, might raise its own problems, especially if there were mugshots of me at the police station, slapped on a wall, or saved on a computer.

  I decided to risk it as a blonde lady. I needed to practice
in order to perform, so I spent many hours rehearsing at home—the voice, the gait, the laugh. I dieted too. I had to trim my waistline and thin out my calves. Once I felt ready, I put on some sandals—the high heels had proved too tricky—and the lady’s brown suit and the blonde wig. I varnished my nails, studied my face in my pocket mirror and dabbed my cheeks with a hush of beige. I stared at my neck and face in the mirror. The eyes were attractive; I looked more feline. There was one last problem to solve: men have an Adam’s apple, don’t they? I searched through Sonia’s wardrobe and found a foulard, a silk scarf, which I neatly draped around my neck.

  Onwards. Out I stepped to face the big wide police force of Luxembourg. Who would I meet? I would meet you, Inspector. Do you recall our first meeting now? Is this ringing any bells? You could never have guessed when you read the first part of my confession that the blonde in your office was me. I’m the one you missed out on: murderer, degree one. And you let me slip through your fingers, like melting snow.

  But you feel foolish. But you feel bad. But you feel astonished. Never mind. I did what I could to soften the blow. Don’t feel childish or outmaneuvered, it’s not your fault. I’m just too strong for you, too subtle.

  Did you not realize that you were face to face with Alex Melville, the wanted killer?

  Let me recount our meeting, if only for my sake, since I can gloat once more. My words, those of Sandra, of the Luxembourg skinner. Word for word, let me put it all down…

  Now, do you remember how it went?

  2

  It was late evening. The moon was a white ball on a black pitch. I had prepared for the encounter, practiced the walk, the pose, raised my chin and refined the voice. I was growing into my role and trying to act like a woman even when nobody was watching.

  Sonia’s car was a sweetie, a low-slung Mini convertible with smoked windows. I snatched the key tab from the dish in the hall and took the elevator down to minus one. The garage underground was painted off-white, with yellow stripes to define parking spots. I walked past black trashcans that reeked of shellfish. I saw her Mini, rammed into a corner, parking space number 7. I squeezed the tab and the taillights flashed with a beep.

  In I went. A low seat with a low view. The smell of Sonia everywhere. I touched the gearstick, fingered the loose change, picked up her black eyeliner crayon. Why not add the finishing touches? I slapped down the visor, circled my eyes with concentrated calm. I was going for a touch of punk, the irascible waif.

  I drove through town at reasonable speed; there was no reason to go fast and get caught. I parked opposite the police station on rue Glesener—an unfriendly place, a square-faced construction built in the 1970s, with mottled gravel smoothed into the walls and barred windows to prevent breakouts or break-ins. This place was huge: four, no, five floors. It looked like some kind of haunted hospital. The entrance sign was bright silver with black letters scored in French, German and Portuguese. Once I crossed the glass-door threshold, the first thing that struck me was the unpleasant smell: man-sweat, cigarettes.

  It was after 8 p.m., so I got the night crew.

  I sidled up to reception and told them my story. Afterwards, I was forced to sit and wait for over half an hour, staring at the walls. There were posters that censured violence and encouraged vigilance, pictures of car wrecks with speech bubbles sprouting like mushrooms: “One too many” and “One for the road”. It was all so depressingly moral. I preferred to stare at my shoes and the ants which sometimes crawled between them.

  A policeman appeared. He had the beautiful, gaunt face of a male model. With his polished shoes, black hair and smartly pressed uniform, he struck me as the lucky type of guy who could hook up with any girl he wanted. He fixed me with his icy blue eyes.

  “Would you like a coffee, Madame?” he asked. His breath smelled of chewing gum.

  “That’s kind of you, officer, but no, thank you. If I have one now, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” I touched my wig and was fairly happy with the tone of my voice—the result of my method acting.

  “A sleepless night,” he nodded. “I quite understand. That would be a terrible thing.” He raised his hand, pointed along the corridor. “This way, if you please.” He nodded at me gently, behaving like a doorman at the entrance of a luxury hotel. As I stood up and passed him by, he seemed to lock his eyes on my walk. It was nerve-racking to have this degree of scrutiny, and yet I managed to handle the added pressure of being under the microscope. His gentlemanly smile was proof of my convincing start—the fact that I could pass myself off as a woman. As I stepped deeper into the police station, I knew that it was time to be ladylike and calm, to not worry about my past or the things I had done and for which I might be punished, one day. The policeman followed me and I tried to just go through the motions, and yet it sometimes felt like my heart was trying to climb up out of my ribcage.

  “Maybe I should come back another time,” I said, looking down at my shins, as I tried to plant one foot in front of the other and turn more at the pelvis, as women do.

  “Whatever for?”

  I’m fake. I wanted to say, because I’m a goddamned fake and I need more practice.

  “It’s late,” I said, with a smile at him as he strode past my shoulder to open a heavy door.

  Our footsteps stopped and I peered inside. “Is this the room?” The bareness was predictable: just a wooden desk and two chairs; no other furniture. A computer keyboard and screen were the only items on the desk. No posters here, not even papers or books.

  “Please wait in here, the Inspector will arrive in a moment.”

  I moved into the room on my own and tried to sit gracefully. I let out a sigh, crossed my legs with slow, self-conscious grace, just in case the young officer had his eyes on my back, but once I turned my head he had gone. It was a relief to sit quietly, unobserved. I didn’t have to force my smile or twist my voice. I breathed in the odors of the room: the pinewood of the desk, the particles of dust in the air, the plastic flooring. This room was proof of a strict budget. A neon bar on the ceiling persisted in a low hum. The white light filtered down through silver slats, reflected off the desk and stung my eyes. I worried about my make-up, applied with a novice’s hand, and took out my pocket mirror and checked the full ruby lips and whitened cheeks. Maybe I was about to make a terrible fool of myself, but Sonia was my first priority. I tried to breathe calmly but the air tasted dry; it seemed to lack the requisite oxygen. I felt a headache zeroing in—the calibrated adjustments in the aching skull, closer and closer.

  What the hell was I doing? I thought of my Catania days, my stalking, my routines. Now I was reduced to this: sitting in drag in a police inspector’s office, asking for a big dose of trouble. I sure as hell should have stayed in some roach motel after killing Valentina, and forgotten all about my sister. But I had a bad feeling about her disappearance, and so I simply had to find out what had happened to her.

  There was a scuffle in the corridor, as though somebody was being hauled to justice. The footsteps clattered past, followed by silence—long fat minutes of it. The door rocked open and a man in a dark blue uniform stormed in and sat down without shaking my hand or even saying “Bonjour”.

  He struck me as impolite but I held my tongue.

  “Somebody is missing you say.” His voice was abrupt; he barely looked at me, just stared into the monitor on the desk and started typing. I noticed the pallor of his cheeks, the dark rings around his eyes, and his general air of bitter sleeplessness. He still wouldn’t glance in my direction and I felt an inclination to move forward, perhaps even to project my breasts, just a little inch. It marked a strange shift in attitude among the policemen of this station: the male model at the door giving me the eye and this one barely acknowledging my existence. You never knew how a disguise would work on people—it was some fairground ride.

  “Her name?” he asked.

  “Sonia Melville.”

  “S-o-n-i-a—M-e-l-v-i-l-le.” He jabbed his fingers down into the k
eyboard at odd intervals.

  “Date of birth?”

  I told him.

  “Place of birth?”

  I told him that too, but he still wouldn’t look at me. Maybe it was for the best; I didn’t have to pretend to be anyone pleasing to the eye. I was routine to him. My presence served merely to confirm that he was trapped, that he could not go home and rest with his family or go out and get drunk with his friends.

  “Give us a few minutes and we’ll check this out.”

  He plucked a yellow Post-it note from a slot on the desk, lifted a red biro from his top pocket and scribbled on the yellow slip. He took this with him as he left the room.

  I wanted to say, I am here, I am special, I am something.

  I said nothing.

  The door shut behind him with a bang that made the walls vibrate.

  I waited. That was what it was all about—police stations—I was discovering. They had real crimes to deal with and I was just a tourist, a complainant, one of those people who begs to be noticed while the action on another stage attracts all eyes. It must have been another ten or twenty minutes before anybody came, but I had stopped looking at my watch (one of Sonia’s—a slim gold band with a pearl inlay.) At one point I got up and walked round the desk to look at the computer screen. There was a login required and I was no hacker and, besides, I had no inclination to delve, I was just holding out for the official story.

  Eventually the door opened again, and I was greeted by that catwalk-worthy officer with the ice-blue eyes. At least he appreciated the efforts I had taken to look attractive.

  “Sorry about the wait,” he said with apparent sincerity.

  As I stood up, I noticed he appeared to be looking down at my breasts. He would have been disappointed to learn that they were made of sponge and paper tissue. We strode down the corridor together, and stepped into the elevator. I was surprised to see his finger press the button below minus three, which was unmarked, numberless. I felt my stomach rise as the elevator descended for several seconds. The bump rose up through my ankles as we reached the bottom floor.