The Skin Room

by Morgan Fleetwood

  I stepped out beside him into a long corridor. The only surprising thing was the carpet, a dull red ketchup color, as you might expect from a three-star hotel or faded executive lounge. Here the atmosphere and lighting looked more clerical than the offices above, as though the work in this part of the building was more complex, requiring a more scholarly approach. The carpet squeaked adhesively beneath my shoes. We passed one young man with eager postgraduate eyes who clutched an orange file to his chest, and stared at me in bewilderment, as if I were some random female about to brazenly enter a gentleman’s club.

  I ignored him and kept pace with my guide.

  I was shown into your office, Inspector, a room luxurious and plush, with a whiff of moist tobacco. The beautiful one left us alone, and I took a couple of tentative steps forward.

  You. Yes, you.

  You stood opposite me in your black uniform, unmoved. You had pouches everywhere: on your arms, at your hip, even below the knees. There were blue stripes down the sides of your black pants. Your smile marked you out as someone making an effort to be polite. Police inspectors, in my experience, saw no point in smiling. You, on the other hand, impressed me with your shadowless grin. You recognized the importance of eye contact too, as you kept your green eyes trained on me the whole time, rarely blinking. Your hair was the color of porridge and your nose was bent slightly to one side, as though you had received a punch some time ago and the injury never quite healed. You moved forward with slow, precise steps; reached out your hand and closed it around mine. I tried to imagine that my hand was a dried flower in your wooden press. I thought it might make my touch more convincing, more ethereal. Your hands were large but the contact was terse, just a brief squeeze, and I was disappointed, expecting a tighter, more unrelenting grasp.

  Over your shoulder, I saw police files, a jar of cat’s-eye marbles, a heap of paperwork.

  I sat down and immediately froze. I saw the photograph of the girl on your desk. It was like being injected with a needle. I almost couldn’t look at her—the pain was too perfect.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “My daughter, Natalia.”

  3

  I picked up the golden frame and traced my fingers over her smile through the glass. Her hair was true blonde and her eyes betrayed a cruel calm, a sort of selfish beauty. “I bet she’s snapped a few hearts.”

  “One or two,” you said.

  “Which school does she go to?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Sorry, I assumed…”

  “She’s at university now.”

  “Already? She looks so young.”

  “It’s an old photo. She’s twenty now, in her first year of media studies.”

  “Where, Belgium, England?”

  “Luxembourg.”

  “I thought they didn’t have the facilities.”

  “The university is expanding, getting better all the time.”

  “Yes, thank you, I mean … interesting.” I propped the photo back on the desk and admired her cool glare from afar.

  You said, “Now tell me about this missing person.”

  I leaned forwards, projected a fake smile. I wondered if you were tricked by my disguise. It could have been my imagination, but you seemed to treat me kindly, with deference. Was I fooling you, or were you playing your own little game? Only you know the truth.

  I’ll never forget the look on your face when I mentioned my sister’s name. You froze up. Asked me to repeat it.

  Sonia Melville, I said.

  You scratched the side of your nose, raised both hands to your temples and rubbed, in a circular motion, as though to suppress a headache. You looked straight at me. Was it guilt, or fear, or anger I thought I saw in your eyes?

  “I do not think your cousin is missing,” you said.

  “You think not?”

  “She’s … with us.”

  I was stunned for a second, as though a powerful drug had just kicked in, and the experience was more surreal than I had expected. Carlo’s men had not kidnapped her. This news came as a relief, without a doubt. I closed my eyes and touched my forehead, conjuring up an image of Sonia standing on the dock in Messina with orphan-like eyes. She had made it this far. I had made it this far. We were okay, this far.

  “You seem relieved,” you said.

  “I had feared the worst. But how come she’s with you? Did you bring her in?” I asked, recalling Carlo’s threats. “Has she done anything wrong?”

  “May I ask … who’s asking?”

  I coughed. “Like I said. I’m her cousin.”

  You nodded. “I believe that, from what Miss Melville says, her family now lives in Italy. They must know the facts by now. But you, apparently…”

  “I was travelling for a while. I was worried when I came back and saw the state of her plants.”

  “Her plants?”

  “Yes, Sonia’s a plant lover, didn’t you know?”

  “It’s not our job to know the habits of our prisoners.”

  “Prisoners? Has she been charged?”

  You joined your fingers together. “She is a special case.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Unofficially, she is cooperating with the police in a matter linked to an international criminal organization.”

  “And officially?”

  “She has been arrested on drugs offences. Did you know that she actually sold cocaine? That is a serious felony.”

  “It’s just a cover story, right?”

  You shook your head. “I’m afraid not. Her crimes will be weighed in consideration with the assistance she provides.”

  “So she’s an informant?”

  “Unofficially, yes. That’s why she is being kept…” You coughed and scratched the side of your nose. “…Out of harm’s way.”

  “So I can see her?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Not even for a short while?”

  “She is being held at a secret location, at her request. We are helping her, as she is helping us.”

  “What if I went blindfolded?”

  You smiled. “I’m sure she would like to see a member of her family. However, I’m afraid, at this moment, it would be impossible.”

  The blood revolved behind my eyes: think quick, think quick.

  “Maybe she has a telephone,” I said. “I could speak to her directly.”

  “A phone call?”

  “Yes, in a private room, I…”

  You frowned. “Perhaps, if it’s just a phone call, I could speak to my colleagues and try to arrange something for you.”

  You shuffled the papers on your desk. You have heavy hands, Inspector, I remember that. The knuckles stretched out like railway sleepers; the skin strained with purple veins. Heavy hands, yes, but slow. You’d never make a boxer.

  “I want to speak to her immediately,” I said.

  You stood up and coaxed me to the door. “Perhaps, if you don’t mind waiting outside, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I sat on a brown chair out in the corridor, crossed my legs, stared at the back of my hairless hands. My pink nails needed lengthening, but it would take days, weeks. Time I didn’t have. Perhaps I could buy extensions? I chided myself for not thinking of it sooner. I already had fake eyelashes, so why not augment the fakery?

  A large clock with the words Gare de Luxembourg ticked at the end of the corridor. There was no one about. You had not locked or even closed the door to your office. What made me think of going inside? Perhaps it was the opportunity to find more information about Sonia. Did I want to try to find that secret location? I looked both ways and prowled straight into your lair. I knew the layout of the room by now. I sat on your black chair, in front of your computer monitor, touched the mouse, and the screen came alive. The keyboard looked unclean with its covering of gray hair follicles, crumbs and milky-colored dust. I was loath to touch the keys. I took a handkerchief from my purse and wiped away the grime as best I could.
>
  I needed a login, a password. Such guessing games were beyond me, Inspector. I opened a couple of your drawers and searched through your papers. What did I hope to find? Some evidence to back up your declarations?

  I saw again the photo of your daughter on your desk. How I wished that I could take this picture with me. Lips, teeth, eyes. Everything perfect.

  Your cell phone lay on your desk. It was a sleek black thing with red keys. This was an oversight on your part, Inspector. Why did you not take it with you? Had our encounter upset your concentration? I barely hesitated before picking it up. I wasn’t suspicious, just curious; I pressed the green button and the screen lit up with all the menus visible. I searched through your sent and received mail, but could see nothing of any interest. I browsed your list of contacts.

  I lifted my head slightly as I heard footsteps in the corridor, loudening with each beat. I sat frozen, the phone snug in my palm, unable to move. My heart pounded, double-time, triple-time…

  The steps came close to the door and paused for one second. They dragged and squeaked, as though turning, before retreating back along the corridor, and fading away.

  I exhaled slowly and got ready to leave the room. As I set your phone down on your desk, one name in your address-book caught my eye: C123. I couldn’t understand why a contact name needed a letter and three numbers, unless you meant to keep it a secret. I picked up the phone and stared at the address, and recognized the prefix: 0039. Italy.

  My eyes opened and closed slowly. I breathed very softly.

  Perhaps there were cameras in this room? I looked up at the ceiling. Hard to say.

  A flicker of noise came through the wall from the office next door: the sound of a filing cabinet ramming shut. I decided my time was up, set your phone back in the same place on your desk, and skipped out into the corridor. I just had time to sit down, cross my legs, and look appropriately bored, when the mottled-glass swing door at the end of the corridor sprung open. You pushed your way through with a stiff arm and an unreadable look on your face. Your pace was unhurried, with the stride of a senior officer. Younger policemen might have said about you, You needed to loosen up.

  You shook your head dutifully. “I’ve checked. It would seem premature to allow her to speak to anyone at this stage, as we are still checking up on some leads. We must keep her location a secret, you understand. However, if you adhere to a few security checks, we may be able to organize a brief phone call, at a later date, in private?” You looked away and grazed your left temple with your thumb. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must get back to work on some important business. Please leave your contact details at the main desk, and somebody will get back to you.”

  You stood in front of me with your fists in your jacket pockets, a bland expression on your face. I didn’t know whether to like you or not. You always spoke with forced politeness. It was hard to know what sort of person you truly were.

  I got to my feet and we left your office. As you guided me down the corridor we strode past other policemen and some of them tried to catch your eye, standing taller, straighter.

  “What will happen to her?” I asked.

  Your eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean—how long will it take? When can I see her?”

  You looked relieved, for some reason. “These things take time. Hopefully a month or two.”

  “That long?”

  “We’re still gathering evidence.”

  “On Carlo?”

  Your expression changed. “You know Carlo Riccio?”

  I wished I had kept my mouth shut.

  “I know of him,” I sighed. “I’ve never met him, of course. I know he’s bad news, though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I had a feeling I was being interviewed and was afraid my female voice might crack.

  “I’ve heard about what he does. Import and export. I know Sonia was mixed up in it for a while. Thank God those days are over.”

  You lightly touched my shoulder and smiled. “We’ll soon have him behind bars.”

  “That’s the theory, I guess. But those guys are hard to pin down. They have tentacles everywhere. You’re right to be careful with Sonia. She needs protection.”

  You looked away and scratched the side of your nose again. I noticed the skin was reddened.

  “She’ll be fine,” you said.

  4

  I hid out in Sonia’s flat. She was a few sizes smaller than me but I got used to wearing her baggier clothes. Her pajamas were the easiest of all, yet I could hardly walk the streets that way. I used one of her clumps of cash to buy some more casual attire, just T-Shirts and jeans. I knew Sonia had her bills on direct debit—gas, electricity, even the rent—so I could loll around her flat and not have payment problems. I was happy to discover a block of hashish in one of her desk drawers. I told you, Inspector, I was never into the hard stuff that burned my sister’s nostrils (the class A kind) but I’ve always enjoyed the THC hit of a joint. Dressed up in loose clothing in the evenings, slouched in Sonia’s armchair, I burned through her reserves of hash. I would listen to Marilyn Monroe records and try to sing along in that airy voice of hers. My voice sounded closer to the star of the Blue Angel, Fräulein Dietrich, whose records I also played. What Sonia didn’t have, I acquired. The nights were reserved for music, drink and drugs. I often woke up with a stinging hangover the next morning which, as the day dragged on, morphed into mere torpor and self-loathing. I did not want to live in the big bright world. Dracula-like, I cowered from the rising sun, unwilling to step into its glare. I was waiting for my sister to return, and the hours were stretched and slow.

  I was happy she was okay, but still I could not see her.

  Sonia, where are you? Sonia, I miss you.

  At times I felt scatterbrained, and started longing for a sense of order in my mind. I scratched around the apartment looking for things to do. I saw an atlas on the shelf and took it down, also picking up a sheet of A4 paper and a pen. I opened the center-page world-spread. I could see all the countries, west to east. My idea was to write out all the capital cities of the world. I moved from Canada down to South America, then across the globe, through Europe to Asia. I made a list. After a couple of hours of scribbling I was anxious that I might have missed one country out, and so I was relieved when I found a list of capital cities at the back of the atlas. Only when I had matched them up with all the names on my list did I feel a degree of calm. I had achieved a sense of order, here at last. Once this list was complete, I took a fresh sheet of paper and thought of all the other lists I could make: all the people I had ever known, all the countries I had ever visited, all the shoes I had ever worn. The compiling of lists was something I would return to again and again during my stay at Sonia’s place. It brought a much needed sense of calm. Better than drugs or alcohol—no hangover. I was trying to catch something: a sense of completion, the satisfaction of having compiled something whole, without loose ends. It was the achievement of the obvious, I was aware of that, yet it somehow helped to pacify my restless self.

  Inspector, this is good grist to your mill, I’m sure. Your team of analysts must be salivating over the import of such compulsions. In my defense, I am only trying to chart the flight path of my mysterious descent. This manuscript must be your black box.

  The doorbell rang a couple of times but I switched off the lights and sat as quietly as a stone. I’m not sure who it was. Recently, of course, I’ve been expecting you, Inspector. I’m sure you will soon come storming down the corridor with your loudhailer, to hack down my door with axes, to point rifles at me through the splintered wood. I always keep the curtains closed; I am wary of spies. It may be just a matter of days, hours, maybe only minutes. Have you discovered my hideout, Inspector? Are you right now blundering up the stairs in your black uniforms? I listen, but hear nothing. All is silent. You have not yet arrived—I’m safe for now. I will have to trust my luck and carry on writing while there’s still ti
me.

  It’s late in the evening now, and I feel cold, yes, cold in September. These are the last few days of summer, such as it was. One shouldn’t call it summer, just passing rain showers with muggy days in between. The simplest thing would be to move down to the Canary Islands and live like a rich, retired German. But I cannot board any flight now. My name is blood.

  One of the things I bought with Sonia’s cash was a new cell phone. The name I used was Sandra Chambers. The phone was scarlet and decorated with black spots like a ladybird. It matched my new scarlet nail extensions. I kept the phone on a card table by the armchair alongside an opened bottle of red wine. I sat and watched the daylight changing color on the wall, the white wallpaper turning fiery orange then ratty gray in the evening as the sun gave out its last beams. Sometimes I sat for hours, like a prisoner at the gulag, unable to vision my escape.

  I told you to call me, Inspector, if there was any news about Sonia. I was sitting in the armchair one evening, rolling my third joint, when the ladybird phone twinkled and stirred on the table. The ringtone was a wailing saxophone.

  Do you remember our conversation, Inspector?

  Your voice was fragile, lacking in confidence.

  “Madame … Chambers?”

  “Hello, er, hu-llo?” I sweetened my voice.

  “It’s Inspector Ferreira. I was given your number by a colleague.”

  “Thanks for calling. How are things?”

  “There’s some bad news, I’m afraid. I would prefer not to discuss it over the phone. Would you like to meet me down at the station?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Tell me now.”

  “Madame Chambers, Sandra, may I call you that? I am truly sorry. Words cannot express…”

  “What happened? They got to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid your cousin is dead.”