The Skin Room

by Morgan Fleetwood

  After the ceremony, I holed up in Sonia’s flat. I felt uncomfortable, nervy, unable to sit still. I eventually found a way of soothing my nerves by shifting some furniture to one side and walking around Sonia’s gray divan, moving in a slow ellipse, clockwise. I gradually quickened my pace; the faster I walked, the better I felt. The rhythm freed my mind. I knew that the earth moved around the sun in a shifting orbit—sometimes rounder, sometimes flatter. I reconstructed this. As I moved around the divan I changed my angle now and again, thinking of the earth, thinking of the sun.

  When I stopped I was out of breath and thirsty and my head and heart were thumping. I poured out half a liter of Evian into three glasses—one for me, one for Sonia, one for mother, and I took one slow sip from each.

  Outside, the rain had fizzled out. The sun was shining, a patient amber. I thought a walk outside might freshen me up. I stripped off all my clothes, slipped on one of Sonia’s baggy skirts, the blonde wig, and tucked a freshly-rolled joint behind my ear. I left the flat and walked the streets, half-naked, shoeless. People stood and stared at me, dumbfounded by my errant display. I stepped off the sidewalk and walked along the grassy verge, feeling the blades and roots scrunch beneath my feet. I enjoyed the amble. The wind licked my skin.

  The sun laid a hand on my shoulder and cured me for a while.

  I shuffled down to the riverside. I wanted to see if the water was deep enough. I stared for a quiet age into the current of the Alzette river. Twigs drifted along the surface with scattered leaves and oily blue swirls. I felt dizzy and tried to stand quite still. Despite the recent rainfall, the water level looked too low. I knew I would not be dragged away by the current if I dived in. Pity. I had wanted to throw away my life.

  I stood by the riverside and smoked my joint in little pulls.

  A voice told me I had never loved my sister, that I had abandoned her.

  “No, it is a lie,” I said. I had done everything I could, rescuing her on many occasions.

  The voice told me that I was not the author of my translations.

  “That is a lie, too,” I said.

  I had spent many hours in my lamp-lit office, typing, surfing the net, checking renditions, translating foreign tongues. There were witnesses, I thought. I was not always alone in the house.

  ”My father saw me,” I added.

  Then the voices left me alone for a while. I returned home at sunset, wondering where my life was going.

  I went back to the flat and burned some of Sonia’s papers.

  She was a wicked girl, after all.

  I decided on my next task. And to me it was more important than these rites of grief. I riffled through the Yellow Pages, and flicked open my ladybird phone.

  “I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Schergen.”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “My name is Sandra Chambers. I’d like to speak to him about an important matter, concerning…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s private. Is it possible to make an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid Dr. Schergen does not normally meet with members of the public. He is a specialist, as you know, a coroner.”

  “Does that mean he can’t talk to anyone?”

  “Well, he has a very busy schedule.”

  “And?”

  “He’s booked up for at least two months. Sorry. Goodbye.”

  “Wait, I’m a journalist—”

  She hung up.

  I would have to go in person. I undressed and stood in underpants and wanted another joint to calm my nerves before any face-to-face encounter. I sauntered over to a desk drawer, unfurled a Rizla paper, picked out a dark lump of hash and burned off a corner with Sonia’s Zippo lighter. The pungent smell of marijuana was like that of soiled mushrooms. I crumbled the bits of black dust into the paper, layered in some stringy tobacco from a packet of Amsterdamer, rolled, licked and lit the paper. I strolled around the divan and hummed to myself, thinking about Sonia, trying not to think about Sonia. (Charred and green.) I needed to feel tensionless before I met Dr. Schergen in person and asked him the question about what killed my sister.

  I circled the sofa. Again, again. Orbits. Ellipses.

  “It’s important,” I said, leaning over the secretary’s desk and looking at her boobs slouched like sweet potatoes behind her loose shirt.

  “Are you the woman that telephoned?” Her eyes were bright and green, the color of washing up liquid. Her hair was scarlet, dyed, with an undertow of black. Her nails were the same color as mine: the red of crushed ants.

  “Listen,” I drawled, “it’s police business. Urgent. My cousin is dead. Don’t you understand?” My voice wavered too much. My extended fingernails tapped the counter.

  The secretary picked up the phone and dialed an extension.

  “Dr. Schergen? There is a woman here to see you. She says it’s urgent.” She nodded. “OK.” She put down the phone, pointed to a chair. “Take a seat. The doctor will be with you in a few minutes.”

  “You see?” I said. “All I had to do was insist.”

  ‘Sit down,’ she said slowly.

  I strode over to my chair and did as I was told.

  I crossed my legs and hummed a tune. I’ve got you under my skin…

  It was warm in the waiting room and I started to sweat. My armpits smelled of curry. Sometimes our human nature is so unpleasant, so unceasing.

  Sunlight griddled the floor. I tried to focus, but my mind was swimming with hash-edged thoughts.

  The doctor emerged after a quarter of an hour of mind-numbing silence. I looked up and there he was: a short man, thin-necked, brown-bearded, with glowing orange eyes like cough sweets. He had the gentle stoop and long arms of a forest mammal, yet his voice was educated, verging on kindly. His hands were pale, almost white, and I imagined that was because he had to disinfect them dozens of times a day.

  “Is this the woman?” He looked across at the secretary who nodded in my direction.

  I uncrossed my legs, stood up, and smoothed down some invisible creases in my dress.

  He smiled—it gave his eyes added zest. I wondered if special eyes were required to examine the dead. More lucid or penetrative. And what had he seen in me—a potential patient, stretched out cool and breathless beneath his silver knife?

  “Follow me, Mrs…”

  “Chambers.”

  He waved me through the corridor which was bright and many-windowed. The sunlight cut across the floor and brought to my mind the work of scissors.

  We sat down in his office which was pure white and devoid of all color. There was just one medical poster of the human body which showed the organs exposed, a mess of streaky yellows and bulbous pinks. Liver and lungs.

  He leaned forwards: “How may I help?”

  “Sonia Melville. Case file.”

  “Confidential, I imagine. Who are you?”

  “Her cousin.”

  “Not immediate family.”

  “I’m here. Is that immediate enough?”

  He sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Is there anything that happened that won’t come out at the inquest?”

  “I don’t see your point.”

  “Tell me if I’m right—OK?—just say yes or no.”

  “All right. What’s your question?”

  “Was there anything strange about the murder of Sonia Melville?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She died unnaturally, this much you probably know.”

  “And?”

  “Have you seen the crime scene photos?”

  “Yes, some.”

  “I suspect, not all of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because two of them were removed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The photographer told me.”

  “Wait a minute, what are you saying, that somebody removed the photos? Who could do
such a thing and why?”

  “The photos still exist,” he said, shifting in his seat. “They’re just not part of the file. The detail was quite salient, at least it seemed important to me. But it was decided otherwise.”

  “By whom?” I leaned forward and tried to retain my feminine mask, despite the tension I was feeling. I wondered if he was seeing me as a woman, or inwardly frowning at my underself, the underman. I trained my voice to softness. “Please tell me.”

  He tipped his head to one side and stared at me in a way that made his eyes look smaller. “That’s a question I cannot answer, I’m afraid. I am not directly involved in the police investigation.”

  “What were the pictures of, anyway?”

  “She scrawled a letter on her belly with lipstick before she died. And there was an arrow pointing downwards.” He coughed. “Toward her crotch.”

  “That would seem very important to me. Isn’t it odd that it was left out of the investigation?”

  “Very odd indeed.”

  “And what did this photographer say to you?”

  “He asked me why it wasn’t in the report.”

  “You mean, your post-mortem examination.”

  “Yes. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Why ever not? Why ever not? Why ever not?”

  I was unable to halt the flow of words. I put my hand over my mouth and hoped he would not notice. I was finding it hard to breathe. To his credit, he said nothing, and merely angled his head, staring at me strangely.

  “Because, by the time the body arrived here, Madame, there was no letter and there was no arrow.”

  “So, let me get this straight. The photographer is there, right after the murder. He takes some pictures. He hands over the photos to the police. The police put them in a file. Not all of them. The photographer must still have a copy, no?”

  “Presumably.”

  “Then why didn’t you say something?”

  “What am I supposed to say? You should speak to the photographer, Mr. Weis. His first name is Frank, I believe. You should ask him his side of the story. I am only the coroner, my job is to examine the body. Sonia Melville was killed. Her mouth was filled with marbles. Her throat was slit. When I saw her, nothing was written on her belly, so I could not mention it, now could I?” He stood up in a self-enforced rush. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “What was the letter?”

  He closed and opened his eyes. “If you must know, it was the letter F.”

  He guided me to the door, touching my spine gently.

  “And why do you think the arrow pointed downwards?”

  “Because, Madame Chambers—” He ushered me through the door. “She was raped.”

  I stood on the threshold, eyes wide, throat frozen.

  “Are you OK, Madame Chambers?” he asked.

  My head started thudding. I had trouble seeing his orange eyes. I saw four eyes, then six, then eight. The picture turned starry and dark.

  My head was on the secretary’s lap. Her red-and-black hair trickled over my face. She patted my cheek a couple of times. I felt strewn, like loose blades of straw caught by a sudden gust of wind.

  She looked at her hand as she pulled it away and turned to me with a distrustful stare. Maybe she had wiped off some of my make-up.

  “Are you awake?” she asked.

  It felt odd to be cradled in a woman’s arms. I was afraid to open my mouth for fear of appearing, or sounding, too manly. My skirt had slid up my thighs, and my heart pumped at the thought of having to keep up my female act, so close to the real thing.

  “…I think so.”

  I sat up and straightened, and shifted away from her gently.

  She gave me a suspicious look. “You collapsed in the corridor. The doctor carried you here. I am afraid he had to leave.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “But I wanted to ask him some more questions.”

  She eased away from me, her eyes critical. She scanned my body, up and down, seeking confirmation of her suspicions. “He’s gone out for lunch. Won’t be back for at least another hour.”

  “Then I’ll wait here,” I said firmly.

  She stood up and said, “Very well.” She raised one eyebrow, stared at my face closely, and turned and crossed the room. Her heels curved out then in as she walked, turning at the hip. It was a walk I wanted to copy.

  I sat in the chair and felt the sun prickling the back of my neck, turned and saw the white heat hollering through the thin glass.

  “Can I open the window?”

  She shook her head from across the room. “Air conditioning.”

  “Can we get any more?”

  “It’s cold enough, don’t you think?” she said, twitching in her seat. “My legs are freezing.”

  I switched seats and sat in a darker place, with a view of the front door.

  I would wait for Dr. Schergen, as long as it took.

  I nosed through the crinkled magazines that had been touched a hundred times, and knew I was due for a hand wash.

  “Is there a bathroom?” I said.

  She nodded to the left.

  I got up and went to wash my hands inside the cubicle. I squirted plenty of liquid soap and rubbed my hands together and watched as the water dripped off my red plastic nails. I lifted Sonia’s purse onto the edge of the sink and added a few deft touches of cover-up to my sullen face. I worried about the impact of my make-up and frock. Would I pass as a woman right now? I tried to speak to Sonia in the mirror, but she was not there. Sometimes I could find her that way, but not today.

  When I stepped out through the door I saw the lady behind the desk in collusion with the other secretary. They both looked up at me and giggled, blushing at their private discussion. I scanned their distrustful gazes and shuffled nervously back to my seat.

  Sisters. Observers. Unbelievers.

  I put my hands over my ears, afraid they might hear my thoughts—the echoes. I rubbed my temples in a circular motion, again, again. Life was getting more complicated by the hour. Perhaps my excessive drug use was starting to take its toll.

  “Are you feeling better now?” asked one.

  “Would you like an aspirin?” asked the other.

  “I’m OK, thank you.”

  They exchanged knowing glances and returned to their work, dipping their heads.

  The doctor returned. He frowned when he saw me. His eyes said: you again.

  Yes, doctor, me again.

  “Follow me,” he said, eyes down.

  I walked down the many-windowed corridor with him. Scissors all over the place.

  “Did you have a nice lunch?” I said, attempting small talk.

  “Yes, thank you. Are you feeling better? You fainted before.”

  By the time we got into his office my small talk was done.

  We sat down. I saw the whiteness again and the human body in the picture. My eyes focused on the intestines, then on the ovaries. A woman’s body. Why had I not noticed this before?

  “Tell me about the rape,” I said. “I want to know everything.”

  He nodded. “This is confidential, but...” he squeezed his eyes together, “I can see that your cousin meant a lot to you.”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “He used a condom. No traces of semen.”

  “But what about hair, skin, DNA?”

  “We’re checking. It will take some time.” He joined his hands together. “By the way, toxicology and tissue testing aren’t public information. In any case, if we have no match, we come up with zero.”

  “What if I told you where you could find a matching sample?”

  He coughed. “That would be unusual. It is for the police to decide who is a suspect, and who is not.”

  I nodded. ‘Yes, but what if I knew who the killer was.”

  “Then you should speak to the police.” He opened his hands. “Now, I think you have wasted enough of my time.” He stood
up and encouraged me with a pointed hand to exit the room. “I have more bodies to examine.”

  I stood up and nodded goodbye. I was glad to leave his orange glare behind. I was not feeling as beautiful as usual today. My femininity felt hasty or inferior. The hash didn’t help. I left the room and stepped through lines of light in the corridor, wondering what kind of tasks awaited Dr. Schergen in my absence.

  What a job: looking after the dead, frisking their bodies. Slicing.

  That night I dreamed of Sonia again. I replayed the playground dream, the true story turned recurring fantasy. Only this time the ending was different. As I was bending down to look at her grazed skin, Sonia looked up at me. She was using cocaine in the playground. There was a dash of white powder on her lip—a floury moustache. Her eyes were frozen again like those of a fish on an icy stall. She was using her nickname for me, saying, “Ally, I can’t get happy any more. Ally, I can’t get…”

  I turned to her and smiled and then I woke up.

  I could not get back to sleep again. I stripped naked and sat on the floor, pulled my knees into my chest, and shut my eyes. (Charred and green.) I sank my head between my legs and rocked back and forth. The motion helped, the lilting rhythm. It reminded me of being on the Sant’Agata.

  I cut through the waves, cut through the waves, cut through the waves.

  7

  I wanted to know the truth, Inspector. I remembered seeing the cat’s-eye marbles in your office, and supposed that you and Carlo were in it together, suppressing evidence, subjugating humans. Why was he one of your contacts? What did it mean? I thought about the human cargo on Carlo’s boat—that was one mystery I’d not been able to solve. Human trafficking is a serious crime, Inspector Ferreira. Were you not aware? I am sure the authorities will conduct a thorough investigation once they receive the special letter I have penned.

  The code in your text message? Your digital Pizzino was another enigma. That evening, after my second joint, I got down on my knees and pulled out the red napkin from the dirty gap between fridge and oven. I brushed it down, stretched it flat, took it into the living room and stared deeply into the green-biro sequence. I tried adding and deducting numbers. I assumed that each number must represent a letter of the alphabet, but it was not that simple. It took me a long while to break the code. I had to deduct seven numbers to arrive at the right letter. So, 7 was A, 19 was L, 4 was X, and so on.