The Skin Room

by Morgan Fleetwood

  I sat next to Natalia on the sofa and poured out the fizzy wine. It chuckled inside the long-stemmed flutes.

  We both looked up at Roxanne as she rounded off her conversation and slapped her phone shut.

  “I have to go,” said Roxanne. She shifted her blue boots from side to side on the carpet, as though she needed to visit the restroom. “Are you coming?” she asked, cocking her head at Natalia.

  Natalia, however, was not taking Roxanne’s bait—she was taking mine.

  “I’ll stay just a while longer. I’ll meet you down at the bar. Five minutes. OK?”

  “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  Natalia nodded, drank some of her Prosecco as though it were supermarket lemonade, and smiled. “Nice wine. I think I’ll stay awhile.”

  “Suit yourself. Give me a call if things get crazy,” said Roxanne.

  This struck me as very sound advice, and I sincerely hoped that Natalia would not take it.

  Roxanne left the flat and my heart speeded up as I thought of all the tasks that I had to accomplish in a certain amount of time. It was fortunate that Natalia had decided to stay behind on her own. Had she not sensed the imminent danger? Woman are often programmed to be aware of such things. To be fair, she did occasionally give me a stiff look, as though to check that I was behaving well, toeing the line, so to speak. I must say, in my defense, I was playing the sweet and kindly lady with some aplomb. I wanted no waves to ripple our pond.

  Eventually I saw her eyes glancing toward the door. She appeared keen to learn the meaning of her visit.

  “So, what’s all this about my father?” she asked, sipping merrily from her glass. “What’s the big deal? You said he was in league with the Mafia or something. What makes you so sure of that?”

  I took a sip of Prosecco and saw my red lipstick creases trapped on the rim of the glass. I wondered if I should go and reapply my make-up in another room, just to keep up appearances, but I had her now, close by, and I didn’t want to lose her. I scanned her beautiful, rather edgy features. I wondered how much, how little she knew. Perhaps she was uninterested in her father’s affairs, or simply naïve.

  “Tell me, does your father ever go to Italy?”

  “Sometimes,” she nodded, “on business.”

  “And does he ever say what kind?”

  “Police work, I imagine.”

  “Right, but he’s a police officer in this country, he’s not assigned to Interpol or anything.” I shifted in my seat and wondered how best to probe for the truth. “And would you say your family are well off? How can I put this? Surprisingly well off?”

  “All civil servants are paid well in this country. You should know that.”

  Maybe she didn’t know the facts about her father, and maybe she would never believe me if I tried to tell her the truth. I didn’t have courtroom proof exactly, but rather had confidence in my version of events. I would have needed those photographs to prove anything. And where were they? In the possession of Frank Weis, or already destroyed. In any case, the letter ‘F’ could signify many people. Not just Ferreira. Not just you.

  She rubbed her knee and blinked impatiently. “What’s this evidence you were talking about?”

  I was going to talk about Carlo and the photos, or maybe just embark on a lie, when I saw blue lights flashing behind the living-room curtains. I got up and went over to the window, pulled back the white net curtains and looked down. A police car had parked on the sidewalk. There were red and blue stripes painted over the roof and down the hood, the national colors. I saw two officers inside. One got out and approached the entrance, dressed in black with a gun in his holster. Had the Italian or French police followed my tracks, or had my neighbors raised the alarm, worried that a dead girl’s apartment was being inhabited by an unknown lady?

  Or did you, Inspector, harbor doubts about my voice and performance?

  I sneered at Natalia. “Did you know about this?”

  “Know about what?”

  Her gaze looked innocent enough. There had to be higher forces at work. They did not know she was here.

  “The police,” I said.

  She stood up, waved her glass of Prosecco, and frowned. “Are you in trouble?”

  “You knew nothing? You assure me? You have no idea who I am?”

  “Sandra … I really don’t see what the problem is.” She sipped some more wine. “What did you do anyway?”

  “This.”

  I grabbed an ashtray from the table and moved toward her. She raised her hands and dropped her drink, eyes wide. The glass shattered on the floor. She screamed as I bashed her above her right eye. Blood splintered across my wrist. She swayed, eyes closing, as though drunk, and sank down to the floor. I knelt down, staring at her reddened face. I bashed her once more with the heavy marble ashtray, just to make sure. She shuddered, her head turned to one side, and she lay still.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs outside. I pulled her by her feet, dragged her across the floor behind the sofa against the wall. I scanned the room, checked for signs of violence, kicked the broken glass under the table.

  I ran to the restroom and washed my hands. The doorbell rang. I looked at my reflection: blood had flicked across my cheeks, spreading out like the threads of a spider’s web. I splashed my face with cold water. Some of my make-up rinsed off but I had no time to touch it up. I passed through the bedroom, took one of the long knives from the bedside table and held it inverted behind my back as I crossed the room.

  There was a knock on the door this time—polite, formal. I slid back the lock, opened the door and felt dizzy, sizzling with adrenalin, ready for anything, for anyone.

  “May I come in?” asked the officer. “It’s a routine call.”

  “Routine?” I stepped backwards, holding the door open. “What kind of routine?”

  “The neighbors have been complaining about the noise.” He looked around the room with a critical eye. “They also think this room should be unoccupied.” He eyed me straight, hand on holster. “Can you tell me who you are?”

  I searched in his eyes for a fleck of suspicion. How much did he know? Was my performance as a woman at all convincing?

  “I was just having a quiet drink…”

  “You seem nervous,” he said. “May I have your name?”

  He looked down and pulled out a notebook from his pocket.

  This was my chance.

  I took the knife from behind my back and raised it above his head. He looked up in that split second and tried to lift his arm to block my downward blow. I had been aiming for his skull but instead I struck his shoulder. The knife pierced the skin and the blood gushed out. He went down on one knee, coughing, shouting, reaching for his gun that he unclipped just as I stabbed him again with the knife, this time in his cheek, which I severed like a piece of raw steak. The gun fell from his hand and clunked on the floor. I stooped to reach it. He put out his hand too, but I stabbed him again, this time a glancing blow across his wrist. It sent him howling backwards. I picked up the gun, checked it was loaded, released the safety, aimed at his head. He was sitting slouched, holding his wrist, one side of his face cut off, blood pulsing down his neck.

  He just had time to say, “What the fuck...?” when I shot him in the throat, knocking him back on the floor, the bullet from close range striking him with the force of a cannonball. He lay on the floor, arms thrown backwards, floundering, jittering. I stepped forward and shot him through the head, to have peace. Peace. The gunshots went off inside the room like detonations. Blood scooted across the floor.

  I had to move quickly now. The noise was bound to bring unwelcome guests. I went over to the window and looked down. Sure enough, the other policeman was running toward the entrance, drawing his firearm and shouting into his walkie-talkie.

  I sat crouched, back to the wall, and faced the open door. Seeking protection, I pulled the policeman’s still-warm body to me and tried to crouch behind it.

  The other policeman r
an toward me along the corridor, shooting. The gunshots flew past me like wailing bats. One nearly clipped my ear and I screamed. Bam. Bam. I must have hit him in the knee as I saw the eruption of scarlet, a blooming poppy, just beneath his thigh. He cried out and fell backwards.

  The gun had quite a kick—it sent me back against the wall and I fell to one side. A heavy gust of wind rushed past my ear as I heard another shot. I saw the policeman reappear in the door, hobbling, all in black. I aimed and shot before he could fire again. I thought my head would be taken off by the noise of my own gunshots. He staggered backwards as my bullet flew straight through his shoulder and out the other side. He reeled backwards and the boom echoed along the corridor, sending bits of plaster flying.

  I stumbled to my feet and went to check if he was dead. Gun smoke burned my nostrils. I heard shouting in the apartments downstairs and knew I had to hurry. The policeman had reached the stairs and tumbled some way down them.

  I knew it was safe to depart. No one was in a position to shoot me now.

  I dragged Natalia with me into the elevator and descended to the ground floor with her body.

  I saw the police car at the entrance, lights flashing: blue, white, blue, white. No sirens. All silent. I nearly put out my back dragging Natalia to the car and hoisting her onto the back seat. I stepped inside the car, put my hand under the steering wheel, to the right, fingered the ignition slot. Damn it. No keys.

  The street was quiet. Just one man standing on the far side of the road, mouth open, while his dog perched on three legs to cock a squirt. He was no danger. Just a witness. Was there any point in killing him? No. Leave him alone. No more death. I’m telling you. No more.

  I ran back into the building. The second policeman was still sprawled on his back on the stairs, blood crawling from his mouth. His eyes were open and still. I picked through his pockets. No keys. I went over to the other policeman inside Sonia’s flat. He was slouched like a rag doll with a red squiggle for a mouth. I felt for and found the keys. Did I take anything else? Yes, for some reason—God knows why I thought I had time—I went to fetch the urn containing Sonia’s ashes and managed to shove it into a shoulder bag along with the pouch of her fingernail clippings. I raced downstairs, got in the car and checked no one was about. The man with the dog had hurried off to tell the neighbors or hell knows who about my craziness. I looked over my shoulder and saw Natalia lying unconscious on the back seat, her face a nasty shade of blue.

  I drove up the road and had to stop for the red light. I tapped my fingers on the wheel, saw people walking up and down the sidewalk beside the car. A man stepped onto the pedestrian crossing in front of me and turned to give me a quizzical stare. Damn it: I couldn’t hang around. I turned on the siren and was greeted by an infernal whirring that battered my eardrums. I drove straight through the bleeding red light, nearly knocking the man off his feet, only swerving at the last second.

  I’ve never been a great driver, but this seemed easy. Cars veered either side of me, or slowed down and pulled over to the curb to let me pass. It was surreal, dream-like. Natalia started groaning and flailing about on the back seat. I stepped on the gas and headed for the highway. I thought maybe I should go to the route d’Arlon and try to get to Belgium, but I would have to drive more slowly and take more care. In the end I realized I was doing myself more harm than good, burning along in a stolen police car, drawing attention to the passenger in the back, to myself. Better to travel under the radar, go slow.

  I kept driving and no one followed. In the rearview mirror, the traffic flared and vanished. Car headlamps sharpened and flattened their arcs in warping flashes. Then nothing, just the hum of the tires, the smell of leather seats, the ticking revs of the engine, the occasional groan from the back seat. I looked round. Poor Natalia—she had one eye open. I realized I would have to pull over and sort her out. But where? In fact, the question was not where I would stop, but where was I headed? A man on the run needs a direction, a goal. I pulled into a rest area and switched off the lights. I trembled and cried for five minutes, shedding exhausted, nervous tears. I only snapped out of my trance when I heard a soft voice whispering to me from the back seat:

  “Sandra … Sandra … please.”

  I stepped out of the car and got in the back. She was struggling to sit up, her head lopsided, her mouth bleeding.

  “Why?” she asked, through broken teeth.

  “I … had to get away. I’m sorry.”

  And I was sorry. All that pretty flesh and face. Damaged.

  I remained on the seat beside her, trying to think straight.

  “Where are you taking me?” she said in a quiet, broken voice.

  “I don’t know. I need a place to hide.”

  She tried to open her shuttered eye and failed. “You don’t need me … anymore. You escaped. Let me … go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s something I have to do first.”

  I saw her strawy hair, laced with blood in the moonlight.

  “We need to get you home. Tidied up.”

  “My place?”

  “Yes. Don’t move. Don’t try to get out or I’ll shoot you.” I waved the policeman’s gun in front of her face.

  She nodded.

  I sat in the front again and drove back to town, my eyes streaming with tears, knowing all that I had left to accomplish.

  10

  Would the police be looking for me at Natalia’s apartment? I didn’t think so. They would concentrate on tracing the stolen police car. I decided to leave it in a ditch on the route de Longwy. I hauled out Natalia and hid her some way away, behind an oak tree, under a blanket. I needed to switch cars.

  I set off on foot toward the nearest gas station. There were several along this road—Luxembourg was a petrol-filler’s paradise; the fuel duty was lower than in the surrounding countries, and loads of people stopped off here to fill up.

  What was I trying to achieve? I would wait for one dumbass to leave his keys in the car, then run across and sneak in behind the wheel as he went to pay.

  I approached the first gas station: Shell. The yellow and orange lights were garish, piercing my eyes. I hunkered down in the diesel-smelling shadows, next to the oil refills and tire pumps. A cool breeze curled around my ankles, like a cat returning from the cold and rubbing against my legs. A man with orange hair strode across the forecourt, head back, nose up. Had he made the necessary mistake? He had. I was able to hop out from my hiding place, enter his car, and sit behind his dash. It was a blue Volvo, quite long, squarish, not the sort of car I longed to drive.

  I drove half a mile or so, to the spot by the side of the road where I had left Natalia under a blanket, behind the tree, either asleep or unconscious.

  I hauled her into the car, sat her up, held her arms, slapped her face.

  “What’s the number of your flat? Where are the keys? The keys?”

  She moaned.

  I searched her jacket, found a set of keys.

  “Which floor?” I asked.

  She could not reply.

  We drove. Did I think I could get away free? I was driving another stolen car and gas stations have video cameras, they always did. I was bound to be spotted. I knew I could get to her place safely. The problem was: what would happen next? How many days would I, would we, survive?

  It was a short drive to her street, only four or five minutes. I remembered her apartment block and turned into her underground parking lot, drove down the ramp, in between the narrow pillars, trying not to scrape the sides of the car. I parked in a vacant spot and stepped out. There was nobody around. Electric lights flickered, buzzed. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and overfull trash cans. I stooped inside the Volvo and reached in to grab Natalia.

  “Your wig has slipped,” she said, as I put my arms beneath her and dragged her out of the car.

  Why did I persist with my red locks? Surely my cover, such as it was, was blown? In any case, I had to
hurry or risk being seen. Her feet trailed across the concrete as I pulled her toward the exit door. She was heavier than I expected—coiled and leaden.

  “You’re a man,” she said, surprisingly pliant. “Just promise…”

  I raised my eyes.

  “…You won’t hurt me,” she said.

  Her eyes closed again. This time she really passed out.

  I left her slumped in a shadowy zone behind a pillar, went back to park the Volvo in a far corner of the garage where I hoped it would not be discovered for a long time. Perhaps I could come back later, and drive it elsewhere?

  I searched the car for tools, weapons, anything of use. I opened the glovebox and found a Stanley knife. This was a neat discovery. I slipped the knife in my pocket and went to fetch Natalia. She looked almost peaceful, lying there. I hauled her over to the elevator, looked down at her broken face, and worried about the damage I had done.

  The elevator came too slowly for my liking. Once I got inside I realized why—it had not been replaced since the 1970s. The gray paint on the doors was flaking away like dried onion peel. I struggled to squeeze inside with Natalia and pulled in her legs before closing the door. My back ached with each effortful movement; even the pain in my side flared up again. The elevator made a slow grinding noise as it oscillated and climbed.

  There were no lights in her corridor. I decided not to switch them on and struggled along in the darkness, my shoulder bag swinging from my neck as I dragged Natalia across the floor. At one point, I propped her body against the wall and set off down the corridor alone, looking for the right apartment. I found her door, saw her surname, Ferreira, plunged in the key, pushed back the handle. No surprises, no police. A relief.

  I dragged her in, closed the door. Home.

  Home?

  Not an ideal final resting place.

  It was a two-bedroom flat with Van Gogh-yellow wallpaper on the walls and the aftersmell of a fish dinner. I saw terracotta tiles on the floor, white furniture in all the rooms, a white duvet, too. Everything in clean contrast to our mucky arrival.