Under My Skin (4 page)

Sally took a space next to Dee, a lesson friend known for her frizzy strawberry blonde hair and face full of freckles. She greeted Sally with a smile. ‘Congrats on the play,' she whispered.

‘Thanks. H-how did you know?'

‘I'll give you one guess.'

Melody. Word travels fast. Luckily, as far as Sally could ascertain, Melody couldn't count beyond ten, so Sally was safe in her A-Level maths classes. Sally had always loved maths; solving the problems and looking for the patterns. You could rely on numbers too. However you played with them they always behaved in a predictable way. Numbers were numbers.

And then something truly weird and entirely magnificent happened. From the next table over, a handsome – like off-the-TV handsome – guy turned to face her. ‘Hey,' he said. ‘Don't worry about Mels. Just give her some time to cool off. And congrats.' He was Todd Brady and he was Melody's boyfriend.

Sally's first reaction was,
Who is he talking to?
Her brain cogs turned too late, leaving a vast, cavernous silence after he'd finished speaking. ‘Oh. Erm. Yeah. Thanks.'

Todd grinned and turned back to face Mr Pollock. Sally's brain was whirling. On the one hand Todd represented everything she should despise. He was from a rich family in Mulberry Hill, he was genetically blessed in every possible way, he was co-captain of the football team
and
he dated the worst person on earth. TV shows do not look kindly on his type of character.

Todd was an OK guy, but his friends were buffoon jocks of the worst order – mean, racist, homophobic bullies who dominated the school, and, as everyone knows, standing back and watching evil happen is its own kind of evil.

However
, as a heterosexual girl with eyes, Sally couldn't help but wonder what he was like under his shirt. His football shirt gave just enough of a hint as to how sculpted his chest was, and his arms were huge. Alone in bed at night, she often dreamed about what it would be like to lie wrapped up in those arms, his skin on hers. He was an exact mixture of Zeke and Dante – the former's blue eyes and the latter's thick chestnut hair.

God, she loathed herself. She had never told
anyone
, not even Jennie, how she felt about Todd. He had only ever spoken to her once before: two years ago he had said, ‘Sorry, mate,' after he'd bumped into her on the top corridor. She remembered every detail of it. It had been
so
hot.

This was one for the deathbed. If this information ever leaked, two things would happen. Number one: she'd be a laughing stock for about thirty seconds before number two: Melody ripped her still-beating heart from her chest and ate it publically in the centre of the courtyard.

‘Miss Feather?' It was Mr Pollock. He looked at her expectantly. She'd been so consumed with the idea of resting her head on Todd Brady's pecs she'd missed his question.

‘Sorry . . . I . . . ?'

He smirked. ‘I merely require you to confirm your attendance . . .'

From the back of the classroom, some douche guys snorted laughter.

‘Here, Sir,' Sally muttered. It was going to be a
long
double maths.

On her free period, Sally was about to spill into a nap, her head resting on her folded arms on a library table, when she suddenly remembered her errand. ‘Oh God,' she exclaimed. ‘I have to go into town.'

‘What?' Stan looked up from his French homework. ‘Why?'

‘I have to go collect my dad's new golf shoes.'

Stan grinned. ‘Sounds thrilling! Oh, please say I can come!'

‘Sure.'

‘Wait.' His smile fell. ‘I can't. I'm meeting Kareem here after school to do our physics assignment.'

‘It's OK, I don't plan on making it a huge visit.' She scooped her books into her rucksack. ‘Shall I come over tonight?'

‘Yeah, yeah,' he said eagerly. Stan was so puppy-like it was hard to imagine him as a seventeen-year-old man, even with his height and square shoulders. She guessed even really big St Bernard puppies are still puppies. To her he'd always be the plump little boy next door who flicked bogeys at her.

‘OK, I'll come round after dinner.' As she sloped out of the library, she threw a look back over her shoulder, only to catch her friend watching her. ‘What? Have I got something on me?'

‘No. No, it's nothing.' He seemed to be blushing. Sally shook it off as she left the building. There was no way that Stan could think of her like
that
. They'd known each other for ever – granted he
had
once shown her his penis, but they'd been four and he'd asked to see hers in return. Sally couldn't believe for a second that a guy who had seen her with measles, a guy she had personally infested with head lice, a guy who had seen her in
Spongebob
pyjamas could possibly find her attractive.

Who am I kidding?
She couldn't imagine
any
guy finding her attractive. She suddenly didn't like this line of thinking and blocked the thoughts out, focusing on the pleasing orange warmth of the afternoon sun on her face. Freedom felt good.

Sally pointedly avoided the cordoned-off scene of the road accident yesterday, taking the long way around the back of the school. She walked away from the playing fields, on which Year Nine girls were scowling their way through a hockey lesson, and towards Old Town. Beyond the school perimeter there was a petrol station, a faux American diner –
Howdy's
– and a few shops that survived on trade from students. The diner was a staple for the afterschool crowd – Oreo milkshakes and chicken wings were a must – although Sally, Stan and Jennie had never really felt popular enough to monopolise a whole booth there.

Anything American fascinated Sally, it always had. There was just something shinier about American stuff – the TV shows and films make life seem so much glossier, that sunny, soft-focus haze over everything. High school looked so glamorous, with cheerleaders and valedictorians ferried to proms and pep rallies in yellow buses. One day she'd move there, she was determined. She'd live on ‘biscuits and gravy' and chilli dogs and Mountain Dew.

She reached the corner with the hardware store, took a right and headed towards the depot. This wasn't the best part of town, but it was still broad daylight, so she felt safe enough. The shops in Old Town were mostly off-licences, bookies and cash-for-gold shops – not the boutiques and restaurants of Mulberry Hill or the New Quarter. Before she knew it, she was absentmindedly humming ‘Skid Row' from
Little Shop
.

An electric saw growled from the garage on the junction, sparks flying out of the open double doors. Sally darted over the street, past the scrap metal yard, the smell of molten rubber catching in the back of her throat. From inside the garage, a gruff, bearded mechanic glared out at her. His eyes peered through thick smoke, seemingly questioning what a lone girl was doing walking around this neighbourhood.

Sally kept her head down. The grimy brick walls were strewn in graffiti and weeds sprouted up through cracks in the pavement. She came to the rec ground, signalling that she was only a few roads away from the depot. The park was perhaps in an even sadder state than the street. The swing set only held one intact swing and the roundabout was covered in spray-paint squiggles.

Sally sensed she wasn't alone. Sure enough, a trio of street drinkers sat on one of the benches in the park. Holding her head up high, Sally walked with purpose, remembering some assertiveness seminar she'd sat through last year about how victims of crime often carry themselves like victims.

‘You all right, darlin'?' a toothless man catcalled. ‘Spare change?'

Sally pretended not to hear him. She couldn't do this again; it was like the previous night all over again. She quickened her pace.

‘Oi! Where you goin'?' The man rose from his bench. His cheeks and nose were bright red with drink, his white beard stained nicotine yellow.

Her eyes were so fixed on the pavement that she didn't see the dog until it was too late. A sleek black shape reared up against a chain-link fence, its claws rattling the metal. Sally screamed and staggered into the road. She threw her hands over her face before she realised the Doberman was held securely behind the fence that ran around a gas canister warehouse. It was just a guard dog. Breathing again, Sally backed away. The animal barked and barked, drool spraying from its curled lips, baring white needle-sharp teeth. The black eyes were wild, rolling back in its head as if it were rabid.

There was something familiar about the deranged expression; something in the eyes. The same madness as the man with no arms. Sally's legs suddenly felt hollow and unsteady. She dearly wished Stan had come with her.

‘Oi!' It was the drunk. He was staggering towards her. She whirled around, looking for a safe place. At least the people in the shops would be sober, if not exactly friendly. Breaking into a run, she looked for a safe haven. ‘Where are you goin? I ain't gonna hurt ya!'

Find help.
The nearest shop was boarded up, a downbeat notice thanking loyal customers taped to the door. So was the next. With horror, she realised everything on the street was closed or derelict. An old jeweller's, a burned out Kebab Palace – even the pub had metal grills over the windows. There was nothing. Sally's trainers pounded the pavement, but, chancing a look over her shoulder, she saw that the man still pursued her.

Something caught her eye: down a narrow side street there was a flashing neon light. A sign of life. Instinctively, Sally ducked into the alleyway. Sure enough, a flashing, hot-pink sign pointed down to a basement shop. It read,
HOUSE OF SKIN
. While the neon light flashed, a painted sign below read,
Tattoo & Piercing Parlour
.

The tramp turned the corner into the alleyway, which Sally now saw was a dead end, with bin bags piled up against a brick wall she had no hope of getting over. At the foot of the steps, she heard the electric whirr of what could only be a tattooist's needle. Sally careered down the worn stone steps and almost fell into the tattoo parlour.

As the door swung open, a bell chimed above her head. Sally slammed the door behind her and released the latch, locking herself inside. She hoped the shop owner would understand. Peering though a glass panel in the door, Sally saw the homeless guy hovering uncertainly at the top of the stairs before backing away. For now, she was safe.

The air inside the parlour was treacly with smoky incense, which failed to mask a whiff of antiseptic. Sally took in her surroundings. The shop wasn't as seedy as she might have expected. Rich crimson drapes hung down the walls, parted and tied with gold rope to allow curving bronze wall lights to snake into the dim room. There were towering palms in every corner of what seemed to be a reception area or waiting room; there was a plush, emerald green chaise longue next to a coffee table and receptionist's desk, although it wasn't presently manned.

‘Hello?' Sally said, stepping properly into the waiting room. ‘Is anyone there?'

Beyond the desk, a further blood red curtain hung over an archway to a back room. The buzz of the needle was louder now that she was inside and it set her teeth on edge, reminding her of a dentist's drill. She took a nervous step towards the studio, a little wary of who she might meet in this part of town, but unwilling to go back outside just yet.

The wall nearest her was lined with framed pictures containing dozens of images for clients to choose from – a colourful catalogue of mermaids, pirates, anchors, swallows and skulls. There was a bookcase filled with tattoo books but also candles, statues of the Madonna and leering
Dia de los Muertos
skulls. Sally ran a finger along the nearest shelf.

‘Can I help you?'

Sally yelped and twirled around, tripping over her feet in the process and knocking a Virgin Mary to the floor. A woman stood
behind
her. How? How was that even possible when the door was locked? Sally guessed she must have been lurking in the alcove next to the barred window.

‘I-I-I'm sorry,' Sally stuttered. At first, Sally thought the woman was wearing face paint, but then she realised her whole face was
tattooed
. She looked just like one of the Day of the Dead skulls – a spiderweb covered her entire face; thin black lines made it seem as if her lips were stitched shut, and gaping dark circles surrounded her eyes, making the sockets look hollow. She was deathly pale, with midnight blue-black ringlets tumbling around her shoulders. In her hair she wore a single red rose, the same sanguine shade as the curtains.

‘What are you doing here?' She had a faint accent, possibly Portuguese or Spanish, maybe Eastern European, Sally wasn't sure.

‘I . . . I was being chased,' Sally blurted out. ‘I had nowhere else to go and I saw your sign was on.' She stooped down to pick up the fallen statue.

It was hard to tell because of the tattoos, but the woman seemed to soften. From the middle of the haunting black holes in her face, green eyes sparkled. ‘You poor thing. You must have been so scared.'

‘Yeah.' Sally nodded, embarrassed about making such a fuss. ‘Can I stay in here for a minute? I won't be any trouble.'

‘Well, of course. Stay as long as you want. Young girls like you shouldn't be wandering around this part of town alone. It's dangerous. Do you want me to call the police?'

Sally considered this for a moment. ‘No, it's OK. I . . . I think he'll go away now he knows I'm with you. It was, erm, just a homeless guy.'

A hand covered in fingerless lace gloves reached for Sally's arm. ‘Come, child, be seated. Can I bring you some tea?' The lady wore a rib-crushing black velvet corset from which silk skirts erupted like a scarlet fountain at her waist.

‘No. I mean, no, thank you. I'm sure it'll be safe in a second.' Sally perched on the chaise longue, hands nervously in her lap.