Beneath the Skin (20 page)

Walt got up again and took his hand. ‘As long as that's the worst that happened. Come on now. Let's see if we can find him.'

They ran down the concrete stairs, but Coby was out of sight. They entered the museum again and took a right, skidding to a halt in front of a huge locomotive. Walt dragged in a shuddering breath. ‘We've lost him. Shit.'

‘Is he gonna get in trouble? He seemed nice.'

Walt pulled at the kid's hoodie. ‘Let's take these stairs.'

More concrete steps spiralled further down into the building. They found another glass elevator and took that. This one had a disembodied voice, which William kept imitating. Walt ruffled his hair.

‘Jesus, kid. You gave us a fright. Your mother's going to be so pleased to see you.' A weak glow burned in chest. He wanted to get Coby, though. He couldn't deny it. The bastard was collateral damage on an epic scale. From the granddad down to the kid, all those lives crippled by the way he'd chosen to live, the actions he'd taken. All of them just going through the motions and him sneaking around, never having to face the consequences.

The elevator pinged. ‘You are now at level one,' William duetted with the voice.

They found themselves back in the passage which linked the modern building to the huge Victorian one. Walt recognised the sheep's face. The great marble floor rolled out in front of them. William tried to ice skate on it. The light poured in through the roof and everything seemed peaceful.

He looked up. There was a faint babble coming from the café. Something caught his eye, directly in front and above him. He recognised the space where he had leaned over the rail, like he was on the prow of some strange ship; there were the fossil fish beyond, and the archway into the taxidermy gallery. He walked closer and saw that there were two figures up there, talking animatedly. Alys and Coby, arguing like actors on a stage balcony.

William was preoccupied with some kind of wooden boat, floating still and silent on the marble floor. He was reading the sign that said ‘don't touch' and trying not to touch it. Walt looked around. Straight ahead of him was the heavy-antlered stag; to his right, the stairs curved up to their level. Should he intervene? He couldn't hear what they were saying but it seemed that Coby had the upper hand. He looked furious, reading her the riot act, finger prodding the air, Alys standing still, miserable, arms limp at her sides.

William looked up from the boat, and spied the pair on the upper floor. ‘That's Alys. And Uncle Coby.'

Sudden indecision stopped Walt in his tracks. He wanted nothing more than to race up there and put a stop to this for good. That man, that bastard, was shrapnel embedded in all their lives. But he couldn't leave the kid, not now. William was his first priority. Everything else – rage, frustration, retribution – had to be put on the back burner.

Coby was grabbing Alys's arm now, making her wince. His eyes were as flinty and soulless as the eyes in her basement.

‘Walt, you need to do something,' William whispered. ‘He looks really cross.'

‘He's just a piece of fucking shrapnel.'

Blast material travels deep into the body. The bleeding that goes on inside, beneath the skin, is often harder to treat than visible wounds
.

Suddenly Coby's gaze darted downwards, as if he sensed he was being watched. He spotted Walt and pasted on an instant, shruggy sort of smile that said,
relax, just a little family tiff.

Walt yelled up at him. ‘The place is full of cops, mate. You've nowhere left to go.'

He reached for William, tugged him along by the hand. The kid tugged right back.

‘But what about Auntie Alys?'

‘I'm done fighting. Let's leave him to the police. Come on, kid. I'm taking you back to your mam.'

He steered the boy away, taking the stairs at a run, down into the crypt-like entrance hall. The place was now teeming with uniforms. His path was barred by two cops and the kid was whisked away from him, as if
he
were the abductor, and he had to keep telling them,
up there, up on the balcony
, the words tripping over each other.

Having finally understood what he was saying, they ushered him into a small office. A man in a leather jacket was poring over building blueprints with a guy in a grey suit, while every so often a police radio crackled into life. And there was Mouse, listening intently to a female police officer. William was crushed against her, as if she never, ever intended to let him go. She sagged with relief when she saw Walt. Something just clicked into place when their eyes met, that instant tick of recognition. He supposed that's how normal people connected. Nothing grand. No secret. Just this lifeline. She reached out a hand to him.

‘Thanks.'

The single word held an ocean of meaning. He squeezed her cold fingers in his, feeling the blood pumping under the skin.

‘When I saw this one up there on the rooftop . . .' He ruffled William's hair. ‘And all in one piece . . . It was the best feeling ever.'

Mouse smiled with difficulty, like her mouth had forgotten how to do it. ‘Where's Alys? Have you seen her?'

After a bomb blast the dust clears slowly. Things take shape. You can assess, react, stabilise. William, still clinging to his mother, piped up before Walt had a chance to form an answer.

‘Coby was arguing with Auntie Alys. We saw them. What if he gets away?'

‘He'll not get away. He'll not get away with anything.' Walt patted the boy's shoulder. ‘His past just caught up with him.'

He wasn't sure how much William understood. But kids are resilient. And clever. A look of understanding passed between them.

They remained in the office for what seemed like a long time. The door kept opening. Heads appeared, mouthing cryptic messages, and at one point the female officer left, returning very quickly with Alys.

She stood just outside the door, talking to a colleague. Walt heard strained voices, whispered words.
Just gone . . . can't have.

Alys's face was like one of those masks from art therapy. Not the lurid painted ones, but the unmarked blanks. There was something frightening about it. Even a painted-on expression registered some emotion, but Alys was clearly having a hard time coping with the events of the past few hours. The policewoman was asking her questions in a gentle but firm tone.
Was she hurt?
No, no, she wasn't hurt.
Mr Morrison had disappeared. Did she know where he might have gone?
Alys looked confused, and then sulky.

‘How should I know? He ran. He ran away. I want to go home. Mouse . . .'

Mouse held out her arms and they went in for a group hug: Mouse and Alys and William. Alys was the first to pull away, scowling as if the lights were suddenly too bright.

‘Mouse, I want to go home. Can we just go home now?'

‘We'll go as soon as we can, Alys.' Mouse turned to the policewoman. ‘Is it safe? Do we have to stay until . . . until it's all over?'

‘Well,' said the policewoman. ‘Our officers have had some trouble locating Mr Morrison. It seems that . . .'

‘What? He's gone? He can't have.'

Walt saw again Coby disappearing around the corner, imagined him vanishing into the depths of the museum, melting into the shadows amongst the rows of taxidermied relics, the only hint of his existence the scent of onions and a heavy feeling in the air. He could have chased him, on the roof, could have caught him, put an end to all of this. But he had stayed with William. It had been a new choice – the right choice.

He stepped forward and squeezed Mouse's shoulder. ‘This place is in lockdown. If he's here, they'll find him. The important thing is that William is safe, Alys is safe. It
is
all over now.'

The inside of the police car smelled faintly of vomit. In the front, Walt pressed close up to the window, looking into the faces of passing pedestrians: tourists with cameras and glossy carrier bags; locals making their way to work, to college; people shopping, laughing, complaining. He felt suddenly part of it all. It was a different morning to yesterday, and a million light years separated him from who he had been when he first stared into a taxidermist's window.

William, squashed between Mouse and Alys, bounced on the back seat, exclaiming over the interior of the car.
Did it have a blue light? A siren?
The policeman driving obligingly pointed out the buttons, gave the light a quick blue spin. Walt smiled to himself. Yep, kids were resilient. Was that unspoiled, childlike part of him still curled up, deep inside? Like a mouse, or a tiny fragile bird, was your real self waiting for the right time, waiting for you to hold it up to the light, rearrange it, make it new? Maybe that's all Alys had been trying to do, make something worthwhile out of a jumble of old bones and empty skin.

Back at the museum, the cop had said to him, ‘When you're ready, sir, one of us will drive you and your family home.'

Family. Maybe now he could find the strength to put the past back in its place.

He turned his gaze once more to the outside. Something white caught his attention; a man blowing his nose into a hankie. He twisted so violently in his seat his forehead collided with the glass. The driver glanced sharply at him, and in the back Mouse was saying, ‘What is it? Walt, are you okay?'

He rubbed at the cold spot on his brow. ‘I'm grand.' The words sounded a bit wobbly. Whoever he thought he'd seen had already been swallowed up by the crowd.

His breathing started up again. He glanced back at Mouse and smiled. He said it louder: ‘I'm just grand.'

Mouse sighed. ‘I can't wait to get home.'

Walt checked the faces on the pavement one last time, then turned to face forwards. He was going to find that whole piece of himself, and start to heal.

Home sounded like a really good place to begin.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Grateful thanks go to the team at Polygon, especially to my editors, Alison Rae and Julie Fergusson, for all their hard work; to my lovely agent, Jenny Brown; to the members of the Angus Writers' Circle for their support, and of course to the ‘Novellers', for their friendship and encouragement. Thanks, Dad, Jamie and Calum for always believing I'd get there in the end, and to all my family and friends. Special mention must go to the service personnel whose moving journals helped me to understand Walt, and to Ollie for his insider chat.