SNAKESKINS

AN SF THRILLER EXAMINING THE REPERCUSSIONS OF REJUVENATION AND CLONING ON INDIVIDUALS’ SENSE OF IDENTITY AND ON WIDER SOCIETY.

Reporter Gerry Chafik tries to impress upon her tabloid editor the threads of conspiracy behind the Charmers’ mysterious rejuvenating powers.

ZEmma pushEd a glass towards gerry, leant back and steepled her fingers. her manicured nails tapped together. “so.” gerry took a breath. “so. thanks for agreeing to this meeting, Zemma.”

“It’s always a pleasure. You’re the wheels that keep this newspaper running. all of you are, I mean.” “I need to know where I stand,” she said. Zemma arched an eyebrow. her eyes flicked down to gerry’s chair.

“the takeover,” gerry continued, speaking more quickly. “the changes. It’s all been far more profound than we were led to believe – more than just a new owner and a new tabloid format. I need to know… Is Folk still Folk, beneath the flashy new red-top banner? I need to know that we’re still about news. It doesn’t matter that it’s given out for free at tube stations. It doesn’t matter that it’s rammed full of adverts. people still want news when they read a newspaper. right?”

Zemma sipped her drink. “that’s a lot of questions, geraldine. perhaps you should pick just one.”

“I’ll pick a different one, then. where do I fit in?” “I’d say… current affairs.” “what does that even mean?” gerry paused, then shook her head. “No. that’s not my question, after all. my question is, why haven’t my last five stories been printed anywhere in the newspaper? and the one before, the only one you’ve actually published since the Cormorant buyout, why did you bury it just before the sport?”

Zemma offered a sickening smile. “we don’t care.”

“You –” gerry blinked. “You don’t care? You, meaning Zemma Finch, or you, meaning Folk?”

“Neither. Both. I mean the readers, geraldine. and I still class myself as one, an avid one, regardless of my exalted position. we readers simply don’t care about the stories you’ve written. our readers,” she said in a slow voice, as though speaking to a child, “want short, sharp stories. For their dreary commute, you see. this isn’t an issue of the takeover, or the new format. It’s a matter of entertainment, geraldine. Gerry.”

“It’s not supposed to be entertainment.”

“It isn’t? so it’s supposed to be about the dry facts, is that right? that’s all well and good, but put it this way: if there’s a factual article in the woods and there’s nobody there to read it…”

gerry stared at her. she wished she had the nerve to hold her tongue, to force Zemma to complete the idiotic analogy. she lasted only a few seconds. “I’ve been doing important work. these are stories that people would read, if only you actually published them. more to the point, they’re stories that people need to know about.” gerry gave an exasperated sigh. “we’re talking about snakeskins, Zemma. Charmers and snakeskins. the most important and least understood development of the last two hundred years, eclipsing the Industrial revolution, world peace, the founding of great British prosperity. It would be a crime not to investigate further, to try and comprehend. people want that.” “oh, people want it, all right.” “I have a new report,” gerry said, aware that she was gabbling. “I wanted to bring it to you personally. a first-hand account by a Charmer. he talks about the psychological discomfort involved in shedding. wait, that’s not all. he’s outraged by the levels of secrecy in Charmer society. he has family members in the party, and if I could follow up on those leads… I swear, Zemma, people don’t know a fraction of the ways in which Charmers wield power. we could serialise this thing for weeks.”

Zemma opened a desk drawer and produced a purple cardboard folder. “It all sounds terribly conspiratorial. my assessment would be that this source of yours is overstating his hand in order to be noticed. as for the report you have written… it’s simply the angle that you’re getting wrong. this is 2020, not the Victorian era. people don’t want dry ‘accounts’ of sheddings. I assume this source of yours is pretty average, is that right? Just a ‘bloke’, like you and me and our readers?”

gerry’s lips tightened. she nodded.

“Now these are what people want.” Zemma opened the folder and spread a handful of documents across the gleaming surface of the desk.

they were photos. the images were almost entirely black, with only faint sources of light that illuminated the handful of figures. In the first photos the people were all in one corner, as if the photographer had been far away, or as if he or she hadn’t known quite where to point the camera. the people were arranged in a semicircle.

despite herself, gerry bent closer. In each successive picture, the figures grew in size. the photographer must have been sneaking towards them, hidden in the darkness.

all but one of the figures had their backs to the camera. gerry realised that she recognised the woman facing the camera, standing before a fire in an ornate iron brazier. her build was slighter than the people around her. her shoulder-length hair shone white. “that’s rebecca Verne,” gerry said. Zemma nodded. “and she’s a – ”

another nod. “she was fifty-two last week,” Zemma said. “You’d never know it, would you?”

“seriously? rebecca Verne’s a Charmer?” gerry already felt foolish for caring. “how has she kept it secret all this time?”

“You know what that industry’s like. Ever since she began as a pinewood starlet – at a more advanced age than you might expect – she’s been surrounded by an entourage, protected from the real world. who’s going to let on?”

throughout rebecca Verne’s acting career, and despite her glamorous red carpet appearances at premieres and awards ceremonies, she had specialised in down-toearth roles. she was loved for her empathy and her ability to hold a mirror to people in all strata of society. and all this time, she had been a Charmer. the British public would be outraged. But any sense of unfairness would be overwhelmed by fascination.

“It gets better,” Zemma said. she pushed a few photos aside to reveal the ones at the bottom of the pile.

Now the photographer had reached a position close enough to be able to frame rebecca Verne perfectly. she wore a long, loose, grey gown studded with pinpricks of bright white – probably sequins, but the effect was that it looked as though her own body were the source of illumination, rather than the fire. her face was that of somebody half her age. there were no creases or any hint of looseness to the skin.

In the next photo rebecca was looking up at the sky. her mouth was open, perhaps in speech.

“why did she do it outside?” gerry wondered aloud.

“Basic hygiene, darling,” Zemma replied. “all that dust.”

gerry glanced at the next picture. Now rebecca’s body really was glowing, but with a greenish light rather than the white of her sequins or the yellow of the fire. the photographer kept her framed within the left-hand side of the image. the right-hand side was empty and black. Zemma pulled another photo from the pile. gerry couldn’t stop herself from gasping. rebecca Verne stood beside rebecca Verne. the originator still faced the sky. the newcomer looked to her right, at the first woman.

and, of course, the snakeskin rebecca was naked. Either she was unashamed, or she hadn’t yet the presence of mind to care, but her arms hung at her sides, displaying a taut, pale body. she was beautiful. they were both beautiful.

In the next photo, one of the entourage had already placed a cape around the snakeskin’s shoulders. the cape still revealed a wide V of the snakeskin’s flesh, as though it were a designer gown.

“this is the one,” Zemma said, pointing at the next image.

the man with the cloak had retreated again. Now the original rebecca Verne, the Charmer, had turned to face the newcomer. they regarded each other levelly. though one wore a shimmering gown and the other a plain black cape, in every other respect they were identical. Even their blonde hair was styled in exactly the same manner. gerry peered at the two faces. If there was a difference, it was in their expressions. the Charmer’s nose tilted upwards very slightly, making her look a touch imperious. the skin held her head fractionally further back, as if mid-flinch. It was only a faint hint, but she appeared afraid. “tomorrow’s front page,” Zemma said. “Not that one, then?” gerry pointed at the photo of the naked rebecca.

“It’s glorious, isn’t it? But no. we couldn’t afford the court battle. Never fear, the picture won’t be wasted. miss Verne will pay for that one herself.”

gerry pushed the front-page image to one side. In the next photo, the framing of the two rebeccas had gone askew. By the next one, they were barely visible at the corner of the image. the photographer must have turned and run.

No matter how illicitly the photos had been gained, they were undeniably fascinating. gerry hated herself for what she was about to say. “Zemma, if you want I could –”

Zemma shook her head. “we have all the details we need. the story writes itself, or at least a junior assistant will write it, which amounts to the same thing. Frankly, the photos speak for themselves.”

gerry scolded herself for the distraction. “so we’re back to my first question, then. where do I fit in, Zemma?”

the editor gazed up, her chair swaying slightly.

“I’m not going to beg,” gerry said, though she felt on the cusp of doing exactly that.

Zemma turned to look through the floor-to-ceiling window into the main office. gerry suddenly realised what had been alien about the newsroom when she had passed through it earlier – the lack of phones ringing or any voices in discussion.

“I think I can answer the question myself,” gerry said.

resisting a last look at the photos on Zemma’s desk, she turned and left.

To find out what happens next, pick up a copy of snakeskins, out now from Titan Books. TITANBOOKS.COM