Beneath The Skin Episode 27

When he went down to the basement on Monday morning, Alys was already there, looking composed and fresh ly showered; even just standing in the doorway, he got the scent of peach.

Her hair was damp, scooped up into a neat knot. Perched on a stool, she was leaning into the display case, adjusting a fine detail of moss with a pair of tweezers. She was bathed in a warm glow from the solitary lamp, but there was something else about her, a sort of suppressed fizz, like she was lit from inside.

He’d made no sound, but she glanced around anyway. Her skin was still pale, washed out in the bright light, but her eyes were clear. It was impossible to read her mood, to know what to say for the best.

He had never mentioned to Mouse about the coffee, the fox, the red cap, the unexplained delivery. There had to be a rational explanation.

“Sorry we had to dump the birds,” he said. That sounded lame, and even a bit brutal. She shrugged. “I have a contact in the country. He’s going to bring me some more birds. A wren too!”

“Is that the contact who brought you the dead fox?” She didn’t answer. “Does he have a key?” She looked more like her old self, although he wasn’t too sure, now, of the real Alys. He didn’t know her well enough, and anyway, that’s what happens when your mind starts playing up.

You lose sight of who you are and so does everyone else. Even the people who know you best, who love you, don’t know how to be around you any more.

How did someone fulfil a large order for birds? He shied away from the thought. Ignoring his questions completely, she said: “So in the meantime, I’ve sketched out what’s in my head. So I don’t lose it.”

Lose the idea? Or the plot? She fished a large piece of cartridge paper from under the table and held it out to him. He moved closer to take it from her.

She was talented. The whole tableau, the vision that made her go crazy, was set out in detail worthy of a Leonardo sketch. In frozen, wintry colours she had captured a band of birds: a crow in a periwig, starlings in neckerchiefs and blackbirds with muskets; sparrows, goldfinches, even a robin in a Dick Turpin hat.

And in the centre, the wren, lolling dramatically from Moodie’s gibbet. To be hanged by the neck until you are dead. No mercy. Walt thrust the page back at her, and if she noticed anything she didn’t let on. Instead, she flashed her lightning smile and said: “I love starting on a project! Love it, I get so excited opening up a new specimen my hands shake!”

“Your hands shake?”

“Yes – just imagining the anatomy inside! The colours, the . . .” He had to stop her. He put his hands on her, on her shoulders, felt his palms close over the bones. “Don’t, Alys. Jesus, you’re weird.”

She was still smiling. Her teeth were very white, like she never chewed anything with colour in it. He imagined them biting into his skin. Her breathing was shallow; he could see it pushing at the little bones in her neck. Her arms grew warm under his palms. She was whispering something, her lips dry like bruised leaves; she slid off the stool, deliberately bumping into him, into his hips.

He hadn’t meant to be that close but, like the wren, he’d been too slow to move. She rubbed against him like a cat. Belly to belly. There was something wildly intimate about it: that they weren’t even touching or kissing but she’d closed the gap between them just the same.

He was shocked at his reaction; he felt the twitch of his arousal and so did she, and she grinned all the more and this time closed the gap all the way, pressing against him and looping her arms about his neck. There was something greedy about the way she pressed her mouth to his.

The scent of peaches was overwhelming. He knew he should push her away from him, but he felt like jelly. Or his knees did anyway; everything further north was the opposite. She whispered: “I want to ask you something,” and he replied: “What, what do you want to ask?” and their voices intermingled like their breath. “William told me about your leg.”

Kiss.

“Mm?”

She pulled back an inch, stroked his face. “You never told me about your leg.”

“My foot. It’s just my foot.” Like it really mattered – even though it did. He’d slept with a girl since it happened, just to affirm life, but he was afraid of the pity face, the sympathy. Alys kissed him again, hungrily; he could feel the shake in her and he was shaking too.

“I want to see it.” “What?”

She leaned back, licked her lips. Really licked them, and that light in her eye . . . He should have known Alys would be different. “I want to see it – the scar, the stump. Show me.”

An icy chill shaved through his bones. Alys held his gaze. Her hand travelled to his waist, to his groin. Her touch burned through the denim of his jeans. Alys, who always avoided eye contact, was looking into him like he was empty, a vacant skin for her to probe, to play with.

“No.” He pulled away from her quick, clever fingers.

“Alys, have you seen the . . .” Mouse suddenly appeared in the doorway. “The phone bill.” Her voice dropped away. Walt pushed Alys to one side, kept his back turned, embarrassed. Alys was unfazed. “Thought you were at work.” “Obviously.”

“Don’t give me that look, Mouse!” Walt risked a glance at Mouse. Her mouth set in a tight line and she was blushing furiously, and he felt himself going red.

Why was he embarrassed? He was a free agent. Don’t get involved, he told himself. Jesus, Mouse made him feel like a naughty schoolboy.

“It could have been William coming through this door!” Mouse snapped. “It’s not on.”

Walt had an inappropriate urge to laugh. He turned around and tried to reason with her. “Sorry, Mouse. It wasn’t what it looked like.” For some reason he wanted her to believe it was meaningless, but Alys was getting all uppity.

“Sorry? Don’t apologise! This is my house. Mouse, if you don’t like it, you know what to do.” She flounced back to the display case. Mouse stormed out.

Walt dithered between them. “Why did you say that?” She didn’t answer.

More tomorrow.

Alys, who always avoided eye contact, was looking into him like he was empty, a vacant skin for her to probe, to play with

Beneath The Skin, by Sandra Ireland, is published by Polygon, £8.99. Her latest book, Sight Unseen, is out now.