Beneath The Skin Episode 16

Walt blinked and refocused his gaze on Alys, the studio, the gallows, feeling the pliers still in his hand, reminding himself of his reality. “I’m sorry, pet. You’re the one with the vision. Tell me about it.” Alys’s face broke into a grin and he knew he was forgiven. She hugged the gallows to her chest.

“I”m inspired by the Irish legend of Clíona. She was otherworldly, dangerous. She lured young men to the seashore and watched them drown. A spell was cast to protect them, turning Clíona into a wren, and every Christmas Day she was fated to die by human hand for her treachery.

“Of course, that’s the pagan version. The Christians say it was the wren that betrayed Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, but either way the wren doesn’t come out of it well.”

“No?”

“Nope. In Ireland they have the wrenboy tradition where wrens are hunted down and killed and hung on a holly branch and paraded from house to house on Boxing Day, although they’re probably not allowed to do that now.”

“Where are you going to get a wren?” She ignored him, holding aloft the gallows. “Moodie made this out of holly wood. I’m going to create a tableau with the hanged wren at the centre of a rabble of small birds and animals. I might even have an old-lady hamster knitting at the foot of the scaffold!”

She giggled. Walt’s face felt tight with disgust, but she didn’t even notice. Perhaps she was right: perhaps he wasn’t the right person for the job.

“It will symbolise cultural disdain for the innate pagan power of the female.”

“Right.” She’d lost him again. He was thinking a long, cool beer would be good right about now.

He’d shut himself in a room far away from Alys’ artistic craziness, but then she turned and looked at him in that way she did sometimes, the way that made the pit of his stomach smoulder like she’d thrown a lit flare down there.

He had to speak, to break the spell. “I went to the park.”

“I don’t pay you to go to the park.” “Mouse was there.” “And?”

“She thought the gallows were a bit sick.”

Alys laughed, the sound strangely hollow. She snatched the little pliers from Walt’s hand and tossed them at the magpie. They made contact with a thunk and the bird jerked as if galvanised back to life. A coldwater shiver dripped down Walt’s spine.

“Mouse never approves. She’s always been the same, creeping around, waiting for me to mess up. As a kid she spent most of her life curled up – in bed, curled up in the corner, reading a book. Never speaking, but watching everything. Hiding.”

“What was she hiding from?” The suggestion echoed in the dark basement.

Alys shrugged. “Mice can turn. They pack a nasty bite when cornered. They’re also a pest and hard to get rid of.”

Walt hesitated, uncertain whether she was serious or not. She didn’t look amused. “But you live together.”

“Not by choice. She got pregnant and the father didn’t stick around. I’m the only family she’s got left. It was my duty to take her in.”

Something didn’t add up about that. What about the grandfather? The one in the care home? Dutiful was not a word Walt would have used to describe Alys. He began to think of other words: sexy, wayward, eccentric.

She was looking at him now, her eyes cool, calculating, unpeeling something inside him. “Did you come here to talk about Mouse?”

“I came here to deliver your gallows.” “Oh yes.” She picked up the wooden framework, caressed it with her artist’s fingers. “I like it. Look at the grain of the wood, the way it’s finished . . .”

Her voice dropped, catching with excitement, and there was something about the tone of it that vibrated in his groin.

“Ah, I have so much going on in my head... But you don’t want to go there.”

It was the kind of thing he said to people, to keep them at arm’s length, and for a moment he saw himself in Alys. She was like a mirror and he was drawing closer, close enough to see his reflection in her eyes, to mist her face with his breath, and when their mouths came together it seemed inevitable.

It was tentative at first, a slow clinging of the lips, hands reaching out, finding. Alys dropped the gallows. It bounced off his leg but he didn’t feel it; could only feel the soft, stained jumper, the narrow back.

Her arms snaked around him, pulling him against her. She smelled of dead feathers and cigarettes. They pressed against the workbench and he was no longer sure who was instigating this, or who would be the first to draw away.

It was Walt, breaking the kiss but not the contact. They leaned together, lips damp, breathing hard. “This isn’t a good idea,” he whispered.

“It is.” She smiled and there was a new wickedness about her. Her eyes shone with it. “Just don’t expect to get paid extra.”

He pulled away from her. He picked the gallows off the floor and set it upright on the workbench, still tasting her, feeling her bones beneath his hands. He knew he wanted more. He knew he had to get away from her.

“I don’t think we should go there again. And I really don’t want to know what goes on in your head.”

Her smile was crooked. “I think you do.” Later, Walt went out to buy fags. A cold east wind had got up, bringing rain with it from the Forth.

Not for the first time he thought about the grey Crombie overcoat he’d left in his wardrobe at home. He might have to buy another one if things didn’t heat up. Or even a scarf, he thought, pulling the collar of his jacket up.

Turning into Alys’s road he took out his key. He was surprised to see a strange bicycle chained to the basement railings. Alys didn’t have friends, and definitely not friends with bikes. Though it was an oldfashioned type, “pre-owned”, as they say in sales circles, and probably more than once. The saddle was dappled with drizzle.

Curious, he let himself into the house. There were voices in the kitchen. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he’d make himself a coffee and take it up to his room. His job was definitely part-time, sporadic. Sometimes he was sure Alys simply forgot he was there.

He saw himself in Alys. She was like a mirror and he was drawing closer, close enough to see his reflection in her eyes

More tomorrow.

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