Beneath The Skin Episode 12

Walt opened out the legs of the spectacles. They were the type of wiry, scholarly men’s glasses that made him think of Galen. He’d never seen Alys wearing specs, but maybe she needed them for close work.

He folded them up and replaced them, deciding it might be safer to change the subject. “So what’s the label on your box then? Tortured artist?”

It was meant to be a joke, almost, but Alys didn’t do jokes. She turned away from him, dusting her hands on her backside. He liked her backside, what he could see of it beneath the white shirt.

“If you’re finished I have an errand for you to run,” she said over her shoulder. He’d allowed himself a brief flare of lust; irritation quickly snuffed it out. He wasn’t convinced he’d signed up to be an errand boy.

She disappeared into the shop. Her voice drifted back to him: “But before you do, you can sweep up the fag ends outside.”

His lips twisted. She knew she had the upper hand and she liked it, and her liking it sent a depth charge through him that he couldn’t ignore. He was not the submissive type, but he had to admit that Alys was getting under his skin.

She sent him to see someone called Moodie. “He’s a carpenter,” she had said. “He’s making something special for me, for my Walter Potter tribute.”

She fizzed with excitement when she mentioned her work. He could almost see the shadows of long-dead birds flitting around in her head.

She told him how she’d been planning it for ages, had designed the glass case and the backdrop herself and it was going to be epic. She’d even selected a title. Did he want to know the title? He said no, not really.

He had no idea whether “Moodie” was a surname or a first name or one of those names that people use to single themselves out as unique. He’d once had a maths teacher who simply signed himself “Fox” on his report cards.

“If Robert expended as much energy on algebra as he does on forging parental notes he might yet go a long way.” He probably hadn’t been thinking of Helmand Province.

This Moodie had a lock-up on Hamilton

Place. “Turn right, before you get to the river,” Alys had said. “It’s squashed between the public toilets and the bus shelter.”

He figured it wouldn’t take him long, and he didn’t mind walking. Walking was meditative. He supposed it came from years of patrolling with blisters and an 80pound kit. Mind over matter.

When he couldn’t walk, in that black time, his head had been all over the place, like the black had got in there too.

Now as he walked, taking the same route as he’d taken with William, his thoughts turned to the little lad. The previous afternoon he’d taken the youngster home, as promised, while his mother went on her secretive mission to visit the grandfather.

“He lives in a care home,” William had confided. “He can’t remember stuff.

“Mum gets really sad about it because they stick him in front of the telly and don’t cut his nails.”

“Typical.” Walt had automatically grabbed the child’s hand as they ’ d approached the pedestrian crossing.

“I think that would be okay though, don’t you?”

“What, being in a care home?” “Getting to sit in front of the telly all day.”

“Daytime telly stinks, believe me.” He could sense William looking up at him, and when he’d glanced down the kid was giving him the full-blown how-could-you-say-that treatment, with the wide eyes and the brows disappearing into his spiky fringe.

“But all the good programmes are on! Cash in the Attic, Flog It!, Dickinson’s...” “Are you for real?”

They’d stopped in the middle of the pavement. Walt quickly dropped the kid’s hand as shoppers bustled past.

“I like all that stuff.” William stuck his lip out.

“You’re 10 years old, for Christ’s sake.” He wasn’t sure why this bothered him so much – surely the lad should be out climbing trees or something.

The pout thickened. “I’m eight.” “Eight. Okay.” Walt had turned to move on, with William trailing after him.

“When I was eight I was a tearaway, not a founder member of the David Dickinson Fan Club.”

“But I like collecting things,” William replied. I’ll show you.”

And he had. They’d gone in and turned on the telly in the cold green sitting room. Green was supposed to be a fresh colour, a colour of springtime and new growth, but in Alys’s house it seemed mossy and damp.

The long velvet curtains were always half drawn, like it was too taxing to make a decision either way.

There was an upright piano in one corner, piled with dusty magazines, a sadlooking rubber plant and a stuffed owl. The owl looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The three-piece suite, also green, had been shredded by the cats. The whole place smelled of cats. Opening a window might have helped, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being invaded by the outside cold.

There was a grand fireplace, inset with those tiles that depict toffs in hats and crinolined ladies. The grate was sealed off with hardboard.

Maybe Alys trapped some of her subjects in there. It was a brave pigeon that flew down Alys’s chimney.

The television was, by comparison, a fairly new flatscreen. William had tuned in to his channel of choice before racing up the stairs to bring down his treasure trove.

Walt had collapsed onto the couch. He was unsure of what to do next. Could he knock off for the day, or was he expected to take over baby-sitting duties?

That was surely not part of his remit, but he could hardly walk off and leave the kid in front of the telly. There were probably laws about that.

The sounds of daytime TV washed over him. A grey-haired baker with twinkly eyes and a Mediterranean tan was turning steaming cakes onto a wire rack – “and there you have it, carrot and cinnamon muffins. What could be easier?”

If the kid didn’t make it as an antiques guru maybe he could be a pastry chef. The credits rolled and the voice-over trilled: “Next, David Dickinson discovers some real deals – but first the news headlines.”

She knew she had the upper hand and she liked it, and her liking it sent a depth charge through him that he couldn’t ignore

More tomorrow.

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