Beneath The Skin Episode 43

The welcome party that greeted the fugitive was noisy and slightly chaotic, spilling out into the hall: Mrs Petrauska, all theatrical and lapsing into Lithuanian, and Mouse, pale and drawn.

William, hanging back in the kitchen doorway, looked suspiciously like he’d been crying. There was no sign of Alys.

Mouse grasped her father’s hands and tried to make eye contact. “We were worried,” she said. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone.”

The old man looked at the carpet and shuffled his feet. The dance teacher produced a heavy coat from somewhere and draped it over the thin mac, as if the man were an athlete at the end of a gruelling marathon.

Unnoticed, Walt stowed the telltale Bergen behind Shackleton. He would leave it there until things settled. The bear’s great claws snagged his collar as he edged around it.

“Thanks, Walt. Where was he? How did you find him?”

Mouse was suddenly beside him. The gleam in her eyes surprised him, and something other than numbness unfurled in his chest.

He was glad; glad that he’d been able to do his bit, that he’d eavesdropped on two posh women at a bagel stand and manhandled her old man into a taxi. Because he would never have known the end of the story, otherwise.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. No one saw, just Mouse. He clocked her sideways glance, and when she looked at him she gave a little smile, which could have been grateful, knowing, wistful – anything.

“Later,” he said. “Tea first. The old boy must be parched.”

“Tea!” She laughed as if to say: “there you go again”, and turned away from him, ushering everyone back into the kitchen.

Walt sighed and glanced up at the polar bear. It had that distant, noble, seen-it-allbefore look. He told it to get lost, before joining the others in the kitchen.

The old man had climbed out through the unlocked window in his room. Mouse was furious; she was going to lodge a formal complaint, and look for somewhere else for him to stay.

“If it wasn’t for Alys,” she’d said, “I’d look after him here.”

Walt told her not to be so daft. The old boy would fall on the stairs and crack his neck.

He gave her a dozen reasons why it wouldn’t work, without ever asking the burning question: why did Alys want nothing to do with her father?

There were other questions too, like who was Uncle Coby and what had he done?

But what did he care? It was their business. He had enough of his own, and any day now he was going to get the hell out of Dodge.

Mouse made the appropriate phone calls and within 15 minutes the home manager herself rolled up in a new Audi. She had a nurse with her, all starchy and pressed.

Walt almost expected them to produce a hypodermic needle like in a bad horror film.

The fight had gone out of the poor old boy. He stood up when commanded, docile as a sheepdog, with Mouse hanging onto his arm.

Mrs Petrauska was fussing around him with the coat; when it slipped off his narrow shoulders she folded it neatly and laid it over the back of one of the chairs.

“You did give us a fright, Mr Morrison,” the manager cooed. Walt noticed that she didn’t handle him herself, just stood back and observed. She was itching to write things down, he could tell.

Any morsel of conversation that might exonerate her from blame.

“The police have now been stood down, Maura,” she said, as if this was a full-scale terrorist attack, “though I expect they will have questions as to where he was, who found him, et cetera.”

“I expect so.” Mouse remained tightlipped. They shuffled into the hall.

“We’re going to take you back with us, Mr Morrison. In the car,” she said loudly into his face.

“Coby,” said the man. No one let on he’d spoken, except William, who caught Walt’s eye. There was a smudged look about his cheeks. Yes, the kid had definitely been crying.

The old boy was loaded into the car. The nurse sat beside him in the back, like a prison escort.

“Better that you don’ t come.” The manager tilted her head at Mouse, found an appropriate smile. “You can visit tomorrow, once we have him settled back into his routine.”

Mouse nodded mutely. The manager got behind the wheel and strapped herself in. She waved as they drove off – relieved, perhaps, that there hadn’t been more of a fuss.

In the back, the old man was leaning into the window, looking up at the sky. There was a lifetime of sorrow in his eyes, as if he’d lost all the good bits and couldn’t quite remember why he was sad.

Mouse stood for a long time on the pavement, just watching the empty road.

“Good,” said Mrs Petrauska. “All is well. I will take myself home.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you so much,” Mouse said.

The woman stepped lightly up the steps to the dance studio, leaving Mouse and Walt together on the pavement. Mouse turned to him. She didn’t have to say anything. He held out his arms and they bumped into each other, and stood like that for a long time.

Body language

They sat close together on the green couch, so close he could feel the heat from her thigh, although she was careful to keep from touching him.

Mouse’s body language had always been pretty spiky; even now she was drinking her wine with one arm cradling her abdomen and the elbow nearest him sticking out.

They’d been quiet for too long, and when they did speak, they spoke together. She said: “Sorry this place stinks of cats,” and he said: “It’s freezing in here,” and they both laughed and fell silent again.

“We could go up to my room,” she said eventually. “I mean, it’s not just a bedroom . . . It has more than a bed in it.”

He nodded , amused by her embarrassment.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

More tomorrow.

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

There was a lifetime of sorrow in his eyes, as if he’d lost all the good bits and couldn’t quite remember why he was sad