Beneath the Skin Read Free

Something dripped onto the table, something that may have been blood. He fought down the familiar nausea. Whatever it was, it was very dead. He cleared his throat and nodded at Alys. ‘I’ll need a reference too. Your sister could be dangerous.’
    His joke fell flat, disappeared without trace. The weight of the house seemed to be settling around him. Just go, he told himself. Just get out. It’s a shitty job anyway.
    Mouse remained mute. There were tiny lines of strain at the corners of her mouth, as if she spent a lot of time gritting her teeth. Her prickliness was starting to piss him off.
    â€˜Look, I’m just a regular guy looking for work. I can get you a reference like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I’ll give you a number and you can contact the MoD.’
    â€˜You’re in the military?’ Mouse looked even more suspicious.
    â€˜Was. Rifles. Came out last year.’
    Mouse dried her hands on a tea towel and searched amid the debris on the worktop. She found an old biro and a notepad, which she thrust in Walt’s direction.
    â€˜Write it all down – the number to ring, your full name, rank and all the rest. She won’t check you out, but I will. If you’ve got anything to hide, bugger off and leave us alone.’
    Their eyes locked. He took the pen and scribbled on the pad.

4
    When the smoke cleared he found himself looking up at the sky, blue as a bairn’s blanket. This is heaven, he thought. I’ve died and gone to heaven. But the blue was so bright it hurt his eyes and when he tried to close them that hurt too, as if the skin of his face had shrunk. The noise phased back in: yelling and gunfire, someone groaning.
    He was groaning. It woke him up, and he lay there staring at a plain white ceiling. Breathing hard he counted the cracks around the light fitting. His mouth was dry. He was afraid to swallow in case he tasted blood again. The skin beneath his clothes was damp with that dread sweat that prickles like iced water. Every pore was alert to the contours of the room, the temperature, the sounds; his inner radar scanning for clicks and creaks, sinews taut as tripwires. He couldn’t place himself. He was in no man’s land, dangerous territory where your oppos can’t hear you shout. Reaching for all the things that he couldn’t live without; his firearm, his ammo, radio, the clumsy comfort of his helmet. All vaporised. His hands found only jersey and cotton and lightweight civilian things.
    After an eternity of two seconds he realised where he was, lifting his head from the soft pillows. He felt groggy and disorientated, his heart thudding painfully.
    Real life was happening outside the window. It was open a crack and the nets were shifting; he could hear endlessly shrieking seagulls and the ripped-rubber roar of taxis on cobbles. He swung his legs to the floor; he hadn’t even removed his shoes, not intending to fall asleep, just to lie down for a second and process this new twist his life had taken. He limped to the window, cursing a new sore spot that had sprung up on his knee. He’d have to check that out later. Beyond the window, everything was grey: the street, the tenements, the light. A thin mist was hanging over the place. If he pressed his burning forehead to the glass he could just see the top of the flaky railings that led down to Alys’s basement studio. As his body began to settle he thought over the series of events that had led him here; just a few days before, though it felt like longer.
    It had been so easy. No references, nothing; he couldn’t quite believe his luck, if luck was the right word. Screw that. He didn’t believe in luck any more; it was all about surviving, and doing what it takes to survive. So here he was, getting paid cash in hand by the most unlikely taxidermist he’d ever met. Come to think of it, he’d never met a taxidermist before, and Alys had been quick to point