Under My Skin (5 page)

‘Such a polite little girl. What's your name?'

Don't talk to strangers, but what about saviours? ‘I'm Sally.'

‘And you can call me Rosita.'

‘Thanks for letting me . . . hide.'

A smile danced on Rosita's bruise-coloured lips. ‘Not at all. Welcome to the House of Skin.'

Sally wasn't sure what to say. ‘It's . . . it's very nice.'

Rosita smiled broadly. She was picking up on her unease, Sally could tell. She doubted they had very many clients like her: shy schoolgirls with plaits. ‘Why, thank you. Boris, the artist, is one of the most respected tattooists in all of Europe . . . all the world. Men and women come from all around the globe to be inked by him.'

‘Really? To Saxton Vale?' Once upon a time their town had been famous for its mills, but now it was famous for nothing except its commuter links. Nothing good ever came there.

As she moved, Rosita almost seemed to float on air, her skirts hardly shifting as she glided across the shop floor. ‘For now Saxton Vale. Who knows where tomorrow? He and I are circus people at heart – wanderers.'

Sally decided it might be best if she sat on her hands to stop them fidgeting. ‘OK.'

Rosita paced the far wall, the one that held the array of tattoos. ‘Do you have any piercings?'

‘Oh, no,' Sally said, aware her over-the-top reaction was a touch Amish. ‘My mum and dad wouldn't even let me get my ears pierced; they think it's common.'

‘That's a shame.' Rosita smiled. ‘I think that would look pretty. I suppose a tattoo is out of the question, then?'

Sally laughed, feeling more relaxed. She'd probably brave leaving the parlour in a minute if Rosita didn't mind checking the coast was clear – like, who was going to mess with tattoo-face lady? ‘Are you kidding? They'd
kill
me!'

‘Oh, how would they ever know?' Rosita said with a conspiratorial wink. With the tattoo elongating her lips, each smile almost seemed to split her face in two, like the Cheshire Cat from
Alice In Wonderland
. ‘There comes a time in her life when every girl must defy her mother and father. It's all a part of becoming a woman.' She ran a gloved hand over the contour of her chest, her fingers tracing her ample bust. Sally looked away, embarrassed. ‘Don't be shy,' Rosita said. ‘Come and have a look.' She gestured at the wall of designs.

‘Oh, I'm OK.'

‘It's fun! Humour me! If you
were
going to have a tattoo, which would it be?'

Hmmm. Well, if she absolutely
had
to
. . . ‘Do you watch
Satanville
?' Sally asked. Rosita shook her head. ‘It's this TV show and the demon assassins all have a tattoo on their wrist to show what order they belong to. That'd be cool. I'd get Dante's order, the Order of —'

Rosita cut her off. ‘Come. Show me what it looks like.'

Sally bounced off the sofa. She scoured the images on the wall. The Order of the First had an ornate numeral I in a wreath of ivy. Sally could see nothing like it, although there were both numerals and floral designs.

In her whole life, Sally had probably spent a sum total of about twelve seconds thinking about tattoos, but she saw now that some of them were quite beautiful. Orchids, lilies and roses so lifelike she was compelled to reach out and touch the petals. Swallows, doves and peacocks with such intelligence in their onyx eyes, they almost seemed to follow her as she moved along the wall. Rosita watched her keenly.

There was a whole frame containing hearts. Some broken, some on fire, some with daggers through their core. All had blank scrolls underneath, waiting to be dedicated to a loved one. Sally smiled. How love-addled would you have to be to get someone's name branded on your skin?

Finally she came to a slightly grander frame, sturdy and gold, a little larger than the rest. The contents were less busy. This frame contained four beautiful 1950s pin-up girls and they were all breathtaking. ‘Oh, they're so cool,' Sally murmured, almost to herself.

‘Aren't they?' Rosita replied. ‘Each of those girls is very special to me.'

‘They're based on real people?'

‘Of course! People Boris and I met on our travels.'

‘Who are they?'

Sally looked at the first girl, an exquisite geisha. She held a paper parasol to match her kimono. ‘That's Kazumi. We met her in Osaka. She's our winter girl, pure as fallen snow.'

The incense fumes made Sally's eyes heavy; a wave of sleepiness hit her. She could so easily imagine snowflakes swirling around Kazumi, her waist-length hair billowing in the wind. The next pin-up was a perky, busty blonde, her Easter eggs almost tumbling out of her basket as she tried to keep her bonnet on. Her red lips formed a shocked
O
. ‘That's Marilyn.'

‘Monroe?' The similarity was striking.

‘Of course not,' Rosita said with a smirk. Her eyes twinkled. ‘How old do you think I am?'

The third girl was a stunning redhead, her skirt blowing up as russet autumn leaves twirled around her bare legs. For a second, the leaves almost seemed to move on the paper.

‘Adelaide in Autumn,' Rosita explained.

‘She's love—' Sally started and then stopped because she saw the next drawing.
Drawing
didn't really do her justice, because her violet eyes
burned
from the poster. Unlike the other three girls, the final figure had no props or gimmicks to show she represented summer. She was quite hot enough by herself.

The final girl had raven black-and-blue hair curled at the nape of her neck. She cast a come-and-get-me look over her left shoulder, inviting the viewer to follow her off the straight and narrow. Her ruby lips curled into a smile full of men's secrets. She walked with her hands on her denim-clad hips, jean shorts cut high to emphasise the curve of her bottom. Sally could tell that her checked shirt, although she had her back to onlookers, was unfastened and secured in a knot under her breasts. ‘Who's she?'

‘That's Molly Sue.' Rosita smiled. ‘And she's trouble.'

So captivated was she by Molly Sue's eyes that Sally entirely phased out whatever Rosita said next, as if she were underwater. ‘Sally?'

‘Sorry . . . what?'

Rosita smiled. ‘I asked if you liked her.'

‘Erm . . . yes. Very much so. She's beautiful.' Sally still couldn't break the tattoo's gaze.

‘Well, then,' Rosita interlaced her fingers under her chin with glee, ‘why don't you get her?'

That snapped Sally out of her funk. She backed away from the frame, shaking her head. ‘Oh, I couldn't. There's no way.'

‘Why?'

‘Because if my mum and dad didn't kill me, they'd ground me forever. Seriously. There was this one time I giggled because someone farted in church and they cancelled my birthday party.'

Rosita laughed before turning her back on her. She swept her hair to one side like a curtain. On her left shoulder blade there was an octopus tattoo, its tentacles making elegant curves and curlicues all over her back. ‘See this little guy? I had him done when I was fourteen years old. My first.'

‘It's . . . very nice.'

Rosita faced her once more and guided her back to the sofa to be seated. ‘My father was . . . an angry man.' She paused, considering her words. ‘He was . . . how would you say? A bully. I would take his beatings so that he might leave my little sisters alone. Once I got my octopus, he became my secret strength. Something only I knew about. He made me
powerful
because, if nothing else, it was I who was in control of my own body.'

The octopus suddenly seemed so much more than just a tattoo. It stood for something. Sally turned back to Molly Sue and wondered what the pin-up girl could mean to her. ‘I guess I'm not really a tattoo person.'

‘Don't be so sure. How old are you?'

‘Seventeen.'

‘Then you are a woman. You have your own secret strength, Sally. I can feel it.'

‘I . . . I really don't.' Warmth rushed to her cheeks.

‘Oh, it's there, we just need to bring it to the surface, perhaps. Molly Sue can make you powerful. We could put her somewhere out of sight. No one but you would ever know, until you felt it was time to unveil her – share her with someone special. A young man, perhaps?'

For some reason, Sally imagined Todd Brady's eyes light up when he saw there was something wild and exotic etched on her thoroughly vanilla skin. ‘I don't have a boyfriend,' she muttered, and although it was meant to sound empowered, it came out so, so lonesome.

‘Not yet.' Rosita's eyes sparkled. ‘But you've thought about it, I can tell. What it would be like.'

Sally said nothing, letting her red cheeks do the talking.

‘Or maybe it's not a boy,' Rosita went on. As she moved, she ran a finger around the gold frame containing the girls. ‘Maybe it is a girl? Or . . . maybe it's status your heart desires . . . friends and popularity, money and clothes? We all have our little wants.'

Sally shook her head, but thought of Melody Vine and
that
hair. ‘I already have friends.'
Just not many.

‘I am sorry, I have embarrassed you. I forget what it's like to be you.'

‘To be me?'

Rosita smiled. ‘To be a teenage girl. Lots and lots of rules. So many things you shouldn't be doing. So many things you're not supposed to say. So many things you're not supposed to even think.'

Sally gave a slight nod. She wasn't sure she'd ever met a grown-up who'd spoken to her like Rosita was: like an equal. Because she was so shy at school, teachers always treated her like she was a simpleton, while her parents treated her like one of her mother's decorative porcelain figurines on the sideboard.

Rosita, somehow, seemed to understand her despite having known her for less than ten minutes.

Walking back to the display wall, Sally allowed herself to look once more into Molly Sue's eyes. She was everything Sally wanted to be – not just cupcake-prett
y
, but cool, aloof, bold . . .
strong
. Sally would be satisfied with just one of those traits. If she was more like Molly Sue, she'd tell Melody Vine to curl up and die.
She'd
be Audrey. She'd tell her mum and dad she wasn't going back to church to pretend to pray to a God she didn't believe in. She'd tell Todd Brady that she thought about his lips each night as she fell asleep . . .

She staggered back as though the floor was swaying under her feet. It was all too much. Her head felt wobbly, like the time she'd sneakily downed two glasses of champagne at her cousin Alba's wedding.

‘Are you OK?' Rosita asked.

‘Yeah. I'm fine . . . I just . . .' Sally raised a hand to her temple.

‘You want her. I can tell.' Rosita, materialising at her side, reached out and stroked the glass. ‘Perhaps on the small of your back.'

‘I can't.' Sally was surprised at how much she
did
want her. She remembered crying outside the pet shop the day they'd had puppies in the window. She hadn't even known she'd wanted one until she saw them and, when her mother dragged her away citing allergies, it had felt like her heart was being stretched – like an invisible piece of elastic from the little dog. She'd never wanted anything so much. This was the same.

‘Of course you can. Our little secret. She'll be all yours too. Boris never does the same tattoo twice.'

Jealousy snapped, crackled and popped at Sally's core. The thought of anyone else taking Molly Sue was almost more than she could stand. A tattoo as stunning as Molly Sue should only belong to someone who felt as strongly as she did.

Her heart deflated like a punctured balloon. ‘Even if I wanted to . . . I don't have any money. I'm broke. My mum won't even let me take a babysitting job.'

‘Well, isn't this just your lucky day? Most of our clients are, let's say, a little older than you. Boris takes a special pride in tattooing beautiful young skin. It's extra special. No charge.'

‘No charge?'

‘On the house, as they say. It would be a treat for Boris. Pure, unmarked skin like yours will make his day. His week.'

‘Oh, I couldn't possibly.'

Rosita clamped her hands on her hips but smiled warmly. ‘Why ever not? What reasons do you have left?'

Sally opened her mouth but no sounds came out. She had no reasons left. She imagined the looks on
their
faces –
them
being the rest of the world. What would they say if they knew? Shy little mouse Sally Feather has a
tattoo?
She imagined the horror and disbelief her mum, dad, Melody, Stan, Jennie would wear on their faces.

She thought about how
naughty
she would feel having a secret – not some lame crush on a football player – a real secret. ‘OK,' she said.

‘Really?' Rosita clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Boris will be thrilled! Are you sure?'

Sally appreciated Rosita offering her a way out, but the seed had taken root in her mind. ‘Yes.' She looked at Molly Sue one last time and felt like the girl was welcoming her into some sorority. ‘She's just too gorgeous to refuse.'

A smile danced on Rosita's lips. ‘Spoken like Molly Sue herself! Come, child. Follow me.' Rosita placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her towards the partitioned archway.

The back room was now silent, the needle had stopped its intermittent buzzing. ‘Isn't there already someone in here?' Sally asked.

‘No,' Rosita said simply. Sally was confused – why was the needle going if there was no one back here? Sally stalled as they passed over the threshold. The back room was a far cry from the opulent waiting area. Stark grey tiles covered the walls floor to ceiling, while the floor was wipe-clean linoleum. In the centre of the room was a reclining dentist's chair next to a steel trolley housing an array of inks, black latex gloves, piercing guns and, finally, the tattoo needle – a wasp-like metal gun.

A green-tinged angled lamp cast strange, jagged shadows up the walls. The room was dark, claustrophobic and windowless.

A hulk of a man waited in the shadows, his broad shoulders filling an entire corner. As he stepped into the light, Sally saw that he wore a surgical mask over his mouth and a black rubber apron over his unusually smart clothes: a crisp, stiff-collared white shirt, a black tie and matching sleeve garters. In the dim pool of the lamp, his eyes sparkled as he saw her for the first time. Behind the mask, he growled appreciatively, hungrily.

Perhaps I should just be going . . .

Sally backed away instinctively, colliding with Rosita. ‘Oh, I should have said.' Rosita pushed her further into the studio. ‘Boris speaks no English.' She said something to the artist in his native tongue. Sally had no idea what she said, or even what language it was. She'd done French and Spanish at school, and it sounded nothing like either of those. It was a strange, guttural sound. Maybe Slavic? Rosita did most of the talking, with Boris growling and grunting by way of reply. Rosita stroked Sally's lower back, presumably directing Boris as to where Molly Sue was going.

Sally's heart galloped. This was
wild
, but it felt like she'd been led here for a reason. It felt
right
. Today was the day she grew up – like the season two episode of
Satanville
where Taryn's grandmother died and passed the Amulet of Forbidden Truths to her. She tried to draw strength from that . . . if Taryn could leave childhood behind, so could she.

As Rosita spoke, Boris never once took his eyes off her. Sally felt the weight of his stare and shrank back. His eyes, almost feline, were the most unusual amber shade, somewhere between brown and gold.

Rosita turned back to her. ‘Come, child, sit.' She pulled up a simple metal chair and gestured for her to be seated. ‘Sit sideways on and lean against the big chair. Oh, and you'll need to take off your shirt.'

Sally had expected nothing less. With nervous fingers, she unbuttoned her plaid shirt and laid it on the dentist's chair, which was fully reclined, before pulling her T-shirt over her head. Her mother bought all of her clothes and her bra was the plainest, most nun-like one they sold at
Lucy's Locker
in the shopping centre. It was almost military issue and Sally was deeply embarrassed, folding her arms across her chest.

‘Sit,' Rosita prompted again, before adding, ‘you have a beautiful body, Sally . . . and the most exquisite skin.'

Was her unease that obvious? ‘Um . . . thanks.' Sally sat side-saddle on the chair, pulling her long braid around the front of her shoulder. She couldn't believe Rosita thought her body beautiful – it was angular and bony, not comely like Rosita's curves.

‘Lean forward,' Rosita instructed and Sally folded her arms on the armrest and lay her head on them.

‘Will it hurt?' She already knew the answer.

‘Yes. But it's unlike any pain you'll have known. Do not worry, though, the soft part of the back isn't the worst place to have done.'

Boris snapped on a pair of the black latex gloves.

‘OK.' If her dad ever found out she'd be
dead
. Her mouth was desert dry. What was the worst he could do? Throw her onto the streets? She was leaving for university next year anyway and then she could be as tattooed as she liked. In fact, she cherished the idea of starting afresh in a new town with a new identity she'd curate for herself. She'd be the cool girl with the awesome tattoo.
Just do it
.

Wordlessly, Boris sat on a wheelie stool and pulled himself close behind her. She smelled alcohol disinfectant about a second before she felt the icy cold stuff being smeared over her skin on a cotton-wool ball. He grunted at Rosita.

‘Are you ready?' she translated.

Sally nodded, feeling far from sure. Once that needle touched her skin she was past the point of no return. Whatever happened, there was no way she was leaving this room with a half-finished squiggle. That would only prove to the rest of the world that she was weak. She wasn't weak, she was quiet. There's a difference.

With gloved fingers, Boris turned a dial on what looked like a voltage box. The meter jumped and the needle started up, buzzing like an angry bee. And then it stung. She wasn't ready for it. The pain shot up and down her spine like a bolt of lightning. Boris held her still with a bear paw. He kept going. Why it came as a surprise that it felt like there were needles burrowing into her skin was beyond her, but that was exactly what it felt like. He
dragged
the thing across her flesh.

She bit her lip to stop herself screaming. She screwed her eyes shut, blinking back tears.

Only then it changed. It was as if the pain drilled down into her bones. It was no longer a sharp, stabbing agony, but more of an ache. It was warm and it was manageable. Sally breathed again. She imagined a pink tide, the warmth spreading in waves from the base of her spine, washing across her torso and down her legs.