Under My Skin (6 page)

It hurt, but it hurt in the way a massage hurts. It was excruciating and blissful at the same time. A cocktail of pleasure and pain.

The wave reached her fingertips and toes, all of her skin buzzing in time with the needle – finding a resonance. The warmth reached her lips and then her eyes, like she was filling up with bathwater, and Sally completely zoned out.

When she came to, the buzzing had stopped. She sat upright with a jerk, wondering if the whole thing had a been a blue-cheese dream and she was still dozing in the library with Stan. But no, she was still in the tattoo studio. Her back felt warm and tingly.

‘All done.' It was Rosita. ‘Would you like to see?'

Boris washed his hands over a stainless steel sink in the corner.

‘Yeah . . . you're finished?' She'd closed her eyes for like a minute – how could it possibly be done already?

‘Yes. She looks beautiful.'

‘Oh.' Sally stood, tempted to reach around and feel. ‘Did I pass out or something?'

‘I don't think so. You sat very well, though – no wriggling. Boris was impressed.' From the corner, he growled by way of agreement.

‘I . . . I thought it'd take longer.' She reached for her back, but Rosita pulled her hand away.

‘Don't scratch it, no matter how itchy it gets.' Rosita guided her to a full-length, freestanding mirror. ‘Can you see over your shoulder?'

Sally closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
What have you done? You stupid, stupid little idiot.
There was always laser removal, she figured. She opened her left eye a fraction, terrified she'd see a hideous bloody mess running onto her jeans.

It was fine.

It was more than fine. Sure, the skin was a little red and raised, but there was no blood and Boris had apparently smeared her back in some sort of shiny ointment so it didn't even feel too sore. ‘Oh, wow.'

‘Isn't she beautiful?' Rosita beamed.

She really,
really
was. The Molly Sue on her back was an exact replica of the one she'd seen in the gallery, only this one looked even more real, if that were possible. The pin-up girl looked delighted to be on her flesh and Sally was delighted to have her. ‘That's . . . that's amazing.'

‘Do you like her?'

All of Sally's nagging doubts dropped away in a second. Molly Sue made her whole body look different, her slinky walk following the curve of Sally's own spine. Sally looked older, her waist and hips curvier and more womanly somehow – although she was quite sure it was all psychological. ‘I don't like her. I
love
her.'

Hazy, lazy sun was still shining through thin cloud when Sally reached the top of the basement stairs outside the House of Skin. It was warm too, sunset still a while away. Sally squinted against the light, confused. She was sure she'd heard that tattoos take hours and hours – Molly Sue was quite large too, covering the expanse of flesh from under her shoulder blade to the small of her back.

Sally started in the direction of home, before remembering why she'd come to this god-awful part of town in the first place – her father's golf shoes. Still a little wary of the drunk, she looked around anxiously, ready to pelt back down the stairs if necessary. He was nowhere to be seen – he must have got bored and given up ages ago. Sally let out a calming breath and set off towards the parcel depot.

Like the anaesthetic wearing off after a trip to the dentist, the full horror of what she'd done didn't hit her until she walked through her front door.

What have you done to yourself? You've scarred yourself FOR LIFE.

By that time the sun was setting and a chill breeze shivered the trees of her cul-de-sac, although she couldn't be sure if it was the wind or her nerves making her back teeth clatter.

‘Where have you been?' Her mother skittered from the kitchen into the hall, brandishing a whisk. ‘You said you'd be back before dark.'

Sally almost vomited then and there on the welcome mat.

She's going to know. She's going to know as soon as she looks at me.

Sally had always been a terrible liar; she was going to be in so much trouble. In her parents' eyes, girls had been locked in iron masks for less. Her skin was suddenly unbearably hot, the tattoo at the epicentre of the heatwave.

Her mum just looked at her. ‘Well?'

‘Sorry – I forgot to get Daddy's parcel. I had to go back.'

Her mum brushed a lock of hair out of her face. ‘Oh, you're such a scatterbrain, Sally.' She took the box out of her hands and headed back to the kitchen. The conversation was apparently over. ‘I can't trust you with the most basic errands. Go and wash your hands for supper, please. It's your favourite. Corn beef hash.'

Number one: Sally hadn't liked corn beef hash since she was about five – it's a meat tumour. Number two: she'd got away with it. She looked around the frilly house – the lounge to her right and dining room to her left. Everything was as it should be: the grandfather clock ticked away, the immaculately polished photographs lining the staircase, the vases overflowing with fresh hydrangeas. If she angled her ear towards the lounge, she could hear Tweetie, her mother's canary, picking through the seed in her cage. Everything was the same, but she was different.

And no one else knew but her.

She recalled Rosita's words about secret strength. Supressing a smile, Sally dashed upstairs towards the bathroom.

Getting through dinner was a struggle. She was sure her dad would spot something was wrong, but he seemed far more concerned about uncovering the identity of the co-worker who'd dinged his car outside the bank.

As Sally tried to stomach supper, her initial dread turned to something like hysteria. She had to supress the urge to giggle manically. The words, ‘I GOT A TATTOO,' sat right at the very tip of her tongue. The more she thought of potential punishments her father might dole out (being dragged through the town centre behind a horse-drawn cart, being made to wear an
I'm a heathen
sandwich board while ringing a bell outside church), the more she wanted to laugh.

It was so clear now. They might well be her parents but these were not her people. Despite her and their best attempts to make a cookie-cut daughter, Sally did not belong in this house – a fact pencilled in since birth. Getting a tattoo signed it in ink. It didn't bother her so much, though. In fact, admitting it was quite freeing.

After maintaining invisibility over dinner, Sally ducked through the fence to Stan's house. She was sore and exhausted, but she figured if she didn't go over like she'd promised, he'd know something was up and she wasn't sure she'd hold up under interrogation.

Stan was in the kitchen when she arrived, waiting for microwave popcorn to finish. He was wearing his pyjamas even though it was only a little after seven. ‘Hey,' he said after she'd run the gauntlet of their cluttered hallway. ‘Can you get the Coke out of the fridge? Kareem lent me
Hacksaw 5
on DVD. We can watch that if you want.'

‘Is that the one with the evil clown?' Sally went to the fridge.

‘It sure is!' He gingerly pinched the steaming bag out of the microwave and tipped it into a bowl, sucking his burned fingers. Job done, Stan turned round and looked at her for the first time. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yeah. I'm fine.'

‘You look different.'

Sally's heart plummeted into her feet. She steeled herself and avoided the truth. ‘I'm wearing exactly what I had on at school.'

Stan scrutinised her. ‘Yeah, but . . . I don't know . . . you just look different.'

‘Nope. Same as ever.' She wasn't even sure why she lied. It popped out of her mouth before she could reason that he and Jennie would probably think it was quite cool. But they might tell people at school and
they
might tell a parent and then
her
parents would know within the hour. The town worked like that.

They'd only just reached Stan's room when they heard the front door close and Jennie chatting to Mrs Randall in the hall. She made her way up the stairs at half her normal speed. As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, Sally could tell that she'd been crying. ‘Hey, what's up, Mitten?'

‘Nothing.' Jennie took her jacket off but wouldn't look her in the eye. This was not the pastel-grunge-bubblegum Jennie they were used to.

‘Jen . . . something is clearly wrong.'

Stan pushed the popcorn to one side. ‘Is it Kyle?' His nostrils flared along with his temper.

‘We had a fight and now he won't return my texts. I don't know where he is. I'm really worried about him.'

Stan muttered something under his breath, but Sally guided Jennie to the bed so she didn't hear him. ‘I'm sure he's fine. What was the fight about?'

Jennie blinked back fresh tears. She fiddled with her
Satanville
bracelets as she spoke. ‘It's so stupid. Kyle read some stuff I'd written on the Order of the First forum and he saw that I'd been chatting to some guy in America.'

Sally frowned at Stan. ‘Well, so what?'

‘He said that I was flirting. I wasn't, though! We were just chatting – but he's still really cross, because you know how months ago he found out I'd been talking to my ex on Facebook.' Jennie checked her phone again only to throw it onto the mattress in dismay.

Stan, at his laptop, flicked onto the forum Jennie was talking about. ‘Jennie, this is not cool. He can't stalk you online like that! You didn't even say anything remotely flirty.'

‘I know!'

Sally tried to keep her tone even and non-judgemental. ‘And he shouldn't be going through your stuff like that. Do you hack into his Facebook too?'

‘No! Well, maybe a couple of times . . . if he leaves himself logged in.'

Sally sighed. ‘Jen! That is so messed up!'

‘I know, but I didn't do anything. I don't know why he's ignoring me.'

‘Because he's a knoblin,' Stan mumbled.

‘What?' Jennie looked to him.

‘Because he's annoying,' Stan said, joining them on the bed. ‘Jennie, he's making you über-miserable.'

Jennie scowled at him. ‘No, he isn't!' she said vehemently. ‘I love him.' In that moment, she sounded
young
and Sally fought an urge to shake her friend by the shoulders.

But Sally held her tongue, the way she always did. ‘Jennie, you and Kyle fall out all the time. You always work it out in the end. It'll be fine.'

Stan started to argue. ‘This is bullsh—'

‘Stan, you're not helping.' Sally's voice was steady but firm. ‘But he shouldn't be checking your Facebook. It's a violation of privacy and it's not cool.'

Her cool tone seemed to lure Jennie off the ceiling. ‘I know. I know. Thanks, Sal.' Jennie flung her skinny arms around Sally and squeezed her tight. Too tight. The tattoo burned and Sally's eyes bulged in pain.

‘Ow!'

Jennie let go. ‘What?'

‘Nothing.' She lied again, but too quickly. She felt like a little kid standing inside the pantry, icing all around her mouth.

‘What's going on?' Stan asked, scrutinising her.

‘Nothing,' she repeated, before adding, ‘That time of the month.'

Stan dropped it at once, the way she suspected any guy would. ‘Oh. Right . . .'

She could have so easily told them, but she didn't want to share. Molly Sue was
hers.

Later that night, Sally couldn't sleep. A mugginess had crept in, the first taste of spring with any luck. It was more than that though: the tattoo. It was sore, it was itchy and Sally couldn't lie on her back. All evening she ping-ponged back and forth from feeling like the most rock-and-roll girl in all of Saxton Vale to
I have made a terrible, terrible mistake
. She shifted, trying to get comfortable. In the end she kicked back her duvet and just lay on top of the bed with the window open a crack.

The slide into sleep was so gradual she didn't even realise she was asleep until she awoke with a start.

There was someone in her room.

She heard a voice. Or voices. She couldn't tell which. Low, muttering voices.

Who is it? Where are they?

Her first instinct was to freeze, lie as still as she could and play dead; she held her breath.

Nothing.

Eyes open, but facing into her pillow, she could only see the corner of her rug. There could be someone standing at the foot of her bed. Worst-case scenarios arrived in her head.
Has someone broken in? Burglars? Are Mum and Dad dead in the next room? Am I next?

Sally waited, still not exhaling. The room was silent. Her second thought was to get the hell out, to get her dad. She sat upright in bed, ready to grab anything that could be used as a makeshift weapon.

Her room was empty.

Sally
swore
there'd been voices.

You were dreaming, go back to sleep
, she told herself
.

She listened more closely.

There it was again. A low whispering so quiet that Sally could hardly distinguish the words. Someone giggled. This time, she definitely wasn't imagining anything.

‘Sssssssss . . .'

She couldn't make out words, it was little more than a hiss.

‘Aaaaaahhhh . . .'

It didn't sound like her mum or dad, though. Not daring to hang her legs off the bed where they'd be exposed, she oh-so-slowly lowered her head off the edge of the bed. Her hair trailing onto the carpet as she hung upside-down, she peeked underneath. There was nothing, not even dust bunnies.

‘Sssssssaaaaaahhh . . .' There it was again . . . in the distance, but somehow close by.

Confident she was alone, Sally swung her legs off the bed and walked to her window. She pulled the lacy curtain to one side and looked out across their immaculately mown back lawn. The cherub water feature babbled into the pond and the wind chime in the Randall's garden clattered like cowbells, but she couldn't see anyone talking.

She heaved up the sash window and stuck her head out into the night. The voice continued.

‘Eeeeeeeee . . .'

At least that's what it sounded like. The voice was far away, maybe around the front of the house. It was hardly human at all. There was something almost snake-like about it. Sally listened for a minute longer and her neighbourhood fell silent again. Her owl was elsewhere tonight.

Maybe a big snake ate it
.

Looking to her left, she saw Stan's bedroom window on the side of their house. He too had his bedroom window open a crack, the ash black curtains billowing through the gap. Green light flickered from within – he must have fallen asleep in front of the TV or something. Suddenly it made sense. The voices must be from whatever he was watching. Probably
Satanville
.

Satisfied, she ducked back through the window and slid it down. The heat of her healing back reminded her that yesterday most definitely hadn't been a dream.

Oh God, you're stuck with it now
, she told herself.
This is going to look awesome when you're forty
.

Now wide awake, she crossed to her en-suite and flicked on the light above the mirror. As well as she could, she craned her neck around to see the reflection of her back.

Sally's eyes were fuzzy from sleep. She blinked hard. For a second there, it had looked like Molly Sue had her eyes closed, but she now saw it was just a trick of the light. The tattoo's eyes were wide open. Sally shook her head and sloped back to bed.