Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Tears broke from Fiona’s eyes.

‘He’d knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t get up. I could only lie there, gasping like a fish. It was a car. I heard its tyres screeching. I still hear its tyres screeching.’ She swallowed a moan, unable to mention the thud of metal on flesh that followed.

Dawn put her drink down and grasped Fiona’s hand. ‘You can’t blame yourself for that, surely?’

‘I try not to, but it doesn’t help much. After that things were never the same. One moment’s loss of control and our lives were ruined. I could see the knowledge of what he’d done eating away inside him. At first I was glad, but I forgave him eventually, trying to salvage something between us. He’s never been able to talk about it. I tried so hard to make things work. He was my husband and, despite everything, I still loved him. But the more I reached out to him, the more distant he became. Then, maybe five years ago, he attacked me again. And you know what?’ She smiled sorrowfully, shaking her head. ‘Afterwards was the only time he’d shown me any affection in years.’

Dawn squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t waste your time. It’s not you who’s provoking him. He’s the one to blame, not you.’

Fiona nodded. ‘I know. But now I’ve got my head full of the noise of that poor girl choking. Apart from the man who attacked her, I may be the last person to hear her voice.’ She looked up at Dawn. ‘That room was used, wasn’t it? You did let a couple in there.’

Dawn raised her cup to take a sip, using it as a way of breaking eye contact. ‘Yes, I think so. It was a pretty busy night, though. People were coming and going and I was a bit worse for wear after all that brandy we drank.’

‘But surely you remember handing the key over? Surely you’d remember a couple checking out again?’

‘No. The key’s missing and the lock doesn’t work properly, anyway. And if they went out by the fire escape, I wouldn’t have seen a thing. What makes me wonder if it was used at all is the fact it was so immaculate. I certainly didn’t clean it.’

‘He did. That’s what I heard him doing after it all went quiet.’

Dawn shrugged. ‘Who knows what happened?’ She raised her cup and took a generous sip.

Watching her, Fiona thought, God, I need a drink. She put her coffee cup down. ‘I’d better go. Listen, I want you to know how much I appreciate your help that night. Are we still friends?’

Dawn smiled. ‘Still friends. I just wish I’d put you in an upstairs room. It’s all but untouched up there.’

As Fiona stood she said, ‘Oh, I’ve got a place of my own. It’s not much, but I’d love it if you could pop round.’

Dawn looked genuinely pleased. ‘I’d love to. So you moved out of Hazel’s place. What about your husband?’

Fiona flexed a wrist backwards. ‘History. He’ll never find me. I’ve been back and taken all the stuff I need.’

‘Good for you. I’m so pleased.’ Dawn reached for her handbag and produced an address book.

‘I feel so excited.’ Fiona said, then dictated her new address and mobile number. ‘You’ll call me soon?’

Dawn closed the book. ‘Will do.’

Fiona ran the Dyson backwards and forwards over the same small, tired square of carpet. After a while she turned it off and looked around the bedsit. There was nothing left to clean. Deep inside her something began to stir. It felt like despair. I need something to do, she thought as the hazy image of Alexia appeared in her head. She looked at the clock. Quarter to nine. Would many girls be out on Minshull Street yet? Probably not. Her eyes snagged on the suitcase. The bottle of gin was like a beacon inside, emitting a signal she could no longer resist.

‘Just a couple — God knows I’ll need it where I’m going,’ she said quietly to herself, grateful now the decision had been made.

The bottle chinked against the rim of the glass and gin glugged inside. She allowed the level to rise the width of another finger before righting the bottle. The tiny fridge was full, the bottle of tonic nicely chilled. She filled the glass to the top, then took a series of small sips, soon swallowing as much as if she’d given in and gulped it straight down.

Almost immediately the alcohol caused a lifting sensation in her head and without realising it, she let out a satisfied sigh. Now, what to wear? Nothing remotely dressy, that was for sure. She laid out a baggy top and plain trousers then, after sipping the glass dry, set off for the shower room on the first floor.

The train pulled in to Piccadilly and she walked slowly through the station, mentally running through what she’d say. Out on the concourse she looked down the slope towards the road that led into the city centre. The Malmaison Hotel dominated her view, yet now she knew that just a few streets behind a different world existed in the shadows. She broke off from the flow of people marching up to the bright lights of Piccadilly Gardens, headed down a dark side street and emerged into a nearly empty parking lot.

She heard the hoot of a tram as it emerged from the tunnels beneath Piccadilly station. The noise had a desolate note that echoed clearly through the night air. Seconds later the tram nosed into view, trundling round the bend in the hard metal tracks, wheels whining and squeaking in protest. Emotionless faces looked at her from within the bright carriages and then it was gone.

Making her way across the parking lot, she scanned the dark areas behind the trees lining Minshull Street on the other side, and soon caught sight of a lone female figure.

Unsure suddenly of what to say, she walked straight past the woman and found herself being dragged towards Portland Street. She emerged on to the busy road and looked around. A garish bar was on her immediate right and she went in.

The double gin disappeared in no time. She looked in her purse. She didn’t have the cash to afford city centre prices, not after spending so much on things for her room. As she swung her knees round to climb off the bar stool, she nearly bumped a man who had appeared at her side, a fifty-pound note in his hand. He was late forties, thinning hair, but nice eyes.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Time for another?’ he asked, nodding at her empty glass. Fiona’s mouth opened and shut. She hadn’t been bought a drink by anyone other than her husband in years.

‘Don’t look so surprised.’ He tapped the menu card on the counter — until then she hadn’t been aware of it. Thursday night

— Singles night! Bottles of bubbly half price!

His smile revealed a row of white teeth, one canine slightly chipped.

‘Sorry.’ Fiona shook her head. ‘You caught me by surprise.’ She felt her hand going up to her face. The cut over her eyebrow was becoming less and less apparent, but it still made her feel uncomfortable.

‘Are you waiting for someone else? I mean, I hope I’m not. .’

‘No.’ she shook her head again. ‘I just popped in. I’m on my way somewhere else.’

‘Anywhere interesting? I’m only here on business and I haven’t a clue where to go.’ He lifted a hand to his chin, allowing it to linger, the lack of wedding ring obvious.

‘Er, actually, I’m just delivering a message. I shouldn’t be long.’

He blinked, trying to work out what she meant.

‘If the person’s not there, I should be back in five minutes,’ Fiona explained, trying not to look at the money in his hand. Thinking of how many drinks it would buy.

‘So, maybe see you here in a short while?’

‘Yes, hopefully.’

‘I’m Martin, by the way. Martin Mercer.’ He extended a hand.

‘Fiona,’ she answered, shaking it and climbing down simultaneously.

Minshull Street stretched off to her side like a dimly lit tunnel. In its murky depths she could see silhouettes of girls caught in the headlights of a slowly approaching car. Before apprehension could take hold, she strode purposefully forwards.