Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

Fiona sighed, took a long sip and sighed again. ‘I don’t know. But yes, it seems that I’ve been chasing a girl called Alicia, not Alexia. The owner of Cheshire Consorts was a bit confused about what the girl she interviewed was called.’

‘But didn’t the card you found here have “Alexia” written on the back?’

‘Yes.’

‘So surely an Alexia visited her?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Fiona replied, dragging on her cigarette.

‘The owner said there’s loads of her cards floating around town. The one I found could easily have belonged to a punter.’

‘What about the Hurlington Health Club? The woman there gave you the same description.’

‘The woman there didn’t listen to a word I said. She wouldn’t even turn the bloody vacuum cleaner off to talk to me properly. There is an Alexia out there somewhere, but who knows what she looks like? What a mess.’ She took another drag and breathed out in exasperation, a veil of smoke spreading before her.

Dawn clinked her glass. ‘You did your best. Can’t ask for more than that.’ She regarded Fiona, waiting for a reaction.

Fiona stared miserably at the other wall, her bottom lip slightly red from where she’d been worrying it with her teeth.

Dawn’s eyes travelled to the cut that emerged from Fiona’s eyebrow. Despite the expert application of make-up, she could see it would leave an ugly scar. ‘How’s your eyebrow? Still sore?’

Fiona continued staring straight ahead.

‘Fiona, hello! Anyone in?’ She waved a hand in front of

Fiona’s face.

‘Sorry. What?’ Fiona blinked.

‘Your eyebrow. Will you get a professional to look at it?’ Fiona smiled bleakly. ‘A private hospital? I could never afford that.’

Dawn stubbed her cigarette out. ‘There are other options.’

‘Like what?’

Dawn shrugged. ‘You know I mentioned the person I’m with?’

‘Your companion?’

‘Yes,’ Dawn smiled. ‘My companion. Our relationship, it’s quite complicated. He’s having surgery to change his…appearance. He’s never been comfortable with how he is. I’m sure you’ll meet him one day.’

She cleared her throat and waved a hand weakly, not prepared to elaborate. At least, not yet. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, the doctor treating him does it all for cash. And cheaply, too. I think he enjoys the challenge.’

She registered Fiona’s sceptical look. ‘He’s no quack. He has his own clinic and really knows his stuff.’ She winked at Fiona.

‘Pretty dishy, too, in an older-man sort of way.’

‘How old?’ asked Fiona, looking more interested.

‘Late fifties, I suppose. Why don’t you ring him, explain your circumstances? I honestly believe he’d treat you. Probably even let you pay him when you can. It’s worth a try, don’t you reckon?’

Fiona traced a finger over the raised line of damaged tissue.

‘He can get rid of something like this?’

‘God, yes,’ Dawn said eagerly. ‘I’ve seen what he can do. It’s amazing.’ She got up, stumbling as the alcohol pulsed in her head. ‘He’s called Dr O’Connor. I’ll write his address down.’

Fiona drained her drink. ‘OK. No harm in just popping in, is there?’

The next morning Fiona turned over in bed and looked around. To her relief she found herself in the tiny room that was home. The bottle of gin on the table acted like a magnet on her eyes. Immediately she started to fret about the fact that she didn’t have enough money to buy another. Kicking the duvet off, she pulled her dressing gown on and shuffled over to the door. Peeping out into the hallway she saw some post on the shelf. Two letters for her, both looking ominously official.

Back in her bedsit, she made herself a coffee and sat at the table. The letters lay at her elbow, but she didn’t dare open them in case they were demands for money. Chin resting on the heel of one hand, she watched the curls of steam rising from the coffee. There was no milk in the fridge, her bread had run out the day before, and her packet of cigarettes was empty.

Her mind went back to waking up in the salesman’s hotel room. She finally admitted that she’d only slept with him because he was a way of procuring more drink.

Was it so bad? She’d had a great time, forgotten all her worries for a while.

Far better, in fact, than any time she’d spent with her husband in years. Bitterly, she thought about their marriage. How many times had she endured sex with him through no will or desire of her own? And for what? A stifled existence behind the façade of a respectable house, her money rationed and her movements controlled.

Christ, the night with the salesman was a pleasure in comparison. At least he’d treated her with respect.

She stared at the empty gin bottle then picked up her purse. There at the back was the number for Cheshire Consorts. She remembered Joanne’s phone conversation with the escort girl. A hundred and fifty quid an hour. It seemed so respectable, so above-board. They met in hotels and the men paid by credit card, for God’s sake. There was a world of difference between that and the poor wretches she’d seen working Minshull Street in all weathers.

She tried to turn her mobile on but remembered the battery had died days ago. Searching in her purse, she found just enough money for the payphone in the hall.

‘Hello. Joanne? It’s Fiona Wilson here. I came to see you just over a week ago…’

‘Yes, I remember. What can I do for you, Fiona?’

She took a deep breath to quell the tremors in her throat.

‘Well, when I saw you, you mentioned that when I’d sorted myself out. .’

‘I did. And have you? Is the bruising on your face gone?’

‘Yes,’ Fiona whispered, fingers touching the cut on her forehead.

‘How about your wardrobe?’

‘I’ve been home and collected all my clothes.’

‘So you’re in your own place now?’

‘Yes.’

Silence for a second. ‘Then I’d like you to come and see me.’

Fiona said nothing.

‘Fiona? Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

She heard Joanne light a cigarette. ‘Fiona, the girls who work for me have made a rational choice to do so. They’re paying their way through nursing college, saving the fees for law school, getting together a deposit for a house. It’s not a permanent job, it’s a stepping stone to something better. They are in control at all times and they most certainly are not whores.’

She arrived just before lunch, having made herself up and put on a simple black dress that suited casual or more formal occasions.

Joanne opened the door and smiled. 'Well, that's some change from the lady I saw two weeks ago.'

Fiona smiled back, trying to look confident and relaxed.

'Don't worry,' Joanne said, showing her inside. 'A lot of men find a touch of nerves very attractive.'

The enquiry room was hot with bodies. Much longer like this and the condensation will start dripping from the ceiling, Jon thought as he opened a window.

The hum of voices started to die down as McCloughlin’s door opened. He stepped out, followed by a thin man with long strands of greying hair swept across his head. Perched on his nose was a pair of rimless glasses that gave a clear view of his feminine eyelashes. Dr Neville Heath. Jon thought back to last summer and concluded that he should have stuck with the black frames he’d had then. After the two men had passed his desk he whispered to Rick, ‘Thought it wouldn’t be long before this guy got involved.’

Rick swivelled in his seat to regard McCloughlin and his companion, who took up position side by side at the top of the room. McCloughlin glared at the last two officers still speaking. Their conversation withered under his gaze.