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Under My Skin

 

by M.H. Keough & Ian Barker

 

Writer’s block and the New Jersey snow don’t mix, which is why—with deadlines looming—I rented a house in Key West and flew south. After unpacking, I strolled down Duval Street scanning restaurant menus and peering through art gallery and T-shirt shop windows. The following morning, reinforced by a cup of strong coffee and a bagel, I set up shop on the kitchen table. Words flew across the laptop screen during the next four hours, and I spent the afternoon roaming Hemingway’s house in blissful communion with his spirit; I was writing again and feeling on top of the world once more.

 

It wasn’t until I read through pages written in the first week—a genteel romance set in Savannah, Georgia—that I noticed sentences, and in one or two places, entire paragraphs, written about a guy working on his car; a guy who swore generously as he threw a spanner across the garage. What was I thinking when I wrote that? I wondered. And what the hell is a spanner? I cut the offending sentences from my work-in-progress, and forgot about it until I sat down to edit the next chapter and discovered more mystery sentences. Before deleting them, I gathered them into a separate file and read through the passages.

 

One o’clock. Bloody hell, it took almost four hours to finish the job. Of course, it had to happen on the hottest day of the year, and what with the wife visiting her sister in Epsom, now I have to make my own lunch. “To hell with that,” George muttered. He closed the boot of his car and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “I’m going to the pub.”

 

It took George longer than usual to get across Altrincham Road and down to The Royals, a mock-Tudor style, Manchester roadhouse that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in over twenty years. Hot and sticky, George tugged at his shirt as he trudged across the threadbare carpet and stood at the bar, rocking on his heels and staring up at the ceiling stained yellow by the smoke of a million cigarettes.

 

“Hello, George, not seen you in here for a canny while.” Rob, the barman, had left Newcastle when he was sixteen, but his Geordie accent hadn’t faded. “Usual is it?” He had the pint of John Smith’s Bitter already half-poured.

 

George nodded. “And can you do us a turkey salad sandwich? With the missus away, I’ve got to fend for meself.”

 

“Aye, no bother, man.”

 

George took the sandwich and drink out to the terrace. Through the trees, light glittered on row after row of cars in the airport long-stay park, a wide river of sooty metal. That made him think about his own car, in particular the contents of the boot; the collection of plastic-wrapped bundles that were all that remained of his neighbour, Colin Carter.

 

The bloody dustsheets and overalls were buried in the workings for the pond Mandy had wanted in the back garden. It’ll be a nice surprise for her to come back and find it finished, George thought, as he sat down on a bench and pushed someone’s half-finished meal to the other end of the table. He picked up his sandwich and took a bite. I never did like Colin. George conceded to himself. Every time I saw his soppy, supercilious grin or heard his, “I hope you don’t mind my asking”, I wanted to hit him. Not that I intended to kill him; he just tipped me over the edge, that’s all. Holding his sandwich in one hand, George’s meaty fingers closed around the pint glass. His mind shifted into neutral as he drained half the cold brew, but he was brooding again before the glass was set down.

 

I sat back in my chair and stared at words on the computer screen. I was writing a murder mystery, it seemed, a story that was fast becoming a mystery itself. And for a while, it was like a game, filtering out the sentences as I edited my novel. And they were always there, like Easter eggs hiding in tall grass, waiting to be found.

 

Gradually, the chilling details of a gruesome murder spilled onto the page like a confession. But I had never been to England. Where was I getting these ideas? I skimmed the ‘net, touched on the process of osmosis, and convinced myself that I had unconsciously absorbed details. The story itself, I put down to an overactive imagination. Intrigued, I watched the story unfold.

 

George devoured his sandwich while he mulled over the events leading up to Colin’s death. George had been in the garage, prising the trim off the driver’s door so’s he could touch the paint up, when the stupid prat walked in the side door.

 

“Knock, knock,” says Colin. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, George, but could you lend me your mower again? I’m afraid mine’s on the blink.”

 

As it happened, I did mind. George grumbled to himself as he drained his beer. Last time he borrowed it, he brought it back with no bloody petrol in the tank. And the blade was chipped.

 

George replayed the scene in his head as he returned to the bar for another pint. He had turned to face Colin, ready to tell him to get the hell out of his garage, but the cheeky get already had a hand on the mower handle.

 

“I’ll drop it back within the hour,” says Colin.

 

He just assumed I’d say yes, after what happened last time. George leaned against the bar, his eyes settling on the filling glass while his mind focused on the toolbox that sat on the garage floor this morning, and the surprised look on Colin’s face when said the toolbox connected with the side of his head. Recalling how Colin had sunk to his knees, the corners of George’s mouth twitched into a smile as he paid for the pint. A trickle of blood had run out Colin’s nose. Another had appeared at the corner of his mouth, just before he toppled to the floor.

 

I really thought he was dead, George thought as he walked back to the terrace. I must’ve stared at him for a good five minutes, and that whole bloody time, he didn’t move once. Not a twitch. George settled back on the bench, recalling how the dustsheets he had laid on the garage floor, ready for painting the car, had soaked up the blood a treat. Holding onto that thought, his expression shifted into a smile.

 

I was eating a salad on the back patio when my cell phone rang.

 

“Jane?” my agent said over the sound of shuffled papers.

 

“Hi, Susanne, nice timing. I was just taking a break for lunch.”

 

“That’s great…great.” The shuffling sound stopped. “So, how’s it coming? I had hoped to hear from you before now.”

 

“I’ve almost finished.” I chased an olive around my plate.

 

Another pause. “Uh, if that’s a joke…”

 

“No, really, I’m almost done.” Spearing the olive, I popped it into my mouth.

 

“Really? That’s wonderful. So the last month has really paid—”

 

“And I’m writing a short story on the side.”

 

“Are you joking?” I could hear tension building in Suzanne’s voice. “Because I don’t see the humor in—”

 

“This place has worked wonders.” I grinned into the mouthpiece. “I may never come back.”

 

“So you’re saying the book is almost done?” Relief replaced tension. “That’s wonderful, Jane, absolutely marvellous. Should I call the editor and let her know we’re back on track?”

 

“Sure. Oh, would you do me one teensy favour?”

 

“And what’s that?” Tension filtered into her voice again.

 

“Would you send the short story to a couple of British magazines? You know, I think I might have tapped into a new market.”

 

“Jane…you aren’t overtaxing yourself, are you?”

 

“Not at all. I’ll call you later this week with an update on the novel. I’ll email you that short story just as soon as it’s finished.”

 

“Just don’t get sidetracked, okay? The novel comes first, right?”

 

“Of course it does, and don’t worry.” I laughed. “The short story is practically writing itself.”

 

“One last pint and I’ll be off.” George thumped his empty glass on the bar.

 

“Right you are.” With one continuous, well-greased motion, Rob set George’s glass aside, grabbed a clean one from the tray and began to draw a fresh pint. “Keeping out of trouble then, while the missus is gone, like?”

 

George shot Rob a wary glance, which passed by the barman unnoticed. “Me and our kid went out for a few bevvies last night.” George’s mouth tightened into a thin smile. “The missus has been on at me to build her a water feature in the back garden, so I thought I’d surprise her and get it done before she gets back.

 

“Why George, man, you’re nothing but an old softie.” Rob smiled back.

 

“Yeah, that’s my trouble,” George agreed, “too bloody soft-hearted.” Picking up his glass, he tossed a few coins on the counter and steered himself toward a table.

 

Rolling Colin onto the dustsheet had been easy, George considered silently. Dragging him into the utility room and hefting him onto the sink bench had been a good bit more difficult. After a few pints, his back muscles, which had been aching something fierce from the strain of this morning’s activity, were finally beginning to relax.

 

Downing a swallow of beer, he thought back to how he had returned from the kitchen with a sharp knife, twisted Colin’s head to one side and cut into his fleshy neck. Groaning, Colin had raised his hands in front of him like a sleepwalker, and waved them about in groggy circles. Blood sprayed from his neck as he lifted his head out of the sink. ‘Wha…what happened?’ The words whistled past Colin’s split lips and two chipped front teeth. He peered at George then frowned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes, as if he was having trouble focusing.

 

“Bloody nuisance,” George muttered into his beer, “but the toolbox did the trick, right enough.” He put his hands in the small of his back and slowly stood up, then walked out of the pub, reflecting almost wistfully on the moment the toolbox had connected with Colin’s head for a second time, and the satisfying sound of the snap, as his neck broke.

 

At dusk, George drove over the old Barton Bridge and into Eccles, to a place on the outskirts just past the new ‘executive housing’ development. Executive housing in Eccles? George smirked as he pulled up alongside the ship canal. Who do they think they’re kidding? You got the odd dog-walker during the day, but hardly anyone came down here of an evening. But that was a fact that suited George just fine.

 

Hefting two bundles from the boot—Colin’s legs, from the feel of them—George flung them into the canal, then watched them bob about in the dark water like two bloated oil slicks. The bags weren’t sinking.

 

“Crap!” Trudging along the canal, George followed the bags as the sluggish current carried them along. “Sink, damn you!” Picking up an empty beer bottle, he flung it at the closest bag. The black lump shivered as the bottle skidded over the slick black surface and into the water. “Shit!” George’s voice hit an octave that grated on his throat. Coughing, he picked up another bottle and hurled it to the ground, where it smashed into several large pieces.

 

His eyes focused on a long shard of glass. Grunting softly, he picked it up and aimed the glittering fragment at a bag. “Nothing like a game of darts…” he muttered under his breath, his hand moving up and down in rhythm with the waves. He gave a dry cough, steadied his hand then with a sharp flick of his wrist, he released the shard. “Bulls-eye!” he hollered hoarsely, hopping from one leg to the other as the bag began to bubble like a flatulent hippo. Slowly, it settled deeper into the water. “Gotcha, you bugger.” Even dead, Colin was proving himself to be a royal pain in the arse.

 

Out in the darkness came another cough, the wet, rheumy signature of a chronic smoker. George picked up another shard of glass, long and thin, like a stiletto; it was a comforting thought. He turned to face the intruder, an old man who loomed out of the darkness and ignored for the moment, the dog that tried to tug him toward George’s car. The old man cast a disinterested glance at George’s car—and the plastic bags in the open boot—before yanking sharply on the dog’s lead. With a yelp, the dog fell in behind his owner and continued to cast sullen glances in the car’s direction.

 

George’s back spasms worsened as the old man approached the canal’s edge. Together, they peered into the darkness, at the one remaining bobbing bag.

 

The old man gave George a sly smile, and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Dumpin’ yer garden rubbish, are yer?”

 

George grumbled a few words and nodded, and they stood together for what felt like an age and stared at the drifting bag, the old man holding onto the dog, George holding onto the glass shard. In the end, it was the dog that saved the old man’s life, as it circled and whined then squatted on its hind legs.

 

“For crissakes,” George hollered, “your bloody dog better not be taking a crap!”

 

“Yer what?” The old man glanced down at the dog, and his rheumy eyes widened. “No, Sammie, no…don't do it here!” He jerked on the lead and gave George an uneasy smile, a flustered look that hovered between embarrassment and fear. Unhappy at being interrupted, the dog stumbled forward. “Come on, boy, let’s go for a walk.”

 

George glared at the retreating man’s back then opened his hand and looked down to where the glass shard had sliced his palm. Grunting, he flung the shard at the floating bag and missed. “Fuck!” he screamed, and the old man broke into a shambling, wheezy run, fairly dragging the dog—which was now straining on its lead and barking its head off—behind him.

 

Late one night, shortly before the story finished, an intruder appeared in the Key West house. I was in the kitchen, getting a glass of ice water, when I sensed someone was in the living room. Moonlight glinted off the glass panels of the bookcase that ran along the far wall as I peered through the darkness. I was about to turn away when a shadow that was denser—or darker—than the rest of the room, rose from a chair near the window, its bulk blanking out the moonlight reflecting off the bookcase, effectively removing any doubt I was imagining this.

 

Long minutes ticked by when the shadow did not move. But then again, neither did I. Vulnerable and petrified, I stood stock-still in the doorway as the shadowy form turned this way and that, unable or uncertain as to how to navigate through the room.

 

All that changed when it pivoted in my direction.

 

“You!” The unspoken word forced its way into my head as if it had been shouted. A rush of air struck me as the thing tried to move forward and failed.

 

I set the glass on the counter but my hand was shaking so badly that I missed, and the glass tumbled onto the kitchen rug and bounced. Crushed ice and cold water splashed my bare feet as my hands fluttered up to my throat. Stifling a cry, my gaze darted back to the living room.

 

The shadow was moving across the room.

 

A strange sensation overcame me then, a feeling of weightless. Spiralling into a cold black world, I came to lying in pool of water.

 

I turned on all the lights and sat up most of the night, flinching at every creak and groan. Even when the shadowy form didn’t return, an unsettling feeling lingered that it would.

 

And yet I continued to gather the mystery words that were pressed like poisonous flowers between the pages of my novel. A week later, I emailed the completed short story to my agent.

 

As the bag containing Colin’s second leg floated into the darkness and out of sight, George picked up another beer bottle and smashed it. With a sharp piece of broken glass held cautiously in his uncut hand, he returned to the car. Locating the smallest bag, he pierced several holes in the plastic, a smile jerking the corners of his mouth as the shard connected with Colin’s head. Grasping the bag, he approached the canal at a half-run and sent the head flying into the canal. It landed with a heavy splash and began to sink almost immediately. With his back still singing and a satisfied look on his face that closely resembled a snarl, George hunched forward and gripped his knees for support, and watched the bubbling mound until it disappeared from view. Straightening his back, he listened to the distant drone of traffic on the motorway before trudging back to the car for Colin’s arms.

 

The final bag—the one containing Colin’s torso—was a damned sight heavier than the rest. Humming the tune of some half-remembered song while his back sang the chorus, George half dragged, half carried the unwieldy bundle to the edge of the canal, where he let the slippery lump fall onto its side. Kneeling down, he slashed a few holes in the plastic. Swearing thickly and grimacing, he stumbled to his feet and nudged the bag over the concrete ledge and into the black water.

 

When George woke on Sunday morning, he could barely move. But before Mandy got back that afternoon, (and with the help of a few beers) he had dug a hole in the back garden, fitted the liner over the bloody dustsheets and overalls, and filled the cavity with water. By mid-afternoon, as he lugged the last few rocks over to the pond’s edge, the muscles in his back were clenched tight.

 

Opening another beer, he downed most of it before hauling the boot carpet out of the car. It was a real effort to get it laid it out on a patch of overgrown grass near the bubbling pond, and shampooed, but it had to be done, just in case Colin had leaked. He was an untidy bugger when he was alive, George grumbled as he coiled the hose and tossed it into the garden shed. No reason to think he’d be any different dead.

 

Careful not to touch the part of the handle that bore Colin’s fingerprints, George peered into the empty street then quickly wheeled the mower down the side path and into his neighbour’s back garden. “He came round to borrow the mower about half-nine, officer.” A dark smile crossed his face as he muttered to himself. “That’s the last time I saw him.”

 

“Eee…” Mandy squealed when she saw the pond. She clapped her hands together. “It’s lovely, George! My, haven’t you been busy?” Her smile faded only slightly as her eyes tracked over to the patch of wet grass. With mock disapproval, she put her hands on her hips. “You know, you might have cut the grass while you were at it,” she added, still smiling.

 

“Colin borrowed the mower yesterday,” George shrugged then flinched as a bolt of pain shot through his shoulder. “He hasn’t brought it back yet.”

 

Mandy’s hands dug into her hips as her eyes left the wet patch of grass. “I thought you said you wouldn’t lend it him again, after last time.” Her eyes dropped to his bandaged hand. “And what happened to you?”

 

“Cut myself.” George gestured toward the gurgling fountain, “working on your water feature. As for lending Colin the mower…” Recalling Rob’s words, George managed a smile. “I’m just a big softie,” he murmured to his frowning wife.

 

Almost a week passed, and then on Friday afternoon, when George came home from work, a police car was parked outside Colin’s house. Ten minutes later a young bobby rang George’s doorbell.

 

“Sorry to trouble you, sir.” The bobby tilted his head back slightly and scrutinized George from under the polished peak of his cap. “I wonder if you could tell me when you last saw your neighbour...” He took a notebook from a pouch on his belt and consulted it. “...Your neighbour, Mr Carter?”

 

“Saturday, I think it was.” George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, Saturday morning, to be exact. He had come round to borrow the mower.”

 

The constable slid a ballpoint from a loop on the front of his flak jacket and made a note. “About what time would that have been, sir?”

 

“Nine-thirtyish, I think it was.”

 

“And you’ve not seen him since?”

 

“No, sorry.” George cautiously returned the bobby’s scrutiny. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Just routine enquiries at this stage, Mr...?”

 

“Patterson, George Patterson.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Patterson, you’ve been a great help.”

 

“What about the mower?” George asked the bobby, as he turned to leave. “The missus has been on to me to cut the grass.”

 

“A Mountfield is it, petrol?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“It’s in Mr. Carter’s garden.” He nodded to the place George had left it. “You may as well take it back.

 

Sometimes I wonder whether my housekeeper would have been killed if I had returned to New Jersey earlier. The police believe Carla’s death was the result of a robbery turned sour, but we were both dark-haired and middle-aged, and while we didn’t look alike, there were certain similarities that might have caused a casual acquaintance to mistake us. I am, in this instance, referring to the person who bludgeoned Carla to death with my laptop.

 

In more than one way, I feel responsible for Carla’s death. During my stay in Key West, I attended a book signing at the Key West Island Bookstore, and lectured on the pros and cons of writing in two genres—a naïve and bitterly ironic topic—to a local writer’s group. I accepted dinner invitations that occurred in the wake of my little speech. Bathed in the limelight as Key West’s most recent, famous resident author, I was in the conch house editing the final draft of my novel when Susanne’s associates in London sold the short story to a British magazine with an impressive circulation.

 

On the day Carla died, I left the house shortly after she arrived and walked several blocks to the wharf, where I ate lunch. Not being acclimatized to the Florida Keys humidity, when I returned I went directly to the bathroom, removed my sticky clothes and stepped into the shower.

 

There is something that goes beyond my discovery of Carla’s body lying underneath the overturned dining table, beyond my frantic call to the police and the terrifying minutes that passed as I waited for them to arrive, waited with my back pressed against the wall, unable to shift my eyes from the bloody legs protruding from under the table, wondering whether I was alone or that when the police arrived, there would be two bodies lying on the floor. It is an image of me standing in the shower with water streaming down my face and of Carla, standing somehow and screaming, drenched in blood with pieces (shards, my mind corrects me) of my shattered laptop protruding from her eyes.

 

Gathering my belongings, I moved into a large, brightly lighted hotel, where I declined a call from a Key West news reporter, but spoke briefly with Susanne before booking myself on a flight leaving Key West that night. It wasn’t until I unpacked a few travelling clothes that I discovered a magazine that I had stuffed into my suitcase during my frenzied efforts to pack and leave the house. A receipt fell from the pages, which bore the name of a newsstand in Manchester Airport, dated a few days earlier. I stared at the dog-eared receipt like an actress who had missed her cue and lowered myself on to the edge of the bed, missed and slipped to the floor. With a shaking hand, I reached up and touched the paper, if only to prove that it was real. It was.

 

I spent the afternoon in the hotel room, huddled in a chair, nodding in and out of an uneasy sleep. As I dozed, I dreamed of a man sitting by a large window at one end of a row of hard, plastic seats, the sort you see in just about any airport terminal. A large parking lot and several cars spread out beyond the thick, plate glass. The sleeping man’s arms were wrapped across his gut and his chin was slumped on his chest. A bulky sports bag lay at his feet as if he were waiting for a flight. Or for someone.

 

I watched with a dreamy, detached curiosity as his soccer shirt rose and fell with the easy rhythm of sleep. While his stubbled face drew no flicker of recognition, there was something about his stocky build, his tousled hair that rose in errant spikes, details that I could not place until his eyes snapped open and he rose from the chair like a man who knew he was being watched. I heard a gasp as his red-rimmed eyes darted about the terminal. To my horror, I realised I had made the sound.

 

The man’s head slowly swiveled in my direction. Had he heard me? I wondered. As the thought popped into my head, the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. Dark eyes glinted as they settled on where I stood. I know that look. Without a word, his smile grew wider. George? He nodded. The shock of recognition woke me from my sleep and I sat up, shivering.

 

I missed my evening flight. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the airport.

 

Early the following morning, I booked a flight out of Miami and rented a car then checked out of the hotel with the complimentary copy the Key West Citizen tucked under my arm. Carla’s murder was splashed over the front page under the headline: Housekeeper of prominent local writer murdered. Next to her photo was a promotional photo taken from the dust jacket of my last book. I couldn’t get it out of my head that George would now know what I looked like.

 

On the long drive out of the Keys, I was accompanied by a feeling that I was being followed. At the terminal, I heard sounds of scuffling as I walked down the narrow corridor leading into the plane. On the flight home, I convinced myself I was imagining things, until the evening news confirmed a stocky man with a British accent had tried to force his way on board my flight, then somehow eluded custody. And while the security images were blurred, they confirmed my worst fears.

 

I left home the same night.

 

While the events that sent me into hiding are ‘water under the bridge’, as my mother would say, or ‘blood in the ship canal’, as a darker part of my mind suggests, too much has happened to discount certain thoughts as coincidental, lunatic ramblings. As much as the notion terrifies me, I suspect someone is sharing my most intimate thoughts while inserting a few of his own. I say ‘his’, because I believe I know who the intruder is.

 

It surprises some folks that I still write for a living, except now, when words appear on the page that seem totally out of character, I erase them immediately and try not dwell on where they came from. Because someone might get it into his head to pay me a visit, and believe me, I don’t want that to happen.