Shifting Skin

Chapter 32

‘I’m afraid she wasn’t in, Alex,’ Dawn said miserably, taking off her soaking wet coat and laying the cash on the end of the bed.

He dropped the mirror on the bedsheet and started to sob.

‘Oh God, look at me. I’m vile, absolutely vile.’

‘You’re not,’ Dawn insisted, trying to take his hand. ‘You’re beautiful.’

She peered at him, always slightly amazed at how different the person she had fallen in love with now looked. When they’d met in Boots his blond hair had been long and swept back from a face which, although unmistakably masculine, had a curious delicacy. She sometimes thought that maybe there’d been a woman in there all along.

Gradually his appearance had then altered. Superficial changes like the removal of his hair were immediate. A simple laser treatment and female hormones saw to that. Then came the operations. His angular cheeks were smoothed over and filled out, his chin reduced and rounded off, his lips enlarged. Now his square jaw was gone and his nose had been turned into something dainty and petite.

When his breasts were inserted last year the switch in genders became startlingly real. But still he refused to let her call him

‘she’. Only once they’d been to Amsterdam for his vaginoplasty. Then he’d be a real woman.

He picked the mirror up again and started to probe his Adam’s apple. ‘I need the tracheal reduction to get rid of this.’

‘You can, Alex. You just have to be patient. You’ve come so far.’ She reached out and embraced him, running her fingers through his short hair until he calmed down.

She’d never seen him like this before. However difficult things had got for them in the past, it had only made her more determined to stick with him. This rage was something new. The way he’d started shouting at her. It reminded her of previous relationships. Ones that had ended in her being beaten up and eventually having to flee.

Gently she said, ‘That woman I told you about. Fiona. She called in at the motel again. She thinks the name of the girl she heard being attacked in the motel was Alexia. She’s searching everywhere for her, trying to find out if she’s OK. She won’t give up. It’s like an obsession.’

He raised his head to look at her. A muscle had gone into spasm at the corner of his mouth and he looked like he was repeatedly attempting a particularly miserable smile. ‘What do you mean, searching everywhere for her?’

Dawn shivered. ‘She lost a daughter years ago and now this Alexia is part of that guilt. It’s like she believes that if she can find her and make sure she’s safe, her own life can move on. So she’s up and down Minshull Street talking to all the girls. Someone said she’d find her in Crimson, so she’s been going there, too.’

‘And she’s been talking to a policeman about it?’

‘Yes, the one I saw at Doctor O’Connor’s surgery. Alex, do you know what this is about? That night in the motel-’

He slammed the mirror down on the bedside table, cracking the glass. ‘Give me her address.’

‘Why?’

He sat on the edge of the bed, knees sticking out from under the hem of his nightie. ‘Gordon Dean was a pervert.’

Dawn stared at him in silence.

‘He wanted to tie me to that bed, wanted to perform his sick fantasies on me.’ He glanced at her. ‘He wanted to humiliate me.’

Dawn’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘What are you saying?’

‘God knows, he’d have tried to kill me if I’d let him bind my hands. But I asked to tie him up first. He liked that. He was the same as the others, not interested in me as a woman. Just interested in me as a freak.’ His hand went to his groin and he grabbed his penis through his nightie. ‘If this was gone, he wouldn’t have been interested. Yes, I killed him and took his money.’

Dawn turned slowly to look at the fifty-pound notes on the bed. ‘You killed him?’

‘Dawn, we’re so close to getting out.’ He held his hand up.

‘It’s within reach. You and me, living together in Amsterdam. No fear of persecution. We’ll be so happy together. But this Fiona’s determined to ruin it for us. I need her address. What is it?’

‘What will you do?’

‘Just talk to her. Explain that I’m Alexia. Show her that I’m all right and ask her to leave us alone.’

He got up and pulled a purple tracksuit on over the nightie.

‘Her address, Dawn. Give it to me please.’

Dawn was hunched over, gently rocking herself back and forth. ‘You killed him?’

He regarded her for a second, then turned to the mirror and starting applying make-up, vainly trying to mask the bruising around his nose and below his eyes. After that he put the wig on, teasing strands of hair forwards so they hung over his eyes. Next he took a chiffon scarf and wrapped it round his neck, fluffing the folds of material up so his jaw was hidden. ‘The address, Dawn.’

The room was silent.

He put on a pair of high heels, then turned round. Her handbag was on the bed. His footsteps were loud as he stepped across and picked it up. Her address book was in there and he began flicking through the pages. There weren’t many entries.

Finally Dawn looked up. ‘No, you mustn’t! Give it to me.’ She made a feeble lunge for the book but he batted her hand away. ‘Is this her? Fiona Wilson? It is, isn’t it?’

‘Leave her alone!’ She tried to stand but he shoved her back on the bed. The first time he’d ever used force against her. She curled into a ball as he ripped the page out and strode from the room.

The buzzer made Fiona’s hand jolt. She grabbed a tissue and wiped off the bit of misapplied lipstick. Then she looked towards the door. No one had arranged to come round. Besides, she had to be at the hotel airport in under an hour: her first client was expecting her.

The buzzer went again.

This time Fiona replaced the lipstick in her make-up bag and stood. She straightened her dress and walked over to the door. As she peered out into the hallway the buzzer went yet again.

She padded across to the outer door and looked through the peephole to the street. All she could see was rain drifting down and a huge bunch of flowers.

Joanne Perkins, she thought. It must be a good-luck gesture. Something she does for all her escorts before their first date. How sweet.

She opened the door and looked out. The flowers dropped to the doorstep and her husband’s dripping face leered at her.

‘Found you, you fucking bitch.’

The sour stink of whisky hit her in the face.

Fiona tried to slam the door, but he jammed his foot into the gap. Knowing she’d never get her bedsit door locked in time, she whirled round and darted for the stairs. As she raced up them his footsteps were heavy behind her. She ran into the bathroom and slid the heavy brass bolt shut. The window was half open when he started kicking the door. Climbing out on to the windowsill, she reached an arm round the wet drainpipe. Her car was parked directly below, spare key hidden in the gap between the bricks.