Skin

  Legend Press Ltd, 107-111 Fleet Street, London, EC4A 2AB

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Liam Brown 2019

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-78955-0-405

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-78955-0-399

  Set in Times. Printing managed by Jellyfish Solutions Ltd

  Cover design by Kari Brownlie | www.karibrownlie.co.uk

  Chapter illustrations by Ed Homer | edhomer@live.co.uk

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Liam Brown’s debut novel Real Monsters was longlisted for the Guardian ’s Not the Booker prize in 2015 and followed by Wild Life in 2016. His latest novel Broadcast was optioned by a major Hollywood film studio and sold into multiple languages. Skin is his forth novel. He lives in Birmingham with his wife and two children.

  Stalk Liam

  on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

  @liambrownwriter

  For my mother, who carried me first. Who carries me still.

  Emergency Alert

  CITIZENS. FOLLOWING THE RECENT SPELL OF DISRUPTION, WE CAN CONFIRM A LARGE-SCALE RELIEF EFFORT IS NOW IN PROGRESS. NORMAL ELECTRICITY, WATER AND INTERNET SUPPLIES HAVE RESUMED. DETAILED INFORMATION PERTAINING TO YOUR SAFETY AND HEALTH FOLLOWING THE OUTBREAK OF PH1N2(C) VIRUS (CEBU FLU) IS EXPECTED IMMINENTLY. IN THE MEANTIME, THE MINISTRY FOR HEALTH RECOMMEND THAT YOU:

  1: AVOID ALL PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH LIVESTOCK, PETS AND PEOPLE.

  2: MINIMISE EXPOSURE TO OTHERS, EVEN IF THEY APPEAR WELL.

  3: STAY INDOORS. KEEP DOORS AND WINDOWS SEALED.

  4: REMEMBER TO WASH YOUR HANDS REGULARLY.

  5: STAY CALM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION AND PATIENCE DURING THIS DIFFICULT TIME.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  IT’S HARD TO think of you as anything other than an egg. I’m sorry about that. I know some women like to imagine their donations as babies-in-waiting. Or else picture a near-future nirvana, where ruddy-cheeked, dimple-bottomed sons or daughters sit bouncing contently on their knees. Eyes shimmering. Immune systems fully functioning. But try as I might, I just can’t buy it. It’s been five years since my lap has been used as anything other than a cradle for my computer. I’m not expecting that to change any time soon, either for me or anyone else on the programme.

  And so, I refuse to get sentimental about you, dear Egg. As far as I’m concerned, your fate is to sit frozen on the shelves of some distant laboratory for an indeterminate eternity, lined up amongst a million other hopeful samples. Mislabelled, maybe. Forgotten. Lost. Or perhaps, if you’re really lucky, to be meddled with by some anonymous scientist. Your DNA decoded, mapped and modified as they attempt to edit out the harmful mutations and save the species. And then a few weeks later, when they inevitably discover that it hasn’t worked – that your life is unviable – they’ll simply scrape you away like yesterday’s omelette. Down the pan with all the others. Off to the incinerator. Flushed out to sea.

  Still, as cynical as I am about your prospects as a miracle, I nevertheless acquiesce to do my biannual bit for humanity, just like every other woman of childbearing age. I nod and I smile as I wedge myself into the tiny quarantine tent that constitutes our front porch while a government gynaecologist offers pinched-nose platitudes through their scratchy respirator:

  ‘You’re a superstar for agreeing to do this, Mrs Allen…’

  ‘You’re really helping to build a brighter tomorrow, Angela…’

  ‘Sure thing, Doc!’ I say, gritting my teeth like a trooper as a stranger in a hazmat suit and breathing apparatus goes to work between my legs, prodding at my reproductive organs nervously, as if defusing a weapon of mass destruction. Which I suppose, in a funny way, is precisely what I am now.

  We all are.

  Of course, I’m never really relaxed about the procedure, even after the local anaesthetic and a mild sedative. Despite the dust extraction unit running full blast and both of us clad in protective gear, it is still exceedingly risky. Every minute of every day, the average human sheds between thirty and forty thousand dead skin cells. A sort of invisible aura that follows us around. It would only take a single stray airborne particle to make its way into my suit or, heaven forbid, into the house…

  Well, you know the rest.

  Anyway, now that the doctor has left for her next appointment, I’m stuck here for at least four hours while I wait for the drugs to wear off and the red light above the quarantine door to blink green. As ever, I note that Colin doesn’t have to endure any of this physical discomfort or inconvenience. No, when it’s time for my darling husband to proffer his donation, it’s simply a case of tossing a sparsely filled sample cup into the quarantine area before sloping back to his living quarters to carry on with his work. Or whatever else it is he fills his time with these days. Which, if the muffled grunts and groans that occasionally escape through the walls are anything to go by, mostly seems to be rehearsing for precisely these visits.

  I roll over onto my side and bring my knees to my chest, attempting to dull the spasms in my bruised uterus. It’s difficult to get comfortable in here. Despite constantly nagging Colin to order an upgrade, our quarantine tent is still the standard-issue model we first had fitted four and a half years ago. It’s claustrophobic with just me in it, let alone when it’s being used as a makeshift medical clinic. Coupled with the full body suit and respirator mask that I’m obliged to keep on until I’m safely back in my living quarters, it’s almost unbearable.

  And then there’s the heat. While it’s always pretty warm in our apartment due to the additional insulation between rooms, in the tent it’s like a sauna. Despite the ventilation, the walls are misted with condensation, while inside my suit my skin prickles with perspiration and my mask has fogged up, rendering everything a vague smear of white and grey. After a while I give up staring at the blurry light above the door, which remains a stubborn shade of red, and instead close my eyes, thinking perhaps I’ll try and sleep.

  It’s funny. When it first became apparent that the world was ending – or at least coming apart at the seams – I remember that, as bad as everything was, part of me was actually relieved. At least things would slow down a bit now, I thought. Back then everyone was just so tired all the time. It was a way of life. We’d actually get competitive about it, as if there were a correlation between our moral fibre and our level of sleep deprivation. Four hours a night , we’d brag. Five at a push . We took pride at being the first at our desks in the morning and the last out of the door at night. We’d mainline coffee just to keep going. Leave meetings to splash our faces with cold water. Take power naps in toilet cubicles. Drive home in the dark with the windows rolled down and the music turned up just to prevent ourselves from falling asleep at the wheel. And then we had childcare to contend with. Nutritionally balanced meals to prepare. Gym sessions to slay. A social life to maintain. Family. Friends. Marriages. And when, finally, we crawled into bed at the end of the night, the headboard already rattling with our partner’s apnoeic snores, we s
till couldn’t sleep. No. We just lay there, bathed in the permanent murky brown twilight of the city sky. Unable to wind down. Our bodies vibrating as if electrified. Our heads still spinning as we chewed over the day or drafted imaginary emails, disturbed by the sporadic cricket chirrups of our devices, squinting through sticky eyes to decipher urgent messages, the night punctuated with the arthritic clicks of predictive text, until the next thing we knew, the sun was coming up and it was time to start the whole crazy cycle again.

  But here’s the thing: I’m still tired. I’m permanently exhausted. Because although everything has changed, nothing has changed. Not really. Obviously, there’s no commuting any more. And I don’t have to worry about shopping. I don’t even really have to cook, what with the majority of our food arriving as vacuum-packed, robotically prepared ready meals. Everyone just takes care of themselves.

  Even so, there never seems to be enough hours in the day.

  Work is still the biggest drain on my time. After the initial outbreak, things got back on track surprisingly quickly. Everything is done remotely now, of course. Meetings. Appraisals. Sales. It turns out there’s very little that I did at the office that I can’t do at home. In fact, pretty soon I found myself even busier than before.

  And then there’s the insomnia. It’s still as tough to relax as ever. Regardless of the hour, my phone still rattles with the furious impatience of a wasp under a glass. And, while I no longer have to share my bed with anyone, I still have to put up with the laboured rasps of my husband’s snores coming through the layers of plasterboard and plastic sheeting that separate our rooms.

  Like I say, both everything and nothing has changed.

  WHEN I OPEN my eyes, the light is still red. I haven’t slept. I lie here, staring blankly at the rivulets of condensation running down the inside of my mask. The anaesthetic is starting to fade now, sharp cramps stabbing through my abdomen, like the worst period you can imagine. Somewhere beyond the tent a low rumble starts up. Thump-thump-thump . Still slightly sedated, I initially mistake it for footsteps. I picture Colin coming to see how I’m doing. Fighting his way through the layers of canvas to bring me a cup of tea. A kind word. A kiss.

  Then I remember.

  No one is coming to see me. Colin is locked away in his room, too busy working to even remember I’m out here. In the room beside him, through a few inches of plaster that might as well be a few thousand miles thick, is Charlie. At fourteen he takes isolation in his stride. It’s a way of life for him now. He can’t really remember anything else. He’ll be plugged in too, of course. Headset on, controller in hand. His eyes flitting from his phone to his tablet to his computer screen as he blasts away at whatever homicidal video game he’s playing when he should be doing his homework.

  And then, just down the hall in what used to be our living room, is Amber. That’s where the sound is coming from. My eldest child, pounding away at the treadmill. This is what she does now, for five, sometimes six hours every day. It’s sad really. She’s like a hamster on a wheel. All that work and she still never gets anywhere. I understand, of course. It’s hard enough being seventeen without having to spend your life under house arrest. At her age I was out every night. Getting myself into all sorts of trouble. It’s different for her. There’s no outlet. Just exercise. The treadmill. Skipping rope. Yoga. The punchbag. All that energy. Wasted.

  And maybe it’s the last of the sedative turning me soft, but as I lie here and listen to Amber grinding away on that imaginary road, I wish I could throw my arms around her. Just once. To mop her sweaty brow and crush her body to mine like I did when she was a baby. To hold her and say, ‘Hey, it’s okay. Things are going to get better. Everything will be all right in the end’.

  And now I know it’s the sedative talking. Because in my heart, I don’t really think things are going to get better. No. This is it. Not the world we wanted or deserved, but the only one we’ve got. And in this world, I’ve got about as much chance of hugging Amber again as I have of hugging you, my poor sweet Egg.

  Which is to say, there’s no chance at all.

  TWO

  I REMEMBER THE first person I actually saw die. This was still a good few weeks before the outbreak officially arrived here. Back when the news of a strange virus that had originated in the Philippines was still the stuff of news feeds and social media timelines. Back before phrases like ‘hazmat suit’ and ‘immunodeficiency’ were part of our everyday vocabulary.

  I was in a shopping centre when it happened, a cloud of carrier bags cutting off the blood supply to my fingers, Charlie and Amber skulking close behind me. This was around April, the tail end of what had felt like an endless Easter holiday. The skies filled with a cold, relentless mizzle. The kids jacked up on chocolate and stir-crazy after being cooped up in the house for a fortnight. We were normally more organised than this. We had childminders during the school holidays. Day camps. Sports clubs. Ordinarily the kids were wrapped up and shipped out for a minimum of ten hours a day, returning home suitably subdued each night. For whatever reason, though, our arrangements had fallen through that year, and seeing how Colin’s job was so much more important than mine – or at least, better paid – I’d bitten the bullet and arranged to work from home so I could babysit the children.

  Not that they were babies any more. Even as a toddler, Amber had displayed a fiercely independent streak, batting me away whenever I attempted to brush her teeth or get her dressed. Now she was twelve, you couldn’t tell her anything. Whether it was her school work or baking or gymnastics, she would rather get something wrong – or in the case of her swimming lessons, nearly drown – than take advice. It was as though she saw asking for help as a weakness. A form of cheating. As if an achievement only had any value if you did it entirely alone.

  Perhaps that was why she had recently started placing such importance on her privacy. Her bedroom, in particular, had become a battleground. Overnight, hand-drawn signs had been stuck to the door. Keep Out. No Entry. Forbidden. Suddenly she would scream at anyone who entered her room without express permission. Now to some extent, I could understand this impulse. She’d started her period the year before, and although she tended to dismiss our ‘little chats’ about her body with a loud huff and a shake of the head, as if what I was telling her was the oldest, most embarrassing news in the world, I nevertheless detected a trepidation in her as she transitioned from child to teenager. It was unsurprising she wanted her own space and, while we drew the line at her demands for a lock on her bedroom door, we did concede to knocking before we came in.

  Things weren’t quite as tough with Charlie. Not yet anyway. Three years younger than Amber, he had yet to fully master the less agreeable qualities he would hone as a teenager. That’s not to say he was an angel. Even then, he was prone to sulking, showing flashes of what would later become his trademark cynicism, as if he’d already seen everything the world had to offer and found it all insufferably boring. More worrying was his propensity towards cruelty. I lost track of the times I caught him plucking the legs from a spider. Or pouring salt on a slug, watching the pitiful creature as it fizzed and hissed into a brown puddle on our balcony.

  Still, these horrors were interspersed with moments of sweetness. I remember evenings where he’d lower his guard and curl up on the sofa next to me to watch TV, his head resting on my hip, my fingers teasing at the blond tangles of hair. Or nights when he’d wake up terrified in the dark, eyes wide with the nameless terror of some fast-fading nightmare. Nights when he’d thunder down the hallway into our room and I’d simply hoist him into the air and engulf him in the duvet, pressing his tiny body to mine until he eventually stopped shaking and started snoring instead.

  Sadly, those fleetingly sweet moments were in notably short supply over the course of that holiday. In fact, relations between the three of us had pretty much broken down by that point, the kids constantly squabbling while I was stuck in the middle, desperately trying to work, a frazzled and despondent referee. I remem
ber moaning to Colin each night about the situation. As crazy as it sounds now, I was desperate for personal space. Just like Amber, I wanted a lock on my bedroom door. I felt smothered in the house. Hot and fidgety. At night, I’d lie awake and fantasise about moving out to the countryside. To a house with six bedrooms. Ten bedrooms. Somewhere expansive enough that I would never have to see another person again. Where I could hole up by myself, with no distractions. Or else I pictured a long, winding garden where I could build my own studio, far away from the beasts I shared my life with. I imagined a beautiful, monastic existence. Total silence. Utter isolation.

  If only I knew.

  Towards the end of the holiday there was a break in the incessant rain and I decided the time had come to give in and book an actual day off work. Abandoning my laptop, I dragged the kids out of the house, intending to take them to a local park and force them to run off their cabin fever. By the time we got to the end of the road, however, the sky had curdled black. Rain pummelled the pavement with a renewed sense of purpose, forcing the three of us to sprint back to the car. Which is how I ended up traipsing around a cramped shopping centre with two grumpy children in tow.

  SOMETIMES IT’S DIFFICULT to remember just how busy the world used to be. I guess because of the school holidays, the shopping centre was unbearably full. The escalators churning. The walkways heaving. Wet people, dry people, old people, young people. Business people on their lunch break and young mums with pushchairs and old men with dogs and cyclists carrying fold-up bicycles and workmen in high-vis waistcoats and security guards with cheap black blazers and tattoos on their necks and teenage girls with blue dreadlocks and guitars strapped to their backs.

  People shopping. People looking. People moving. People stopping.

  All races, shapes and sizes.

  Pressed together. Mushed together. Mixed together.

  Merged and funnelled and sheltering from the rain.

  And the sweet awful stink of it all. Expensive perfume mingling with cheap aftershave. Fresh coffee and stale cigarettes. Minty breath and morning breath and garlic breath and dog breath. All of us breathing each other’s air. Stepping in each other’s spaces.