Snakeskins E-Book

Tim Major

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

An SF thriller examining the repercussions of rejuvenation and cloning on individuals' sense of identity and on wider society.Caitlin Hext's first shedding ceremony is imminent, but she's far from prepared to produce a Snakeskin clone. When her Skin fails to turn to dust as expected, she must decide whether she wishes the newcomer alive or dead.Worse still, it transpires that the Hext family may be of central importance to the survival of Charmers, a group of people with the inexplicable power to produce duplicates every seven years and, in the process, rejuvenate. In parallel with reporter Gerry Chafik and government aide Russell Handler, Caitlin must prevent the Great British Prosperity Party from establishing a corrupt new world order.Snakeskins is an SF thriller examining the repercussions of rejuvenation and cloning on individuals' sense of identity and on wider society, with the tone of classic John Wyndham stories and the multi-strand storytelling style of modern TV series such as Channel 4's Humans.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for Tim Major

By Tim Major and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Also Available from Titan Books

“Startling imagery, deft storytelling, and assured and engaging writing make Snakeskins simply unmissable.”

Tim Lebbon

“John Wyndham meets Black Mirror in Tim Major’s scintillating novel, a parallel world thriller, which takes as its themes duplicity, paranoia and what it truly means to be human. Snakeskins wrapped its coils around me and wouldn’t let go.”

Mark Morris

“A premise worthy of Wyndham becomes a twisty political SF thriller in the hands of Major. Snakeskins is full of action and surprise, keeping me reading, but the real hook lies in the rich seam of humanity within.”

Aliya Whiteley

“Another great page-turner from Tim Major! We follow Caitlin, a teenage girl, whose ability to produce ‘snakeskin’ clones causes emotional ripples that spread more widely than she’d ever anticipated. It’s a gripping and thought-provoking tale, with Major exploring the wider implications of cloning and extended life-spans in the growth of a corrupt new government which has consequences for all.”

Alison Littlewood

“The world-building is subtle and convincing, a plausible alternate UK where isolationist foreign policy has retarded the country's technological and economic progress. A cautionary tale for our times.”

James Brogden

“Whether as page-turning thriller, coming of age story, or timely satire on a broken Britain, Snakeskins is a delight.”

Robert Shearman

“Tim Major has a talent for combining big ideas to create something exciting. With Snakeskins he gives us an SF thriller brimming with questions about identity.”

Priya Sharma

Praise for Tim Major

“Tim Major is an exceptional writer.”

Adam Roberts

“Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down until I reached the end.”

Lynda Rucker on Carus and Mitch

“That perfect blend of cautionary tale, psychological horror and introspective character study.”

The Eloquent Page on You Don't Belong Here

“It has freshness and it’s fluently written entertainment.”

Rising Shadow

“Strongly recommended for fans of original and uniquely weird fiction.”

Ginger Nuts of Horror on Blighters

BY TIM MAJOR AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Snakeskins

Hope Island (May 2020)

TITAN BOOKS

SnakeskinsPrint edition ISBN: 9781789090789E-book edition ISBN: 9781789090796

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First edition: May 201910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2019 Tim Major

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Mum

ONE

Caitlin gasped at the cold sting of the wind. Gusts had licked at her cagoule the entire way, but now whistled at high speed through narrow gaps between the rock columns. It felt as though her skin was bare.

The sky had cleared during the last half an hour as dusk fell. Caitlin enjoyed seeing the stars – low cloud cover made her claustrophobic – but tonight she would have preferred being less aware of the umbrella of bright speckles above. The pale moon and the imagined constellations, planets and distant galaxies all contributed to her sense of being watched.

Her dad, Ian, turned on the path ahead. His cheeks shone. “It’s just around this outcrop. But we’ll have to hurry.”

Caitlin jogged to reach his side. She took his hand and squeezed. He nodded and they set off along the gravel track and around the copper-coloured rock formation.

She had been here before, when she was around seven or eight. Her memories of the rocks were indistinct, but she could recall the gift shop in vivid detail. Her mum had bought her a Red Riding Hood doll which, when turned inside out, became the wolf.

“There,” Ian said. He raised their joined hands to point.

Caitlin squinted against the gloom. They ought to have brought torches. When he had grudgingly opened the gates after subjecting their ID cards to absurd scrutiny, the gatekeeper had warned them that there were no lamps to light the paths.

The Idol was a shocking white as if the moonlight illuminated only that single formation out of all of the Brimham Rocks. It was twice as wide as Caitlin was tall. Its lumpen, curved shape reminded her of an enormous molar. It balanced precariously on a tiny hillock of stone which had eroded over centuries to become an unlikely base for the monolith above it.

She placed both her hands on the lower, bulbous section of the rock, expecting it to shift under her weight. A single slender cloud knifed across the moon and she drew away sharply. The movement had tricked her. The Idol seemed to be tipping.

“It’s actually smaller than I expected,” she said.

Her dad flinched. Immediately, Caitlin regretted her comment. The Idol had been her mum’s favourite. A postcard image of it was still Blu-Tacked to their kitchen wall.

Ian sucked in air, clapped his hands and spun slowly on the spot. “Strange. She’s not here.”

“What?” Caitlin said, still lingering on thoughts of her mum. “What did you say?”

“The lady. Where is she?” Ian said. “And for that matter, where’s your uncle?”

Despite the circumstances, Caitlin had almost forgotten that they weren’t alone.

After a minute or so, Tobe emerged from the darkness. He had pulled his sweatshirt hood up; the grey expanse of cotton made him look as though he had been produced by the same weathering processes as the lumpy rock formations.

Ian bent down. He slung his rucksack from his shoulders and began rifling through its contents.

“Guys!” Tobe shouted.

Caitlin winced. She felt instinctively that they ought to keep their voices down. She didn’t reply.

Tobe plodded over. He glanced up at the Idol, unimpressed.

“Guys,” he said again, still loud. “There’s a better one back there. It’s up high, as if it’s looking down on the whole place. The map calls it the Eagle and it’s true, it really is like one, ready to swoop down or shit out an egg or something. What could be more rock and roll than an eagle?” He looked up again. “Speaking of which, this rock looks like it’s ready to roll, any second.”

He launched himself at the Idol. Both of his hands slapped against the stone surface. It didn’t shift.

Caitlin grinned at his undisguised disappointment.

Ian stood up, now holding a crimson velour-covered notebook. Caitlin had seen it before, on the shelves in her mum’s old study.

“No, Tobe,” Ian said. “We’re doing this here.”

Tobe stretched to his full height, towering over Ian, a visual echo of the Idol. “Because why? This is my night, isn’t it?”

The notepad shook in Ian’s grip. Caitlin stepped between the two men. Sometimes she had to remind herself that Tobe really was an adult, that he was seven-and-a-bit years older than her. That this was his second shedding.

Tobe had wanted the ceremony to take place at a stone circle somewhere down south, after he’d seen it on a heavy metal album sleeve. He’d even gone to the trouble of buying a T-shirt with the band’s logo printed on it. Caitlin knew for a fact that he was wearing it today, beneath his hoody.

“You know why,” Ian replied.

Tobe’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not right, Janet still getting to call the shots.”

“Don’t, Tobe.”

Tobe continued, “If my sister liked all this crap so much, why didn’t she hang around long enough to be here? Some Charmer she turned out to be.”

“She didn’t have any say about that, did she?” Caitlin whispered. Tobe was always shooting his mouth off. It didn’t mean anything.

“Dunno,” Tobe replied. He stole a glance at Ian. “Maybe she did.”

Caitlin grasped at her father’s arm, a second too late.

“I warned you!” Ian hissed as he threw himself at his brother-in-law.

Ian Hext had never been a fighter. His first punch missed Tobe entirely; on the second, his hand tangled with the hood of Tobe’s sweatshirt. The third made contact, though. Caitlin gasped as her dad’s knuckles crunched into Tobe’s right eye.

She pulled her father away. He stumbled, almost toppling on top of her.

Tobe staggered, too. The back of his head smacked against the Idol.

She half expected him to attack her father. Instead, Tobe looked as though he might cry. “I’m telling you,” he said. “That’s all. That’s the last time I’m telling you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin noticed something moving on the path.

The woman was walking in fits and starts, alternately sprinting for a few seconds and then hobbling awkwardly. Her shoes crunched on the gravel; the sharp sounds echoed from the rock surfaces on either side of the track. Her unbuttoned jacket made dark wings behind her.

When she finally reached them she was almost breathless. “Toby Hext?” She turned from Ian to Tobe and back again.

Reluctantly, Tobe raised his hand, as though he were being asked a question in school, as though he was the sixteen-year-old rather than Caitlin. A red swell had already appeared beneath his right eye where Ian had hit him.

“Blaine,” the woman said. At first Caitlin wondered if she was trying to clear her throat, until she extended her hand towards Tobe. “Ms Blaine. From the department.”

Tobe shook her hand limply, then jammed both hands into his pockets.

“You didn’t wait for me,” Ms Blaine said.

“That’s exactly what we were doing, right here,” Ian said.

She glared at him, as though he ought not to be there at all. “I mean in town. You were supposed to give me a lift. I told you I don’t drive. Why you people choose such out-of-the-way spots, I’ll never know. I had to get a taxi and of course then there was this whole godforsaken park to tramp around before I—”

Caitlin glared at her. “What the hell do you mean, ‘you people’?”

“Cait,” Ian said softly.

Caitlin wriggled, shrugging him off even though he hadn’t put a hand on her. “No. Seriously. Ms Blaine? Explain to me what you meant by ‘you people’. Right this minute.”

Ms Blaine looked at each of the men in a silent appeal for help. Neither responded. “I— It’s not that I—” Her face crumpled. “I apologise. I don’t know why I said that. This is my first time.”

With a touch of guilt, Caitlin realised that she was enjoying this sense of righteous anger. “Yeah, well you ought to know better. And I tell you now, when it comes to my turn to shed, I’ll be making bloody clear that I don’t want a Ms Blaine coming anywhere near me or my Skin. Understand?”

“Understand. Yes, I do.” The woman shuddered. She turned her attention to the oversized handbag looped over her arm. She pulled out a clipboard with a single A4 sheet attached, though on the first attempt she dropped it through trembling fingers.

Ian checked his watch. “It’s very nearly time.”

Ms Blaine came to life again. “The regulations state a minimum of five metres. Mr Hext – may I call you Toby? Where would you most like to be?”

“In bed.”

“No, I mean…”

“I know what you mean. I’ll be over here.” Tobe gestured towards the Idol. “You all piss off over there, on the path.”

Ian pulled a bundle of dark green cloth from the rucksack. He held it out to Tobe. When Tobe didn’t take it, Ian pressed it into his hands. Tobe pushed the fabric under his arm without unfolding it.

Ms Blaine’s eyes were fixed on her clipboard. “There are a few housekeeping rules, of course. Have you eaten or drunk within the last hour? Have you relinquished all electronic devices? And, of course, you must remove your clothes before it begins.”

Tobe brandished a crinkled chocolate bar wrapper and his brand-new pager. “You can fuck off if you think I’m going to do a strip show for you all.”

“Oh! But you must—”

Caitlin pushed Ms Blaine backwards the few paces to the path, with more force than she had intended, and had to tug on the lapels of the woman’s jacket to keep her from falling. Something about this whole situation was bringing out the worst in her.

“Ms Blaine,” Ian said. “It’s straightforward, it really is. I’m sure that most of those rules are only for reassurance. We’ve done this before and none of it matters. More to the point, there really isn’t time.”

Ms Blaine relented with a deep sigh. “Well, in that case it remains only for me to say—” She peered at the clipboard, raising it to her face.

“No you bloody well don’t,” Caitlin said. “Dad will take over from here, thanks all the same.”

Ian nodded. His fingers slid along the edge of the crimson notebook and opened it at the page marked with a ribbon. He cleared his throat and began to read. “Toby Richard Hext, son of Colin and Juliet Hext, grandson of Ezra and Maria and before them Ingrid and Oscar. Then others, all the way back to Madeleine and David…”

“Faster,” Ms Blaine whispered. She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter around her. Caitlin’s mother would have tutted and told her she’d catch her death, coming out into the night dressed like that.

Ian glanced at his watch and nodded. His finger traced down the page, moving past chunks of notes. “On this, the fourteenth day of June of the year 2020, we witness this shedding of skin, and with it we honour this momentous event, this defining point in your life.”

Caitlin turned her attention to Tobe. He stood inert beside the Idol, which seemed to totter in the shimmering moonlight. He still had his hands jammed into his pockets and Caitlin could hear his teeth chattering.

She realised that her dad was nearing the end of the speech. It hardly mattered that she had missed it, though. She’d be hearing it again before long.

“Any second,” Ms Blaine said.

“Five,” Ian said.

Tobe pulled himself upright, having slouched more and more during Ian’s speech.

“Four… three…”

Ms Blaine pulled her clipboard close as if it might stop her shivering.

“Two.”

Caitlin looked at her father, then at Tobe again.

“One.”

Tobe cleared his throat. So did Ms Blaine.

Nothing happened.

And then it began.

All of a sudden, Tobe looked petrified. Was the shuddering part of the shedding? His pained expression made him look as though he was trying to keep his bladder in check.

A green light appeared behind him. No, not behind. Around. Caitlin had seen pictures and videos of sheddings before, but up close it was different. It reminded her of videos she’d seen of the Northern Lights. The green halo moved constantly, shifting and licking out from Tobe’s body – not flames exactly, more like projected images of flames.

It lasted for about thirty seconds.

And then there he was.

There they were.

Tobe gazed out at them, then to his right to see what they were seeing. He cleared his throat again.

Beside him stood Tobe. Another Tobe, naked. Just like the first, this Tobe’s rust-coloured hair was plastered down on one side, sticking up on the other. A red swelling made an island blotch under his right eye. Caitlin looked at the original Tobe. His injured eye was as good as new. The swelling had healed instantly.

The new Tobe – the Snakeskin – blinked several times. He shivered.

Caitlin felt suddenly ashamed at seeing his nakedness. She shivered too. Abruptly, she recognised her own fear. Not fear of Tobe and his twin, but fear for herself, for her own future. She rubbed her eyes. Grow up.

One of the Snakeskin’s hands darted downwards to cover his genitals. The other hand stretched out towards his twin.

The original Tobe didn’t respond at first. He stared at his Skin, at the grasping fingers. Then he realised what the gesture meant. He passed the bundle of green cloth over, careful not to let his hand touch his twin’s. The Skin let the cloth billow out in the wind, then pulled the thick green cape around his body. It covered his flesh from his neck almost to his toes. He kept shuffling from side to side. The ground beneath his feet was smooth, cold rock.

Tobe – the real Tobe, the ‘originator’ – pointed at his twin. His top lip curled, perhaps in disgust. “Can I talk to him?”

Caitlin reminded herself that Tobe had been seventeen the only other time he had shed, only slighter older than she was now. Seven years was a long time. For all his bravado, he must be terrified. Perhaps no Charmer ever got used to it.

It was Ian who answered. “If you want. There aren’t any rules about that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin noticed Ms Blaine writing something on her clipboard form.

“All right?” Tobe said, addressing the Snakeskin.

The new Tobe looked a little shell-shocked. The licks of green halo carried on shimmering around him for a few moments more, before dissipating.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You know what’s happening? You know you’re a Skin?”

“Yeah.”

Caitlin hadn’t considered beforehand what the Skin might say. It made sense that it might not be particularly interesting. She remembered a phrase from IT class about computer coding in BASIC: Garbage in, garbage out. Not that Uncle Tobe was garbage, but he had never been the sparkiest conversationalist either.

Caitlin edged forwards. Ian put his hand on her arm: no closer.

She felt a sudden determination. She couldn’t let the moment pass without participating. Surely it was her right to ask a question. She was next in line.

The wind picked up again. Caitlin had to raise her voice to speak to the Skin. “Are you scared?”

“Yeah.” The Skin gazed at her. Even at that distance, she saw something different there, something she had never seen before in Tobe’s eyes. “Yeah,” he said again. “I fucking am.”

Ms Blaine checked her watch. Caitlin felt like hitting her, as her dad had hit Tobe.

Ian clucked his tongue, then turned his attention to the notebook. “We honour you,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “And with your arrival we acknowledge this important milestone in the life of Toby Richard Hext. With your passing, he will learn and grow. You are the instrument of his maturation. We thank you.”

He closed the book. Nobody said anything. The only sound Caitlin could hear was the chattering of teeth – the Skin’s, this time. Beside him, Tobe hugged himself tight, only sneaking quick looks at his twin.

“Any second now,” Ms Blaine said.

The Skin looked down at his hands. The green halo reappeared, rippling around his fingers. The aurora snuck underneath the cloak, then reappeared at his neck.

Abruptly, the light disappeared. Caitlin squinted, forcing her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Oh shit,” the Snakeskin said. “I don’t—”

The cape dropped to the ground. It was almost too fast for Caitlin to process what had happened, exactly, but she was certain that it had started at his feet, then crept upwards. In her alarm, Caitlin fixated on a trivial detail: what was holding him up for those few seconds or milliseconds, when the lower part of his body had disappeared?

Then ash, or smoke, or perhaps skin cells, drifted away. It floated northwards away from the Idol.

Caitlin replayed the scene in her mind. It was impossible to be sure whether the Skin’s face really had lasted longer than the rest of him, or whether it was only that the look in his eyes had imprinted on her retina. But she found that if she closed her eyes, she could still picture his expression with absolute clarity. The look on his face suggested that he felt no sense of acceptance about what was happening. Just terror.

After nearly a minute of silence, Ms Blaine said, “Right, then.”

“Can we go now?” Tobe said.

Ian nodded. Caitlin followed the rest of the group along the gravel track, past the looming rocks, back to the car. Nobody said a word.

TWO

Gerry Chafik fidgeted within the curves of the soft leather chair, trying to find a posture that was comfortable but that kept her feet on the floor. The chair seemed to have been designed to lull people into drowsiness. She hooked her ankles around the chair legs and perched on the tip of the seat. It hurt her calves, but that would keep her alert.

The door to the office crashed open. “Geraldine!”

Gerry scowled. The only people who called her Geraldine were those who didn’t know her, or those who were trying to needle her. Zemma Finch had been her editor for eight years.

She stood, wiped her hand on her skirt and held it out. “Zemma. Good to see you. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to visit the new place.”

Zemma looked around, as if she too were seeing her surroundings for the first time. She was as immaculate as ever. Her honey-coloured hair fell in loose waves, a straight-from-the-salon appearance, like in the ads. Gerry resisted the urge to tug at her own tight braids.

“It’ll do,” Zemma said.

Beyond the glass wall of Zemma’s corner office, heads bobbed in a sea of bulbous CRT screens and low partition walls. Most of these people were project managers and editorial assistants, Gerry knew. The real journalists were all out in the field. She snorted even as she thought the phrase. In the field. Out to pasture, more like.

Zemma sauntered to her desk. Behind it was a low counter, the walls decorated with a mosaic of computer keyboards. During her long wait, Gerry had checked that the keys really could be pressed. Zemma pushed the Enter key on one of the keyboards and a hidden door swung open. She retrieved a bottle of tonic and two glasses and placed them on the desk. Then she sat in an oversized armchair, more like a throne than an office chair. Gerry noticed for the first time that there was no desktop computer upon Zemma’s vast desk. This was an office for displaying authority rather than for performing actual work.

Zemma poured tonic into the glasses. “I’d add gin, but it’s rather…”

Gerry eased herself into her ludicrous chair. She nodded. Clearly the time of day wasn’t an issue – Zemma’s long delay in showing up meant that it was already well after five. Alcoholic drinks were reserved for more important people.

Zemma pushed a glass towards Gerry, leant back and steepled her fingers. Her manicured nails tapped together.

“So.”

Gerry took a breath. “So. Thanks for agreeing to this meeting, Zemma.”

“It’s always a pleasure. You’re the wheels that keep this newspaper running. All of you are, I mean.”

Gerry’s buttocks tensed. She was in danger of slipping into the cup of the chair, at the precise moment she needed to remain in control.

“I need to know where I stand,” she said.

Zemma arched an eyebrow. Her eyes flicked down to Gerry’s chair.

“The takeover,” Gerry continued, speaking more quickly. “The changes. It’s all been far more profound than we were led to believe – more than just a new owner and a new tabloid format. I need to know… Is Folk still Folk, beneath the flashy new red-top banner? I need to know that we’re still about news. It doesn’t matter than it’s given out for free at tube stations. It doesn’t matter that it’s rammed full of adverts. People still want news when they read a newspaper. Right?”

Zemma sipped her drink. “That’s a lot of questions, Geraldine. Perhaps you should pick just one.”

“I’ll pick a different one, then. Where do I fit in?”

“I’d say… current affairs.”

“That could be anything.”

“Current affairs with a lifestyle hook.”

“What does that even mean?” Gerry paused, then shook her head. “No. That’s not my question, after all. My question is, why haven’t my last five stories been printed anywhere in the newspaper? And the one before, the only one you’ve actually published since the Cormorant buyout, why did you bury it just before the sport?”

Zemma offered a sickening smile. “We don’t care.”

“You—” Gerry blinked. “You don’t care? You, meaning Zemma Finch, or you, meaning Folk?”

“Neither. Both. I mean the readers, Geraldine. And I still class myself as one, an avid one, regardless of my exalted position. We readers simply don’t care about the stories you’ve written.”

Gerry leapt to her feet; her chair spun slowly across the carpet. She leant on Zemma’s desk. Its marble surface was ice cold.

“Gerry,” she hissed. “My name is Gerry.”

Zemma’s eyelashes fluttered in a display of surprise. Even so, she appeared more amused than alarmed.

“Our readers,” she said in a slow voice, as though speaking to a child, “want short, sharp stories. For their dreary commute, you see. This isn’t an issue of the takeover, or the new format. It’s a matter of entertainment, Geraldine. Gerry.”

“It’s not supposed to be entertainment.”

“It isn’t? So it’s supposed to be about the dry facts, is that right? That’s all well and good, but put it this way: if there’s a factual article in the woods and there’s nobody there to read it…”

Gerry stared at her. She wished she had the nerve to hold her tongue, to force Zemma to complete the idiotic analogy. She lasted only a few seconds. “I’ve been doing important work. These are stories that people would read, if only you actually published them. More to the point, they’re stories that people need to know about.”

“You’ve become rather a specialist.”

“That’s what journalists do, Zemma. They find a subject and they follow it.”

“Some might say obsessively.”

Gerry gave an exasperated sigh. “We’re talking about Snakeskins, Zemma. Charmers and Snakeskins. The most important and least understood development of the last two hundred years, eclipsing the Industrial Revolution, world peace, the founding of Great British Prosperity. It would be a crime not to investigate further, to try and comprehend. People want that.”

“Oh, people want it, all right.”

“I have a new report,” Gerry said, aware that she was gabbling. “I wanted to bring it to you personally. A first-hand account by a Charmer. He talks about the psychological discomfort involved in shedding. Wait, that’s not all. He’s outraged by the levels of secrecy in Charmer society. He has family members in the Party, and if I could follow up on those leads… I swear, Zemma, people don’t know a fraction of the ways in which Charmers wield power. We could serialise this thing for weeks.”

Zemma opened a desk drawer and produced a purple cardboard folder. “It all sounds terribly conspiratorial. My assessment would be that this source of yours is overstating his hand in order to be noticed. As for the report you have written… it’s simply the angle that you’re getting wrong. This is 2020, not the Victorian era. People don’t want dry ‘accounts’ of sheddings. I assume this source of yours is pretty average, is that right? Just a ‘bloke’, like you and me and our readers?”

Gerry’s lips tightened. She nodded.

“Now these are what people want.” Zemma opened the folder and spread a handful of documents across the gleaming surface of the desk.

They were photos. The images were almost entirely black, with only faint sources of light that illuminated the handful of figures. In the first photos the people were all in one corner, as if the photographer had been far away, or as if he or she hadn’t known quite where to point the camera. The people were arranged in a semicircle.

Despite herself, Gerry bent closer. In each successive picture, the figures grew in size. The photographer must have been sneaking towards them, hidden in the darkness.

All but one of the figures had their backs to the camera. Gerry realised that she recognised the woman facing the camera, standing before a fire in an ornate iron brazier. Her build was slighter than the people around her. Her shoulder-length hair shone white.

“That’s Rebecca Verne,” Gerry said.

Zemma nodded.

“And she’s a—”

Another nod.

“She turned fifty-two last week,” Zemma said. “You’d never know it, would you?”

“Seriously? Rebecca Verne’s a Charmer?” Gerry already felt foolish for caring. “How has she kept it secret all this time?”

“You know what that industry’s like. Ever since she began as a Pinewood starlet – at a more advanced age than you might expect – she’s been surrounded by an entourage, protected from the real world. Who’s going to let on?”

Throughout Rebecca Verne’s acting career, and despite her glamorous red carpet appearances at premieres and awards ceremonies, she had specialised in down-to-earth roles. She was loved for her empathy and her ability to hold a mirror to people in all strata of society. And all this time, she had been a Charmer. The British public would be outraged. But any sense of unfairness would be overwhelmed by fascination.

“It gets better,” Zemma said. She pushed a few photos aside to reveal the ones at the bottom of the pile.

Now the photographer had reached a position close enough to be able to frame Rebecca Verne perfectly. She wore a long, loose, grey gown studded with pinpricks of bright white – probably sequins, but the effect was that it looked as though her own body were the source of illumination, rather than the fire. Her face was that of somebody half her age. There were no creases or any hint of looseness to the skin.

In the next photo Rebecca was looking up at the sky. Her mouth was open, perhaps in speech.

“Why did she do it outside?” Gerry wondered aloud.

“Basic hygiene, darling,” Zemma replied. “All that dust.”

Gerry glanced at the next picture. Now Rebecca’s body really was glowing, but with a greenish light rather than the white of her sequins or the yellow of the fire. The photographer kept her framed within the left-hand side of the image. The right-hand side was empty and black.

Zemma pulled another photo from the pile.

Gerry couldn’t stop herself from gasping.

Rebecca Verne stood beside Rebecca Verne. The originator still faced the sky. The newcomer looked to her right, at the first woman.

And, of course, the Snakeskin Rebecca was naked. Either she was unashamed, or she hadn’t yet the presence of mind to care, but her arms hung at her sides, displaying a taut, pale body. She was beautiful. They were both beautiful.

In the next photo, one of the entourage had already placed a cape around the Snakeskin’s shoulders. The cape still revealed a wide V of the Snakeskin’s flesh, as though it were a designer gown.

“This is the one,” Zemma said, pointing at the next image.

The man with the cloak had retreated again. Now the original Rebecca Verne, the Charmer, had turned to face the newcomer. They regarded each other levelly. Though one wore a shimmering gown and the other a plain black cape, in every other respect they were identical. Even their blond hair was styled in exactly the same manner. Gerry peered at the two faces. If there was a difference, it was in their expressions. The Charmer’s nose tilted upwards very slightly, making her look a touch imperious. The Skin held her head fractionally further back, as if mid-flinch. It was only a faint hint, but she appeared afraid.

“Tomorrow’s front page,” Zemma said.

“Not that one, then?” Gerry pointed at the photo of the naked Rebecca.

“It’s glorious, isn’t it? But no. We couldn’t afford the court battle. Never fear, the picture won’t be wasted. Miss Verne will pay for that one herself.”

Gerry pushed the front-page image to one side. In the next photo, the framing of the two Rebeccas had gone askew. By the next one, they were barely visible at the corner of the image. The photographer must have turned and run.

No matter how illicitly the photos had been gained, they were undeniably fascinating. Gerry hated herself for what she was about to say. “Zemma, if you want I could—”

Zemma shook her head. “We have all the details we need. The story writes itself, or at least a junior assistant will write it, which amounts to the same thing. Frankly, the photos speak for themselves.”

Gerry scolded herself for the distraction. “So we’re back to my first question, then. Where do I fit in, Zemma?”

The editor gazed up, her chair swaying slightly.

“I’m not going to beg,” Gerry said, though she felt on the cusp of doing exactly that.

Zemma turned to look through the floor-to-ceiling window into the main office. Gerry suddenly realised what had been alien about the newsroom when she had passed through it earlier – the lack of phones ringing or any voices in discussion.

“I think I can answer the question myself,” Gerry said.

Resisting a last look at the photos on Zemma’s desk, she turned and left.

***

Despite his hurry, Russell Handler forced himself to walk at a steady pace, checking and rechecking the heavy box to ensure it didn’t tip. He staggered past the stone steps of the overgrown botanic gardens and across Magdalen Bridge, which divided the town centre, with its ancient college buildings emblazoned with Great British Prosperity Party banners, from the grubby East Oxford suburbs. The dawn sunlight skidded across the surface of the river and through the gaps between the stone balustrades, blinding him intermittently.

He scowled at an express supermarket. The shelves were only half-full of stock, but even so the shop could have provided equivalents of everything in the cardboard box he was carrying. But his boss had his particular tastes. Ellis insisted that Russell buy groceries from the St Giles delicatessen in North Oxford – a shop that Ellis himself passed on his journey to work each day. Still, perhaps it was this kind of choosiness that marked somebody out as suitable for the highest ranks of politics. Perhaps, if and when Russell reached the higher levels of the GBP, he would demand such things from his subordinates.

“Hey, chum!”

Russell saw the man lurch out of the doorway of a boarded-up shop. Russell veered away, staggering with the momentum produced by the heavy box.

“Anything in there for me, chum?”

The man hadn’t blocked Russell’s way, not quite. His expression was good-natured enough and his dark stubble emphasised his smile. Still, there was no telling whether he might suddenly become dangerous. One of his front teeth was missing. Beneath his duffel coat Russell glimpsed a black shirt emblazoned with the red bull of the Morris Motors logo. Perhaps the man had worked at the Cowley plant before he fell on hard times. Or perhaps he still worked there.

“It’s just paperwork,” Russell said. He shuddered involuntarily as something within the box clinked loudly. He thought of the six glass jars of chutney, the two bottles of freshly squeezed apple juice, the horrendously expensive jar of boiled sweets. He winced.

The man tilted his head to read the printed text on the box. “Says it’s food. I’m proper hungry.”

Might he attack Russell in public, in daylight? The side road that led to the office was only a hundred metres away. Not for the first time, Russell cursed Ellis for locating the office in East Oxford, with its early-morning drunks, its sick-puddle evidence of last night’s debauchery. Reputable businesses tended to be in the town centre or Jericho. Closer to the deli.

The man studied his face. “Got a couple of quid, then?”

Russell shook his head.

“Fifty pee?”

“Look, I’m going to call for help if you don’t leave me alone. All right?”

The man reached forward. When Russell jerked away, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Types like you shouldn’t come here,” the man said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

The man scratched his beard. “What’s your business, then?”

“Party. I mean, I’m a government employee.”

“Shit. Really? GBP, round here? What the hell for?”

“We only moved in three months ago. It’s a new department, still setting up. Redevelopment and Funding.”

The man glanced at the faded newspaper pasted in the window of the abandoned premises beside them, then at the heaps of litter piled against the shopfront. Somebody had spray-painted onto a nearby wall the words SKINS GO HOME followed by a large upward-pointing arrow. He looked down at himself and seemed surprised at the filth on his jeans. “You going to help us, then? Fund us? We going to get some redevelopment round here?”

“No. I mean, yes. Not straight away. There are some greenfield sites, north of the city. And the retail park’s going to be—”

“I get it,” the man said. “It’s not for us. I get it all, now, the way you’re looking at me. It’s not just that you’re loaded, is it? You’re one of them.”

Russell felt his cheeks glow.

The man backed away. “Wouldn’t have got up close and personal if I’d known. Okay?”

Russell didn’t dare speak for fear of changing the man’s opinion of him. The man’s sense of deference was appropriate, of course – if he’d been correct. Russell felt guilty contentment at the thought of being assumed ‘one of them’. He held his breath and pushed past.

Behind him, the man muttered, “Tight-arse. Fucking tight-arse Charmers.”

By the time Russell reached the office complex on Marston Street, his fingers felt as though they might uncurl at any moment, spilling his precious cargo onto the filthy pavement. He balanced the box on his knee to fish out his ID pass.

The door to the complex burst open before he reached it.

Russell’s fall felt like slow motion; he managed to half-support the box all the way to the ground. A snap of glass accompanied its landing. Something wet seeped through the cardboard and into Russell’s cupped hands.

A woman backed out of the building. She wore a smart grey suit, though her hair was unkempt. She didn’t acknowledge Russell sprawled on the floor.

“I know your name, you know!” she shouted at somebody inside the building. Russell saw the office security guard standing behind his counter. He looked distraught.

The woman didn’t let the security guard interrupt. “If he’s having an affair, and if I find out you’ve been covering for him, you’re done for. So just think about that the next time you tackle a woman from behind.”

She turned and finally saw Russell. Her freckled face now showed only curiosity. She hesitated – and in the moment their eyes were fixed on one another Russell lost all sense of the passing of time – and then she simply stepped over the leaking box and its growing puddle of juice. As she walked towards the gated exit, her walk slowed from an angry stride to a stroll.

Gingerly, Russell lifted one of the flaps of the cardboard box. Apple juice sloshed around inside and one corner of the box had turned black with oil from a cracked jar of chutney. He heaved himself to his feet and opened the door.

“Mrs Blackwood, I—” the security guard began, before he realised that it was Russell. “Oh, it’s you. Sorry.”

Russell glanced out into the car park. “That was Minister Blackwood’s wife?”

The security guard said sheepishly, “Rules are rules. Nobody without access rights preloaded onto their ID gets in.”

“She can’t visit her own husband at work?”

The guard shrugged. “She didn’t even say she wanted to. Said she was organising a kid’s party.” He pointed towards the nearest door within the office complex. There was no business name on the door, only a faint photocopied picture of three balloons. “But rules are rules, especially if it means sneaking past me when I’m busy.” His eyes flicked down to the counter. Russell saw the corner of a newspaper page filled with tiny print – the racing results.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Russell had never known how to talk to working-class people, despite having been brought up by honest, proletarian parents. He coughed. “There’s a bit of a mess out there. A box. Could you bring it into Minister Blackwood’s office? Any time that’s convenient to you. Although, actually, he’ll want it quite soon.”

Without waiting for the guard’s response, Russell strode inside. He glanced again at the door to the children’s party suppliers. Until now, he had never really paid much attention to the other businesses in the shared office complex, though when he had been hired three months ago he had been surprised that any government department might need to share a building at all. He studied each door as he passed: a freelance photographer, a small historical publisher, a banner-printing service, three separate accountants. The door marked Redevelopment and Funding was at the end. He shoved it open, making the smoked-glass door rattle.

The minister refused to allow entry to the cleaner who serviced the rest of the building, so Russell’s first task of each day was to rescue crockery from Ellis’s study, a room of generous proportions that jutted into the far smaller main office area. Russell pushed open the door to the study. Inside, something on the wide wooden desk spasmed.

Ellis Blackwood lifted his head from the desk. His hair was ordinarily untidy but today it was wild, with the frontmost curls glued to his forehead. His grey suit was crumpled. There was still grandeur about him, though whether it was only his status – both as a Charmer and a member of the Party – Russell couldn’t tell. A few months ago Russell had come across some meeting minutes that referred to him and the minister together as ‘Russellis’, a compound nickname that he had never heard repeated but which continued to fill him with secret pride.

“Russell,” the minister said, his voice cracking. “Does this mean that it’s morning?”

“Six forty-five,” Russell said, without needing to check the clock. He was nothing if not punctual.

“Then I’ve missed my chance to sleep.”

“I wasn’t expecting you so early, sir. It’s not normally how things are.”

Ellis smiled. “You’re rather a stickler, aren’t you?”

“That’s my job, sir.” Russell began gathering coffee cups and plates from the desk. “Your groceries will be here in a moment. I could bring you some muesli?”