Beneath the Skin by Sandra Ireland

in his gut like a living thing.
    Moodie appeared from somewhere out the back. An art student by the look of him, got up in army fatigues although the worst action he’d ever faced was probably Edinburgh on a Saturday night. His pallor spoke of a heavy night on the ale, and Walt felt an unexpected flare of resentment. He missed that, the easy fug of his local, mates around him. Moodie’s dreadlocks were bundled into an oversized knitted beanie, powdered with sawdust like an eighteenth-century wig. He wore those weird chunky spikes through his earlobes and his nose was pierced about five times. Walt found himself staring at the nose, and at the spider tattooed on the back of his hand.
    â€˜Alys sent me,’ Walt muttered. It was like a bad spy movie. That first emotive sawdust rush had evaporated and the shop appeared squalid, with a sleeping bag in the corner and empty pizza boxes carpeting the concrete floor. A couple of twisted sculptures sat around, but not much other evidence of work. His dad’s shed had been piled high with lovingly turned cherrywood bowls and trinket boxes; more than he could ever give away as birthday presents.
    â€˜So you’re the assistant?’ The guy’s accent was London; chirpy. He even had a chirpy grin, which made Walt want to punch him. His temper was rising, he could feel the heat of it tightening on the back of his neck, tensing his fists. He stuffed them in the pockets of his jeans.
    â€˜Alys sent me to collect . . . whatever.’
    The carpenter wiped his hands on his combat pants and set about rifling through the junk piled high on an old chest of drawers. ‘Ah, Alys’, he said. ‘Quite a character, ain’t she?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    Moodie glanced at him. The ‘whatever’ had wiped away the grin.
    â€˜But she’s a powerful artist, man. Powerful.’ A pile of magazines waterfalled to the floor and he kicked them away with a well aimed boot. Ex-army boots. Walt’s gaze stabbed into his back, but the youth continued to chatter, regardless. ‘She could give Damien Hirst a run for his money. I keep telling her – you need to go large. Fuck the kittens, go for a giraffe. A giraffe embryo in a glass tank. Where did I put the thing?’
    Army boots? You’ve got to be kidding, Walt thought, gazing down at his own feather-light trainers. Comfortable and practical, the physio had said. And this goon was wearing army boots.
    â€˜If that’s what you call art.’ The words tasted bitter on his tongue and the carpenter turned round as if they’d scalded him.
    â€˜What, mate?’
    â€˜Modern art is all a bit too Emperor’s new clothes for me.’
    Moodie’s lip curled. He looked vaguely ridiculous, standing there with a box of pop tarts in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. ‘It’s all about interpretation, mate.’
    â€˜So how do you interpret a bed, or a tent, or a cow pickled in aspic?’
    â€˜I’m pretty sure it wasn’t aspic – and anyway, just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not good.’
    â€˜Hiding in plain sight.’
    â€˜What? What do you mean by that?’ Moodie slapped the things he was holding back onto the chest of drawers. The tape rolled off to join the magazines. Walt wanted to get out. The sawdust smell had lodged in his throat like smoke and he hadn’t realised how cramped it was in here, how dark, but he couldn’t stop the words spilling out, loaded words.
    â€˜It’s what they say about people who are up to no good and taking the piss,’ said Walt.
    â€˜Who says?’
    â€˜Anybody. The papers. They said it about those celebrities who were abusing kids.’
    â€˜What the hell are you saying about Alys?’
    Walt had lit a fuse now, and he waited, watching it ignite, not quite sure how he’d got there, how he’d come in off the street and picked a fight with