Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (10 page)

"She was born with a skin condition," Tem said, noticing Jamie's gaze. "Her skin blistered and scarred so she started tattooing as a way to claim her skin back. If people were going to stare anyway, she decided to have them stare for good reason. This is the outward expression of her inner self, an alchemy of her physical curse and the archetypes within her mind. We are embodied souls, after all."

"What happens at the end?" Jamie asked, thinking of the implant of ashes they had seen upstairs. She pointed at Tem's heavily tattooed forearms. "When your body dies, is that the end of the meaning to the images?"

Tem looked serious. "In my culture, yes." He nodded. "The spirit lives on, but after death the body is buried, returned to
Papatuanuku
, Mother Earth." Tem paused for a moment. "But others revere the physical form. I've heard of specialists in skin preservation, those who work with the bodies of the dead to keep tats for family or gang affiliation. I've also heard rumors of a skin trade, a black market for inked skin. Fetishists mostly." He shook his head. "But after what I've put onto people's bodies, nothing surprises me these days."

Jamie thought of the missing and the dead so far. All were inked.
 

"Do you know where we could find someone like that in London?" she asked.

Tem shook his head. "Really not my thing. I prefer live bodies to work with, skin I have permission to ink." Tem pointed along the corridor. "Go see the taxidermists. They have their own little community." Tem looked at Jamie, meeting her eyes. "And come and see me when you make your decision about what you want inked."

Jamie blushed under his gaze, wondering what it would feel like to have his strong hands inking her skin. Part of her wanted to find out.

"Thanks for your help," Blake said, breaking the moment. He shook Tem's hand. "We really appreciate it."

They walked away from Tem's stand towards a corner of the convention hidden amongst the arches. Here were the cabinet-of-curiosity shops where strange objects were sold alongside herbal remedies, and taxidermists displayed their wares. The people who sat on the stalls generally wore black, many were tattooed, and Jamie wondered at the crossover between the groups. Was it a fascination with death or just with skin?
 

They walked around, trying to get a sense of who to speak to. One stall displayed beetles and spiders, butterflies and frogs pinned on boards, their remains spread out for viewing. The vibrant colors of the shiny carapaces and wetness of the skin made them look like they had recently been caught and mounted. Jamie was reminded of Damien Hirst's
Last Kingdom
piece, which placed dead insects in exact rows, a rainbow of colors of the dead. Was it all just
memento mori
, Jamie wondered, to help us remember that we are all animated dust waiting to return to the earth?
 

Blake wandered over to an area with pieces of furniture that had been modified to incorporate taxidermy animals. He bent to a red wingback chair to examine two young foxes, stuffed as if they were playing and mounted into the hollow back. Jamie turned to another stall nearby.

It had animal heads mounted on wooden bases, but they weren't in the style of hunting lodges where old men boasted of their kill. These heads were embellished with colorful beads and jeweled flowers, embroidered silk and ribbons. Each piece turned the animal into a celebration of life. Jamie stopped to look more closely and a young woman came out from behind the table. Her hair was ash blonde, tied back from her pale face with a garland of flowers. Her eyes were intelligent, slightly wary, as if she expected criticism for her work.
 

"Hi," she said, her voice timid. "Can I help you?"

"These are beautiful," Jamie said, and she found herself meaning it. The initial revulsion of these dead bodies had been replaced by fascination for the beauty of the objects.
 

"Thank you," the young woman said. "I mostly make custom taxidermy for collections and private museums, but my passion is turning the dead into flower gardens." She pointed at a deer's head. "And of course, no animals are ever killed for the purpose. I only use roadkill."

Jamie thought of this young woman walking along the edge of a quiet road in the countryside, waiting to stumble upon dead animals.
 

Blake wandered back over from the chairs to join the conversation.
 

"Can I ask what your fascination is with taxidermy?" he asked. His attention made the young woman bloom a little. Her eyes darted away from his handsome face and back again.
Must be tough to get a date when your house is full of dead animals
, Jamie thought.
 

"Ultimately, it's about respect for the animal and for life itself," the young woman said, her voice growing stronger as she talked. "You can get closer to it than you ever could in life. I study anatomy so I can get the dimensions right and make sure the muscle shapes are clear. And it's also art, creating something that will make people think. Perhaps it's the ultimate blend of science and art, chemistry and sculpture."

"Is there much of a community in London?" Blake asked.
 

The young woman nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, we have meetups and classes. It's quite a scene. The tattoo conventions mostly have a section for us as well, so we get to meet new people all the time."

"We're looking for someone," Jamie said. "He – or she – works with human tattooed skin, preserving it after death. Do you know of anyone like that?"

"There is a man …" The young woman hesitated, her eyes guarded. "He doesn't really advertise but I've been to his place once – a while ago. He might not be there anymore."
 

"We'd really like to try and track him down," Blake said. "Can you give us his address?"

"It's more of a squat than a residential place," she replied. "Out by Limehouse Cut."
 

Jamie pulled out her smartphone and opened a map application. The young woman showed her an approximate area.

***

As they walked out of the convention, Blake turned to Jamie.

"That place was not what I expected, but it makes me want to mark my skin." He touched his gloved hands together gently. "With something more than scars." He thought about the runes in the Galdrabók, how they would look on his caramel skin. Would inking them on his body help him to claim their power or perhaps even tame his curse? He looked at Jamie. "What about you?"

"When we came in here, I was still unsure. But now I have a clearer idea. I want birds on the wing." Jamie touched her neck on the right side. "Maybe here, down my shoulder onto my back."

"Escape? Freedom?" Blake said, thinking that tattoos on Jamie's skin would also be damn sexy. "A desire to transcend this physical life, perhaps?"
 

Jamie grinned. "It's rude to ask the meaning of someone's tattoo."

"Even one that doesn't exist yet?"

They walked to Jamie's bike and she pulled a second helmet from her pannier. "Can you come?" she asked, offering it to him.

Blake hesitated. Every hour he was away from the museum was another nail in the coffin of his research career. He looked down into Jamie's hazel eyes and saw that she needed him. Her friend was missing and perhaps he could still help find her.
 

"Of course I'm coming," he said. "I work in the museum with a load of mummified remains. I can't miss out on meeting a real-life skin preserver."

Thirty minutes later, Blake shook his head as he pulled off the motorbike helmet, running his gloved fingers over his buzz cut.
 

"That is too much fun," he said, handing the helmet back to Jamie. "Even if I have to ride pillion."

"One of the pleasures of life," Jamie said. "Not really enough open road around London though."

She looked up at the sixties concrete block in front of them. It had been a technical college once, later abandoned and now inhabited by an eclectic group of artists, many of whom also lived in the building. Some might call them squatters but in this part of East London, turning a derelict building into something this productive was akin to a miracle. Rejuvenation of the old Docklands was happening slowly and the artists were often the first to move in.

"Nice place," Blake said with raised eyebrows as he stepped gingerly over a bare needle on the broken concrete path.

"Let's take a look inside," Jamie said.
 

She pushed open the front door to reveal a neglected corridor strewn with the detritus of people living rough. Cardboard boxes and string, a folded blanket and old tins of beans. It smelled of stale sweat and sweet marijuana smoke. Music thumped through the building and they followed the noise along the corridor to the back of the structure. It had a deafening bass that Jamie recognized as "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. A hymn to finding God in desecration and violation, a song to bring alive the crazy in anyone. A song she remembered playing as a teenager bent on escaping a mundane existence, desperate for something more than suburbia. Strange to hear it again here.
 

A metal door barred their way. Jamie rapped on it, but there was no chance that anyone would hear them inside with that racket. She pushed at the door but it was firmly locked from the inside. She hammered with her fist as the song came to an end, but no one came to let them in. The bass kicked in on the next song and their knocking was drowned out once more.
 

"Let's go round the outside," Jamie said, and they walked back out.
 

The building was on the edge of the Limehouse Cut, a waterway that ran from the River Lea down to the Thames. The sun sparkled on the slow-moving water, bringing a moment of beauty to this urban junkyard.
 

"Come look at this," Blake said, as he walked towards the side of the building. A ramshackle houseboat was tied up there, its moorings rusted and weed-covered from its long-term berth. He pointed at the name of the boat, the paint chipped and faded but still clearly visible.
 

"Pyx?" Jamie said. "I don't get it."

"It's one of the oldest doors in Westminster Abbey," Blake said. "Anglo-Saxon and over a thousand years old. What's more interesting is that it has panels of skin upon it that some believe were from the bodies of flayed criminals, left there as a warning to those who would attack the church."

They walked along the narrow path behind the building. Huge windows dominated the back section and a door stood open a little further on. A man stood on the back step blowing smoke rings into the air, his eyes closed in bliss as the bassline pumped from the studio behind him. He was tall and thin, his body held with the slumped posture of one who worked hunched over most of the time and often had to bend in the presence of others. His limbs were long and gangly, as if he had never had the nutrition to help him grow into them. His skin was pale, his head closely shaven and smooth, reflecting the sun.

His eyes flicked open at their approach and he quickly stubbed out the cigarette.
 

"Please wait," Jamie shouted, waving at him.
 

The man stepped inside the studio and Jamie ran to the open door, reaching it as he tried to force it closed. She wedged her foot into the crack.
 

"Please," she shouted above the music. "We only want to talk to you."

"I don't have anything here. No money, no drugs," the man pleaded, his face desperate as he tried to push Jamie out. Blake stood behind her.

"We're not here to take anything," he said. "We're looking for a friend and we heard you could help."

"I'm a private investigator on a missing persons case," Jamie added. "Please just talk with us for a second."

The man's features softened as he realized they weren't there to steal from him. Jamie could understand his anxiety in this part of town.
 

"Alright," he said, moving back from the door. "Let me turn the music off."

Jamie and Blake stood by the door as the music quietened and the man returned.
 

"Great album," Jamie said. "I always loved Trent Reznor."
 

"Forgive me, I don't get too many visitors in this part of town. Most are here looking to score." He took a deep breath. "I'm Corium Jones." The man's features softened and he held out a hand. The skin was red and raw with evident chemical burns but Jamie shook it without flinching, meeting his eyes as she did so.

"I'm Jamie Brooke and this is Blake Daniel."

"What can I help you with?" Corium asked.

"We were at the tattoo convention," Jamie said, "and heard that you provide an unusual service for those with body art."

Corium nodded, a wry smile on his lips.
 

"Yes, people pay me to preserve their tattoos after death," he said. "It's a growing industry. After all, they may have paid thousands to emblazon their skin with meaning in life and so they want to pass that on somehow. Their lifetime stories are inked into their skin, and they don't want it to rot away. They can't imagine the worms devouring it, or the fire consuming it. Skin preservation is an ancient art with few of us left. And, of course, much misunderstood."

"Can we have a look?" Jamie asked, glancing behind him into the dark of the studio.

Corium paused and Jamie felt the intensity of his gaze as he assessed her and Blake. Perhaps he sensed the death around them both, because after a moment, he stepped aside and waved them in.

The room had several workbenches with tools lined up neatly on one side. There was a vat of salt in one corner and a skin pegged out on a frame in the shade of an open window, the faint blue lines of a tattoo barely visible on the opposite side.
 

The smell of chemical preservative hung in the air, reminding Jamie of the studio of Rowan Day-Conti, the artist who had worked with the plastination of dead bodies. She shuddered when she remembered how the Jenna Neville case had ended for Rowan, trying to keep an open mind about what they might find here.