“Hey! What the hell?”
The mist smelled awful, like neat bleach. Marla had no desire for her clothes to smell of bleach. Anders continued spraying, like an automaton in a factory.
“What are you doing to my clothes? That stuff smells horrible!”
Only when he had sprayed every single garment, did Anders put down the cylinder and turn to address Marla.
“Apologies—strict regulations.”
“Regulations about what?”
“Meditrine Island is home to more than just human beings. Dozens of rare species live there too. Plants, insects, birds. You’ve traveled from an overpopulated city, rife with contaminants. We have to disinfect everything you bring with you to the island to safeguard the island’s natural resources. I’m afraid I’ll have to treat your shoes.”
Marla climbed out of her shoes. As he got to work spraying them, she took in what Anders was saying. The environmental message sounded rather strange coming from such a militaristic man. I’m being lectured on ecology by an armed policeman. Better listen up or he might shoot me.
“Someone could have explained…”
“It’s done now, miss. Just the clothes you’re wearing to do now.”
“The clothes I’m wearing?”
He gestured at another door.
“Showers are through there. Please use the disinfectant gel provided. Leave your clothes on the bench just outside the door and I’ll process them while you shower.”
Marla scowled at him.
“The smell fades eventually,” said Anders brightly.
Marla turned and headed for the showers before she could say something she might regret.
A faint odor of bleach trailing behind her, Marla lugged her rucksack up the ramp and onto the deck of the sleek black vessel under the watchful eyes of Anders’ deckhands.
“Welcome aboard the Sentry Maiden,” saluted Anders.
Anders’ men retracted the ramp and hauled in the docking ropes. The boat’s engine started up in an excitement of white foam and, drifting forward and to one side, the craft began to pick up speed. Marla was on the final leg of her journey to Meditrine Island. She felt clean.
Stratum corneum
The huge man looked at Vera’s lifeless body, coldly. Now the kill was over, his real work could begin. He always preferred them when they lay like this—silent and still, not raving and wriggling.
Selecting his finest scalpel from the workbench, he pressed a restraining hand down firmly on the girl’s chest and cut into her, just below the neck. His hand as steady as a tiller’s, he made yet more cuts in beautifully straight lines. Each one was a crimson ribbon, each one intersecting in his perfect design. Soon the girl’s skin was divided up, like tectonic plates floating above the lava of her viscera.
Satisfied with his pattern making, he put the scalpel down and picked up the flesh-comb. He marveled for a moment at its sleek design, surgical steel head, ivory handle. Inserting it into the first intersection, he began to peel back the skin carefully. The red ribbons became folds of velvet meat, which he folded lovingly and placed in the basin next to the gurney.
The hardest part was always around the nails, and the face. His mouth locked into a grimace of concentration. The greatest care was required to lift these layers of derma without tearing them. Softly, softly, he worked the skin upwards from her face.
Then, disaster. He caught sight of his reflection in one of the girl’s eyes. The dead black pool of her pupil revealed him at once. Why had he looked? Why was she looking? The connection broke the spell, and his concentration, at once. Before he could halt his movements, he felt the skin tear at the corner of her eye socket.
Clenching his teeth against the rage, he put aside the flesh-comb and put her eyes out. Both of them. With his thumbs. There, she could mock his mistake no longer. He tore the scalp from her head with a violent wrenching motion. Plunging her blood-slicked hair into the metal waste bin, he struggled for a moment to regain his composure.
Exuding calm, deliberate breaths he vowed to blind the next one before he skinned it. He couldn’t afford the tiniest mistake. Absolute perfection was required of him, and of his prey. But the base matter before him was substandard, distracting him. For absolute perfection, he would have to wait.
He would have to be patient.
Chapter Eight
The crewmembers were a quiet bunch. At the start of the journey, Marla had tried to spark a bit of small talk with one of the security guards, a particularly handsome, dark-skinned guy about the same age as her, mid-twenties. He had politely all but blanked her, explaining that conversation with employees was forbidden while he was on duty. She’d smiled as she turned away from his stony face; she couldn't help it. His eyes had betrayed him, and for a split second he definitely checked her out, which was more action than she’d had in a long time.
Marla made her way to the head of the boat, enjoying the slightly scary incline and the rocking motion as it sped through the waves. Holding on tight to the handrail, Marla held her head high and breathed in the cool, refreshing sea air. Every now and then, ocean spray coated her skin and she luxuriated in its touch. The wind picked up a notch and the craft altered course slightly, prompting her to look aft. Beyond the rear of the boat, Marla could only see a wide expanse of blue, curving as if at the edge of the world. Turning back to the head of the boat, the same vista greeted her. She really was in the middle of nowhere, hurtling ever onwards in this black vessel to…where exactly?
Several minutes later, her eyes finally gave the answer. In the far distance Marla could just pick out a vague landmass. Anders hollered to his men, barking orders. Within seconds, the boat was a hive of activity and Marla was ushered to the rear deck by Mr. Handsome.
“Almost home, miss,” he said softly, out of earshot of his crewmates.
Home. Marla leaned back against the rear rails and craned her neck out to see. The island's details were becoming clearer as the boat ploughed on towards it. She could now make out sharp craggy rocks, with waves crashing onto them dramatically. Above this steep rocky perimeter were signs of lush vegetation, and terraces cut into the cliffs and hills. Nestled there were several white buildings, huge mansions the size of which Marla had only ever seen in the pages of celebrity magazines. The boat’s engine slowed to a bass line throb and the crewmen prepared the craft for docking at a wooden jetty. A security hut stood at the end of the jetty, guarding a set of winding steps that led up to the island.
Anders instructed Mr. Handsome to escort Marla through security clearance. He gallantly pulled her rucksack onto one manly shoulder and led her to the security hut. Another quick bag check—
This is worse than Heathrow…
—and Marla was soon walking the length of the jetty towards the twisting steps.
“Sorry I couldn’t really talk to you earlier miss,” said Mr. Handsome, “Anders runs a pretty tight ship.”
“Literally. And please don’t call me miss. I’m Marla.”
He beamed. “Nice name. I’m Adam.”
Marla smirked, wondering if his surname really was “Handsome”. From the way the smile played across his jaw and cheeks, revealing deep dimples, she truly thought it should be.
Steady girl.
“Always good to see a new face around here,” he continued, “Not often I get picked to go to the mainland. I enjoy it, you know, being on the boat.”
She wrinkled her nose at the smell of her skin, still vaguely bleach-scented. Great, she smelled like the bathrooms at King’s Cross railway station.