Under The Skin. Michel Faber
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granted, Amlis was the big man’s son, but there was no sign of him inheriting the big man’s empire. Amlis didn’t even have a job at Vess Incorporated – he’d never had a job of any kind – and he couldn’t possibly have any power to make decisions on the Corporation’s behalf. In fact, to the best of Isserley’s knowledge, Amlis actually felt disdain for the world of business and was a big failure in his father’s eyes. He was trouble, but not for Isserley. There was nothing to fear from him dropping in, however inexplicably, on Ablach Farm.
So why did she want to avoid him so badly?
She had nothing against the boy himself (or the man? – how old would he be by now?); he hadn’t asked to be the sole heir of the world’s biggest corporation. He’d done nothing to offend her personally, and in the past she’d followed his exploits with amusement. He was always in the news, for the usual rich-young-pretender reasons. One time, he shaved all his hair off, as an initiation rite into a bizarre religious sect which he joined in a blitz of publicity and left, weeks later, with no comment to the press. Another time, he and his father were reported to be bitterly estranged over Amlis’s support of extremists in the Middle East. Another time, he made a public statement that icpathua, when used in small enough doses, was a harmless euphoric that should not be against the law. Countless times, some girl or other made a fuss, claiming to be pregnant with his baby.
All in all, he was just another typical rich kid with a colossal fortune hanging over his head.
Isserley’s second nature, alert while she’d been busy brooding, fetched her back into the driver’s seat to notice something important: a hitch-hiker standing in the distance, opposite the first of the many garish roadside diners between Inverness and the South. She listened to her own breathing, assessing whether she’d calmed down enough to take the challenge on. She felt she had.
At closer quarters, though, the figure at the roadside proved to be a female, harried-looking, grey-haired, shabbily dressed. Isserley drove straight past, ignoring the appeal to shared gender in the eyes. A single instant was enough to communicate injury and dejection, then the figure was a dwindling fleck in the rear-view mirror.
Isserley was all geared up now, grateful to have had her mind on something other than Amlis Vess. Fortuitously, another hitcher was standing only a couple of miles further on. This one was a male, and fairly impressive on first sight, but unfortunately positioned in a spot where only the most foolhardy motorist would consider stopping. Isserley flashed her headlights, hoping to let him know that she might have picked him up had he not made it so dangerous for her to do so. She doubted that a simple flash of lights could communicate this; more likely he would simply assume she was beaming out ill-will, a jab of mockery.
All was not necessarily lost, though – perhaps she would see him again later on the way back, by which time he might have walked to a safer spot. Over the years, Isserley had learned that life often offered a second chance: she had even picked up hitchers who, many hours and miles before, she’d observed climbing gratefully into someone else’s car.
So, optimistic, Isserley drove on.
She drove all day, backwards and forwards between Inverness and Dunkeld, over and over. The sun set. The snow, which had retreated during the morning, returned. One of the windscreen wipers developed an annoying squeal. Fuel had to be bought. Through it all, nobody suitable reached out to her.
By six o’clock, she had just about decided why she was dreading meeting Amlis Vess so much.
It had nothing to do with his status really; she was an invaluable part of the business, he a thorn in its side, so he probably had more to fear from Vess Incorporated than she did. No, the main reason why she was dreading him was simpler than that.
It was because Amlis Vess was from home.
When he set eyes on her, he would see her the way any normal person from home would see her, and he would be shocked, and she would helplessly have to watch him being shocked. She knew from experience what this felt like; would do anything to avoid feeling it again. The men she worked with on the farm had been shocked too, at first, but they were used to her now, more or less; they could go about their business without gawping (though if there was a lull in activities she always felt their eyes on her). No wonder she tended to keep to her cottage – and why Esswis did too, she guessed. Being a freak was so wearying.
Amlis Vess, never having seen her before, would recoil. He’d be expecting to see a human being, and he would see a hideous animal instead. It was that moment of … of the sickening opposite of recognition that she just couldn’t cope with.
She decided to return to the farm immediately, lock herself in her cottage, and wait until Amlis Vess had come and gone.
In the mountainous desolation of Aviemore she caught a hitcher in her headlights. A little gargoyle gesturing in a flare of illumination, registering almost as an after-image on the retina; a little gargoyle foolishly attached to a spot where cars would be whizzing by him at maximum speed. Isserley’s maximum speed being about fifty, however, she had time to notice him. He seemed awfully keen to be picked up.
Passing him, Isserley thought seriously about whether she wanted a hitcher just now. She waited for clues from the universe.
The snow had died down again, the windscreen wipers lay still, the motor was purring nicely, she was perhaps in slight danger of dozing off. Isserley slowed, cruised to a stop in a bus bay, and let the car idle, headlights dimmed. The Monadhliath Mountains loomed on one side of her, the Cairngorms on the other. She was alone with them. She closed her eyes, slid her fingertips under the rims of her glasses and rubbed her big satiny eyelids. A massive tanker roared into view, flooding the cabin of Isserley’s car with light. She waited until it had gone, then revved her engine and flicked on the indicator.
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