the mottled mirror

My nose is all red and shiny, and my skin is full of holes. I've got a face like a fossilised sponge, and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! Ian put his face closer to the shaving mirror, so close his skin almost touched the soap-streaked glass. He wiped away a layer of condensation from the surface, all cold and slippery, then peered into his pores. Magnified by the curved glass of the mirror they seemed gigantic, like worm holes in old woodwork. Then he saw it, in the middle of his cheek, a feint discoloration.

Ian prodded his face with his finger. There was a definite lump there.

The lump was hard and hurt slightly as he increased the pressure on it. That could mean only one thing; a cruddy cream doughnut festering beneath the surface. Shit, muttered Ian. This requires immediate surgery.

Gingerly he squeezed the skin on either side of the lump with his fingertips. He squeezed harder and felt the pressure build. There was a twinge of pain then squwiiltccchhh!!! the lump burst open. An angry wormlike pith squirmed out. A shower of yellow fluid spattered the shaving mirror. A stream of rich, red blood ran down his cheek.

Horrible skin, cursed Ian. Yucky fucking horrible skin. I flaming well hate it, hate it, hate it. He angrily squeezed more bloody fluid from his face.

By the time he had finished prodding and pinching his skin, what before had been an almost imperceivable bump had become an ugly crimson bruise.

Ian ran the cold tap into the sink and splashed water on to his face. He wished he were a girl. It would be OK then. He could cover his skin with make up and no one would ever have to know how horrible it was. It just wasn't fair.

Ian dabbed at the bruise on his face with a big blob of flesh-toned spot cream. He examined it from a distance in his bedroom mirror. It still appeared horrendous. Stupid skin, he cursed. Stupid, fucking horrible skin.

There's no way I'm going to the party looking like this. I don't want Chrissy to see me with this bloody thing on my cheek. I will just have to ring her

and pretend I'm ill. Then I shall cover my face in Quinoderm, and watch TV in bed.

Ian dragged himself downstairs to ring Chrissy. Her mother answered.

"Westing double six two, three seven nine," she said, in her slightly snooty telephone voice.

"Hello Mrs Barrington, it's Ian. Is Chrissy there please?"

"Oh, hello Ian. Yes, I think she's upstairs getting ready."

"Christinaaaaa," he heard her shout. "It's Ian for you." Shortly there followed the kerthump, kerthud, kerthump, of Chrissy galloping down the stairs. There was a crackling sound, like someone scrunching up a not-quite-empty crisp packet, as the receiver was passed from hand to hand.

Then Chrissy's voice greeted him, "Hi babe."

Ian heard Chrissy's mother in the background muttering, "I wish you wouldn't call him that, dear."

There was more crackling as Chrissy covered the receiver with her hand.

He heard her muffied voice say, "Don't stand there listening. I can't talk if you're there." Then the line went dead.

"Hello," said Ian. "Hello, hello?"

He was just about to put the phone down and try dialling again, when Chrissy's voice came back on the line.

"It's OK. She's gone now," said Chrissy. "So what have you been up to today?"

"Oh you know, nothing special, "Ian answered. "Look, it's about tonight..."

"Oh yea," interrupted Chrissy, "I meant to ask you, do you want to go round to Shelly's house before the party? I said we'd give her and Dave a lift."

For a moment, the alluring sound of Chrissy's voice almost enticed Ian to change his mind. Perhaps I will go to the party after all, he thought. But then he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. The lump on his face appeared worse than ever.

"Actually, I'm a bit under the weather," he mumbled. "I don't know if I'll be able to make it tonight."

"Oh no, what's wrong?" asked Chrissy.

"It's probably just a touch of flu," he lied.

"Oh dear," said Chrissy. "When did that come on. You seemed all right this mormng."

" Well, I started feeling a bit funny this afternoon when I was watching Grandstand," he fibbed. "I sort of felt a bit dizzy, you know." He coughed into the receiver. "And now I've got a bit of a headache and all that."

"Oh no, poor old you," said Chrissy comfortingly. "I hope you haven't caught anything nasty. Maybe you should pop down to the surgery."

"It's closed to day. Anyway, I'll be fine," he assured her, feeling a little guilty.

"Shall I come round?" asked Chrissy.

"Uhhmm, I don't think I'd be very good company," said Ian graciously. "You might as well go to the party with Dave and Shelly".

"No, I don't want to go if you're not going," said Chrissy. "I'll ask dad to give me a lift round to your house if you like. We could watch a video or something" The lump on Ian's cheek began to itch. He reached up and scratched it.

"Really, it's OK. You don't want to put him to any trouble," he mumbled.

"Oh, he won't mind," she said.

"I might be contagious," said Ian hurriedly.

"Don't be silly. I thought you said it wasn't serious," said Chrissy.

"Well no, not really but..."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" said Chrissy suspiciously. "Don't you want to see me?"

"Don't be daft," said Ian. "I'd love to see you. The truth is this flu thing has sort of gone to my stomach. It's a bit upset if you know what I mean."

"Are you feeling sick."

"Uhhmm, not exactly."

"You mean you've got the shits," said Chrissy laughing.

"Yea," lied Ian.

"You are silly," said Chrissy. "Why didn't you say?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Ian, kicking himself for not having thought of it earlier.

"You are daft," said Chrissy.

"I know I am," said Ian. "I just didn't think you'd want to risk catching it, that's all."

"No, not really," said Chrissy with another little laugh. "Never mind. I'll come over and see how you are tomorrow."

"Yea that would probably be best," said Ian. "I'm sorry if I've spoiled your evening."

"Don't be silly," said Chrissy. "It doesn't matter".

"Look," said Ian. "Shall I give you a call in the morning?"

"OK," said Chrissy.

"Actually, I better go now," said Ian.

Chrissy laughed.

"Got to make a run for it have you?" she asked.

"Something like that," said Ian.

"I'll call you tomorrow, OK?"

"OK then."

"Hope you're feeling better soon," said Chrissy. "Take care."

"Yea, and you," said Ian. "Bye for now then."

"Bye then, bye."

Ian munched his way through a six-pack of chocolate-coated marshmallow tea cakes as he lay in bed and watched the early evening TV quiz show Hidden Talents. It was a watch-while-you-eat kind of show, easily digestible, instantly disposable and addictively enjoyable. Watching Hidden Talents was like having a brain massage. In seconds it could mash the most alert of minds into jellylike senselessness.

When Ian turned on, the contestants had already been introduced and were answering showbiz posers in an attempt to reach the star turn final. That was the climax of the show in which the contestants had the chance to show ofT their hidden talents in an attempt to win the star prize (a holiday for two in the Canary Islands, guessed Ian).

The second contestant was called Linda. She was introduced as a retail sales consultant from Essex (in other words a shop assistant at Woolworth's in Romford). linda stood at the bottom of the stairway to stardom - a series of illuminated plastic steps like a stack of giant strip lights. The stairway led up to the hall of fame, a plastic plateau adorned with black and white photo portraits of various celebrities; Fred Astaire and Catherine Hepburn, Ken Dodd and Madonna. Linda glanced nervously up at the great, grey faces, beckoning her up the stairs.

"Right, choose a category please linda," said the show's host, Norman Britain, with a leery grin to camera. Norman was a fat stand-up comedian from Wakefield, notorious for loud kipper ties and Hitlerite homophobia.

"Could I have showbiz trivia please Norman?" asked Linda.

"I'm afraid that one's already gone, my pet," said Norman with a despairing grimace to camera. "You can choose from theme tunes, pretty people or caught in the act."

"Oh sorry," tittered Linda, wobbling slightly on her three inch stilettos.

"I think I'd better go for theme tunes please Norman."

"Right, now listen to the tune you're about to hear. Can you tell me the name of the TV detective series it comes from. And for an extra step up the stairway to stardom, can you tell me which cockney actor plays the title role. OK my pet?"

Linda played nervously with her false nails as she listened to the tune. Meanwhile, Norman performed an impromptu tap dance which drew great applause and hoots of appreciation from the audience.

"What a talentless twat," muttered Ian. He'd read in the Daily Mirror that Norman Britain was paid ten thousand pounds a show. For Christ's sake, thought Ian, the man wears a wig, false teeth and a corset. He has a fake tan, a face like a pig's arse and all the wit and humour of a mouldy dog turd. And he earns over a hundred grand a series for reading a prepared list of questions and quips from a set of prompt cards. What a cunt!

Ian switched channels with the remote.

On TV West there was a made-for-television action movie called Firearm PI. The movie's star was a Los Angeles private investigator with a Corvette Stingray, a hundred dollar haircut and an artificial limb which featured, among other things, a built in gun barrel. He was Firearm, PI.

When Ian joined the action, Firearm PI, who was investigating the suspicious disappearance of a beautiful heiress, was about to interview a suspect beside a hotel swimming pool. The suspect was a Latino type with a little dark moustache and big tan muscles that looked as if they had been carved from mahogany and polished with table wax. He was sharing an enormous sun lounger with a couple of well-built blondes, one on either side of him. As Firearm PI approached, the Latino baddy snapped his fingers. Dutifully, his curvaceous companions unwound their fingers from his chest hair, collected their towels and sauntered away. Firearm PI studiously watched the girl depart, the camera lingering on a close-up shot of their squirming thong-clad buttocks.

"Sheeeesh," whistled Firearm PI, "you sure got an eye for the ladies."

The Latino baddy shrugged. He took a white-filtered cigarette from a packet which lay on a glass-littered table beside the sun lounger. Firearm PI offered him a light, a flame sprouting from the index finger of his artificial hand. The Latino baddy lit up. He narrowed his eyes and stared up at Firearm through clouds of blue smoke. Firearm gazed around the pool, allowing for more camera close ups of breasts and bottoms straining a variety of bikini fabrics.

"Yep, sure are some lovely ladies round here," drawled the PI. "Actually there was one particular lady I was interested in. Thought you might be able to help me out". He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a snapshot of a homely looking girl with golden, cheerleader-style hair and a perfect smile. He tossed the snapshot onto the baddy's hairy chest.

Reluctantly, the baddy picked up the photograph. He scrutinised it for a while, moving his cigarette back and forth between his thin lips.

"Sheez not one of my gells," he said placing the photograph on his drinks table.

"You've not seen her around at all?" asked Firearm PI.

"I tell you amigo, I know nothing of thees leetle gell." The Latino baddy sniggered nastily. "I prefeer more mature wimen." He looked to his right at a rather amply endowed brunette who was rubbing sun tan lotion into her thighs.

"Yea, sure," drawled Firearm PI. "Anyways I'd be much obliged if you'd hang on to that photo for a little while, just in case she does happen to show up here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "And if she does, you be sure to let me know. You can call me on this number." He handed the card to the Latino baddy.

The Latino baddy sneered at him. "Maybee I weel amigo. Maybeee." Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the photograph of the missing girl, burning a hole in her forehead.

The camera lingered on the smouldering cigarette butt for a while. Then the scene changed to an office where a fat black police chief in shirt sleeves and braces was holding a polystyrene cup of coffee and cursing to himself. The police chief peered between the sun-blinds of his office window as, outside, Firearm PI parked his plum-coloured Corvette Stingray alongside a row of patrol cars. Ian changed channels again.

On BBC2 was a documentary about dolphins. The dolphins somersaulted with scuba divers and basked smiling in pacific sunshine to a swirling synthesiser sound track. A drum machine kicked in as the dolphins torpedoed through unbelievably-blue oceans, then glided through waves of violins and cellos and finally floated in bubbling pools of electronic popcorn, whilst an educated voice explained the complexities of dolphin skin.

"Dolphins have ridges beneath the surface of their skin that ripple and shift as they move through the water. This reduces turbulence." The music stopped. In a laboratory a bearded scientist in a white coat was looking at a piece of dolphin skin under an electron microscope. The skin had holes in it like a bath sponge.

"Dolphins are able to shed and regrow their skin very rapidly," continued the voice. "Some species in as little as two hours. When dolphins are in captivity, large sheets of skin are sometimes found at the bottom of their pools."

Urrgghh, thought Ian. He scratched the lump on his face and switched back to Hidden Talents on BBC 1.

Linda had somehow contrived to answer a couple of showbiz posers correctly. She had already won a programmable microwave oven and matching his and hers bathrobes, and was about to go for the big prize. She was introduced by the booming voice of an unseen anchor man.

"The second contestant in tonight's star turn final is our retail sales consultant from Romford, Linda Purvis." There was thunderous applause and cheering as Linda stepped nervously from the wings.

"Come and join me Linda my pet," said Norman Britain beckoning to her with both hands as if she were a van driver reversing a Ford Transit through a narrow gateway. Linda was steered to the centre of the stage by Norman's glamorous assistant, Carol - a peroxide-blonde with painted teeth and a cleavage wrapped in glitter.

"Thank you Carol," said Norman, taking Linda by the hand. "Now, my pet it's your big chance to show us your hidden talents." He winked cheekily to camera. The audience tittered. He grimaced despairingly. "Ohhh you're wicked, you really are. Take no notice of them linda, pet." He put his arm round her waist and gave her a quick squeeze, glancing down at her breasts then leering to camera. The audience giggled. Linda blushed and looked slightly sick.

"Now, don't be nervous my pet, said Norman releasing his hold and once again taking her hand. He stroked the back of her fingers with his stubby thumb. "We're all rooting for you sweetheart." He turned to the audience, "Aren't we folks?"

"Yeaaaahhhh!!" roared the audience, bursting into applause.

Norman let go of Linda's hand and reached inside his jacket. He withdrew three ridiculously large laminated cards, with the words talent tester written across the back of each of them.

"Now, my pet," said Norman, "I have here in my hand three small cards," he chuckled to camera, "three small cards, each with a different talent tester on it. Now, it could be acting, singing, comedy, dancing or even something else. I'd like you to choose a card, my pet, and then read out what it says and tell the studio audience and our viewers at home what act you'll be performing for us this evening in our star turn final. I hope it's a good one for you." He offered her the cards. "Be lucky my pet," he said with a look of sincerity to camera.

Linda took a card. She shrieked with laughter and raised her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders quaked and her knees buckled slightly as if she were about to curtsy.

"Share it with us my pet. Don't keep us in suspenders," quipped Norman. But Linda was so overcome with mirth she was unable to say what was on the card. Norman took the card from her and held it close to his face as if he were extremely short-sighted. He peered slowly over the top of it, alternately raising left and right eyebrows. Then all of a sudden he tossed the card to one side and shouted, "Itsssss Krazzeeee Kalaokeeee." The audience applauded madly. They hooted and cheered and whistled and whooped their appreciation of Linda's star turn choice. Some of the audience got so excited they even stood on their seats and clapped their hands above their heads.

Ian turned the TV off, put on the radio and fell asleep.

It was dark when Ian woke up. He was lying on top of the bed, still wearing his clothes. The radio had shifted between channels and buzzed like a drowsy giant mosquito. His thighs felt itchy. He scratched them roughly, but the irritation persisted. Fleas, thought Ian, that bloody cat's been under the duvet again.

He switched the bedside lamp on, unbuttoned his jeans, dozily tugged the zip down, then let them fall about his knees. At the sight of his thighs Ian recoiled like a shoulder from the butt of a just-fired gun. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked down again in disbelief.

From his groin to his knees, his skin was indented with hollows like large smallpox scars. The hollows were all smooth regular shapes. Some were perfectly round, some were more oval, others longer and thinner. On closer inspection he could see that the narrowest hollows formed a pattern in his skin, like the patterns that beetle larvae tunnel in rotten bark. Ian prodded his leg warily as if it were made of meringue and might disintegrate. His leg yielded to his touch. He pinched the surface of his leg and it wrinkled like the skin of an over ripe plum. He squeezed the wrinkled skin into a leathery lump between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. The lump came free, painlessly tearing a chunk of spongelike flesh from his thigh. Carefully, he placed the chunk of flesh on the duvet, and probed the hole it had left in his leg with the end of his little finger. His flesh felt like warm foam rubber.

Ian lay in bed wearing a pair of purple and green striped pyjamas. He had been isolated in a small, private ward in a research hospital. On a table beside him were several faded get well cards. One of the cards was of Snoopy lying on his kennel with a bandage round his nose. Ian felt his thighs. With a start, he realised that the dents had deepened and spread. He scratched his shoulder and felt spongy crumbs of skin tear off beneath his fingernails. He flicked the bits of skin onto the floor. Ian saw, with horror, that the back of his hand was now furrowed with the same pattern of channels that he had seen on his thighs. He realised that the affliction had spread over his entire body. He slowly reached down to between his legs, swallowed and touched. He winced, his worst fears realised. There as well.

He suddenly felt very sick.

On the other side of room was a full length mirror. Ian got out of bed and padded across the floor in his bare feet. It felt as if he was wearing jogging shoes with air-cushioned soles. He paused before he reached the mirror. On the wall was a picture of red and yellow flowers in a jar. Fallen petals and leaves were scattered on the floor.

Slowly he undid his pyjama jacket and dropped his pyjama trousers down around his ankles. He shuffied sideways until he was standing directly in front of the mirror and slowly surveyed his body from his toes upwards.

The surface of his shins was laddered like old tights. On his thighs the hollows had grown and merged into large crevices and craters. One of the craters was deep enough to insert a fist into. Inside this crater new flesh had begun to grow rising upward, but already its surface was peppered with embryonic hollows, emerging, ever-spreading, beginning to deepen. On his chest the outer layer of skin hung in slack ribbons across his rib cage.

Ian raised his hand to his head, caging his face in his fingers as he looked up. Slowly he lowered his hands and stared at himself in dismay. His face looked like a marshmallow mask, his eyes two marbles pushed into the rubbery softness. His scalp resembled a mouldy rubber ball that had been mauled by a sharp-toothed puppy, and he was virtually bald. Only a few sparse tufts of hair remained, like sea grass on a sand dune. He looked away, then pulled up his trousers, rebuttoned his shirt and got back into bed, wrapping the sheets tight round him like a cocoon.

There was a knock at the door. He had a visitor. It was Andy who used to share a double desk with him at primary school. Although Ian had just turned seventeen, Andy was still nine - wandering, untouched by time, out of his memory - still wearing that Nottingham Forest away strip he got for his birthday in 1983; Andy fresh from football practice with mud on his knees, before he moved to Scotland that summer and Michael Evans took his place and put his pen, with that wobbly rubber monster on the end of it, in the blue-stained ink well on Ian's side of the desk, prompting Ian to jab him in the eye with it, which resulted in Ian being sent to sit trembling in the room beside the headmistress's office where they stacked the blue plastic chairs that were used for assemblies and concerts, waiting for some terrible punishment that never came because the teacher had forgotten he was there.

And there was Michael Evans, his eye patch bulging with cotton wool, followed by that girl with the mousy ponytail tied in purple ribbon and the birthmark by her ear, who'd once shown him what she had up her skirt in exchange for a battered Thunderbirds annual and half a pack of Lovehearts.

Behind the girl, whose name he still couldn't remember, were his mum and dad. Stewart was with them, but his sister had gone to visit a friend. They'd brought the dog, but'd had to leave him in the car, because no pets were allowed in the hospital. Ian imagined the dog poking his leathery, black nose out through the car window, and scampering about on the back seat as people walked past, wagging his tail dementedly, claws skittering across the plastic.

After his mum and dad and Stewart had gone - leaving him with a copy of Shoot, a bag of peaches and unusually sympathetic, get-well smiles - Justin appeared. He'd ignored the wards numerous 'No Smoking' signs and was puffing away at a fag.

"Cor, I thought my scar was bad," he said amiably. "But, you look a right fucking state." Unfortunately, before they could have a proper chat a nurse'd come over and made Justin go outside to dispose of his cigarette.

More visitors came streaming into the room. In fact, it seemed as if everyone he had know since he was two-years old had come to see him and his skin - friends, relations (Auntie Fanny in a home made jumper and nutty Cousin Johnny just out of borstal), enemies, passing acquaintances, old ladies held sat next to on buses or queued behind in Tescos, his brothers friends who he'd played football with in the clearing in the woods and built camps with among the rhododendrons.

However tenuous their connection with him, they were all there, with a smile and a kind word, a card and a gift. United by curiosity and compassion the visitors queued outside his room, speculating excitedly, learnedly, nervously about the cause of his disease. And when they reached him they were all so very nice, wearing oh-so careful smiles and making oh-such cheerful small-talk to distract him from his dissolving flesh. Yes, they were all very, very nice - even the people he never remembered being particularly thoughtful or pleasant in the past, even the ones he'd thought incapable of niceness.

When all his visitors had finally gone, he filed his six hundred and eighty four cards in a box beneath the bed in alphabetical order by Christian name.

Then he packed his gifts into three large tea chests. He had two hundred and forty two assorted paperbacks, fifty seven pounds of grapes, eighty nine satsumas, sixty five oranges, one hundred and eleven tangerines, five bunches of bananas, two bags of peaches, sixteen bars of chocolate, twenty seven puzzles, fifty six paperbacks, twenty nine newspapers (eighteen national and eleven local which he used for wrapping stray fruit to reduce the risk of them rotting), and three of those little plastic puzzles the aim of which is to manoeuvre five ball bearings of different sizes through a three dimensional maze.

When he had completed his packing, Ian lolled in his striped pyjamas on the bed listening to hospital radio through a pair of battered earphones.

His skin continued to slowly bubble and burst, as if he were lying in a bath of foaming jelly.....

Ian stepped out of the shower, shivering slightly. It was barely six o'clock and only just beginning to get light outside. At the edge of the woods, a few birds had started to callout and flutter between the trees, vague shapes moving through the mist beyond the half-open bathroom window.

Inside, steam clung to the glass, the taps, the shower rail. Beads of condensation collected on the top edge of the mirror and dripped down its moisture-coated surface. Ian retrieved his towel from on to? of his clothes which were piled by the side of the bath - his T-shirt and jeans still damp with the sweat of his nightmare.

Ian bundled the towel into a ball and used it to wipe the condensation from the mirror. He gazed gratefully at his wonderful, unflawed reflection, his soft, smooth face, his solid shoulders, his pale, silken chest. Wonderful skin, thought Ian, lovely, smooth, wonderful skin.