Free Original Skin by David Mark

pressing her head to her husband’s bare chest, absentmindedly tracing the ridged outlines of one of his many scars with her dainty, red-painted fingernails.
    McAvoy barely registers her touch upon his dead skin. He can still smell flames. Twenty minutes in the shower scrubbing his face and hair with Roisin’s homemade rosemary-and-mint shampoo has not removed the acrid tang of petrol and smoke that clings to his skin like damp linen.
    “Another?”
    Roisin removes herself from his embrace and nods at her husband’s mug, held limp and lopsided between finger and thumb. The marshmallows have melted together and formed a rather pretty roof over the inch-deep sludge of hot chocolate.
    “Aector? Another?”
    “Not yet,” he says, and doesn’t know why. “It was lovely.”
    “It’s the cinnamon,” she says brightly. “Aphrodisiac, y’know.”
    McAvoy does know. They’ve had this conversation before. Roisin knows this, too, but in the past, such chats have led to tickles and fun, so he is pleased she is trying to steer him toward that goal once again, even if he has no energy for the helping of “adult time” she has clearly been craving all day.
    “You sure you didn’t bump your head, darling?”
    “I was nowhere near, Roisin. Didn’t even get warm on the flames.”
    Nobody was badly hurt in the blast. Ben Neilsen had tripped jumping from the van and cut his hand. One of the uniformed constables who had used too much hairspray before suiting up for the operation had found herself looking momentarily angelic when the flames took hold, but Pharaoh had had the presence of mind to push her headfirst into a puddle, and she had escaped without significant injuries.
    The operation had not gone well. The four-by-four had managed to lose the patrol car somewhere in the maze of old buildings down by the docks. The helicopter, when it had finally turned up, couldn’t pick up the trail. And when Pharaoh and her remaining team had burst through the sagging wooden doorway of the ramshackle warehouse, hoping to salvage the evening by at least seizing a few tons of marijuana, the place had been deserted. The long tables that lined the cold, dark space were covered in dirt and leaf, indicators that the building had indeed been used for cultivation of drugs, but whoever had used the place was long gone. Leanne has not answered her phone, and the uniformed officers dispatched to her house said it was empty and unlit.
    “She’ll be fine,” says Roisin softly. “Pharaoh. She’s a big girl.”
    McAvoy looks at his wife, trying to read her expression. She has not yet met his boss. Despite being married to a policeman, she is not comfortable in the presence of the law. She knows that Pharaoh means a lot to her husband and that there is no risk of him straying, but McAvoy has lately detected an edge in his bride’s voice whenever Pharaoh comes up in conversation.
    “Briefing in the morning,” says McAvoy. “Debriefing, really. See what we can salvage from tonight. I’ll go and try Leanne again first thing. I’m sure she wouldn’t be involved in any setup. She’s not a bad person. She’s just, you know . . . it’s a mess . . .”
    “You’ll sort it, Aector. Don’t worry.”
    They are in the kitchen, leaning against the work surfaces. Roisin has just finished the dishes. McAvoy, at her insistence, has not been allowed to help. The arrangement is in part due to her claims that men should not worry about housework, and partly because he has a habit of dropping things and making a mess.
    “Oh, I got a call from an old friend today,” says Roisin suddenly. “Can get us one of those Toyotas, the four-wheel-drive ones. Two grand and only three years old . . .”
    McAvoy winces. Colors instantly. Wishes she had not brought this up. He does not know how to respond to her mentions of “friends” and “contacts”—least of all since this morning’s embarrassments with the travelers. He does not believe that any