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Too small…
I settle on the kitchen. Vinyl flooring, easily cleaned. And lying on the ground, if she thrashes, she can’t fall and injure herself further.
Decision made, I press an ear to the bathroom door. Only the sound of trickling water and splashing penetrates. Back in the kitchen, I shove the central table to one side. Plastic sheeting and layers of towels, cover the flooring…
She might need to throw up…
Rummaging through cupboards produces a large pan. I set it down by where her face will be.
Then, quickly unpacking my purchases, I put the joint of meat on the drainer, skin side up.
I always keep my knife honed, but for this, I want no doubts. A rummage through drawers produces a steel. Working as quietly as I can, hoping the sound won’t carry through, I slide the blade over the diamond impregnated surface with a sound like silk in pain.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I visualise the tattoo…
The shape…
The size…
Where it flows over her spine…
A part of me wants to make the strip as narrow as possible, but that would take my blade dangerously close to her spine. If she moved at the wrong moment…
Better to give a margin of error…
In my mind’s eye, I trace the outline, mentally practicing. Pen in hand, I draw for real on the pigskin, marking a contour for the cut.
The tip of my knife digs into the skin, cutting through the resilient outer layer. Then peeling away, I separating skin from the fat and flesh underneath.
There’s no blood.
No cries of pain.
But my gut revolts against what I’m doing.
After maybe a minute and a half, I’m holding a leaf of pigskin the size of my hand.
Too slow…
Sketching out another outline, I practice my technique. A short slash above the head. Three angled slashes to either side to surround the dragon. A final cut below the tail to complete a rough polygon.
Six strips of skin later, my time is under thirty seconds. Cocking my ear toward the bathroom, there’s still no sound, so quickly, I rehearse stitching and knot tying.
By the time I hear movement from Katya, I can complete the process in under two minutes.
Scrubbing blade and haft first, I drop the knife into a bowl of the alcohol just as Katya emerges, pink-faced from her bath, but composed. Her hair is turbaned in a towel. Another towel encircles her, clutched tight above her breasts. “Are you ready?”
I drape a washrag over the bowl and knife “Yes. You?”
Her face sets. “Let’s get it done.”
I eye-point her to the floor. “Lie down. Stretch out your arms. I’m going to restrain you by the wrists, then straddle you at the waist to pin you while I do it. You okay with that?”
Wordlessly, she nods, but as I help her down, trembles violently. More so as I bind her wrists, then tensioning her against the pipes of a radiator.
One cheek flat to the sheeting, she stares up, a deer trapped in the headlights. “Are you going to draw where you cut?” she says. “Like the surgeons do?”
“No. If there were ink on what I hand over to Romano, it would be bound to raise his suspicions. This has to look as though I cut it from…” My words dry up.
