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When I was younger, I remember watching the John Travolta film, “Face/Off”, with dad. I think I was a bit too young, to be honest, I was only about thirteen when it was on the telly - but we were both trying to avoid the rest of the clan for some reason, and he let me stay. Dad’s not the most… demonstrative person, but he’s kind of quietly great like that. But anyway, I remember thinking at the time – how useful it would be, to be able to be someone else; to wear a different face. Maybe lots of different identities. Even then, I’d started looking into being a cop, and my next thought was something about how useful it would be for undercover work. The perps wouldn’t make you until it was too late. Sucks to be you, bad guys – I’m Detective Lesley May, and you are nicked.
Turns out it doesn’t work quite like that.
It turns out your face isn’t just some mask; something you wear as an accessory, or pop and swap like one of those old Nokia phone fascias. It’s really fucking attached to the rest of you – muscle, bone, everything. It’s all pretty well connected. There have been face transplants – there was some woman in Europe who was mauled by a dog and got one done; I looked it up online and asked Dr Walid about it. But when they say that beauty is more than skin deep, they mean it – if the supporting structure, the muscles and the bones, aren’t there, you’re shit out of luck. And that’s even if you can find a suitable donor, and then there’s the lifetime supply of medicine to stop your body from rejecting that bit of you that wasn’t originally a bit of you.
I can’t say John Travolta films have the same appeal as they once did.
When I first saw my face – what was left of my face – in the mirror I didn’t really feel anything much. I’d been scared, before I looked. I’d wondered if I would break down, or throw up, or faint, or something else dramatic. But to be honest it just didn’t seem… real. It was a bit like looking into a butcher’s shop and seeing a vague outline of your head reflected around the side of beef hanging in the window. It was just… Does. Not. Compute. At first, anyway. I got the full whack of it soon enough – every part of the grief process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Even acceptance, of a sort. Textbook, in fact, and with bells on.
Showing the rest of the family was pretty grim, because I knew Mum would cry, and Dad wouldn’t know what to say (and then would go off somewhere else and cry) but my sisters must have had some sort of talk between themselves, and had a routine sorted – questions, jokes, a bit of teasing. It was what I needed. They were all pretty good at being discreet with the staring, too, although I knew when they were doing it. You can just tell, can’t you?
I was most worried about Peter. Because I knew he’d be okay to my - ha – I knew he’d say the right things, and be really supportive and nice. But I also knew he’d fixate on it, like the face thing was the only thing that had happened – the start and the end of it. Like I wasn’t somehow a different person now. I didn’t want him to feel guilty, not at all; but I wanted him to see me, to see me, and understand. I’m not that same Lesley any more. I’m someone else. He didn’t understand, of course. I wonder if he’s beginning to, now.
Now I wear a mask, it’s funny but I’ve started to be much more aware that everyone does, too. Different masks for different occasions. Everyone pretends, and disguises their intentions to get what they want and to protect themselves from other people’s suspicions. Or to protect other people from finding out things they wouldn’t want to know. It’s like I can suddenly see the Matrix. I wasn’t conscious of it before; Peter was always more of a people person than me. Ironically.
Peter’s different. Of course he wears a mask sometimes, like when he’s trying to keep his geek hidden from other police, or dealing with members of public who are also racist wankers and being drunk and abusive to other members of the public. Never when they’re doing it to him; he doesn’t seem to mind that. But he’s fundamentally a good guy, and far too open for his own good. Most of the time he’s easy to read and doesn’t hide behind anything at all. So while he was always kind, I could see when he looked at me that he stopped at my face. When he wasn’t looking at my tits, bless him. It was like a barrier; my wearing the Friday 13th Special (as I never call it in front of anyone) helped him focus on my eyes, but it took him much longer to get past the butcher’s shop thing than I did. Poor Peter.
I think that must be why he never asked about what it was like to have Henry Pyke set up camp inside my head for six months.
Six months. That’s a long fucking time. I asked Beverley Brook once, what it was like when people were in her river. She said it was a really weird feeling – she was aware of something being there, like her brain was itchy or something – but she couldn’t do anything about it and so she normally tried to ignore the sensation. Then she told me about a story she’d read online where someone came back from travelling and was having lots of headaches, so they did a scan and found a tapeworm in there. Thanks for that image, Beverley.
But that’s a bit what it was like for me, when that bastard was squatting in my brain. Most of the time, I was alone in there. But there were times – too many times – when I could hear thoughts that weren’t my own thoughts. Dreams of doing things and waking up and finding myself places I shouldn’t be. After a while, I began to suspect – but whenever I had figured a way to call out, to let the others know, it was as if a switch had been flicked and although I was talking, it was my voice I could hear, but it wasn’t me. The words weren’t mine. I was somewhere cold and dark, and alone. Pyke has long gone now, but I still feel like that sometimes. There’s a void that wasn’t there before, inside me. It scares the shit out of me, if only because I don’t want anything else to move in. I tried to fill it with magic, and routine, and the pretense that I was still a copper. But even though I can lie to Peter easily enough, it’s not like I can lie to myself.
And I can’t let anyone else control me like that again.
Nightingale is interesting. His mask is neutral, and he’s hard to read. That’s what I thought at first, anyway. But in his own way, he’s as transparent to me now as Peter. He allows what he shows the world to be governed by such a strict code, that I think he even fools himself, sometimes. Or maybe it’s something he needs – to be good, upstanding, the protector. Dress for the job you want. I mean, literally in his case – his suits are an extension of that. So bleeding obvious, when you can see it. I wonder what masks he wears for Peter, who was always his favourite. I wonder what Peter sees.
And now there’s him – “Faceless”. Aren’t we quite the pair? When Peter first told me about the nickname, I have to admit I was a tad put out. I felt that he wasn’t exercising the highest degree of tact and sensitivity, given my personal situation – but I didn’t say anything. And soon, it got me thinking – and before long, there was a plan. Maybe even a cunning plan. I’m good at plans, by the way. Everyone says so, and they’re right.
I’ll let you into a secret: when you’re faceless, you get to choose your own masks. What’s more, no-one looks too closely because they don’t trust themselves to be able to maintain their own masks. Their faces might betray them. Mine will not. I can see now – behind all your masks. Even his. I can see what you want, what you don’t want others to know, how you want others to see you. I can see your plans and use them to mask my own. And I’m a bloody good cop, even without the warrant card. Does that worry you, you posh bastard? It should.
Sucks to be you…