Read Original Skin for Free Online

enjoy the cigarette that is habitually hanging from his lower lip. He just keeps it there to light the next one.
    Harry exults in his job title of general manager of the private members’ club, but on days like these he can’t help but feel like little more than the caretaker. Were it in his power to appoint somebody to the role of watchman he would do so in a flash, but the owners grumble if he so much as changes to fresh from long-life milk, and in his words are “tighter than a ladybird’s chuff.”
    The blue light is flashing on the burglar alarm, but there is no sound. They disabled the bell months ago to keep the neighbors sweet. This is not a nice spot, a mile to the east of central Huddersfield, on the corner of a run-down row of pizza shops and budget hairdressing salons. Despite the less than beautiful location, the club has still faced plenty of problems from protesters and busybodies. Its license is dependent on the council’s not having a good reason to shut them down, so keeping the locals happy is paramount.
    Harry scrabbles through the many keys on his chain and finds the big one that opens the closed front door. He does not even think to try the handle. He has no doubt the alarm has gone off for no good reason: the same way it always seems to when he gets himself settled in front of a new blue movie with a pot of tea and a packet of HobNobs.
    The big blue-painted door swings open, and he stands for a second in the drafty, unpainted, breeze-blocked cubicle where, on weeknights from seven p.m., consenting adults stand in their lace and PVC finery, sliding a ten-pound note and their membership card through a hatch in the interior door, and waiting to be let in for an evening of no-strings coupling, tripling, and, on one memorable occasion, human-centipeding.
    He unlocks the inner door and steps into the dark of the downstairs bar. It’s red-painted, with brass wall lamps and silhouettes of naked women stenciled artistically around the room. The floor is black lacquer, and the booths and bar stools are covered in imitation crushed velvet that, as Harry knows too well, does not wipe 100 percent clean.
    With quick, practiced steps, he crosses to the bar and switches on the downstairs lights. It takes a moment for the bulbs to kick in, and there is a brief flickering before the room is illuminated.
    At once Harry knows something is wrong. The computer behind the bar is whirring. It’s an old machine and the internal fan is dust-clogged, so it habitually makes a noise like a helicopter in distress. The motor is spinning now. The monitor may be switched off, but recent use of the computer itself is betrayed by a green light winking beneath the bar.
    Harry switches the monitor back on. Wiggles the mouse. Screws up his eyes as the database of members’ names and addresses gradually comes into focus on the screen.
    “Fuckbollocking titshits.”
    He says this under his breath, resignedly, already knowing that his day has just been ruined. They’ve had break-ins before, of course. He’s turned up at work to find an entire week’s worth of booze nabbed from the storeroom, and the fancy leopard-print throw from the circular bed in the viewing room had lasted only a week before it found its way into the depth of a voluminous handbag. But this is the first time the computer has been targeted. He doubts very much any intruder would have deemed the machine itself worth the bother of carrying, but there are bits and pieces stored on its hard drive that he knows, with sudden crystal-clear hindsight, he should have protected better.
    “Shit.”
    He surprises himself with the simplicity of the statement. Pulls up a stool and begins tapping at the keyboard. He would never call himself a computer expert, but he knows how to build a database and surf for porn. He also knows how to transfer footage from the CCTV camera in the swing room to his own personal file.
    Harry spins away from the keyboard, grabs a half-pint glass