Courttia Newland was born in 1973 in west London. He is the author of four novels, has co-edited three anthologies (including IC3: The Penguin Book of New Black Writing in Britain) and is a co-founder of the Tell Tales collective, a short story initiative. He was Chair of the judges for the 2005 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize (awarded in 2006).

The 12 stories in Music for the Off-Key delight in the dark, the grotesque and the uncanny.’Smile Mannequin, Smile’ is reproduced by kind permission of the author and Peepal Tree Press.

SMILE MANNEQUIN, SMILE

The skin was almost perfect and yet cold. A sunset glow of rusting tan spread across the lithe body. Hints of red dotted in amongst brown. A scattering of freckles running from right shoulder to elbow. A blemish-free face, even in tone. Adams tended the skin, rubbing oils deep into the surface, making it shine with an appearance of good health. There were very few defects, something that amazed her. That she, such an imperfect creature, could create something so close to perfection, so unreal.

The morning Mr. Yoshimoto came, Adams was almost finished and feeling pretty pleased with herself. Despite the near perfect result, this one had been difficult; she hadn’t made the armature quite right and her casts of the feet had gone wrong too. She’d had to remould the latter, though when she looked at the mannequin now she knew that only an expert would see the inaccuracies. She blamed her mistakes on the daydreams that had consumed her while she worked, as well as the bottle of red wine she’d downed. The wine coalesced with her memories, thinking about the time she broke a molar on barbecued ribs. She was drunk. They were all drunk. It had been her wedding day.

The first she knew of Mr. Yoshimoto was the realization that someone was ringing her workshop buzzer. She left her work and watched him lurk uncomfortably at the bottom right corner of the black and white monitor. He was short and nondescript, wearing a suit, tie and matching hat; some dark colour she guessed. He looked Asian, though she wasn’t sure. He spoke her name slowly and seriously into the tiny microphone, asking if it was possible to spare him five minutes. He’d made no appointment. Adams buzzed the man in and waited.

Yoshimoto entered the workshop seconds later, looking up, down and around at the forest of body parts, mouth wide open. Then he saw Adams. He immediately bowed with deep a tilt of the head. Unconsciously, she did the same. When they looked up, she could see that his face was large for such a small man, almost perfectly round.

‘Good afternoon.’

‘Domo origato.’

The man beamed, displaying a jumble of misplaced teeth and pink gums.

.........