When I found what it was, I’d shout the answer to the whole world. Then maybe Mum and Grandad would stop fretting about me for a while.
The officer exhaled loudly. ‘You are one odd lad,’ he tried to mutter under his breath. I’d heard that term, odd, loads of times; it didn’t hurt so much anymore, but there were still some words that could sting my eyes.
‘You want to be giving up this following malarkey. Get yourself some friends, a girlfriend, a full-time job, and stop wasting my time and yours.’
‘I’m not wasting my time,’ I said, rolling my eyes and turning my gaze to the window.
‘What’s she doing on her own?’
The car slowed, and I looked to the opposite window to see an approaching WPC. It was indeed peculiar to see a female officer out on her own. This WPC was slim but had a swagger to her stride, as though she would start running at any minute. She had a round, smiling face, and you could just see her dark hair peeking out from under her hat. I’d seen her before, and I liked her. Well, her clothes, anyway. Her uniform was pristine.
PC Williams pulled over and wound down the passenger-side window. ‘What’s all this, lacy legs? Where’s Thomas at?’
‘He’s getting some fags. He said he’ll catch up in a minute, sir.’
Everyone called PC Williams sir. He wasn’t a senior officer, so his colleagues didn’t need to, but he was the longest serving and most experienced officer in the station—that’s what Grandad told me, anyway. He had a lot of respect in the community, and if he told you to do something, you did it.
He scoffed. ‘He’s most likely gone to see his fancy piece round the corner. He shouldn’t be letting you walk around on your own.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, though she didn’t sound particularly sorry to me.
I looked back to the rear-view mirror to watch their exchange.
‘Hey’—PC Williams waved his hand—‘no need to apologise to me. It’s you that’ll be sorry if any of them low lives see you out and about on your own.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get in. I’ll take you back to the station once I’ve dropped off young John here.’
It’s John-Michael! my brain shouted. How many times did I have to tell him?
PC Williams moved his helmet from the passenger seat and chucked it over his shoulder to make room for her. I tutted under my breath as it landed next to me. It could have easily hit me.
‘Hey, John-Michael,’ the WPC said.
‘Hello,’ I mumbled, my eyes now firmly focused on my hands folded in my lap.
I knew the WPC from around town. She was only a few years older than my twenty-one years. I didn’t speak to girls often; I was too self-conscious. But they probably wouldn’t go out with me, anyway.
‘What’s he done?’ she asked PC Williams.
‘He’s been following someone again. I’m going to have a quick word with his grandfather,’ he replied.
I switched off from their conversation then. I was used to being talked about, even if I was in the same room. Mum was the worst culprit for it. I used my brain as a radio or record player when I needed to escape. I would swap the channels around in my head when I was uncomfortable. I placed an album on the imaginary record player in my mind and lost myself in the sounds of The Beat’s I Just Can’t Stop It.
I mumbled along to Mirror in the Bathroom. It was my favourite song on the album, not only because they sang about mirrors and reflections but because the song resonated with me somehow, somewhere deep inside me.
The WPC shifted in the passenger seat and turned to look at me. I looked out the window again. ‘What’s with the mumbling about a bathroom, John-Michael? Do you need the toilet, or something?’
‘No,’ I muttered.
Why would I tell them I needed the toilet?
‘You want to get yourself a girlfriend,’ she sniggered. ‘Instead of loitering about. Have you ever spoken to a girl ’cept for me?’
I ignored her and carried on listening to my record.
‘Give over now. Leave him alone,’ said PC Williams.
‘Alright, sorry, sir,’ said WPC Thompson, still giggling to herself.
I didn’t know why she was laughing. I didn’t think she had a boyfriend; I hadn’t seen her name written on any of the benches around town.
I balanced my elbow on the car door and rested my chin on my hand to gaze out the window. But I turned off my internal jukebox as a strange man caught my eye. A shiver ran right through me at the sight of him. He wasn’t walking; he was slinking, the same way a cat stalks a bird. He was in our town hunting his prey, the same way I was searching for the person who would unlock the secret to making me whole.
He was the same height and build as me, with chestnut hair, and he was tanned, as though he’d been on holiday to Spain for a month. He wore a shiny dark-blue suit that seemed to change colour when the light hit it—almost like a shark, I thought. It had a small collar and three buttons going down—the bottom one was left undone. His trousers were narrowly fitted, and a silky red tie protruded at his neck. The outfit was completed by a three-pointed hanky sticking out of his top pocket. He looked like a sixties Italian film star, earning him the perfect nickname: “The Suit.”
He didn’t belong here.
Though no one else saw him—not even PC Williams, who was normally so observant. I moved to look out the rear window, but he’d disappeared. If I’d been on foot, I would have followed him. He didn’t belong here, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. It wasn’t just that his clothes were out of place here; there was something else…
I folded my arms in a huff and waited to arrive home.
Chapter Two
For the rest of the journey, I focused on my companions’ conversation and more importantly, their thoughts. I liked to envisage what people pondered in their brains as the cogs turned, just like watches. If what I imagined up was interesting enough, it would get an entry in my journal.
I bet PC Williams was considering why Mr Phillips had shut the shop this morning, and as though he’d read my mind, too, PC Williams spoke up.
‘Say, have you been down the high street today?’ he asked WPC Thompson.
‘No, sir. Why do you ask?’
He hummed. ‘Claude closed the antique shop this morning. He never shuts…’ He trailed off.
She shrugged. ‘Maybe he had a meeting.’
‘Not likely,’ he said, shaking his head.
I had to agree. Everyone knew Mr Phillips never closed. Even if he was ill, he somehow summoned the strength to roll out of bed, trundle downstairs, and lift the shutters.
The fact PC Williams was thinking about Mr Phillips made me think about him too. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to how he was acting. He might be in trouble and need my help. He’d never kept secrets from me before, but then I hadn’t outright questioned him about it.
I’d ask him about his meeting as soon as I got to work. Maybe if I got my head out of the watches for a time, I could figure out what was going on.
I switched my attention to WPC Thompson. I supposed she was thinking about the PC who had left her to walk the street alone. It was easy to guess where he was; off riding the town-bike. I’d heard Mum and several of her friends talking about the town-bike. The gossip was that PC Thomas Brown loved the town-bike, though I’d never seen it for myself.
I often wondered what model the famous town-bike was. I liked to imagine it as a BMX, but I couldn’t picture the policeman on a BMX, so I narrowed my options down to a racer; a red one.
The car turned onto Rosemary Drive and pulled up at the end of our long driveway. We lived on the outskirts of town in between Thorne and Moorends on the edge of the peat moors. There were only a few other houses here. Grandad said when the house was first built, the street didn’t have a name, as it was mainly disused farmland.
‘Here we are, lad, let’s go have a word with your grandfather, shall we?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I glanced t
owards the house, checking for any movement. I wasn’t looking forward to this one bit and secretly hoped no one was home. I straightened the collar on my jacket to stall for time as PC Williams opened the car door, then walked around to the other side.
‘Won’t be long, love, ten minutes tops,’ he said to WPC Thompson as he retrieved his helmet.
‘Alright, sir.’
Off we sauntered down the drive, and I kept a step behind him as we made our way. We didn’t speak as we walked; all that could be heard were the birds singing in the trees and the sound of the gravel crunching underneath our feet. I kept my head down now we were out of the car and I no longer had the rear-view mirror to look into.
Our house had been built over a hundred and fifty years ago and had been in the family ever since. At the roadside stood a garage and a showroom, though it had closed five years earlier. The house itself was set back from the road in the middle of a modest three-acre plot of land. A small cottage sat at the back for the gamekeeper. Our gardener lived in it now—for free, as Mum pointed out regularly. He took care of the gardens and was employed by others around town to do theirs. Fred was a close family friend. Even though he was a lot older than me, I spent a lot of time in his company. He’d been one of my dad’s best mates.
Grandad must have heard us crunching along the loose gravel, as he emerged from the garage. I looked up slightly and watched as he wiped his greasy hands on his overalls; he seemed to be shaking his head as he approached us.
‘Hey, Steve,’ the officer said cheerfully as I hovered behind him.
‘Hello, my dear friend,’ Grandad said, extending an arm to shake his hand. Then he turned to me. ‘Wait for me in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘Yes, Grandad,’ I replied and walked slowly towards the house.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had to bring him home again. What’s he done now?’
I lingered by the door at an angle to avoid their faces and to listen to what the constable had to say about me.
‘Hey, no apology necessary. I’m just looking out for the lad, is all. I know you’d do the same for my boys.’
Grandad nodded his agreement.
‘I caught him following some man down the street,’ the constable added.
‘I see. I’ll have another word with him.’
‘Aye, I know you will, pal. So, how’s the family keeping?’ PC Williams asked.
‘You know how it is. Money’s tight, and I miss the family and everything we had going for us. Ten years later, and I still expect Alex and Barb to come walking through the door any minute. And our John-Michael is the spit of him,’ he said, wiping at his mouth.
I knew times were tough. Grandad Stephen Chester couldn’t run the garage in his advancing years. His son and my father, Alex Chester, died twelve years ago when I was nine. He was only thirty-six, and I still missed him. Grandad had wanted me to take over the garage when I was old enough, but I wasn’t interested in car mechanics. The only mechanics I was interested in were that of watches. Grandad said it was his fault I had no interest in cars, because he had spent hours teaching me how to repair watches. Though he was proud I’d become the best horologist he knew, besides him.
‘I can see that, pal. No mistaking who his dad was except for them baby blues. Pulls at your heartstrings, doesn’t it?’
Grandad sighed loudly and nodded.
‘And Anna? How’s she doing? Any better?’
‘Hardly, she’s going to flip when she hears about this. She’s awful to him. Anyone can see he’s not quite right. And I can’t forgive her for all things she’s said to him over the years. She’s partially to blame for the way he turned out, in my opinion. I wish the doctors had got to the bottom of it all those years ago.’
PC Williams patted him on the shoulder, and I slumped back against the wall. I knew exactly what he was referring to. I remember Mum telling me my eyes were the cause of all my problems. She said they unnerved people, and they wouldn’t look at me, and in time, I stopped looking at them too. I could gaze at the rest of their bodies and quickly glance at their faces if they weren’t looking in my direction, but that was about it. I wish I knew what was wrong with me. Maybe I could learn how to fix it, and I’d be accepted by everyone, but especially by Mum.
‘Do you want to come in for a quick cuppa?’ Grandad asked him. ‘Or something stronger?’
‘Sure. Go on, then, a wee drop won’t hurt.’
‘Aye, good man.’
I ran through the side door to the kitchen, quickly filled the kettle, and placed it on the stove. Grandad and PC Williams entered a couple of moments later. I spied them from the many mirrors and reflective surfaces I’d positioned around the house. The constable’s eyes grew wide. No matter how many times he’d been in our house, his reaction was still the same.
On my last count, we had a hundred and sixty-seven mirrors in our house—twelve of those were in the kitchen. Our house was quite big, and despite its size, it was spotless. Every pot, pan, mirror, and surface in the kitchen had been scrubbed by me until it sparkled, as had everything reflective in all the other rooms.
I gazed at the picture of my dad pinned above the stove as I waited for the kettle to whistle. Mum liked it there to look at while she cooked. Grandad was right; I looked exactly like him. I was tall and slim like he had been, though I didn’t know what spitting had to do with the way I looked (I didn’t spit; it was a disgusting habit). But it was true, I did resemble him even more so now I was older—apart from my eyes. No one had eyes like mine. Dad had hazel eyes and chestnut hair like Grandad, though Grandad’s hair had been feathered with grey—almost white—for some time now. Mum had bottle-green eyes, as did my sister Tina, and they both had blonde hair that curled at the ends. Tina and I had both inherited olive skin from Grandad’s Italian heritage, too, which only made my eyes stand out even more.
PC Williams seated himself at the small wooden table while grandad poured two thumb-sized measures of whiskey into small tumblers. The constable swiftly scanned the room as he waited, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror, then turned away.
What had he seen that he didn’t like? Perhaps it was the advancing years creeping up on him. Mum said the mirrors reminded her she was losing her youth. I wondered if that was her reason behind breaking one now and again.
‘Here you go, pal.’ Grandad placed a glass down in front of the officer.
‘Cheers.’
They raised their glasses and took big gulps, then savoured the burn as the golden liquid glided down their throats and into their stomachs. Grandad had let me try a glass when I turned eighteen. I didn’t enjoy it, therefore I rarely drank, nor did I frequent the many pubs like most lads my age. I had no one my age to go with, anyway, even if I wanted to.
I had a couple of mates. Well… mates was stretching it a bit; they were acquaintances, really. We had bonded somehow over the unique social awkwardness we shared. Carl had teenage acne that refused to disappear. I’d expressed he should wash his face every morning and evening with soap, but I didn’t know if he followed my advice. Then there was Paul. He had a terrible stammer and so hardly spoke.
I brought over my cup of steaming hot tea and sat with them to await the lecture I was about to receive. I shuffled into position so I could see the reflections of the men sat in front of me.
Grandad took another sip of his whiskey, then sucked his cheeks in before he spoke, no doubt wondering what to say this time to get me to change my ways.
‘John-Michael, you know why PC Williams brought you home today, don’t you?’
I nodded, though the action didn’t mean I agreed. In my opinion, I hadn’t done a thing wrong. Not one foot out of line. It wasn’t as though I was a criminal.
‘You know it’s not that we want to stop you from doing what you enjoy… Perhaps, if you told us why you do it or what you’re looking for, we could help?’ he said, looking to his friend for assistance.
I remained still and silent.
I couldn�
�t tell them what I was looking for exactly; it was hard for me to put into words. I was looking for something that was missing within me, and I hoped I could spot it within someone else.
‘We’re just looking out for you, John, is all,’ the constable said. ‘We don’t want you getting into trouble—and I don’t just mean with the police. There’re a lot of stran… funny buggers about.’
I blinked back at them from the mirror. I’d had enough of their threats and reasoning. I would think about what they had said, but that would be it. I knew I would probably have another talking to once Mum found out, anyway, and I wasn’t looking forward to the fallout from that.
‘Is it the clothes you’re attracted to when you’re following them?’ Grandad asked.
I shrugged. ‘No, I’ve got my own clothes.’
‘Well, at least he’s not cross-dressing like Les Dawson,’ PC Williams said, then they both laughed. I didn’t know if they were laughing at me or at what he’d said.
‘Can you imagine our John-Michael’s hair in curlers with a hairnet on?’ said Grandad.
They laughed some more, and I interrupted, eager to get on with my day.
‘I’ll take into consideration what you’ve both said, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’m going to get ready for work,’ I said to the mirror, then walked away, my mug of tea left steaming on the table.
‘We shouldn’t be laughing, really,’ I heard PC Williams say.
I hovered in the passageway and stood where I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. I knew every angle of every mirror and reflective surface in the house.
The duo both sighed and finished their drinks simultaneously.
‘I really don’t know what else I can do,’ Grandad said, shaking his head.
‘I dunno, pal. All we can do is look out for them and do our best. I best be off now; got a young WPC waiting in the car,’ PC Williams said, getting up. ‘I’ll see myself out. Thanks for the tipple.’
‘Anytime, mate…’ Grandad trailed off, then slammed his fist down on the table when his friend was out of earshot.
Mirror Man Page 2
