Doppelginger

by Brian Byrne

  Mr. Uncle didn’t notice Marty until he was standing right in front of him. He looked up and flinched as if Marty had materialised out of thin air.

  “You!” he said. It was an odd sound, one of shock and relief and excitement. It was like he’d been looking for Marty for years and now, finally, he’d found him. But the look in his eyes told Marty he wasn’t happy about it. Mr. Uncle started struggling, shaking his arms and kicking his legs. “You! You!”

  Marty raised his hands but kept his distance. “Mr. Uncle? It’s—it’s me! Please stop screaming, they’ll hear you!”

  “Too late.”

  Marty turned around and found the odd couple standing in the doorway.

  “You really are incessantly irritating, aren’t you?” said the woman, her arms folded. “I have a good mind to call the authorities. Did you actually think you could just traipse on in here—”

  “Him!” shouted Mr. Uncle. “It’s him!”

  The woman’s face spasmed. Her eyebrows turned upside-down. The edges of her mouth curled upwards and her cheeks wobbled as she attempted to hold them in place. It took Marty several seconds to realise she was smiling.

  The fat man looked up at his skinny partner. “Want me to grab him, Aileen?”

  Her smile vanished again. She bared her teeth, brought her arm back and clattered the fat man around the head. “Agley! I told you not to give away our names!”

  Agley didn’t cough but his face turned red anyway. “Sorry Aileen, but you know you did just sort of say my name there as well.”

  The woman’s eyes rolled back so far her pupils disappeared for a second. “Just grab him, okay?”

  The man sniggered. It sounded like he was trying to cough up phlegm. “With pleasure.”

  *

  The pair dragged Marty into the depths of the house.

  “Let me go!” he yelled. He kicked and shoved and screamed but their grips were made of iron. They yanked him down a cold corridor and up a damp staircase. On the landing they passed a room filled with the same equipment he had seen in the van just hours before, except now all of it was hooked up and making strange beeping noises. But before he could get a proper look they dragged him into a bathroom.

  There were bars on the window and the door was reinforced with large metal hinges and locks. It was like a prison cell—if prison cells had floral patterns on the walls and a fancy selection of soaps. The pair dragged him up to the mirror and he saw his own terrified self.

  “What do you want with me?! What did you do to Mr. Uncle?!”

  “We’re giving Over There what it wants,” said Agley, groaning when Aileen delivered a swift kick to his shins.

  “You’re what?!”

  “Never mind that,” said Aileen loudly. “But there is one thing you do need to know. That man is not your neighbour. It’s his reflection. His evil doppelgänger, if you’ll forgive the crude terminology.”

  “His what?!” Marty said, trying to break free despite knowing there was no way he would.

  Agley glanced at his watch. “It’s time.” As if his words had triggered it, the mirror began to dissolve. Marty watched as it rippled, first at the centre but then out to the sides, until finally it was like a tiny sea, the water waving back and forth across it.

  “Let me go!” he yelled. “I said let—me—GO!” But the pair were already picking him up off the floor and forcing him into the mirror.

  Marty barely had time to scream before his face touched the surface, then his neck, shoulders, torso and legs. It might have looked like water, but it was thicker than custard and absolutely freezing. He started shivering uncontrollably and his head started to hurt. But no sooner was he submerged in it when he fell out the other side and landed on his face on a cold floor.

  Doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his head he pulled himself to his feet. He was standing in a room identical to the one he’d so abruptly left—well, identical, but backwards. The door was on his right instead of his left and the window was on his left instead of his right. The mirror was just a mirror again and while he pounded on the glass he was soon forced to accept he’d have to find another way home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Goose pimples sprouted up on Marty’s arms and legs. But it wasn’t from the mirror—somehow, his clothes were still perfectly dry. Before the mirror had started dissolving Aileen had told him something. It’s his reflection. His evil doppelgänger. Only it wasn’t because of that, either. What gave Marty goose pimples was that he believed her. He knew the man tied to the chair couldn’t have been Mr. Uncle. He knew it, but he hadn’t let himself believe it. Then again, if that wasn’t Mr. Uncle, how had he recognised him? How had he known Marty was the person Aileen and Agley were supposed to shove through the mirror?

  A fresh shiver grappled with his back. Aileen and Agley moving into number three, Mr. Uncle’s impostor and his trip through the mirror—all of it was connected. What had Agley said? We’re giving Over There what it wants. Had he meant Marty? If so, what would anyone in this place want with him? Marty needed answers, but he wouldn’t find them staring at his own dishevelled self. He needed to get moving.

  Marty scrunched up his nose. He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t notice the stench—the horrible, horrible stench—until now. The toilet, from the looks of it, hadn’t been flushed in weeks, what appeared to be a concoction of black vomit and blood filled the sink and the floor was sticky with stale urine. Hoping the rest of this place didn’t smell so bad, Marty pinched his nose and tiptoed out of the bathroom, his shoes peeling off the floor with every step.

  It’s a strange sensation walking around a world the exact opposite of the one you’re used to. Marty crept through the dark hallway in the direction of the staircase and instead found himself in a broom closet. He frowned—this was going to be a lot more difficult than he’d thought. He tried visualising the house in his head and two wrong turns later made it into the living room. There was nothing in here but a pair of dirty sleeping bags and the remains of a makeshift fire. He wandered into the kitchen which, apart from a single cupboard, was just as barren as the living room, before reluctantly cracking open the front door and peering outside.

  Groaning. He heard it as soon as the door opened. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from and then realised why: it was coming from everywhere. It was the sound of hundreds if not thousands of people, all groaning and moaning and crying out in agony. But the less attention he gave it the less distinguishable the groans became.

  Slowly, he stepped off the front porch and into the front yard. The breath he had been holding in his lungs suddenly rushed out of them. The sky—it was filled with faces. Dozens and dozens of them, with narrow slits for eyes and wide open mouths. It was almost as if the groans were coming from them. But that wasn't right. No; he looked harder and realised they were clouds. Beyond the holes he saw the faint reds and oranges of sunrise, and wondered what time it was.

  He started up the driveway—which really was less a driveway than it was a long, dirty stretch of mud—but stopped short when he spotted, on the other side of the street, what can only be described as his house’s ugly twin.

  Marty’s dad, terrified the neighbours would think he was unhygienic, always insisted the house was painted, top-to-bottom and inside-out, at least twice a year. The result was that his otherwise quaint and somewhat charming house always looked brand new. This house, on the other hand, looked like an abandoned shack in the worst part of town. The windows were boarded up, there was graffiti all over the front door and instead of his dad’s favourite turquoise paint there was no paint at all. It was clear just from looking at this house that nobody had set foot in there for a long, long time. Marty turned and without a second glance hurried out of backwards Wycherly Terrace.

  He noticed more abnormalities on his way into town. First, all plant life was either dead or dying. The rare patches of grass he did see were an odd grey colour, as if they’d wilted away over a long per
iod of time. The trees had no leaves and their branches looked like misshapen arms, all waiting to grab him if he got too close. But perhaps the strangest thing of all were the crows. They were everywhere and, as ridiculous as it sounds, he couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching him. They were perched on the branches of the spindly-armed trees, and whenever he looked in their direction they chirped irritably and flew away, as if by noticing them he’d foiled their plan.

  As he neared the town centre the incessant groaning faded, but other sounds quickly replaced it: glass breaking; wild laughter; a howling dog. The buildings were as derelict as the ones in the estate.

  He saw a woman pushing an empty shopping trolley down the middle of the street and stopped at a corner to watch. The woman was short, and so old her skin had sagged down her face and collected beneath her chin. She sort of looked like Maggie Botch, the owner of Botch’s Butchers back in Marty’s Violetville, but like Mr. Uncle’s reflection her skin had taken on an odd grey tinge. Her mouth was opening and closing and she appeared to be talking to herself.

  “Excuse me? Mrs. Botch?” Marty called, stepping off the curb but keeping his distance. The woman ignored him. “Maggie?” he said, but it was no use: she was in some kind of trance, and Marty, worried what might happen if he woke her up, gave up and kept going.

  When he turned the next corner he froze solid. There were people. Everywhere. Some staggered around in circles, apparently blind to the people they kept bumping into. Others sat hunched over in doorways; skeletal men, women and children who looked mere moments from death. He dived behind an upturned dustbin but it was pointless: like Maggie Botch they were completely oblivious to his presence.

  There were others, too. People who kept to themselves, never looking at anything but their own two feet as they hurried through the town. Their faces were pale and many were a little on the skinny side, but otherwise they looked perfectly normal. He quickly noticed something else about them. They all carried a flower, a single white rose. Some had one pinned to their lapel. Others carried one in their handbags, the blossom poking out between the handles. A few clutched one tightly in their hand, and these people looked to be in more of a hurry than anyone else.

  At the end of the next street he came across a large gathering of people. They were surrounding something—what, he couldn’t see, even when he stood on the tips of his toes—but from the way they were pushing and shoving he could tell it was something important. A tiny woman with a shock of white hair appeared from the depths of the crowd, red faced but relieved, a crisp white rose held close to her chest. The others looked on hungrily as she hurried passed Marty and out of sight.

  “Dat’s it lads!” someone shouted from the middle of the struggle. Marty stopped walking. He knew that voice.

  “C’mon now,” the voice carried on, “Yeh know I’ve only so many teh go around. Deh rest’ve yeh will get yers later dis week. Yeh have me word!”

  Marty definitely, definitely knew that voice.

  Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. He saw that they also carried roses—but unlike the crisp white ones he’d seen so far, all of these were wilting. The people, too, looked wilted, almost like their appearance was somehow linked to that of the flower. As they passed him by some of them gave him an odd, searching look, as if he had something they dearly wanted.

  When the street finally cleared Marty saw the owner of the familiar voice and felt like he’d swallowed a stone: it was Mr. Blume, his cantankerous old history teacher whom everyone in his class loathed.

  A long time ago—a very long time ago—Marty had actually liked history. But from the moment Miss Honey got pregnant and the merciless Mr. Blume arrived, he very quickly began to hate it. Five minutes into his first lesson Mr. Blume had given four pupils, Marty included, ten page essays on the topic of—how could he ever forget it—The Longest Day in History. Marty couldn’t remember what he’d actually written, but one thing he always did was never so much as breathe out of turn during one of Mr. Blume’s classes ever again.

  While the Mr. Blume Marty knew was almost completely bald, this Mr. Blume had a healthy head of brown hair. His eyes weren’t as narrow and not nearly as suspecting, and his face had about half its usual number of wrinkles. To top it off, his clothes weren’t dark and musky, but green and frilly. Obviously, this Mr. Blume hadn’t spent the last forty years scalding children.

  Beside Mr. Blume stood a girl. She couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Marty. She was wearing an outfit not too unlike a school uniform. From the looks of it she’d been wearing it for a while: the sweater was faded and the skirt was frayed. Her hair, too, looked neglected, like she’d only had time to brush one side.

  The girl spotted Marty watching her and tilted her head. She said something to Mr. Blume and took a series of long, powerful strides in Marty’s direction, stopping just a little too short of him. “Lissa Evans, assistant florist at The White Rose,” she announced, throwing out a hand. “Where is it?”

  Marty looked at her hand but didn’t shake it. “Where’s what?”

  “Your rose, silly. Where is it?”

  “I don’t have a rose.”

  Lissa tilted her head even further. He noticed a large mole on her left cheek. “You what?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “But you must. How else could you look so ordinary?”

  He knew what she meant. She wanted to know why he, too, hadn’t wilted. But even he didn’t have the answer to that.

  Lissa sighed and turned around. “Victor? I think there’s something wrong with this boy. He claims he doesn’t have a rose. That’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Blume didn’t come any closer; instead he narrowed his eyes and pushed his lips to one side. Marty had seen this face many times before, and he shuddered.

  “He’s just kiddin’ yeh,” said Mr. Blume, although he didn’t sound so sure. “C’mon now, we’d better get goin’.” He picked up a large white basket and propped it on his shoulder.

  Lissa didn’t move. She looked Marty up, down and up again, then peered over his shoulder, as if he might have been hiding a rose behind his back.

  “Look, I don’t have one, all right?”

  “For flip’s sake Lissa, will yeh c’mon!” Mr. Blume called from halfway up the street.

  Lissa smirked. “Ginger freak.” Her teeth were so white they glowed in the dark, blinding Marty a little. She turned and hurried after her companion.

  Marty waited until they’d disappeared around the corner and followed them.

  Mr. Blume walked at a brisk pace; quite unlike the slow sauntering his double did through the corridors at school. Marty always kept his distance, peering around corners and taking cover wherever and whenever possible. He wasn’t sure he actually needed to—they were too busy talking to turn around—but he’d never gotten the chance to follow someone before. It wouldn’t feel right doing it without at least some degree of stealth.

  It was on Worran Street that it happened. At home, Worran Street was at the edge of the old side of town—or Old Town, as the locals had so cleverly nicknamed it. The town council had preserved the area because they said it added to the town’s character. Evidently, this meant cramming it with as many overpriced souvenir shops, elbow-bumping restaurants and pretentious boutiques as humanly possible.

  When Marty leaned around the corner he saw everything he expected: the cobblestones, the buildings that rose dangerously high on both sides, and the steep staircases that led to their basements.

  But nothing else.

  It was like the darkness had swallowed them up. They couldn’t have disappeared into one of the buildings—here, every single shop was boarded up. The steps remained, but wherever they led, he wasn’t too eager to find out. Sure, he wasn’t afraid of the dark, but there’s a big difference between being afraid of the dark and being afraid of what might be hiding in it.

  He looked up and down the street. His only lead, if th
ey had even qualified as a lead, had vanished. What was he supposed to do now? He recognised a lot of people here, but it wasn’t like he could ask them for help. They were unknowns. He couldn’t trust any of them.

  As he delved deeper into Old Town, he started to feel like he was delving deeper and deeper into a maze. He’d never been in town this late before, and in the dark the buildings looked taller still. It didn’t help that everything was the wrong way around. After what felt like an eternity, or maybe two, he spotted a flickering light in the distance. He didn’t care what it meant—he was already rushing towards it.

  Three figures were huddled around a blazing piece of metal, rubbing their hands together in an attempt to ward off the cold. It really was freezing. One of the figures, a tall, skinny man, said something to the others—both women, both just as skinny—and they cackled like a pair of witches. Without even hearing what the man had said Marty could tell the laughter was fake. It sounded entirely put on, so much so Marty wondered if the man realised it. If he did he obviously didn’t care, because then he said something else and they cackled again.

  Marty crept up the street, keeping close to the wall as he went. He caught of glimpse of the man’s face and got such a fright he almost cried out. It looked like a skull. It was bald and sunken and the eyes bulged out like they were trying to escape it. It was mesmerising in the worst way possible. Marty hid in the next doorway he found and listened.

  “And I killed her!” the man said as if he were telling the punchline of a joke.

  “What? Just like that?” asked the slightly skinnier woman—although they were both so skinny it was kind of difficult to tell. “Without even giving her a chance to explain herself?”

  The other woman twitched. Marty knew the first woman had said something she shouldn’t have, and sure enough the man glared at her.

  “I allowed her to beg, if that’s what you mean. But explain herself? Please. It was after curfew. As far as I’m concerned, anyone brainless enough to be wandering around after that deserves whatever’s coming to them—in her case, me.” He raised his hand and in it Marty saw a tabby cat. It was struggling. The man sighed and threw it into the fire.