by Brian Byrne
“No!” Marty cried automatically and all three heads turned at once. The women’s faces weren’t quite as gaunt as the man’s but they were getting there. Marty lay flat against the door but it was too late: they’d heard him.
“Who was that?” The man advanced with surprising grace.
After a short pause Marty stepped out of the shadows. “I did.” He was no longer scared. All he could think about was the cat and the horrible fate this horrible man had just given it.
“Oh? And who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Why did you do that? Why did you do that to a harmless, innocent cat?” He was shaking and it wasn’t because of the cold.
The man’s eyes somehow managed to bulge even further. “Hold on. Are you saying what I did was wrong?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying! It was innocent, and you killed it! It did nothing, and you threw it into the fire like it was a piece of firewood!”
The man grinned. He had too many teeth. “I know what you are.” The women looked utterly disgusted, as if Marty had some terrible disease. “Tell me, little boy—how do you live with yourself?”
Marty didn’t know what to say to this so he said nothing. He always had a fondness for animals, cats especially, and wanted to punish this man for what he’d done. He wanted to, but didn’t know how. These people might have been frail, but there were three of them, and he didn’t know what tricks they had up their narrow, dirty sleeves.
“I think we’ll have to teach this little boy a lesson,” said the man. “What do you say ladies?” One of his hands disappeared beneath his ragged jacket and when it reappeared it was holding a bloodstained screwdriver.
Marty put one foot behind him.
“Oh? You’re not considering running away now, are you?”
Marty didn’t answer.
“It’s almost”—the man pulled out a pocket watch—“no, it’s after curfew. As of fifteen seconds ago, no less. I don’t know if that had occurred to you, but regardless, it means you’ll have to be punished.”
All Marty could do was shake his head. By the time he turned around they were already after him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marty ran as fast as he could but his chasers, the man especially, were relentless. Marty might have had long legs but the man was faster, so the two cancelled each other out. As he weaved through street after street he began to realise that speed alone wasn’t enough. If he was going to lose them he needed another tactic.
He passed St. Mary’s Church—it looked like a bomb had gone off inside of it—and something suddenly occurred to him. This was Violetville. Sure, it was the wrong way around, not to mention dark and derelict, but it was still Violetville. He’d spent twelve, nearly thirteen years here. He knew this town, and he was willing to bet he knew it just as well as the man on his tail. Feeling a little more hopeful he took a right, went left at a junction and found himself at the back of an old meat factory. Just like at home, large bins lined the streets, and he threw himself into the first one he came across.
No sooner had he landed inside when he heard the man turn onto the street. His footsteps slowed and came to a halt. He swore. Marty tried to make himself as small as possible. It was already dark and if the man did happen to look in here maybe he’d mistake him for a bag of rubbish.
Marty’s heart was beating so loudly he barely heard the man’s footsteps start up again. The man began whistling, as if this was normal for him, as if this was what he got up to every night. Marty realised the man was walking in his direction and lost the ability to breathe.
The whistling drew closer. Marty closed his eyes. He tried to make himself still but couldn’t. What would he do if the man found him? It was no use having long legs when there was nowhere to run.
The footsteps stopped. The man continued whistling, but soon that stopped too. Marty waited for the man to order him outside, or worse, to come in after him. Instead he heard one of the women calling out from far away.
“What the hell were you doing?” the man replied. The woman shouted something else, to which he said, “I don’t care if you got tired. You don’t stop running until I tell you to. I hope you’re pleased with yourself—he escaped!”
The footsteps faded and slowly, ever so slowly, Marty opened his eyes. He could hardly believe his luck. He felt like a wire was uncoiling inside of him, a wire someone had been winding ever since he’d arrived in this place.
But he wasn’t foolish enough to think he was safe just yet.
*
Marty might as well have been hiding in a coffin. It smelled like someone had died in here—it felt like it, too. Something was poking into the back of his legs, but it was too wide, too long, too large to be an animal. As much as he didn’t want to think it, Marty had a feeling this was one of those places people come to die.
It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours since he’d arrived in this place, but already it felt like days. Had his dad realised he was missing yet? He’d always been a bit jumpy, but ever since Marty’s mum moved to America with her new boyfriend he’d been getting more and more sensitive. Now Marty had gone too. What would he do when he found out? He would most definitely call the police, but then what? They wouldn’t listen, which meant he would start looking for Marty himself. Marty didn’t want to think about what might happen if his search brought him across the road to number three.
Marty did miss his mum, but he never needed to worry about her, mainly because she never really worried about him. When he was ten he wanted to dress as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle for Halloween, and she promised him she’d buy him the costume. But she got so wrapped up in her work—or at least that’s what she said—she forgot all about it, and Marty had to make his costume out of cardboard instead. That wasn’t even the worst of it. Earlier this year, just before she moved away, Marty got in trouble at school for snooping through a bully’s bag after a girl’s calculator was stolen. Marty found the calculator in the bag but in the end got the same punishment as the bully who stole it. Marty wanted her to make a formal complaint to the school (teachers never listen to children like they do their parents) but something came up at work and she never did.
When Marty’s mum let everything drop, his dad was the one who came running—sometimes literally. Marty needed his dad, and his dad needed him, too.
Suddenly, Marty didn’t care why Aileen and Agley had pushed him through the mirror. Sure, he’d found out what happened to Mr. Uncle’s barbecue. He’d even discovered what his new neighbours were up to—well, sort of. But unlike the other mysteries he’d solved, this wasn’t something he could abandon every night when he felt like watching TV. He’d barely escaped the skeletal-faced man and his henchwomen, and if he didn’t get moving soon they might come back for him.
He closed his eyes, something he always did when thinking really hard about something. Slowly, the bathroom at number three pieced itself together in his mind. He saw the mirror, and in it, himself, Aileen and Agley. As the scuffle replayed itself he tried to spot something he might have missed; any clue as to how he could get home again. But it was useless. As is usually the case in these situations, it all happened incredibly fast. His memory of those fervent few seconds was a bit of a blur, and like a dream became blurrier still the harder he thought about them.
Marty kept thinking—not because he thought he’d find something, but because he had to. He rewound his mental tape until he was standing in the living room again. He watched Agley advancing on Aileen’s command, himself running for the window, Agley catching him and dragging him back inside. He saw the pair carrying him through the house, pulling him into the bathroom and plonking him in front of the mirror.
Then he saw Agley checking his watch.
His breath caught in his throat. That was it. That was his clue. If Marty’s previous investigations had taught him anything, it’s that the most important details are usually hiding in just that—the details. Before the mirror
had started dissolving, Agley had checked his watch. Like he’d been waiting for it to happen. No, not waiting—expecting. Marty’s neighbours had no control over when the mirror dissolved, but they knew when it would. It had happened before—after all, how else could Mr. Uncle’s reflection have made it through? And it would happen again. It had to. Marty just needed to make sure he was there when it did.
*
The return trip to Wycherly Terrace took him about twice as long as he would have liked. He didn’t encounter anybody else, but his run-in with the skeletal-faced man had left him almost as jumpy as his dad. When he finally made it back he discovered something he hadn’t been expecting.
The door of number three. It was open.
Try as he might he couldn’t quite remember whether or not he’d left it open on his way out. But he’d wasted too much time already. For all he knew, the mirror was dissolving right this very second. This thought alone fuelled him onwards, and soon he was stepping back—albeit slowly—into the living room. He waited for some sign of another presence within the house, but heard nothing and so headed for the corridor. He felt around for his torch but decided not to use it. If someone was inside, he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. It had taken a while, but his brain was finally beginning to understand this whole backwards thing, and before very long he was climbing the staircase, using the banister as a guide. On the landing he spotted the same room where all the equipment had been and felt a sudden surge of excitement. But it was empty and so, dejected, he carried on towards the bathroom.
Marty tried to imagine what would happen when he went back through the mirror. He was sure about one thing: Aileen and Agley would be waiting for him. Would they be impressed he had survived and start running tests with that strange equipment of theirs? Or would they be mad? And what about his dad? How could Marty even begin to explain where he’d disappeared to? Oh sorry Dad, I was just over at Aileen and Agley’s house enjoying a nice cup of tea. Why did it take four hours, you say? Well it was a big cup of tea, Dad. Marty knew plenty of trouble was waiting for him on the other side of the mirror, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if Aileen and Agley grabbed him and tried to push him back through again. He didn’t care if his dad screamed so loudly he went permanently deaf and had to start wearing a hearing aid. At least he’d be home again. That was all that mattered now.
Marty stopped at the bathroom doorway and for a moment the light dazzled him. Squinting, the room gradually faded into view. He saw the grimy tiles, the putrid toilet, the dirty sink. And on the floor, in the middle of it all, the mirror, broken into hundreds and hundreds of pieces.
A slippery, slimy fistful of disappointment settled in Marty’s stomach. It was like being at the front of a marathon but tripping over your shoelace a metre from the finish line. He knew then and there he would never see his parents, the Uncles—hell, even Aileen and Agley—ever again.
“What happened here?” said a familiar voice from behind him, and Marty felt the disappointment in his stomach turn to dread.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mr. Blume looked up from the shards of mirror and smiled. Marty stared—he’d never seen that face make that expression before.
“I didn’t frighten yeh, did I?”
“Mr—Mr. Blume!” As soon as Marty said it he realised his mistake. There was no guarantee this man knew anything about his doppelgänger. As it turned out he was right.
“Do I know yeh?”
“I—no! What are you doing here? Were you following me?”
“Nail on deh head,” Mr. Blume chuckled, and Marty stared harder still.
“But why?”
“I noticed yeh weren’t wearin’ one’ve me roses.” He pointed to the one pinned to his jacket. “Well it was Lissa dat spotted it. She doesn’t miss a trick, I tell yeh. Anyway, dat got me interest. Den yeh started followin’ me. Dat really got me interest. So I said I might as well follow yeh too, yeh know?”
“You saw me? You saw me following you?” Marty couldn’t believe it. Not once had they turned around—he was sure of it.
“Lissa did.” He chuckled again. It sounded so incredibly odd. “I never told her I’d come after yeh though. It’s bad enough I’m outside, let alone her as well. Which reminds me, what’re yeh doin’ here? Didn’t yer parents tell yeh what happens after curfew?”
Something about the way he said the word ‘curfew’ made Marty feel uneasy. “Why? What happens?” Surely it couldn’t be any worse than what had happened to him so far? But before he could find out he heard something infinitely worse than any sound his history teacher could ever make.
He heard the front door slamming shut.
“We’ve got a visitor.” Mr. Blume crossed the hallway, opened the door opposite and turned around. “If yeh fancy gettin’ yourself torn asunder feel free teh stay put. Otherwise I’d advise yeh teh follow me.”
Marty knew it was a bad idea to follow a strange man into a dark room. But he’d nearly lost his life once tonight. He wanted to wait at least a couple of days before nearly losing it again.
The room was large and cobwebby. On the back wall a window let in a pathetic amount of light. Marty flattened his ear against the door but couldn’t hear anything on the other side.
“Are you sure there’s someone out there? Maybe it was just a gust of wind.”
“I really hope not.”
When Marty tried to ask what exactly he meant by this Mr. Blume pressed a finger to his lips. Marty didn’t understand. What could be so scary about a gust of wind?
Just then he heard a faint whistling. He looked at Mr. Blume, confused as to why he was making noise just seconds after he’d told him not to. But it wasn’t coming from him, and a second later it transformed into an incredible gale, like a small hurricane was racing down the hallway towards them. It was as if the world had read Marty’s mind and was now doing its best to prove him wrong.
“Look! Right dare!” said Mr. Blume, pointing at the gap at the bottom of the door.
Marty backed away just as dirty black smoke started billowing underneath the door. Unlike regular smoke it moved with intent, and in a matter of seconds a giant streak of blackness hung in front of the door, twisting and turning and chasing its own tail.
“What is that?!”
“Dat, me friend, is a stranger.” Mr. Blume turned around and drove his elbow right through the window. The glass shattered on impact and crashed down below.
“Go on,” he said. Marty could barely make out his face, but what he did see was something he’d never, ever seen in his history teacher. Something like…concern.
“Go on, will yeh!” Mr. Blume shouted, and this time Marty obliged. But as he was climbing out of the window something dawned on him.
“Wait a minute. We’re on the first floor!”
“Believe me, yeh’ll be a lot better off down dare dan yeh will up here.”
Marty threw his legs outside, but rather than jumping off right away he grabbed hold of the window frame and swung himself around. As he looked back inside the smoke collapsed in on itself and exploded back out again, finally fading away to reveal a figure, tall and broad and human in every possible way.
Except it had no face.
It wore a black trench coat and bowler, and in between, where its eyes, nose and mouth should have been, was a blank patch of flesh. The thing couldn’t see, but it didn’t need to: no sooner had it formed when it marched towards Mr. Blume. It raised its arms, and instead of hands Marty saw two tendrils of smoke. They shot from its sleeves like pouncing snakes and Mr. Blume ducked, barely avoiding them.
“Jump, I said!” he yelled as he dodged a second attack. “Even if it gets me it can still come back for you!”
Marty tore his eyes from the scene and stared into the abyss beneath him. He took a deep breath, bent his knees and braced himself for the leap into nothingness.
But he couldn’t do it. Aileen said reflections were evil, only the Mr. Blume from home
had never let him use the toilet, let alone try to save his life. If anything, he was the evil one. Sure, Marty had known this Mr. Blume for all of five minutes, but he’d already decided he much preferred this one.
“Why aren’t”—his teacher’s double ducked under the stranger’s arm and ran for the door, but the stranger beat him to it—“yeh jumpin’?”
“I can’t leave you here! I want to help!”
“Dat’s all well and good, but I don’t tink yeh can!” The man had a point—the stranger was closing in again.
But as Mr. Blume dodged the creature a third time Marty got an idea. He lowered himself back onto the window sill and dropped into the room, making sure to stamp his feet as hard as he could. It worked: the stranger turned to face him. Mr. Blume took his chance, flinging open the door and backing into the hallway. Marty reached for the window, but as he pulled himself out again the creature changed its mind and went after Mr. Blume instead.
Marty jumped back inside and raced after it.
*
The living room was deserted. The front yard was empty, too. Marty noticed a spec of white in the mud and realised it was Mr. Blume’s rose. Covered in goose pimples again he scanned the driveway and there, at the far end, saw the dirty mess of smoke. But whoever it was chasing he couldn’t see: Mr. Blume had vanished. Without stopping to think what all of this meant, he grabbed the rose—together with a fistful of mud—and took off down the driveway.
He made it to the end just in time to see the smoke leave Wycherly Terrace. But rather than turning left for town, it turned right. As far as Marty remembered the only thing in this direction was a connection to a main road and a turn-off for the river than ran along this side of town.
As he chased the smoke along the barren road he noticed it appeared to be fighting with itself. While most of it was intent on carrying onwards, part of it, somewhere deep inside, was just as intent on staying put. By the time it took the turn-off it was beginning to slow down, and Marty was catching up.
