Doppelginger

by Brian Byrne

  He noticed something else, too. The groaning, which he’d been doing his best to tune out, had fought its way back into his head. It was getting louder, and as the river came into view he started to make out individual voices.

  The smoke finally came to a stop in the middle of a tiny footbridge that arched over the river below. It was convulsing more than ever now. It pulled apart one more time and there, suspended deep within it, was Mr. Blume.

  For a single terrifying moment, Marty thought he was dead. His mouth hung open and his skin had taken on that familiar grey tinge. Mr. Blume was staring right at him—no, through him—to some far-flung point in the distance. But he was struggling. Tendrils of smoke were coiling around his neck, arms and legs, but he was fighting against them. And yet the stranger was too powerful. It carried him towards the railing and pitched him over the side until nothing but thin air separated him from the water below.

  Marty laughed. He laughed like he did at a cat video on YouTube. He laughed like he did at Cadet Larvell Jones in the Police Academy movies. He laughed like any twelve year old kid would, like he was happy and care-free, like the biggest problem in his life was getting his homework done before school the next day.

  The smoke recoiled. The tendrils unravelled and, to his absolute horror, dropped Mr. Blume over the side of the bridge. Before Marty could even begin to react it transformed once again into the faceless figure.

  Marty never knew why he didn’t run. He wanted to, he dearly wanted to, but couldn’t. Some part of his mind kept his feet firmly bolted to the ground as the creature marched back across the bridge. It lifted its arms and Marty saw the tendrils of smoke again.

  Suddenly it stopped. It was like an invisible barrier was blocking its path. The stranger lifted a booted foot off the ground and tried to step forwards, but something forced it back again. It waited, and even though it had no facial features Marty could tell it was studying him. A moment passed, then smoke shot from its arms and legs, encompassing the creature as it reverted back to smoke. It blew back across the bridge and was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Marty was halfway through a sigh of relief when he remembered Mr. Blume. He ran across the bridge and leaned over the railing and finally understood where the groaning was coming from.

  He couldn’t see any water. The surface, far below, was comprised solely of people, all writhing this way and that, clambering over each other in a never-ending bid to escape. The smell was vile, and while he had never before smelt anything like it, he knew at once it was the smell of death.

  His eyes fell on a girl directly below him. She had deep cuts on her face and a large chunk of hair missing. She was crouching on the stomach of an overweight man. Two others restrained his arms and legs as the girl ripped his shirt open and tore into his flesh with her bare hands. She laughed as the man screamed, and then her accomplices joined in. It was only then that Marty recognised her as Alana Adams, one of the teacher’s pets at school. She was a teacher’s pet, not because she was smart, but because she eavesdropped on the smart kids.

  It was the most disgusting thing Marty had ever witnessed. And yet he couldn’t look away.

  Alana was helping herself to the man’s intestines when something obscured Marty view. There, hanging off the side of the bridge, was Mr. Blume. He’d been there the whole time. Somehow, he’d managed to grab hold of the bridge when the stranger dropped him. He looked worse than ever now: more like the people Marty had seen wandering around in circles than the man handing out the roses.

  The roses.

  Marty pulled the muddy rose from his fingers, reached through the railing and pushed it into Mr. Blume’s collar. The effect was instantaneous: the greyness started to leave his face and recognition returned to his eyes.

  Marty leaned over the railing again, this time averting his eyes from the scene below. He grabbed Mr. Blume by the wrists and pulled as hard as he could. He knew he wasn’t strong enough but he wasn’t about to let him fall, so he pushed against the railing and leaned backwards. It took a while, but eventually Mr. Blume was up, over and toppling onto the bridge.

  “Nice teh see yeh,” he said when he’d properly recovered. This time Marty was happy to see him smile.

  *

  “What was that?” Marty asked as soon as he could hear himself speak again. He pointed back towards the river, but really he was talking about everything: the stranger, the roses, the people who acted like their brains had been replaced with cabbages.

  “Dat,” said Mr. Blume, “is deh River Of No Remorse. It’s where deh strangers dump yeh if dey catch yeh outside after curfew.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t tink dey need a reason. It’s just what dey do.”

  “Don’t they feed them?” Marty was still thinking about the man’s entrails and how his classmate’s reflection had feasted on them without so much as a second thought.

  “Afraid not. And as yeh might’ve seen for yerself, deh people get so hungry dey end up eatin’ each other. It’s not a very nice ting teh watch. And even deh ones able teh look after demselves never last too long. Deh river’s swarmin’ with disease. As a matter a fact, it’s a good ting we got movin’ so quickly. If yer not careful around dare yeh’ll catch deh plague.”

  They were walking back in the direction of town. Marty didn’t ask where they were headed—he had far more pressing questions to ask.

  “But if there’s no water in it, why do you call it a river?”

  “Force‘ve habit. When deh dark came it dried up, outa the blue, just like dat. For a little while it was empty, den a few years ago deh strangers started throwin’ people in dare.”

  “You mean this place used to be normal?”

  Mr. Blume gave him that look again. “Where did yeh say yer from again?”

  Marty managed to look away before he felt the need to shudder. “I didn’t. I’m from out of town.”

  “Right, and what town would dat be now?”

  “A small one. Really small. And it’s far away, too, so I doubt you’ve heard of it. You were saying?”

  “I was saying,” said Mr. Blume, but he sounded confused.

  Sometime around his tenth birthday Marty had perfected his own lying technique. He’d spent a while trying out the other variations on offer—such as only telling white lies or twisting the truth just the right amount—before coming up with his own version. It involved saying something vague, then quickly changing the topic before the liee realised they were being lied to. It was by no means a hard and fast rule; some adults were just too stubborn to be fooled. He was surprised it worked on this Mr. Blume, especially considering it had never worked on his doppelgänger.

  “One day, it was normal,” Mr. Blume carried on. “Violetville was a nice place teh live. It was deh sort‘ve town where everybody was on good terms with dare neighbours, deh sort’ve town where nobody’d see anybody else go hungry. Den, nearly thirteen odd years ago, I woke up one Sunday mornin’ and deh sun hadn’t come up. It was like it’d gotten as far as sunrise, decided it was sick’ve risin’ every mornin’ and stayed put.

  “In the space’ve a few days everyone started goin’ nuts. Children stopped goin’ teh school, dare parents stopped goin’ teh work… Everyone just stopped doin’ tings. It was so unusual. At first I thought people were just too scared teh leave dare houses on account’ve it bein’ a bit dark, but den I saw what happened deh ones dat did.”

  Marty didn’t need to ask what he meant. He’d seen it for himself just a few minutes ago.

  “But what causes it then? What causes people to turn like that?”

  “Deh dark. It’s sort’ve like poison. It gets in yer mouth, in yer blood. It gets in yer soul. And as soon as dat happens, well, dat’s it really. Yer a goner. Dat’s unless deh strangers get yeh first, ‘ve course.”

  “What about the roses then? Are they the cure?”

  Mr. Blume laughed. “If only. Dare deh next best ting. Dey prevent it. As long as ye
h keep a fresh rose on yeh, deh dark can’t touch yeh. Which reminds me, what’s yer secret? How do yeh manage it?”

  “Manage it?”

  “Teh stay untainted. Without a flower, I mean. I’ve never seen it done before. It doesn’t bode well for business, if yeh get me.”

  “Yeah, we really should discuss that at some point. So where exactly do you live then?”

  *

  “You might’ve wondered where I’d gone teh when yeh were followin’ me earlier,” said Mr. Blume as they turned onto Worran Street.

  Marty didn’t say anything. Now that he knew what it was like to be followed he felt a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.

  “It’s sort’ve important people don’t know where I live. People tend teh get a bit crazy about me roses. A few, such as yerself, know I live on Worran street, but almost nobody knows exactly where.”

  Marty didn’t know what to expect (maybe a trick of the eye or even some sort of elaborate rope and pulley system) but was a bit disappointed when Mr. Blume led him into the basement of a building halfway down the street.

  After he undid a dozen or so locks—at least that’s what it sounded like; Marty couldn’t see much down here—Mr. Blume guided him down even more steps, until finally he was standing in a room so black he might have went blind and wouldn’t have had the faintest idea.

  He heard Mr. Blume fumble with something and a light exploded into life. Marty’s eyes burned. He looked away and, when they had adjusted, back again.

  The basement was tiny, and made smaller still by the dozens of cardboard boxes surrounding the perimeter.

  “Dis way.” Mr. Blume led the way up a spiral staircase. The floor above was just as tiny as the basement. It, too, was overcrowded. One wall was stuffed from floor to ceiling with books, all of which appeared to deal with horticulture. There were so many that another large pile had built up on the floor. There was also a foldout table and two chairs, a lounger; even a miniature kitchen.

  “Lissa calls it cramped. I call it comfortable.”

  “Oh don’t be silly, Victor. You know I can’t get enough of this pl—”

  At that moment Lissa’s face popped up from behind the pile of books. Marty stared, a little alarmed at her sudden appearance. Lissa stared back. Slowly, her head tilted to one side.

  “I’d like yeh teh meet our new guest, ahh… Sorry, I never thought teh ask yeh yer name.”

  Marty hesitated, but he couldn’t see the point in fake naming them. He was quite literally a world away from home. Was there really any point in trying to hide?

  “It’s Marty White.”

  Mr. Blume gave his hand a hearty shake. “Lovely teh meet yeh, Marty White! Yeh must be starvin’ after all dat. Will yeh have somethin’ teh eat?”

  It suddenly occurred to Marty he hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. “That sounds good, thank you.”

  “Great! Lissa? Can yeh make Marty up a bowl’ve rice? And maybe some beans?”

  Lissa didn’t move. She looked appalled, like Mr. Blume had just insulted her.

  “Lissa?”

  “Victor, I thought we agreed I wouldn’t have to do that sort of thing anymore.”

  “I know, I know. But we’ve a guest. Can’t yeh do it just dis once?”

  “He’s made it this far. Surely he can cook himself something, too? Or is he injured? I don’t see any casts, or crutches, or—”

  “Ah will yeh just do it? I’ve teh keep an eye on deh roses, Lissa. Yeh know dat.”

  Lissa forced a smile but it didn’t have the desired effect: combined with her head tilt, she looked crazy, not happy. “Of course. No problem at all. It can be his welcoming gift.”

  Marty stared after Mr. Blume as he climbed the staircase; he didn’t want to say anything, but he really didn’t want to be left alone with this girl.

  Lissa made as much noise as possible as she prepared his food. No sooner had she dropped the bowl in front of him when she vanished upstairs, like the food was a bomb and she was evacuating before it went off. Marty looked down at the cold concoction and wondered if she might have put something in it. But he was so hungry he couldn’t help giving it a try, and to his relief it wasn’t that bad.

  Just as he was cornering the last few beans with his fork, Mr. Blume came back downstairs.

  “When yer ready will yeh follow me upstairs? I want teh show yeh sometin’.”

  The staircase spiralled through a bedroom, a bathroom and finally up to the attic.

  Marty’s mouth opened so wide his dentist might have asked him to do it. “You grow them here?”

  It was amazing. Unlike the rest of the house the attic was huge. Mr. Blume had obviously knocked through to the attics of the neighbouring houses. Benches ran from one end of the room to the other and were stacked high with pearly white roses. Above them, hanging high from the rafters, were rows and rows of florescent lights. The walls were lined with pruning shears and other various tools, watering cans, vases and baskets. Lissa stood in a corner, carefully shovelling soil into a large pot.

  Marty followed Mr. Blume down to the other end of the room, where more roses were stacked neatly behind thick panes of glass. “Dis is deh fridge,” he said with an air of pride. “It’s our backup plan in case somethin’ happens to deh rest’ve deh flowers. As long as we keep deh roses at deh right temperature dey can live for weeks.”

  “How did you discover their power?”

  “By complete and utter fluke. I used teh own a florists in town. When deh dark came deh white rose was deh only flower dat didn’t give up and die. I’d ‘ve lost deh business if I hadn’t realised what it could do.”

  “But isn’t it dangerous handing them out like you do? What if the strangers found out?”

  “It’s funny yeh should say dat. I tink dey might be catchin’ on. A few of me customers’ve been disappearin’ as’ve late.”

  “And you still do it?”

  “I suppose most people’d rather take dare chances holdin’ onta a flower dan lettin’ the dark taint dem.”

  Marty nodded. He couldn’t deny he would do the same thing under the circumstances.

  *

  Following his tour of the attic Mr. Blume showed Marty to the bedroom. There were two beds but they’d been pushed together to create one big one.

  “Where does Lissa sleep?”

  “She takes deh bed. I sleep on deh floor. But dat’s not goin’ teh work now. C’mon, give me a hand.”

  “Won’t Lissa mind?” Marty said as he helped pull the beds apart.

  “Why would she? Did she say somethin’ to yeh?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “She’ll come around eventually. Just give it time.”

  “Uh…Mr. Blume?”

  “Victor. What is it?”

  “Thanks for letting me stay.”

  “No worries, lad.”

  That was the second time tonight Marty had almost told him. He’d almost told him during supper, too. At some point after discovering the mirror lying broken on that bathroom floor, Marty had finally accepted that this was one case he couldn’t solve on his own. If he had any chance of seeing his side of the mirror again he was going to have to tell someone what happened. And it couldn’t just be anybody. It had to be somebody he could trust. Was that somebody Victor? All right, he was nothing like Marty’s history teacher—as far as he could tell, anyway—but Marty was pretty sure he was as capable as anyone of thinking he was totally bonkers. And who was to say Victor would help him, anyway? He’d already asked about why Marty didn’t need a rose. He must not have witnessed what happened with the stranger, but chances are it would happen again. Marty was a skilled liar, but lying only gets you so far. Sometimes, honesty is forced upon you whether you like it or not.

  If Marty was ever going to get back home again he needed Victor’s help. But before he could get it he needed to make sure Victor would actually help him. Until then he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Marty was in bed by the
time Lissa finally retired to the bedroom. He had his back to her, but by her many tuts and sighs he could tell she wasn’t too impressed with this new sleeping arrangement. She spent a few minutes loudly flicking through the pages of a book before suddenly snapping it shut.

  “I know what you’re up to,” she said.

  Marty didn’t say anything.

  “You may think you can fool Victor, but your little tricks won’t work on me.”

  Marty still didn’t say anything.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to defend yourself?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ha!” she said, as if he’d inadvertently told her everything. “I know you’re not from out of town. I know you weren’t wearing a rose when I saw you today. I know you’re up to something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  Great, he thought. Just what I need—someone too stubborn to be fooled.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Now, yer free teh look as sad or as angry as yeh like,” Victor said as he led the way to the basement. “Just make sure yeh don’t look too happy. If dare’s one way teh draw attention teh yourself, it’s dat.”

  Marty tried on his best frown but lost it almost immediately. He was exhausted. Every time he’d managed to fall asleep last night he’d had the same dream. He was standing in the bathroom of number three. In front of him, with their back turned, stood a person. The mirror was on the ground before them, and Marty watched helplessly from the doorway as they brought their foot down on it again and again, smashing it to pieces. He begged the person to stop but they never listened. When he tried to see who it was the person kept turning away, around and around until the scene became blurry, and then he was awake again, sweaty and frustrated.

  Things hadn’t exactly improved that morning. From the moment Marty got up, Lissa watched him. She watched him putting on his clothes and lacing up his shoes. She watched him climbing the stairs to the bathroom. She even watched him closing the bathroom door in her face. It became so unbearable that, when Victor asked over breakfast if he’d like to accompany him on some errands, Marty inhaled his cold porridge and followed him down to the basement. Besides, now that he was held up here (he refused point blank at using the word ‘stuck’), he needed to keep his mind occupied. If he sat around all day thinking about his predicament it would most definitely drive him insane. Instead he would keep as busy as possible and be proactive about finding a way home.