Doppelginger

by Brian Byrne

  “Then who else could have done it? The strangers?”

  “Not likely. I’ve never heard’ve deh strangers goin’ after one person like dat. It’s just not somethin’ dey do.”

  “It’s almost like… It’s like now that I’m here, somebody doesn’t want me going home again.”

  Victor looked up from the basket, which by now was almost filled with flowers. “Is it really dat important who broke it? Even if yeh did find out who did it, it’s not like dey could help yeh put it back together again.”

  “But what else am I supposed to do? That mirror was my only way home.”

  “I don’t know what teh tell yeh, Marty,” Victor said, pulling a second basket towards him.

  *

  Marty watched a snowflake land on his shoulder. He looked into the sky and was startled to see that the faces had changed. No longer were they frozen in perpetual grimaces of agony. Right now they looked shocked, their eyes and mouths open in perfect circles.

  “Are yeh sure yeh won’t let us carry one’ve the baskets?” Victor called ahead, to where Lissa was half walking, half running down an increasingly steep hill.

  “Quite sure!” Lissa yelled back. “Besides, this is our—our last recipient.”

  Ever since her and Victor’s argument she had been on her best behaviour. She hadn’t said a word to Marty all afternoon. And it had been a long afternoon. They had—well, Lissa had—delivered flowers to a total of forty seven houses. Or was it fifty seven? Marty wasn’t sure; he’d lost count a couple of dozen houses ago.

  By now he was straggling. Sure, he was tired, but there was more to it than that. He was keeping his distance, not from Lissa, but from Victor. He’d been so surprised at Victor’s reaction, so relieved that he hadn’t taken it badly. But really, what did it matter when he couldn’t even do anything to help him? Marty had been convinced that if he just came clean to Victor, he’d be that much closer to getting home again. But Victor had made no effort at all, and now Marty was right back to where he’d been the moment that stupid mirror sealed itself. There was no use avoiding it any longer: he was stuck. At the very least, it felt nice having someone to blame.

  The snow fell heavier the farther he went; by the time he reached the bottom, he was wading through two or three feet of it. Their last house, as far as he could tell, was actually an apartment complex. A central stairwell zigzagged its way passed three balconies, all of which were covered in more snow. It made everything seem brighter, even in the dark. He spotted Lissa and Victor halfway up the stairwell and followed them all the way to the topmost level.

  “What about the people in the other apartments?” he said once he’d caught up.

  “Deh others were abandoned years ago,” Victor said. “It’s bin snowin’ here on and off ever since deh dark came. Deh Depression, dey call it. The Pink family are one’ve deh few who stayed—I hear even deh strangers don’t come down here.”

  But when they reached the Pink’s it became clear something was wrong. Lissa, as usual, reached the door first. She rapped her knuckles smartly on the door, which proceeded to creak, tip inwards and land on the floor with a deafening crash.

  The apartment was in ruins. There were large dents in the walls and pieces of plasterboard littered the carpet. A small sofa, the only piece of furniture left in the room, was turned on its side, like someone had been hiding behind it. The light bulb hung low from the ceiling, as if someone had tried swinging from it and failed.

  “They’re gone,” said Lissa, still standing in the doorway.

  “Maybe not.” Marty pointed at a door on one side of the room. Since his encounter with the stranger he’d made a point of checking the gaps under doors for peculiar activity. Here there was a narrow band of bright light.

  Marty was disappointed to find it was nearly as cold in here as it was outside. He and Victor had almost reached the door when he realised Lissa wasn’t behind him. He looked back to see her standing outside, too busy scowling at the fallen door to notice the snow piling up on her head and shoulders. But there was something else, something hidden beneath the scowl, and if Marty didn’t know better he might have been sadness.

  Victor kicked the door and it opened into a small bathroom.

  Curled up in a bathtub, holding what looked like the leg of a chair in her hand, was a little girl. She screamed, scampered to her feet and slipped down in to the tub again. She had bushy blond hair that hung low over her eyes and was wearing faded red pyjamas. A wilting rose was poking out of one of her sleeves. She couldn’t have been older than eight or nine.

  “Stay back!” she warned, swinging the wooden leg back and forth. Her voice was a little deeper than Marty expected, and he realised it wasn’t a girl after all.

  “Sam, it’s grand. It’s Victor. Victor Blume.”

  This seemed to disarm him. The boy lowered his weapon and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Mr. Blume?”

  “Yeh Sam, it’s me. Where’re yer grandparents?”

  “The strangers. They took them and—and—” The rest was lost in a series of whimpers.

  Victor, without speaking, crossed the bathroom and put his arm around the boy. Marty opened his mouth with the intention of consoling him but nothing came out. How do you comfort someone who has just lost their family? It’s one of those things you could never possibly understand until it happens to you. But as Sam started to cry, Marty realised something: he had lost his parents. Maybe not in the same way, but they were still gone. They were on the other side of a mirror, a broken mirror, and there was no guarantee he’d ever see them again. But unlike Sam, who was clearly upset, Marty didn’t know how he felt. Thinking about them now made him feel, not sad, but empty, like some part of him was missing; a part of him he hadn’t even realised existed until this very moment. But he didn’t like how it made him feel, and so did his best to push the thoughts away.

  The decision to bring Sam back was unanimous. Even Lissa, to Marty’s surprise, didn’t kick up a fuss. She was quiet for most of the return journey and when Victor asked her to cook dinner that night she barely objected. Sam didn’t say much, and it was only after he had eaten three whole bowls of rice that he began answering Victor’s questions.

  “They came last night,” he said slowly. “I was asleep. They burst in through the front door and I woke up. Grandad said they were robbers. He said for me and Gran to stay in our room then he went out to check. We heard something outside and Gran made me get under my bed. I thought Grandad was fighting somebody. I thought he’d win. He’s a boxer. I thought he’d beat them up. But then he started shouting. I wanted to go out and help him but Gran told me not to move. She said I’d be safe under the bed.”

  The boy took a deep breath. As his lungs emptied again he picked up his fork and started poking at the stray pieces of rice still left in his bowl.

  “What happened then, Sam?” Marty said quietly.

  “After a while Grandad stopped shouting. I thought that meant he won. I thought he got rid of them. But then he came back into our room and the strangers were with him. I only saw his feet but I knew he was different. They did something to him. I was so scared, but I remembered what Gran said. I didn’t move. Gran started screaming, but then she stopped just like Grandad did. Grandad told her that they were going to take them somewhere. He said—”

  “Yer grandad told her?” Victor asked far too loudly, his eyes wide. “Are yeh sure about dat Sam?”

  Sam nodded. “Then he came over to my bed. I don’t know how he knew I was under there, but he did. He bent down and pulled me out from under it. And that’s when—”

  When he stopped this time he looked at Marty, then quickly back at his bowl again.

  “What’s deh matter Sam? Go on, yeh can tell us.”

  Sam’s cheeks reddened, like he was scared he’d get a scalding if he dared carry on.

  “It’s okay, Sam,” Marty said quietly. “Really.”

  But the boy wouldn’t speak. As a matter of fact
, he said absolutely nothing for the rest of the night.

  “I don’t get it,” Marty said after Victor had taken Sam upstairs to bed. “Why would the strangers take his grandparents, but leave him behind?”

  Victor was washing his tools. “It’s a strange one all right. It’s not like a stranger teh take pity. Dey wouldn’t‘ve left Sam without good reason. I just can’t tink what dat reason could be.” He glanced back at the table, to where Marty was still sitting, and frowned. “Dat’s funny. Did yeh see me pruning knife?”

  *

  Marty knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. When Victor finally headed to bed he went upstairs to the attic. He had never much cared for flowers but now that he knew about their special abilities he couldn’t help but be fascinated by them.

  Lissa was standing by the refrigerator watering some seedlings.

  “You were quiet today,” Marty noted.

  “I swear,” she said with an air of superiority, “this place is becoming more and more like an orphanage every day. First you, now this little kid. What’s next, the entire cast of Annie?”

  Marty was outraged. “So what should we have done then? Left him there? Waited for somebody else to come along and save him? There’s a reason nobody else does this job, Lissa. It’s dangerous.”

  Lissa wasn’t looking in Marty’s direction but he still saw her rolling her eyes. “All I know is that if I was running this place, things would be different. For one thing, I wouldn’t have saved you. Or that kid, for that matter.”

  “Well then I suppose it’s lucky you’re not.”

  “Maybe not yet, but someday. Someday I’ll own this place, and then things will change.”

  “Oh? Victor said he’d leave the business to you?”

  Lissa emptied the watering can and hung it back on the wall. Finally she looked at him. “Not in so many words. But who else is he going to leave it to? His family is dead. And you don’t know the first thing about floristry.”

  Lissa’s eyes travelled over Marty’s shoulder. “Who said you could come up here?”

  Marty turned around and saw Sam. Well, half of him—the other half was hidden by the doorway. The eye he could see was red. He’d been crying again.

  “Sam?” he said. “What are you doing up? It’s late. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”

  Sam didn’t nod. He didn’t even move.

  “Sam? Are you all right? Go to—”

  “I’m real sorry I have to do this,” he said, stepping into the room. Marty’s eyes dropped to his other hand, and in it he saw a pruning tool—the same one, he guessed, that Victor had missed earlier. The boy must have snuck up here after Victor had taken him to bed.

  “Go back to bed, Sam,” he said, raising his voice. “Right now.”

  He’d barely finished when the boy raised the knife over his head and ran at him. Marty backed into Lissa who in turn backed into the fridge. He jumped aside just as Sam lunged and the knife grazed Lissa instead.

  “Arrghh!” she screeched. “My leg! The little prick took a piece out of my leg!”

  “He barely got you!” Marty shouted as he tried to grab Sam’s arm. But the kid was too fast; he retreated then brought the knife around again, cutting the air and almost cutting Marty, too.

  “Stop it, Sam! Stop it right now!” Marty yelled, nearly tripping over a bag of soil Lissa had left on the ground. He saw fear in the boy’s eyes, but more than that, determination. He was going to hurt Marty and he didn’t care what it took.

  Sam lunged again and Marty leaped away, this time avoiding the soil. Flower pots came crashing to the ground.

  “He’s breaking things!” Lissa said, clutching her leg as she somehow managed to shuffle away. “Do you have any idea how hard those pots are to find?!”

  “That’s all you’re worried about?!” Marty snapped back.

  “He’s eight, Marty! Eight!” She was now standing several feet behind them. “You’re being overcome by an eight year old!”

  “I don’t see you doing anything to help!” Marty couldn’t deny Sam was much younger than him, but the boy was fast. Obviously his grandad had taught him some combat.

  This time, Marty made the first move. He jumped forwards and drove his foot into the boy’s stomach; Sam waited until the last possible second and retreated, moved back in and tore the knife across Marty’s chest.

  Marty let out a low, guttural groan: it was like his entire torso had caught fire. He felt suddenly weak and stumbled backwards into the bench. More pots came crashing down but Lissa didn’t say a word: even she could tell this was serious.

  Sam lunged again but this time Marty was ready. His vision blurry, he snapped up a flower pot and flung it directly at his attacker’s head. There was a loud thump!, the eight year old dropped the bloody knife and toppled backwards onto the floor. Marty took his chance and jumped on him. He grabbed the knife and flung it across the room.

  “What’s all dis commotion about?” Victor said, appearing in the doorway wearing a pair of striped green pyjamas. As he took in the scene his eyes gradually doubled in size. “Marty, what are yeh doing?! Get off dat boy!”

  “He attacked me!” Marty said, but Victor was already hauling him off the floor. He groaned and his eyes watered even more.

  “What?” said Victor, looking from Marty to Lissa to the boy.

  Beneath them, Sam was stirring.

  “I told you!” Marty yelled at the increasingly blurry figure before him. He wiped his sleeve across both eyes but his vision got only marginally better. “He attacked me!”

  Sam was slowly dragging himself to his feet.

  Victor stopped, ogling Marty’s chest. “What did he—how did—”

  “He stole your pruning knife.” All of a sudden Sam was upright and sprinting out of the room.

  “Lissa, stop him!” Marty shouted, but Lissa recoiled, letting the boy slip past.

  Realising his mistake, Victor bolted after him. Marty followed, clutching his chest as he stumbled out of the room.

  When he finally made it to the basement all he could see was a tall, greeny blur, and next to it, a greyish hole where the door had been opened.

  “Tell me why yeh did it,” Marty heard Victor saying, but it sounded too far away.

  “I can’t,” Sam’s voice echoed back, and Marty realised the boy was standing between Victor and the wall.

  “They told me if I did they’d—they’d—”

  “Who? Who’re yeh talking about?”

  Marty felt like his torso was about to split in two, like the upper half of his body was about to tear backwards and his guts were going to spill down the staircase into the basement below.

  “Please,” a distant, distant Victor said. “Just tell me.”

  “The—the strangers,” said Sam, and it sounded like he was standing at the other end of the world’s longest tunnel. “They made Grandad—they made him say—”

  “C’mon Sam, yeh can do it.”

  “They said they’d kill him and Gran unless I killed Marty White.”

  “I torld you,” Marty called as the world started turning black. “I torld you…”

  And then it did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marty tried to swallow but couldn’t. His mouth had become the Sahara Desert.

  “Wa’er,” he groaned. “Wa’er.”

  He opened his eyes a notch and was blinded by bright light. Was he dead? He narrowed them to slits and waited until they adjusted.

  “Hold on a minute,” Victor said, and this time it was much too loud.

  “Arghh! Speak lower!” Marty groaned again, bringing his hand to his forehead. It was slick with sweat—as, he realised, was the rest of his body.

  “Why is it so warm in here?!”

  Something blocked out the light.

  “Yeh just fainted, dat’s all,” Victor said.

  Marty felt something sharp prod at his chest and sat bolt upright. “What are you doing?!”

 
; He was sitting on the floor of the basement. Victor was kneeling before him, a needle and thread in his hand. A first aid kit lay open on the concrete floor.

  “I’m just about teh start stitchin’ yeh up. Sam did a right number on yeh.”

  “Where is he?!” Marty tried getting to his feet but his torso was still red hot with pain.

  “Hold on, would yeh. He’s gone.”

  “He’s what?! We need to go after him!”

  “Dare’s no point now. Yeh’ve been out for half an hour.”

  “Half an hour?! Why didn’t you go after him then?!”

  “And leave yeh here teh bleed teh death, is it?”

  “But you heard what he said. We need to find out more.”

  Victor shook his head. “Yer not well.”

  “Uh, haven’t you figured it out yet? The strangers want me dead. They can’t do it themselves, so now they’re getting other people to do it for them. Sam screwed up but you can bet they’re blackmailing someone else as we speak.”

  “It is a tinker, I’ll give yeh dat.” Victor brought the needle towards his chest again but Marty scooched away. His clothes were soaked so badly he could feel the warm wetness on his chest and legs. But all of a sudden he forgot about the fire still crackling away on his torso.

  “Victor, what happened to you? Earlier on today when I asked you for help, you said you couldn’t do anything for me. And now you’re doing the exact same thing again. Why won’t you help me?”

  Victor started packing up the first aid kit. “I’m not sure what yer gettin’ at.”

  Marty watched him intently as he quickly got to his feet. “That’s funny, because I’m not sure what you’re getting at, either.”

  Victor opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

  “Something’s not right here,” Marty said. “You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”

  Victor started shaking his head.

  “Don’t lie. I can tell.”

  Finally the man sighed. “Don’t yeh see Marty? Deh dark can’t touch yeh. Deh strangers—dey run from yeh. Run from yeh! And now dis.” He shook his head. “Dare’s somethin’ in yeh, Marty. Somethin’ dat wasn’t in dose girls dat came here before. Yer special, and deh strangers are scared’ve it.”