Doppelginger

by Brian Byrne

  They were cutting through Queen Street when Marty spotted Richard Mortimus. He was sitting at a street corner frowning at the sky. He looked crumpled, no longer the charismatic man who took evil in his stride. Carol and Gertrude were nowhere to be seen; as Marty gave the man a wide berth he secretly hoped they’d abandoned him for good.

  The most unsettling thing was the ease at which everything was reverting. If this world could recover so easily what did that say for his own? Would his side have become dark and derelict by the time he got there? Marty had always believed that if he did ever make it home again, he’d be leaving this world safely behind. The possibility that part of this world could follow him through—or worse, beat him to it—was nearly too painful to think about.

  His legs positively screaming he finally turned onto Wycherly Terrace. He slowed to a walk. His legs wanted him to stop, to sit down, to never take him anywhere again, and under different circumstances they might have forced him to. But tonight they knew better. Tonight they knew there was no option but to keep going.

  “Marty, have yeh forgotten what happened teh deh mirror?” Victor said between wheezes.

  “Of course not,” Marty replied.

  “Den where’re yeh”—Victor took a lungful of air—“where‘re yeh goin’?”

  Marty walked up the driveway of number one: his own house, but backwards. He door, as he expected, was open. He stepped across the threshold and shivered. It was colder in here. The floorboards were mouldy and in places completely devoured by termites. This house was every bit as disparaged as the one across the street, but there was something eerie about this one, something that one lacked. It wasn’t so much a presence, but a memory of one. A long time ago, someone powerful had lived here. Someone like Master Black.

  As Marty crossed the hall Victor followed him inside. He didn’t speak; he, too, could feel the imprint of something terrible.

  Making his way up the staircase Marty remembered how he’d felt that night he found the broken mirror. The disappointment had landed in his stomach like a solid thing, and from that point onwards it had weighed him down, crushing any hopes he had of going home. This time, though, the prospect of going home didn’t excite him. As he pushed open the bathroom door his torso contracted, and in his stomach he felt dread all over again.

  “It’s—it’s—“

  “It’s what?” Victor coughed, falling to his knees.

  “It’s…open.”

  The mirror was hanging on the wall, its surface quivering slightly.

  Victor tried to stand up, changed his mind and sat back down. “Den go on. Quick, before it closes.”

  Suddenly Marty forgot all about the mirror. “What? You mean you’re not coming?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re staying here? But I need your help!”

  “Yeh don’t. Marty, I’m old. I can’t fight him. Yer deh only one who can.”

  Marty looked back at the mirror. This was it. Now or never.

  He turned around again. “I’ve to tell you something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s sort of hard to say,” he said, and his eyes forced themselves to look at the ground.

  “Harder den what’s happened so far tonight?” Victor replied, finally finding his feet.

  “I don’t know, it’s just…” Marty sighed. “I’ll just say it. Right after the strangers took you, Mortimus, he—he burned the place down.”

  Victor sighed. “I know.”

  Marty’s frown would have given Aileen’s a run for its money. “You know?”

  “Dat’s another ting about yer double. He tends teh boast quite a bit. He told me all about how he bribed Mortimus intuh burnin’ it down. Promised him he’d make him his partner or sometin’. Lyin’ his head off, obviously.”

  Marty’s face slowly returned to normal. “So you’re okay with it then?”

  “Are yeh jokin’? Of course I’m not okay with it.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve done something to stop him, it’s just—”

  “I’m okay with you, lad. Mortimus is deh one I’m not okay with.”

  Marty’s stomach suddenly felt a lot lighter. “So you’re not mad with me then?”

  “Of course not. Now go on, would yeh? While yeh still have some chance of beatin’ him.”

  “You really think I can beat him?”

  “Didn’t I tell yeh I did?”

  “But what if—”

  “Marty, go.”

  “All right, but how about—”

  “Leave.”

  “Okay, but can I just—”

  “Now.”

  “Fine! I’m going!” He pulled himself onto the sink. “What if I don’t see you again?”

  “Yeh will.”

  “But if the mirror closes—”

  “Den we’ll find another way. Yeh tink dis is the first time I’ve lost me business? Right, so I mightn’t ‘ve lost quite as much of it before, but I’ll find a way teh start over again. Look.” One hand disappeared into his pyjamas, and when it reappeared it was grasping a sizeable bunch of roses. “If yeh want somethin’ hard enough, yeh’ll find a way teh make it happen. No matter how many bumps yeh hit along the way—or in my case, house fires. We’ll see each other again lad, I can promise yeh that.”

  “All right then.” Marty was convinced. “Oh, I almost forgot. If you’re looking for Lissa, she’s staying in Sam’s apartment.”

  “What? How did yeh—“

  “Long story.”

  “But when—“

  “See you!”

  Marty inhaled until his lungs started to hurt, gave Victor a final wave and jumped straight into the mirror.

  Hell, he thought as everything went blurry. Maybe that place isn’t so bad.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marty’s bathroom started to materialise in front of him. He pushed his arms through the cold custardy substance, felt around for the sink and pulled the rest of his body after him.

  Daylight. He threw his hands in front of his face, batting away the sudden brightness. He froze and, giggling at his own stupidity, lowered them again.

  “Dad?” he called out as he walked into the landing. There was no answer. “Dad? Hello?”

  Hoping his dad had found somewhere safe to hide Marty made for the staircase, but as he passed his bedroom he noticed the door was open wide. This wasn’t unusual: every morning his dad opened his window and door for fear Marty would have to breathe slightly stale air the following night in bed. What was unusual was his wardrobe. It was lying on its side just beyond the doorway, barricading the way inside.

  Marty pushed hard but the wardrobe wouldn’t move. There was a gap between it and the ceiling but he couldn’t see over it. He leaned in and flattened his ear against the peeling veneer but couldn’t hear anything inside.

  “Dad?” There was a sudden gust of wind and he froze, half expecting a stranger to engulf him. But it didn’t, and a second later he started feeling stupid again. What was this, a suspense movie? This was his house and he refused to feel afraid in it. Standing back, he faced the barrier with his shoulder and shoved hard. The wardrobe tipped forwards; it nearly came back again but Marty gave it a second push and it crashed to the ground, sending vibrations across the floor and up through his feet.

  Straight away he thought of the Pink’s apartment. Like the wardrobe, the bed was on its side and shoved against the wall. His locker’s contents were all across the floor. And behind them, where the window used to be, the entire wall was missing. The edges were laced with short sharp cuts, like whoever had been in here had broken their way out with a hatchet.

  Just then Marty noticed someone out on the street. Mr. Uncle was kneeling on the ground, his hands clutching his chest.

  Something was about to happen. Marty could feel it.

  “Bernie!” he shouted, but at that moment black smoke buffeted through the air, dropping close to the ground and launching hi
m off his feet. Wherever he landed, Marty never saw.

  It was like pulling a trigger. Marty staggered backwards as a fire flared inside of him, stronger and sharper and more painful than ever before. That’s when he saw Master Black. He walked towards Bernie, stood over him and smiled.

  “No!” Marty groaned; it hurt to talk let alone scream. He stumbled back off the wardrobe and dragged himself out of the bedroom as white hot razorblades lacerated his organs.

  Gripping the banister he hobbled downstairs, somehow managing to make it all the way outside.

  Someone screamed. At the other side of Wycherly Terrace, Gabriel White was running out of number three.

  “MARTY! YOU’RE—” He slowed, his eyes moving back and forth between Marty and Master Black. “M—Marty? What’s going on?”

  “Dad!” Marty yelled across the street. “Go back inside!”

  Master Black looked up from Mr. Uncle and started to laugh. It was a brittle, ratting noise, one that made goose pimples ripple across Marty’s neck and back. Master Black turned and faced Marty’s dead, who was too dumbfounded to do anything but stand there and wait for what was about to happen.

  Hammers of black smoke shot from the boy’s mouth, hitting Gabriel White in the head and flinging him backwards. He hit the wall of number three, there was a loud crack and he crumpled to the ground.

  Marty knew his dad was dead, because right that second a part of him died, too.

  “It’s a shame,” said Master Black, turning back to face Marty. For the first time Marty noticed how much older he sounded. His voice matched his appearance. “A long time ago part of me thought we could’ve been friends. That we could’ve worked together and did something great. But then I realised I don’t need you. I’m powerful enough on my own. Besides, I can’t have weaker versions of myself walking around. It’s not good for my reputation.”

  A new wave of heat washed up inside Marty. “Who says I’m the weaker one?”

  Marty wasn’t sure what happened next. One moment black tendrils were shooting towards him like knives; a moment later his hands were in front of him, white light blinded him and the smoke dispersed. He stared down at his hands, astonished they were still intact. So that was it: light. That was his power. His double, he noticed, had realised it too.

  “No matter,” said Master Black. “I have other powers. Ones you’ll never have.” He opened his mouth and smoke spilled from it, this time coiling and coiling around him until he was completely hidden beneath a tiny black tornado. But it was growing, moving around him in wider circles up towards the sky.

  And then the world shook.

  In a matter of seconds a storm crashed down on Wycherly Terrace. Leaves shivered. Trees vibrated. The wind screamed as it rushed through open windows and doors. Hailstones fell, and all of a sudden the heat was too much again, forcing Marty back into the house. Whatever Master Black had done to Over There, Marty knew he was doing the same thing right now. Grey clouds covered blue skies; the sun was eclipsed and a vast shadow fell over the estate, plunging it into darkness.

  Marty closed his eyes, remembering what Victor had told him. He had to get nearer, but the heat was too much; if he tried he’d collapse long before he ever reached his doppelgänger. If only he didn’t have to use his feet. If only there was another way…

  The realisation struck him so hard it stung. He took the stairs three at a time and went back to his bedroom. Taking a final glance at Wycherly Terrace he noticed, with a jolt, that the man in maroon was standing at the other side of the estate, his scarf blowing wildly behind him as he looked on with pride. Marty stared at him, and didn’t stop until the tornado grew so big it blocked his view.

  Retreating to the landing, Marty took a deep breath and braced himself. He bolted back across his bedroom, and even as the heat seared him, like his whole body was being pressed against a flaming hot stove, like his hair was alight, like his eyeballs were running down his cheeks, he didn’t stop. His feet left the floor and he soared towards his doppelgänger, and light exploded, not just inside of him, but outside, too.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Marty?”

  “Aileen?” Marty couldn’t decide which was more alarming: her look of concern or his relief that she was still alive.

  “Where is he?” Marty sat up. He looked around but all he saw was Agley, standing at the edge of his driveway staring at a scorched patch of earth in front of him.

  “He’s gone,” Agley said. “There was all this light, and then he just…vanished.”

  Marty didn’t wait for the relief to hit him. He knew it would never come. Not now. Not like this.

  “And everyone else?” he barely managed, already knowing the answer.

  Aileen shook her head. “Sorry, Marty.”

  “No!” someone yelled. The man in maroon came running but before he got too close Aileen spun around to face him. He slowed; even he could tell she wasn’t to be messed with.

  “Agley?” she said, but her sidekick was already coming up behind him, and together they wrestled the man to the ground.

  *

  It’s funny how people’s attitudes change following a death. All of a sudden the Violetville police force was doing everything it could to help. The fatalities of Gabriel White and Bernie Uncle had been caused by a freak tornado—at least that’s what they scribbled down in their little notebooks.

  They tried to bring Marty down to the station but he refused to go. For once being his father’s son had its advantages.

  Unsurprisingly, Bermuda Uncle had slept through the entire thing, only finding out what happened when one of the policemen kicked in her living room window, went into her bedroom and roused her. After becoming more hysterical than she had for the past several decades combined she agreed to let Marty stay with her until the police contacted his mum. Then she’d promptly gone back to bed.

  *

  Marty almost didn’t go to the funeral. He didn’t think he could handle all those people thinking his dad and next door neighbour had died by accident. But the day before the funeral his mother finally arrived home and forced him to go.

  When he arrived at the church that morning he spotted Aileen and Agley. Both were dressed for the occasion in depressing black outfits. After making sure his mother was preoccupied with one of the local mourners Marty walked over to them.

  “Our condolences,” Aileen said, and she actually sounded sincere. Agley was puffing on a cigar. He exhaled, nodding at the same time.

  “What did you do with the man in maroon?” Marty refused to refer to him as his dad’s double. He didn’t deserve the comparison.

  “Tied up,” Agley said, taking another puff. “He’s been threatening to kill us ever since we did but he’ll start saying something worthwhile soon enough.”

  Aileen leaned in a little. “Marty, I think we both know he didn’t just disappear. We both know he’s still out there somewhere. Don’t we?”

  Marty had driven himself demented thinking about this over the past few days, so much so that he grimaced at her mention of it.

  “Good. Then it’s settled. Agley and I want you to join us. We want you to work with us to defeat him.”

  “But why? Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”

  For a few seconds Aileen didn’t speak. She appeared to be deliberating on whether or not to come clean.

  Marty sighed. “Listen, if this is ever going to work we need to learn to trust each other. From the start.”

  Aileen’s pupils vanished momentarily. “Oh all right then. Fine. If you really must know, we promised our father we’d protect this world from Over There. He’s the one who first discovered it.”

  Marty couldn’t believe it. “You mean you’re—”

  “Yes, we’re siblings.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, I just didn’t expect that.”

  “He was a scientist. When Agley and I were teenagers he tried to go through the mir
ror himself, but he didn’t survive. Before he went he made us promise we’d put a stop to the reflections if he didn’t come back. So here we are.”

  The woman straightened up. “Are you in, then?”

  Marty knew she was going to ask him this. He knew what his answer would be, too. There was nothing left for him in Wycherly Terrace. His mum had already managed to pawn him off on Mrs. Uncle, and it wasn’t like she’d ever notice if he went missing for long stretches of time.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Maybe?”

  “I have a couple of conditions. Can you get the mirror working again?” It had sealed soon after Master Black’s disappearance.

  Agley stubbed out his cigar on the church wall. “No, but I might have another way back if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Aileen blinked. “Back? Why would you want to go back?”

  “That’s my other condition,” Marty explained. “I’ll work with you, but only if you agree to take a couple of other people on board, too.”

  “Oh? And who might they be?”

  “I’ll give you a hint. One of them punched you in the neck. The other one doesn’t think very much of you, either.”

  Aileen’s face contorted. Her eyes became tiny slits and her eyebrows sprung halfway up her forehead. She peeled her lips back so far Marty saw her gums. This, he decided, had to be her most spectacular frown ever.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brian Byrne was checking himself out in the mirror one day when he got the idea for Doppelginger. But he promises he’s not narcissistic. All right, maybe he is. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

  When Brian is not inhaling good children’s books (and chocolate) you’ll probably find him hunched over his laptop attempting to write one of his very own.

  Brian hails from a small town in Ireland where it hails a lot. His life mission is to write the sort of books that make people miss their train stops.

  Visit Brian’s website: https://www.BrianByrneBooks.com

  Follow Brian on Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/_BrianByrne