The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Come on. Say goodbye to your room. We’ve got a new home to go to. Your father’s made all the arrangements.”

  As they left the bedroom, Meredith gave the mirror one last, mournful look before it became hidden from view as the door swung gently closed behind them.

  Sophie stepped out from her hiding place beside the wardrobe. The wardrobe had been outside of the mirror’s viewpoint, so protected her from Harriet’s frantic search, shielding her from the unwanted discovery.

  A few moments later, from the window, Sophie watched as Meredith climbed into the passenger seat of a red Toyota Prius, with Harriet taking the driver’s seat. In the back of the car Charlie was already strapped into the child’s seat. Stanley was in the removal van next to her dad. George’s Peugeot was nowhere to be seen.

  Sophie watched him ruffle the six-year-old’s hair before setting the van in motion, leading the way out of the drive, a sad convoy that took her family away to somewhere unknown. For now, Meredith was going to be lost to her. She watched as her family drove away, Meredith looking up towards her bedroom one last time from the passenger seat.

  For a moment their eyes seemed to lock – an impossibility Sophie thought – and recognition intermingled with a frisson of electricity passing between them before the connection was severed as the car turned out of the driveway, advancing after the removal van which was no longer in sight.

  In resignation, Sophie stepped away from the window and walked to the mirror, studying her reflection. She looked older – she knew she aged differently to most people, but was it possible to grow noticeably during the day? She looked down at her hands – still invisible – and couldn’t help wonder what had happened between her and her sister. Had they really connected? Or was it just a coincidence?

  She pondered over the question that evening as she made her way back home using public transport. There was no rush. George wasn’t expected back in Chelsea until the following day and his stays away were getting more frequent and for longer periods.

  She imagined there would come a day when he would leave her all alone to fend for herself. She didn’t know how prophetic that thought would turn out to be.

  Chapter Four

  Charlie

  Willoughby Rising was the house that George had moved his family into. It was a large detached dwelling that had four bedrooms and stood on top of a hill with panoramic views of the town and a good view of the murky North Sea. The paintwork was flaky and the brickwork crumbly, but the interior was homely. A chimney pot had come down in a storm the previous autumn and still lay smashed in amongst a patch of cabbages. Aside from this, the house was in a reasonable state of repair. Belonging to an aunt, or an uncle, or maybe a cousin (so her father had said unconvincingly) − Meredith couldn’t remember exactly, and sort of suspected a slight bending of the truth − at short notice it became the Jennings’ home, and for now would be the ideal place to lay low and keep a step ahead of whomever it was who chased them.

  That detail was still left unspoken though never far from her enquiring lips.

  There was a whole allotment of fruit and vegetables growing, with carrots, potatoes, runner beans, raspberries, strawberries, plums, pears and apples, all cared for and growing in bountiful supply. At the end of the garden was a crab-apple tree that bore fruit growing in its infant stages. The crab-apple tree in the garden became a sort of climbing frame, affording hours of amusement for the Jennings children who cared little for the miniature apples they knew tasted sour on sampling. Standing twenty-five or so feet tall, Stanley and Meredith often climbed it. Occasionally they managed to persuade Charlie to climb up too, though their mother scolded them whenever she caught him in the tree, after all he was only four, his birthday having passed on fourteenth October the year before.

  Harriet proved she was right about her decision NOT to allow Charlie to climb the tree early on that sunshine-bright July day. He fell from roughly thirteen-feet up the tree, landing sickeningly awkward, breaking his arm in two places, the crack of bone breaking sounding like a distant gunshot, which Harriet would swear she had heard deep within the house. He was lucky not to have broken his neck!

  Who was to know that what was to be an accident, would impact them so greatly – in more ways than just the obvious? Charlie falling from the tree would be the catalyst that would upend their lives and irreversibly change their course forever.

  “Come on, Charlie,” Meredith had said. “It’ll be all right. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

  Charlie had taken her word as gospel and nervously climbed up the gnarly tree trunk, reaching to the low branch first, hoisting himself up to it, shuffling along a foot to further enable him to reach up to the next branch. Climbing a further two branches, he stretched up to his brother who was already sitting two further branches up, almost at the tree’s crown. Meredith was standing below him offering vocal support and encouragement and the pretence of catching him should he actually fall, though the way her hands were held out would hardly soften the fall of a barely formed crab-apple.

  Charlie was about twelve-feet up the tree, and quite close to Stanley’s outstretched arm by now, the older boy’s fingers wiggling as a further visual incentive. Being four, Charlie didn’t possess the ability to register distances or heights, not yet developing the acrophobia which would manifest itself from this day onwards; or understand his six-year-old brother’s limited strength, a failure shared by Stanley, who overconfidently stretched down closer to Charlie, and who overenthusiastically took a hold of his open hand. Neither did Charlie have any awareness of his own mortality; although initially reluctant to climb, mainly from fear of falling (one of two inherent fears we are all born with – the other being loud noises), he’d needed very little persuasion.

  Why would he? He hadn’t fallen before.

  “I’ve got you,” Stanley said reassuringly, his right hand reaching for Charlie, his left hand gripping the branch upon which he was perched, keeping him balanced, maintaining his position in the tree, however precarious it actually felt.

  Only, Stanley didn’t have Charlie at all. He didn’t want to appear weak to his younger sibling, and his false confidence extended the misguided trust the four-year-old had in him. His grip was weak, his hands slippery with sweat, and where Charlie was confident that he was safe and secure, and that his big brother had him protected, with a swift tug to the branch beside him, Stanley suddenly realised that he didn’t share Charlie’s confidence. All of a sudden, panic entwined with the understanding of what this meant, causing the older boy to scream out:

  “Meredith!”

  Almost in slow motion, Charlie fell backwards from the branch, his fingers slipping away from Stanley’s, falling, falling, the backs of his legs clipping the branch immediately below the one upon which he had been standing only a moment before, turning him so that he was facing downwards, smacking his head on the next branch. He tumbled the rest of the distance, bouncing through the tree, the branches doing nothing to slow his drop, until gravity completed the descent, Newton’s law of physics in full demonstration. He crashed into Meredith, who did nothing to cushion his fall, collapsing in a heap beneath him.

  “AAAAAHHHHHHH,” screamed Charlie. “My arm! My arm! It hurts!” Charlie had rolled off Meredith and was lying on his side, his arm twisted at an impossible angle beneath him.

  Meredith was screaming from the pain caused by Charlie knocking her hard onto her bottom.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Charlie… I’m sorry,” Stanley was screaming too; shame, guilt and sheer panic filling his voice. Although worried for his brother, he also knew what the likely consequence was to this. It was him, after all, who had not held onto his brother, who had known his grip wasn’t good before his lame attempt of pulling him up.

  “Charlie!” Their mother was out of the house and running across the garden, tripping on
Charlie’s tricycle, maintaining balance, but now with a limp, she continued towards the crab-apple tree, seeing Meredith, now standing over the small, huddled form that she knew was her son who continued to wail in pain. “Oh my God! Charlie!”

  “I’m sorry,” continued Stanley up in the tree. He was shaking with fear and worry.

  “It was an accident,” sniffed Meredith, rubbing her bottom. “He fell.” She was now crying.

  “Why did you let him climb the tree?”

  “I didn’t,” she lied. “He did it himself.”

  Charlie was still screaming as his mother lifted him up, checking him over. The small boy had a cut to his forehead, a small, thin line of blood trickled to the bridge of his nose. His mother looked at his twisted arm. She touched it lightly, from which Charlie gave an ear-splitting scream.

  “I know, petal. Be brave. We’ll get you fixed.” Turning to her daughter, shaking her head in disappointment, “I need to take him to the hospital. You stay here with Stanley. I will ask Mrs Slocum to sit with you whilst I am gone. When I get back, we are going to have a talk.”

  Carrying Charlie back to the house, and just before disappearing, she bellowed over her shoulder. “Stanley! You get out of that tree this instant!”

  The X-ray showed that the left arm had been fractured in two places. A small, hairline crack was showing in the ulna, a bit above the wrist, and a clean break appeared within the radius just below the elbow.

  “He fell from a tree,” explained Charlie’s mother. It sounded lame, almost like a lie, even to her. “He was quite high,” she added, seeing the contempt in the doctor’s eyes.

  He smiled humourlessly. “I see,” he said. The doctor was older than Charlie’s mother, with receding grey hair, brown eyes and a very long face, most of which seemed to be chin, which gave his head the shape of a fat carrot. He put the large X-ray picture into the envelope from which it had come. “He will need to have his arm set in a cast, probably for six weeks. Paracetamol, to take the edge off the pain, followed by Ibuprofen, alternately,” he paused, “which will help with the inflammation. You can give him the lower dose of each every two hours.” The doctor wrote out the medication order. “Take this to your local GP who will write the prescription.”

  “Thanks,” said Charlie’s mother.

  “A nurse will come in shortly to apply the plaster cast. It’s hospital policy to inform social services of any A&E patients under sixteen.” With this, the doctor turned away and left the small examination room through the door with a concealed hydraulic arm. It closed slowly behind him.

  With the doctor gone and Charlie lying still on the examination bed, his mother reached into her handbag and pulled out her mobile phone. As the phone was on silent, she was unaware that she’d missed a call until she saw the red ‘missed call’ icon to the left of the screen. A text message indicated a voicemail had been left.

  She keyed 1, 2, 3, followed by the dial button. She then pressed the handset close to her right ear. After a moment, a voice she recognised as her husband, the words spoken fast, his tone urgent.

  “Oh Christ, Harriet, you need to pick this up,” heavy breathing, as though from running. He sounded anxious and spoke hurriedly. “You don’t have any time. They have tracked you. Get out of the hospital. GET OUT NOW!” The message ended, but before she had time to put the phone away a text message flashed up, it said:

  DON’T WORRY. THEY DON’T KNOW WHERE WE LIVE… YET!

  On the bed Charlie groaned as he readjusted himself slightly. A moment later a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a young nurse with short, black hair that Charlie thought made her look like a boy. With little hair to conceal them, her ears looked too big for her head. She wheeled in a trolley ahead of her containing medical supplies; latex gloves, bandages, swabs, cleansing fluid, cotton wool, plasters. On its top a large bowl containing a white mixture sluicing about that Harriet assumed was the plaster.

  “Will this take long?” asked Charlie’s mother. She tried sounding mildly interested, but failing. Instead, it came out as slightly impatient, the tone registering annoyance in the young nurse.

  “It takes as long as it takes,” her curt reply. The nurse pulled up a stool on casters, and positioned herself next to the bed alongside Charlie. “Now, who’s been a bit clumsy?” She smiled reassuringly. Noticing the blue timepiece strapped to his right wrist, she added: “At least you’ve not injured your watch arm.”

  Absently, Harriet checked her own watch. From experience, she knew she had little time to waste. Their pursuers were on their way… could even be here, she thought. But this couldn’t be helped. She knew Charlie needed the plaster cast. Of all the stupid things, he had to do this now, jeopardising everything. They’d not even had the chance to settle in their new home or start classes within their new schools.

  Just you wait Meredith; you see what happens when I get home she chided her daughter within her mind, her inner voice taking the tone her vocal chords dared not. She knew full well that when she actually saw Meredith she would do nothing at all. Unknown to Harriet, all threats of punishment would be overshadowed by a turn of events that would leave her and Charlie in grave peril.

  Chapter Five

  Dominic

  Sitting outside the cafeteria in the heart of Soho, Dominic Schilling traced the outline of the antique diamond pictured within the brochure that was placed on the round, aluminium table set in front of him. Dressed smartly in a dark grey two-piece suit, a white long-sleeve shirt buttoned up to the collar, and polished black leather shoes, he looked – and felt – like an executive straight out of the office; except for the gun, of course. Though concealed within the shoulder holster, it could be made out through the fabric of his suit jacket, if one cared to look; the butt of the Beretta semi-automatic poking out every so often playing peek-a-boo. He likened the look to cop shows like Miami Vice.

  He sipped from a large cup, a frothy cappuccino, cream and powdered cinnamon leaving a residue moustache above his lip. He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, ignoring the serviette the waitress had laid beneath a small set of cutlery. On a plate to the left was a Danish pastry which he’d taken tentative bites from, but through lack of appetite had left momentarily discarded.

  He’d visited the Masterpiece London Art & Antiques Fair the day earlier, roaming through the many rooms and galleries, gazing at the exhibitions and collections brought together from across the globe. According to the brochure, Masterpiece London was no ordinary antiques fair, but a ‘forum for distinctive design and aesthetic excellence from all around the world’.

  Dominic hadn’t arrived at the custom-built pavilion set in the grounds of the historic Royal Hospital Chelsea by chance, or through any cultural desire.

  He was there for one thing and one thing only.

  The Whisper of Persia; a vivid yellow diamond cut into a cushion shape, 101.29-carat, with a weight of twenty-seven grams. It was the highlight of that year’s fair, on display as part of a sixteenth century Royal jewellery collection. Among other artefacts included The Mary Tudor Pearl, once part of a dowry from Philip II of Spain to his new bride, Mary Tudor, for whom the pearl was christened.

  Earlier, Dominic had admired the diamond within its secure, glass case, noted the guards standing in close proximity and knew that the display cases were alarmed. Standing just a foot away from it, he’d marvelled at the brilliant cut of the gem, the vivid yellow, the result of nitrogen atoms replacing some of the crystal’s carbon atoms. Such a diamond, with more than a hundred carats is extremely rare, and exceptionally valuable. He’d read within the blurb of the brochure that the Whisper of Persia had sold for more than three million US dollars in auction in the late 1980s. He estimated its price was now triple that.

  This was why he intended to steal it. His days acting as a lackey for Tom Kaplan were coming to an end.
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  Tom Kaplan, CEO of Kaplan Ratcliff Biochemical and Life Sciences, ordered him around like he was the head of some sort of cartel, and he, Dominic Schilling, his personal slave.

  But time was running out. The Masterpiece London Arts and Antiques Fair only ran for a week, with its last day in just two days time – the third of July.

  Stealing the diamond wasn’t going to be easy, and the plan that he’d elaborated intended to see the jewel taken in broad daylight under everyone’s nose. Audacious or what?

  He smiled to himself as he continued to stare at the jewel on the page. He felt himself start to drool and needed to use the back of his hand again to wipe the surplus moisture away from his lips.

  His plan involved the services of a person who exhibited some unique and very unusual talents. It involved the person whom he’d been charged with finding and bringing back to the company that had invested heavily in her creation.

  It involved the girl: Sophie Jennings.

  The problem seemed to be finding her. At that moment stealing the jewel appeared easier than finding the one person who could make it happen. It was a little like a paradox.

  Every time they’d come close to finding her, or locating George Jennings and other members of his family, they’d up and disappear, always two steps ahead. It was like someone from inside was warning them; someone from inside his own organisation?

  It had to be.

  But then luck intervened.

  A waitress dressed in a white blouse, black skirt, and white apron draped down her front approached his table. She had auburn hair tied into a bun.

  “Is everything al’right?” She had a thick cockney accent, like she’d walked straight off the set of EastEnders.

  Before he could respond, his Sony Xperia mobile phone began to vibrate on the metal table, his large cup rattling in its saucer.