The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Y’ello,” almost shouted into the handset, making the waitress jump. She turned on her heel and wandered to another customer who was waving spasmodically to get her attention. “Aha, that’s good. No, follow her, but keep your distance. It’s taken six weeks to find them again; we don’t want you scaring them off before I’ve been able to put together the extraction team.” Without saying goodbye, the call was terminated and Dominic stood to leave, pulling out a billfold wallet from which he slipped out a ten pound note and anchored it to the table using the side plate on which his Danish was sat, barely touched. He picked up the brochure, folded it shut and tucked it under his arm.

  “Keep the change,” he said louder than necessary towards the waitress, not waiting for any acknowledgement before leaving the premises.

  The waitress observed the man as he crossed the street to his car.

  Dominic Schilling was in his early thirties, well above average height at six feet two inches, and muscular. When not dressed to kill in his Armani suits, he could be found in a vest and shorts, either at the local fitness centre pushing metal or out in the park pounding the earth over a ten mile run, an iPod hooked up and strapped to his waist. As a former Marine, he knew fitness was the key to success out in the field. The saying ‘healthy body, healthy mind’ wasn’t coined for nothing. He believed it, and it was a mantra that he believed gave him an edge over those he worked for, and for those he sought, or pursued.

  Starting the engine of the metallic grey Mercedes SLS AMG, Dominic took the car out of the disabled space, enjoying the disparaging looks from passersby who noticed he had absolutely no impairments, and drove the car away from Soho towards the one-way that would lead him out of the city and towards the location he’d just been given.

  Depressing a button on his mobile phone, a telephone number rang out and the ringing tone began to sound over the Bluetooth, coming through the car stereo speakers. After eighteen seconds a voice with a slight American accent sounded, filling the car’s interior.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Dom.”

  “Dominic. I thought I told you not to call me.” The voice sounded slightly agitated, annoyed.

  “I don’t care; I just thought you should know. The corporation has found them. The youngest child was taken to a hospital; a nurse spotted the likeness of the mother from the wanted poster.”

  “You sure it’s them?”

  “It’s a lead, nothing more.”

  “Not another headless chicken chase?” Not waiting for an answer, “Is the child okay?” disinterested.

  “Apparently, yes.”

  “That’s a pity. What of the others?”

  “Marlon is following, and a team is being assembled, but they have orders not to intervene. I will have the advantage – it’ll be too late before anyone gets wise to the deception.”

  The phone went silent for a moment, and then the American voice came through, thick and fast.

  “Good. Let’s not screw it up this time, hey Dominic? We are running out of time, our sponsor is getting a bit impatient. Do what you have to do, just make sure the girl and her father are kept safe. It’s important that we take delivery of the package.”

  “What of the others?” Dominic asked.

  “Do what you have to do, but you know how we operate. See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil. Probably best to tie off those loose ends, if you get my meaning.”

  Dominic smiled; he became aware of the Beretta’s weight against his chest, almost like it knew it was almost time to shed its deadly load.

  “Okay.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind don’t bother me again until we have her in holding. That should give our friend enough incentive to do what we want,” and with that, the American voice disappeared and the line went dead.

  Yes, that will give him an incentive – George will do more than what the American intended. A lot more.

  “Jerk,” Dominic muttered under his breath, an ominous smile spreading out across his lips, unable to stop the duplicitous thoughts that filled his head.

  On the passenger seat, the brochure from Masterpiece London Arts and Antiques Fair folded open at the page of most interest; the Whisper of Persia glaring up at him. Tangible, it felt almost like it belonged to him, as though he could reach into the page and grasp it in his hand.

  Soon, he thought.

  Soon.

  Chapter Six

  George

  “You don’t have any time. They have tracked you. Get out of the hospital. GET OUT NOW!” George had left the message and all he could do was hope and pray that he’d done enough to warn them.

  Two minutes earlier a call had come through to his mobile, which in itself alarmed him. No one but his family had his number. He changed mobiles often, disposing of phones and SIM cards as often as some people changed underwear.

  The voice at the other end of the phone had claimed to be a friend. But who was he? Could he be trusted?

  “Who are you?” he had asked; his voice exasperated. Now he felt stupid even to expect an answer.

  “Just a friend, but that’s not important. You need to get your wife and child out of that hospital as soon as you can.”

  Hospital? What was he talking about? “An extraction team is on its way to them as we speak. Your wife and child don’t have much time.”

  “How-” did they find us? How did you get my number? Who are you?

  “It’s not important,” sensing all the unasked questions. “Just keep them safe. Your home has not been compromised… yet. Lie low. We’ll meet when the time is right.”

  That had been six minutes ago, and since then he’d followed up his call to his wife with a text message:

  DON’T WORRY. THEY DON’T KNOW WHERE WE LIVE...

  But who was this mysterious caller? How did he know that he could genuinely trust him? Importantly, how did he get his mobile number? Was he being watched, even now?

  Paranoid, he crossed the room to the window and peered out through the gap at the edge of the curtain, glancing furtively from one side to another. A large, black car was parked across the street, stately, possibly a Bentley. Had it been there before? When had it arrived?

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” The voice was female and echoed in the room, concern and fear intermingled. Sophie was standing in the doorway. She’d heard her father talking on the phone; had heard the anxiety in his voice.

  “I hope it’s nothing,” he replied absently, still looking at the parked car, contemplating his next moves.

  “Have they found us?” She knew about the corporation, about the sabotage at the laboratory, and the blame that had been pointed squarely at her father. He protested his innocence and feared for his life and the life of his family; rather than face up to the charges that included the murder of eleven co-workers, he’d taken them on the run; fugitives, not only of the law, but also from the corporation itself. Kaplan Ratcliff had placed a bounty on their lives. Although it didn’t make much sense to the girl in the room, George had said that the corporation had wanted to end his project, and anyone or anything related to it.

  George didn’t immediately answer her question, but after a long twenty seconds he said: “No. Sophie, try not to worry about it.” He tried to reassure her with a smile, allowing the curtain to fall back into place. He decided that the car across the street was empty and posed no threat. He returned to his laptop on the dining table, though did nothing but stare at its brightly-lit screen.

  The room was part of a purpose-built ground floor apartment, with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a laundry room off a short hallway that connected the living/dining room. Adjoining this room was the kitchen, currently situated behind George who had his back turned to it. Since the ‘incident’ at the laboratory, George had spent half his time living at the apartment
with Sophie in Chelsea, and the other half of his time with his family (currently in Seabrook at the house affectionately titled Willoughby Rising).

  Of course, only his wife (and Sophie) knew of this arrangement. As far as his three kids knew, he was away at work, like most fathers. This wasn’t altogether a lie. Despite being away from the lab, his work continued. He owed Sophie that much if she was ever to live something of a normal life.

  But his work was more complicated than his children could ever know. As far as they were concerned he was a biochemist at a hospital, his work involving the study of chemical processes in living organisms. He rarely talked about his job and never took work home with him. It was easier to carry on with the lie. Plus, his children were too young to be really that bothered. Apart from Meredith, but she knew not to ask.

  Before the fire and explosions that culminated in George taking his family into hiding, his occupation was far greater than a mere biochemist − even more than he’d ever divulged to Harriet. On the face of it, his work, although linked to biochemistry, was more with genetics and the study of DNA and RNA molecules. Over the past five years he’d been actively involved with a top secret programme, codenamed CHAMELEON. The actual details of the programme were classified, but his involvement was more with genetic engineering, and looking at ways to improve the human condition.

  George was head of the CHAMELEON project, and his concern was with five components of improved ability: Strength; Intelligence; Endurance; Longevity and Visibility.

  Heading a team of three scientists (all now dead), George had first used mice (hundreds of them) to experiment with, moving onto larger animals with each phase of success; rabbits, cats, pigs and chimpanzees. Even an orang-utan. Two years ago things had advanced much further than he’d ever imagined and he’d done something unethical. Something he wished he could turn back and undo.

  A scientist’s dream is to see his life’s work come to fruition, turn a theory into reality, help to make things better. What he and his team had done was more than this, it had been a miracle. It was as close to godlike as you could imagine.

  Now, his team was dead. Thomas Mundahl. Maksim Alekseev. Clara Barber. His laboratory destroyed. Anything (and everything) linked to the CHAMELEON project had been destroyed. He was all that was left – plus his laptop (and the backup flash drive which he was never without − kept on a keychain around his neck).

  What had been hailed as a scientific victory had been debunked by his superior, was now viewed as nothing more than a madman’s whimsy, and he, George Jennings, a despot conman, now a fugitive, a wanted murderer.

  But there was more at stake than surviving capture or continuing his pretence of innocence. His work, his unsung success, needed perfecting. He knew its full potential, the benefits, the pros, the cons. In the wrong hands a superhuman being could do untold damages. What he had created was something more heinous than that.

  But was heinous the right word? After all, his daughter was beautiful…

  “Will you go to her? Your wife? My mother?” The question almost sounded like an accusation.

  In answer, George deflected the question with his own often-repeated question. It was almost a catchphrase:

  “Have you taken your meds?”

  “Yes, dad!” Sophie walked into the room and sat down onto the leather two-seater. “Now answer my question.”

  George stood up from the dining table, crossed to where his daughter was sitting and sat down beside her. The two-seater faced the window where moments earlier he’d been spying from. Because the curtains were drawn, a corner lamp illuminated the room.

  “Later.” Dismissive. George was agitated. He was concerned how someone knew his telephone number; also knew where his family was staying. Claiming to be a friend he did not know. He didn’t have any friends... not any more. That was a luxury from a long-ago past, and if he were honest, probably from a period long before he’d ever met his wife. From a time when loyalties were not brought to question.

  His instincts were to not trust this stranger. Trust was something that had to be earned, not given like a tacky gift from a Christmas cracker.

  George flinched as Sophie wrapped an arm around his neck, aware that her small frame was pressing up against him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, smelling lavender, reminding him of the house they’d been forced to leave in Stanford-le-Hope; freshly cleaned hair and other soft fragrances assailed his nostrils. With his eyes closed she seemed like any other sixteen-year-old, something he wished with all of his heart were true. She was growing up fast.

  Too fast, but that was the way Sophie had been designed.

  “Do you love me, no matter what?”

  “What sort of question is that? You know I love you – unconditionally.”

  “What about if I didn’t take my meds?”

  “But you did, right?”

  “It’s not the point.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t matter. I’d still love you. You’re my daughter.”

  Sophie went quiet and pulled away from her father. She drew her knees up to her chest and wore a forlorn look.

  “What’s wrong?” George asked softly. For someone with advancements in strength and intelligence amongst other things, she often exhibited such vulnerability and weakness.

  “I wish I was normal,” she said timidly. “I wished I could have grown up like any other kid,” she paused to contemplate. “I wish I was more like Meredith.”

  “Meredith? What d’you know about Meredith?”

  “I know she’s free to live a normal life,” she sidestepped, avoiding the direct question.

  “Well, she’s not exactly ‘free’,” he said, dismissive. “But I take your point. That’s why I insist on you taking your meds. So you can live more or less normally.”

  “About the meds, dad – I think they’re becoming less effective.”

  George looked quizzically at his daughter, not needing to press a question, for she continued, “I’ve had to step up the dosage. The effects wear off between four and six hours.”

  “I see,” George mulled over what Sophie was saying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I AM telling you. It’s only now beginning to become a problem.”

  “How many doses are you now on?” He could do the math but wanted to hear his daughter tell him for herself.

  “I’m up to four injections. I had to increase the dose from three last week.”

  “I see.” George looked down, trying to think. The answer was in his laptop. He jumped up and crossed to the dining table and sat in front of the open computer. He typed in a couple of commands and waited for a file to appear.

  “Dad?” Sophie had stood up from the sofa and followed the man into the other half of the room.

  George raised a hand in a stop sign. “I’m thinking,” he said.

  “Dad… that’s not all.” Sophie grabbed George’s attention.

  “Oh?”

  “Despite the medication I can will myself to... change.”

  “What d’you mean? Change? How?”

  “I’ll show you.” Sophie closed her eyes and concentrated hard. A small vein pulsed in her head and she could hear her heart beat pumping hard, deafening and drowning out all other noises. Less than ten seconds later George almost fell backwards off his seat as he watched the young woman disappear almost as suddenly as she had the very first time when she’d been born. Sort of ‘now you see me, now you don’t’.

  Sophie had vanished like no parlour trick ever witnessed.

  “Astonishing,” he said. “Can you change back?”

  “I’m afraid not. Only another shot of meds counteracts the symptoms.”

  “Fascinating,” George said. He started typing some notes.

  “Dad, I’m scared. What if the inh
ibitor starts to fail? I don’t want to live like a ghost, where others can only see me through my reflection in a mirror?”

  George sighed. “It won’t come to that,” he said.

  “You don’t know that!” she shouted back. “Why is this happening to me?”

  George didn’t know for certain, but he’d feared the drug he’d created would lose its potency in time. A bit like an antibiotic, its effectiveness was only guaranteed through limited exposure. “At a guess, your body is becoming immune to the serum. But Sophie, time is on our side.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I will continue my research and eventually I will find you a cure. In the meantime, I will increase the dosage of your meds.” He sounded confident, and for a second he believed it. As Sophie was invisible he was unable to gauge whether or not she was convinced, though a pair of lightweight thermal imaging goggles were easily located should he have wanted them. They lay at the bottom of a backpack filled with evacuation supplies hanging from a hook on the back of the kitchen door. They looked no different to a pair of ski goggles – with the altogether distinct advantage of allowing the user to see either in the dark, or to see heat signatures of objects, people and other sources in very low light, or even through brick walls. Currently not available outside of the laboratory, this pair was just one of five pairs created – an accessory purpose-built for the task of observing his daughter before the antidote had been developed. Before then, the only way to have seen Sophie was through the reflection of a simple mirror.

  From behind him, through the kitchen’s serving hatch, George heard the sound of compressed air as Sophie pressed the jet injector against her arm and depressed the trigger, releasing the ochre liquid. Almost instantly Sophie began to softly swell into appearance, an act that was almost as amazing as disappearing was in itself.