The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  Like Meredith, Stanley had taken refuge in his bedroom. Although relatively new to the house and the area, all three of the Jennings’ children immediately took a dislike to the neighbour of Willoughby Rising. Mrs Slocum seemed overfamiliar with their father, almost as though she’d known him for a long time. Looking old beyond her years, she had the frame of a jolly, plump grandmother, without the demeanour or the tendency. With grey curly hair and a pudgy nose that bore a mole the size of a five pence coin and which was ugly enough even without the three thick white hairs sprouting from it, she looked the more menacing by the sheer size of her hands. Meredith had nicknamed her Manhands from the beginning, for they weren’t too dissimilar in size to her father’s and equally as hairy.

  Following Mrs Slocum wherever she went, worse than a bad smell, was an eerie cold draught that sent goose bumps up their arms and shivers down their spines. Although she skulked around the place, often creeping with the stealth of a leopard out on a hunt, her presence was often realised just by the chill that swept close behind.

  Stanley had joked that Slocum was a ghost.

  Meredith had remarked that she thought perhaps Slocum was something entirely worse, maybe DEATH itself in disguise. They’d laughed after that, though nervously; none of them ever felt comfortable in her presence.

  “Go away,” said Meredith sulkily. “Leave me alone.”

  “It’s important. Please Meredith, let me in.”

  Knowing that Stanley would never leave her alone, she sat up and climbed from her bed. Crossing to the door, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. Her face, she noted, was blotchy from all the crying she’d done since that morning and her hair was dishevelled from lying in bed.

  Meredith withdrew the bolt on the door and turned the handle, allowing access.

  No sooner had the door swung open, Stanley had charged in boisterously. The door slammed behind him, a gust from the window helping it shut, rattling the frame.

  “Well?” demanded Meredith, her arms folded across her chest. Stanley had leapt up onto her single bed and had started to use it as a trampoline.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “You badgered me into letting you in just for the TIME!” she emphasised the word in a shout.

  “No silly,” he continued to bounce. “It’s mum and Charlie. They should have been back by now.”

  Meredith looked at her watch. It was after four. They’d been gone over six hours.

  “Perhaps there’s a long wait at the hospital. It is the NHS after all.”

  “Mum would have called. Something is wrong,” he hadn’t noticed, but he was whining. “Meredith, something has happened to them, I know it.” He stopped bouncing and fell to the bed where he lay still, sullen.

  “Stanley, calm down. Stop being silly,” Meredith had taken on the role of the reasoning parent. In the absence of their mother and father, and not accepting Slocum as a reliable replacement, somebody had to.

  “It’s the bogeyman,” Stanley continued. “He’s finally caught us, after all this time.”

  Meredith thought to argue further, saw her brother’s wild-eyed look and thought alternatively. Maybe he was right. Maybe the bogeyman had finally caught them.

  “What did Slocum say?”

  “She told me to shut up and stop being silly.”

  “Well, there you go then. If grownups don’t believe you, why should I?” Meredith often resorted to sarcasm; it made her feel more in charge. Others thought she was just being smart-alecky; some though, like her old school teachers, considered her a pain in the derriere.

  “Don’t you think it odd us moving so suddenly recently, and not for the first time,” he continued. “Something is wrong.”

  Meredith had to agree with Stanley that their hasty departure from the old town house had been questionable, but trusting her parents she’d never dared to ask. Instead she’d accepted the move to Willoughby Rising, embracing it even, loving the vastness of all the rooms, the corridors and enjoying the surrounding beauty at the top of that hill; the crab-apple tree and the great North Sea it overlooked made it even more magical. The only thing she didn’t like about the place, she thought, was Mrs Slocum herself.

  Why her dad trusted her was beyond reason. She was an ogre.

  Accepting that something might be amiss, Meredith put on a show of calm and tried to comfort her brother.

  “What do you want me to do?” she’d snaked an arm around Stanley’s shoulders, hoping to placate him.

  “Phone dad, he needs to know that mum is missing. We need him here to take care of us.”

  “But Mrs Slocum is looking after us. Dad trusts her.”

  “Fat use she is,” Stanley retorted. “Too busy emptying our larder and biscuit tins to notice us. I don’t even know why dad suggested using her, the old witch.”

  “Shhhh. She might hear you. Besides, she’s our nearest neighbour and dad reckons she was once a friend of our grandmother.”

  Though we never knew our grandmother, she mused. The observation was meaningless, though the comment momentarily quietened her brother. It did little to lessen her own anxiety.

  Meredith got up and walked to the window. The double-glazed unit faced eastward, towards the sea allowing spectacular views. She could see the outline of a container ship in the distance, small like one of Charlie’s bath toys as it sat on the edge of the world, its cargo destined for Zeebrugge, Belgium. Outside, the July sun was warm, its rays continuing to glisten and sparkle upon the sea’s constant murky-grey surface. Meredith turned her back on the outside world and crossed to her brother, sitting back next to him.

  “We can’t just do nothing, mum and Charlie could be in danger… or worse.” Stanley was whining again and was fidgeting on the bed, the springs creaking noisily.

  Meredith couldn’t think about what was worse than just mere danger. She was just nine-years-old, not ten until December. In her young mind only death was worse than danger, and she couldn’t – wouldn’t – think or comprehend that.

  “What can we do, we’re just kids?”

  A sudden gust of wind forced the bedroom window to open wider, the curtain billowing out like an opening parachute, knocking a framed photograph, a Cabbage Patch kid doll, and a couple of ornaments off the window sill to the carpeted floor. One of the ornaments – a porcelain ballerina – broke in two.

  Meredith jumped from her bed and crossed to the window, closing it altogether. A glance across the garden showed little movement of the trees.

  There was not the slightest breeze or the whisper of a draught. Not noticing, she bent down and picked up the broken ornament.

  “Oh no, look at my ballerina Stanley.” She took the two pieces to her bedside table and lay them down. “It was Nan’s. Mum will kill me.”

  “Maybe dad can fix it.”

  “I’m already in enough trouble,” bemoaned the girl.

  A sudden movement from her right tugged her attention, ending for the moment all thoughts of the broken ballerina and the woe that beset her.

  Meredith sat alert on the edge of her bed.

  Stanley continued, oblivious to Meredith’s look of alarm: “Or maybe if we get some superglue ourselves, we could mend-.”

  “Shoosh.” Meredith waved her hand at her brother to quieten him; she was straining to hear the slightest noise or movement.

  What did I just see?, she asked herself.

  Had the movement come from the mirror? She started to analyse the situation. If the movement had come from the mirror, it must have been a reflection, perhaps Stanley or herself? But this was not the case. A look across to the mirror confirmed it – neither of them had moved, and besides from where she was sitting any movement either of the children would have made could not possibly have been captured by the silvered
glass, not from the angle of its wall placement.

  What did that mean?

  “What’s wrong?” asked Stanley, slightly frightened. He was watching his sister who in turn, was looking about herself wildly.

  A thought sprung to Meredith’s mind.

  Could it be? Was it at all possible?

  “Meredith?” Stanley was alarmed. Replicating his sister’s actions, he too started to look around the room, though not sure what he was looking for.

  “Hello,” Meredith called out. “Are you here?”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Stanley. He continued to look about the room, following the direction of Meredith’s darting gaze.

  Ignoring Stanley, Meredith listened hard. Nothing but silence followed. She had stood from her bed and had walked across to the mirror. Once again, she looked at her appearance, her blotchy complexion, and the rings beneath her eyes. She looked – and felt – exhausted.

  “Meredith?” Stanley didn’t like being ignored. “What’s wrong? I’m scared.”

  Meredith sighed. She felt like she was going mad. “Nothing’s wrong Stanley. I’m seeing thin-,” she’d started to turn, and then stopped, paused mid-sentence, her eyes returning to the mirror, widening – not in fear – but surprise.

  Reflected in the mirror, standing behind Meredith a blonde-haired girl stepped into view sheepishly. Aside from her dishevelled appearance (almost matching Meredith’s), she was just as the younger girl remembered; or maybe not − she seemed a little different. She looked taller, her face a little fuller. She appeared older.

  “Hello Meredith,” said Sophie, a smile stretching out across her elfin face. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  George

  George had been listening to the radio, not from any desire to learn of the current top ten chart hits or even to enjoy the pointless banter volleyed back and forth by the station’s witless DJs (currently discussing their favourite jacket potato topping amongst other inane things), but keen to learn of any traffic delays or reports of accidents that may or may not blight his journey. A short time later, the DJs had ceased talking, giving way to a rare song or two, an old hit from the 1980s: Too Shy by Kajagoogoo. Before that Feargal Sharkey’s A Good Heart played and after the DJ promised Kids in America by Kim Wilde.

  It brought back memories from his school days in the 1980s and a time that harkened back to another world and another continent; but that was just for a fleeting moment, the bleeping from the GPS tracker muscled in on his attention, extinguishing thoughts of a more peaceful, less complicated, less duplicitous and somewhat happier time.

  Ten minutes had passed since he’d realised that Harriet was no longer travelling towards home; instead she was moving in completely the opposite direction. Currently she was heading towards him, but this did not immediately cause concern. What troubled him was the fact that Charlie’s GPS location had him pinpointed to a spot along Seacrest Road, unmoving, where he’d remained since at least the moment he’d first climbed behind the wheel of the Peugeot 207 – just over half an hour had passed since leaving Sophie at the apartment. It led him to two theories of conclusion. One, Charlie had removed his tracker from his wrist and had accidentally ‘left’ it behind, thus transmitting an incorrect location for his father to see. Two, Harriet had left Charlie behind to fend for himself, on his own, alone, the signal concise and correct, the only method from which anyone would find him.

  Only one conclusion vied for full attention and it was the one he feared and dreaded the most.

  What was Harriet thinking leaving Charlie alone like that?

  “He’s four-years-old for heaven’s sake.” His voice was louder than he’d meant, almost startling himself. He thought he’d only said the words in his head.

  Unless something had happened to him...

  Terrible thoughts started to steal into his head, gruesome and macabre. Images flitted through his mind of Charlie in various poses half-imagined and half-feared. He was dead or dying in each of the pictures gate-crashing his thoughts.

  Please God, no. Not Charlie...

  Taking a series of roundabouts, George eventually joined the start of Seacrest Road by which time Harriet’s GPS marker was no longer bearing towards him, having turned off at a junction to the right (George’s left as he made the approach), heading northward in the direction of the Midlands. Here onwards the Seacrest Road would continue unhindered for the greater part of forty-eight miles, less than half the distance between the apartment and Willoughby Rising. He’d already put thirty miles between him and Sophie. According to the satellite tracking system and Charlie’s GPS coordinates, he was just nine miles west of his son’s location.

  The TA on George’s radio interrupted the airplay, cutting short Too Shy, replacing it with the dulcet tones of a traffic reporter who spoke with a broad Norfolk accent, from the local BBC radio station.

  “…traffic is moving steadily in and out of Norwich, with no reports of delays or major incident. Some road works on the Caister Road leading into Great Yarmouth are causing motorists some difficulties, so expect a little build-up of on-peak traffic if you’re heading that way….”

  George spotted a column of smoke in the distance ahead. From behind, a fire engine, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing, forced George to pull in to allow passage, speeding off towards what he guessed to be the source of the burning. It wasn’t unusual for field fires during hot spells so George paid it little notice.

  “…reports are just in of an incident on the Seacrest Road. Two vehicles involved, one is understood to be on fire. Emergency vehicles are on the scene, with air ambulance also in attendance….”

  A glance at the tablet computer still on the passenger seat continued to display his family’s’ positions. His wife was steadily moving away northward, which concerned him, but Charlie’s marker remained unchanged. Fear and preoccupation had blinded him to noticing a second GPS marker slowly moving (at the London apartment); his fixation deafening him even to the additional bleep that had begun. Instead, George assumed Harriet’s movement alarm had sped-up, rather than consider that another member of his family − Sophie − was on the move.

  “Oh no, Charlie…” Once again fear was ignited, eating into his thoughts, gruesome images flashing behind his eyes. He tried to ignore them, instead asking himself a series of questions which he hoped would highlight an alternative point of view.

  Why would Charlie not be moving with his mother?

  After much deliberating his rational mind could only come up with one answer: he was critically injured… or… or… worse.

  He wouldn’t, and couldn’t consider this option. Nothing untoward had happened to his son, he was certain; but the thoughts continued to plague him. His heart was pumping hard. He felt sick with worry. He hadn’t realised it, but his hands were quaking and slippery with sweat; he was gripping the steering tight, trying to lessen his shaking. Despite the July heat (it had already been a hotter-than-normal summer) an icy chill had crept over him.

  The TA report ended and was abruptly replaced by the original radio station. Kids in America was now playing.

  A minute later, George drove past the junction that a little earlier had been taken by his wife. For a second he thought to follow her… but no, he couldn’t. He needed to know what had become of Charlie. Harriet was old enough to take care of herself, and although it may appear it, with the tracking device strapped to her ankle, she was never truly alone. Charlie was just four and all by himself. He was the higher priority.

  Traffic ahead was slowing down to a crawl. Usually Seacrest Road would be empty perhaps save for a couple of cars every few minutes, or a tractor ambling by. Because of the car accident, as reported on the TA, vehicles had begun to queue and a short time soon after George found that his vehicle had drawn t
o a complete stop.

  Through the windscreen he counted a dozen or slightly more cars ahead of him. Quickly unfastening his seatbelt, he opened the door and climbed out from behind the wheel. Now standing, a hand resting on the top of the open-door, he was able to view the spectacle clearly. An ambulance was parked up; three police cars and the fire engine that only a short time earlier had forced its way past him, were positioned in various places, blocking traffic and managing the incident. The air ambulance that had been detailed on the traffic report was preparing to take off, its rotors whirring noisily, sending up a gust of road dust, grit and dry air to buffet those bystanding.

  George returned inside the car, leaning over to retrieve the tablet computer from the passenger seat. Using the zoom in feature within the GPS tracking programme, he used it to pinpoint his young son’s position. Charlie’s beacon continued to glow. He was still here (or the watch was), close by. He had not (yet) been found.

  As the helicopter took off, George half-expected Charlie’s GPS signal to change to red and begin to move away.

  Closing the door, George advanced towards the scene of the accident. Within one hand he held the tablet computer, using it as a guide.

  A policewoman noticed him approach and came forward, barring his progress. “Sir, you need to return to your vehicle.”

  “It’s my son,” started George. “I need to find my son.”

  George pushed passed the young policewoman and bounded around the emergency vehicles that were parked disorderly, successfully blockading the road. To his left he saw the smoking wreckage of his wife’s Toyota Prius. To the right, the focus of six firefighters’ attention, the burning wreckage of a car, its make and model beyond recognition due to the ongoing destruction from the intense flames. He shielded his face against the heat, not wishing to add to the human barbecue.