The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “It’s for the greater good,” he whispered to himself, answering his conscience, trying to appease the guilt and settle those nerves.

  “Hello?” Like before, the voice sounded tinny, distant. Interference crackled on the line, raspy and whistling.

  “It’s me George.” Despite his nerves jangling his voice never betrayed him. He sounded confident, in control. Almost authoritative.

  At first, the crackle of interference on the line was all Ryan got in reply, then the person at the other end spoke. “Wait a minute,” he said, “I just need to pull over.” A long silence followed before George spoke again, this time more clearly. “Your warning was too late. They got her. They’ve got my wife…”

  Ryan exhaled noisily. This wasn’t as easy as he thought it was going to be. “I know George, but ‘they’ are not who you think. It’s not us. It’s not the corporation; it’s someone else.”

  “Who?”

  Ryan took a moment. How could he reply? He didn’t know. Unseen, he was shaking his head; his free hand was turning his hot coffee absently on the table in front of him, the steaming beverage scolding his fingers ever so slightly. He was looking around the room nervously, over his shoulders and occasionally glancing out through the large glass window. “We don’t know.” He sighed.

  “We? Who are you? Do I know you?”

  Ryan sighed. “I work for Kaplan Ratcliff. We’ve never met George, but you knew my daughter.” Ryan found his throat constrict. The memory of her brought a lump to his throat. It was over two years but the loss was still raw. It still tore at his heart. How beautiful she had been. How kind and wonderful; everything one would want in a daughter. She was on the level, hardworking and very clever. He remembered her when she had been just a kid, going on holiday, fun days in the park; or just messing about in the garden. He remembered Penshurst Place, west of Kent, on a bright midsummer’s day, looking radiant. It was at Penshurst Place he’d first taken his daughter with the other girl who he’d go on to treat and love almost as much as his own flesh and blood. The two playing together came to mind, a myriad of images flashing up, long ago memories. They often came, and like Christmases, went − superseded by the abundance of regret and loathing that he felt.

  He didn’t think he could say her name, but then surprised himself when he heard the syllables pass his lips:

  “Clara.” He fought back the tears and the anger that burned within the pit of his stomach.

  “Ryan?” George whispered it. Clara had mentioned him often. The ups and downs between them; how she provided him with an easy ear when things in their life had soured, or the turbulent times when she had been rebellious as a teen, making things near impossible between them. Clara had regularly opened up to him. A regular shoulder to cry on; he’d learnt it all, rough and smooth.

  “Listen George, I’m sorry about Harriet.” Composing himself, “We are looking into it. You need to find Charlie. From what we know, he wasn’t taken.”

  “I know. I have him here.”

  Ryan audibly sighed with relief.

  “You need to get off Seacrest Road. We have agents en route even as I speak.”

  “What about my family? Meredith and Stanley?”

  “We don’t know where they are… yet. They’ll be safe whilst it stays that way.”

  “Okay.”

  “You do have a problem though. Your project piece is on the loose. I’m sorry, George, there’s only so much I can do without blowing my cover. We made for her as soon as you’d left your apartment.”

  “How did you know?”

  “That’s not important. I just didn’t want anything to happen to you…” yet! “…your wife and son gave me the perfect reason to get you out of harm’s way.”

  “You have… Sophie?”

  Ryan caught sight of two big, burly men on the other side of the road. In black uniform, suited with matching blazers, both parading the KRBLS Military Division insignia badge stitched to their breast pockets, and ties that could have doubled at a funeral; they waited at the road’s edge, itching to cross. They stood out on this hot, July day in their uniforms, though despite this neither man perspired. Most passersby wore loose T-shirts and shorts or thin, strappy tops and thin, billowing skirts. Sandals and flip-flops were the order of the day or trainers worn without socks.

  “George, I’ve got to go.” Ryan stood up fast, the top of his right leg jerking the table, knocking the coffee over, hot liquid spilling across its surface.

  “No Ryan, tell me what’s happened to her!”

  Ryan was running for the door, his mobile pressed against his ear.

  “She got away is all I know; but she’s being followed. It gets worse. Tom Kaplan is now involved. He’s taken charge. Listen, George, I’m out of time… if you don’t hear from me again… good luck!” Ryan hit the cut off icon on the Smartphone as he hurried out of the coffee shop; startled faces watched him exit (including the coffee shop attendant), the bell on the door jingling excitedly from the force.

  The two burly men on the opposite side of the road did not fail to notice Ryan leaving in a hurry; one raised a wrist and started talking animatedly. Ryan knew he was talking into a concealed, wireless microphone attached to a cufflink. He’d often worn them himself. They were standard issue and all security personnel wore them giving them instant communication to the operations centre. He glanced at them as he started to run away. Both were now hurrying across the road, neither looking nor heeding the traffic that sped by, confirming that they were indeed coming after him.

  Horns blared and tyres screeched. Ryan continued regardless.

  One of his pursuers was clipped by a taxi; he tumbled to the road hard, skidding on his knees. Further horns sounded from angry motorists forced to break hard and stop. No one liked their journeys delayed, no matter the cause or however fleeting it would be.

  Momentarily the chase was over for the felled security man, however not for long. Chancing another glance, Ryan confirmed that he was still being pursued by both security personnel, albeit one was limping and hanging back a good few yards.

  Turning the next corner, taking an alley beside a Nandos restaurant, Ryan hoped to lose his pursuers through the maze of narrow passages, the myriad of back alleys and dead ends that he knew were sprawled around this side of the city.

  What he hadn’t expected was to find the very first stretch of alley − which he’d decisively hurtled down, and which extended for about forty meters − to abruptly end around the next darkened corner.

  He couldn’t help cursing: “Damn it!”

  Ahead, he found to further his chagrin, two large steel refuse bins, a number of empty plastic crates and a dozen beer barrels stacked up ready for collection, and the back entrance to a Conservative Social Club (locked from the inside). The smell of stale beer and alcohol drifted over him, intermingled with the odours exuding from the Nandos restaurant. He barely noticed.

  Whirling round desperately, Ryan sought a way out, another direction to take, an escape route. Anywhere to avoid being collared.

  Wildly he looked up, and then back to the direction he came, his eyes darting all over. He trotted back to the original alley, and stopped.

  Finding no escape – there was no escape − he could see that to go on was futile, the chase was up; he looked down forlornly. It was hopeless. Out of breath and out of luck, he bent over, gasping for air; hunkered down, he watched the two security personnel as they approached; one half a dozen meters ahead of the other, running towards him, beginning to slow to a jog.

  One of the big men, the one limping who had been knocked to the road by the taxi, had laid a hand on a Taser gun that was attached to his belt. His eyes were willing Ryan to try something – anything – to make him want to use it.

  “Mr Barber,” started the first security guard, slightl
y breathless. “It’s over. The Director wants to see you.”

  Ryan said nothing and just nodded. He stood up straight and walked forward. He recognised him. He was someone he knew. He’d used him on occasion when things needed to get ‘messy’. He was almost someone he’d previously counted on as someone he could trust. He even had his number saved on his mobile.

  The second security guard had pulled up beside his colleague, an angry look plastered across his face. Ryan was under no illusion that he was being blamed for the injury causing the second man to limp.

  Ryan didn’t know the second man; he was one of Samuel’s recruits, probably a former soldier or marine. They all tended to be ex-military − better equipped to deal with any eventuality, and more disciplined. He looked him up and down, his eyes stopping at his knees. He cleared his throat:

  “I think you need to get that looked at.” Ryan was indicating the man’s leg. His trousers were torn at the knee and Ryan could see crimson through the shredded black fabric.

  The security officer grunted, stepping forward menacingly.

  “Okay,” Ryan said nonchalantly, half-smiling. He raised his hands in surrender. It was almost comical. “I’ll come quietly.”

  Together the security personnel flanked the Assistant Intelligence Officer and escorted him back to the command centre where Samuel Jackson steeled himself for the confrontation, bitterly disappointed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Harriet

  Harriet awoke to find herself seated and in complete darkness. Initially she thought she was blind, before she realised that by opening and closing her eyes she could feel the soft material of a scarf or blindfold wrapped around her head. It was tight and allowed no light to penetrate.

  Wherever she was, it was silent, like death, she imagined. She started to worry that she had been buried alive, though she soon dismissed those ungrounded thoughts.

  As her faculties started to tune in, awareness of her situation began to filter through; a gradual feeling returned as her senses began to awaken. Pain receptors screamed throughout her body, highlighting her many injuries − mostly minor, considering − sustained during the accident earlier that day. Aches, stiffness and soreness lanced all over.

  Blocking out the many discomforts, she tried to focus on her situation and surroundings. In addition to her covered eyes, she was gagged and her hands bound behind her back. An attempt at moving confirmed that her ankles were also secured together, tied to the chair legs.

  She was completely restrained and trapped.

  Cable ties or cuffs and gaffer tape had been used in good measure and with her sudden burst of agitation and straining she realised that there would be little, or no movement… not without either help or a sharp implement in her hand that may have given her the slightest chance to work the ligatures from her wrists and ankles.

  She was breathing hard she found – made harder by the tape obstructing her mouth. She tried blowing against the adhesive swathe, her cheeks expanding like a hamster’s, the exertion hurting her face to bursting point; her laboured breathing causing her chest to ache.

  She screamed against the roof of her mouth and through her nose as loud as she could muster; a long, constrained noise that sounded like a high-pitched klaxon; it was loud in her head but barely filled the room. There was no echo or resonance bouncing off the walls. The room that she was in was small − she could sense that − but it wasn’t a coffin, for that she was grateful.

  Several more vain attempts at working the restraints loose were to no avail. It was no use. The shackles around her ankles confirmed that she was powerless. Fear clawed at her. She started to panic and sob.

  WHERE AM I? She screamed in her head. Fear gripped her further when she started to remember the events of that afternoon, playing out like an extended episode of EastEnders within her memory. Realisation swept over her like a tsunami:

  CHARLIE!

  Oh my God... my son... my baby boy... what of my Charlie...?

  Harriet sobbed harder, her body shaking from the convulsions, like she was having a fit, having what her own mother called an ‘episode’.

  “Harriet Jennings. Calm yourself.” The voice filled the void, amplified by internal speakers built into the ceiling. She heard it coming from above, loud, clear − almost godlike. “Don’t fight it and you’ll be okay.” The voice had a slight accent. Australian? Canadian? American? She couldn’t tell for sure. She tried calming herself by breathing slower through her nose.

  It was little or no use. She could not calm down, not under these circumstances, not whilst trussed up like a turkey and not knowing what had happened to her son.

  No matter her own tribulations, thoughts of her son prevailed, all alone in the bushes and trees along Seacrest Road − they overpowered everything else. She was scared, but only for her son’s safety.

  Just four-years-old.

  FOUR-YEARS-OLD!

  How long had he been on his own? An hour? Two? Ten hours? A day? A week? The concept of time was lost. A minute on his own was too long and the fear of what might have happened to him started to bite from within her chest, like a hungry rat chewing an exit from a place of entrapment.

  Panic began to well up again, threatening to engulf her. She fought against it without success, the urge to vomit was too much. Blocked by the gaffer tape across her mouth, her cheeks once again ballooned out and she began to choke. Thin tendrils of liquid sprayed from her nose. She began to asphyxiate, her body convulsing. She had the appearance of an epileptic having a seizure, another instance of what her mother would have called an ‘episode’.

  The door to the room burst open and a man in a tan suit ran to where Harriet was restrained, ripping off the gaffer tape in one swift, deft movement. Vomit sprayed out across the room, some splashing her saviour’s trousers and shoes.

  Harriet coughed and spluttered, tears leaking from her eyes.

  “Here.” The man poured a small cup of water from a jug placed on a corner table and was gently tipping it against her lips. Harriet gulped it down, the aftertaste from the retching and nearly choking strong in her mouth. Before it was able to settle she threw it back up, emptying her whole stomach across the floor.

  The man crossed the small room to the corner table and poured a further cup of water. He waited for Harriet to relax and offered the cup again. Harriet accepted it, taking smaller mouthfuls, sipping slower.

  “Better?” His voice was soothing, like a placating parent.

  Harriet nodded. The screaming and the retching had made her throat sore. She didn’t trust any sound to come from her mouth even had she tried speaking.

  “Good.” Using a cotton handkerchief, he wiped Harriet’s mouth. Flecks of upchuck clung to her chin. The man, continuing his paternal role, smiled. “There,” he said. “We took the liberty of patching you up. You were a bit banged up after...” he trailed off.

  Harriet became aware of a dressing taped to her forehead − when she furrowed her brow she could feel it pull taut, aggravating the cut beneath it. Also, she thought she could feel bandaging wrapped around her hands below the cuffs (which she’d now assumed as the restraint of choice, owing to the cold touch and weighty feel). Involuntarily, Harriet heard herself ask: “What have you done with Charlie?” Her throat was hoarse and it hurt to talk, so the question came out in more of a rasp, almost a whisper.

  The man didn’t reply; instead he untied the black scarf that blotted out the world. He dropped it to the floor. Harriet closed her eyes from the immediate blinding white intrusion, wincing and blinking back tears from the intense light. Bright fluorescent tubes burned above, dazzling further by the brilliant-white walls that enclosed her.

  After a couple of minutes she found focus. Harriet allowed herself to look upon her captor. In his early to mid-thirties, he carried the looks and stature of a famou
s catwalk model. Chiselled jaw line, blue eyes. His blond hair was neat and short, combed with a left side parting. She could tell from how he stood that he worked out and took care of his appearance, though he was over a day unshaven. She could also tell by how he looked that he was American. Without even talking, she could tell, but his voice had all but confirmed it.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through this Harriet,” he said. “Really I am.” He was perched on the edge of the table where he’d returned the jug and Perspex cup.

  “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “All in good time Harriet.” He made to leave.

  “Please don’t go!” she begged. “Where’s Charlie?” pleading, “he’s just a little boy.”

  A hand on the door handle, the American stopped and turned to Harriet, a puzzled look upon his face. “Mam, we don’t have Charlie,” he said. The look dissolved as he added, a hand gesturing towards the mess around the seated woman, “I’ll get someone to clean this up.”

  “Hello!” she shouted. “I need a toilet! Can anyone hear me? ARE YOU LISTENING?” Harriet was rocking back and forth on the chair. Her bladder screamed for relief, her body was willing her to go but her mind told her to keep it together, urging her to retain her dignity. They may have taken her freedom, but they’d never take her dignity... you could only give that away.

  Time seemed to be passing slowly to a point where she was convinced it now stood still. She’d been left on her own in the room for over an hour, maybe two, she wasn’t sure. Time had lost all meaning in this room. No one had visited since the American, despite the offer of getting someone to clean up the vomit spattered floor. The smell was unbearable.

  Paranoid, she had thought she could feel eyes on her, a feeling that was confirmed when she spied the small surveillance camera placed in the furthest corner of the room, above the door. A small red LED lamp indicated that it was in operation. It winked at her rhythmically, almost hypnotic as she studied it.