The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Sophie?” Seeing the gun, Meredith was suddenly frightened.

  “Shhh,” Sophie admonished, followed by a whisper, “don’t be afraid. I know what I’m doing. You need to hide. Quick, beneath your bed! Both of you!” She spoke with authority, like a parent or a teacher Meredith considered. Like most kids, she hated to be told what to do. Nonetheless, she was soon off the bed, on her hands and knees, crawling within the narrow space beneath the bed frame. It was a tight squeeze and, no sooner was she under, she felt nauseous from claustrophobia – she’d always had a fear of confined spaces. She was also afraid of spiders. And heights! Hence why she had stayed at the bottom of the crab-apple tree instead of climbing it. Had Charlie been the same, would things be any different right now? she wondered.

  Stanley gave no fuss and was under the bed no sooner had Sophie demanded it, close behind Meredith’s heels. He pressed up close to his sister, making her feel further confined, hot and soon damp with sweat.

  Outside the room Sophie heard the slightest of movements, of someone trying to be quiet but failing terribly. Someone was ascending the stairs one stair at a time, each step betraying the man’s footfall with a creak of objection. Looking for somewhere to hide for herself, Sophie scanned the room. With just one blink she was able to ingest the entire scene, storing it to memory like a fast frame camera.

  Behind the curtains? No, not enough cover and the first place he’d look.

  The wardrobe? Too obvious.

  Under the bed? That’s just ridiculous!

  Think! There was nowhere. The bedroom was sparsely furnished, so options were limited. Looking above her head, first surveying the coving bordering the walls, she noticed how high the ceiling was, and pondered an idea.

  She also glanced at the window and considered escaping − dismissing the idea no sooner than it had sprung to mind. That just wouldn’t do; she couldn’t leave Meredith or Stanley… under the bed was scarcely a hiding place. They had absolutely no chance of surviving on their own.

  Outside the door, Sophie heard laboured breathing and the creak of a door from opposite the bedroom.

  He’s here.

  Time had run its course. Sophie crossed the room and took a silent run up towards the door. Nimbly, she leapt up like a ninja, using one wall to propel her upwards, twisting mid-flight, and utilising the other wall to help wedge herself in above the door, into the corner itself. Her head was just below, pressing against the ceiling. The movement was fluid, as though a well rehearsed manoeuvre. In truth, Sophie had never attempted such a thing before, and had she given it any thought, she doubted she’d have managed it successfully. It was just another by-product of the genetic tinkering and the tailored training provided by her father.

  Meredith risked a peek from beneath the bed and through the glasses (which she’d kept on) she spied Sophie pressed up against the ceiling in the corner of the room. She looked like Spiderman without the spandex. Somehow she was holding herself in place just by the outward pressure of her feet. In her hands she held the gun, the barrel pointing ahead of her, aimed slightly downward.

  A couple of minutes passed and the sound of a door banged loudly, forcefully kicked open. The vibrations were felt through the seat of Sophie’s jeans, indicating that the forced and splintered door was very close by. Sophie knew that the intruder was in the room next door. She could almost hear his laboured breathing through the stud walls.

  “Where are you!” His tone was angry, but there was more to it Sophie noted – she sensed a hint of desperation and something else... pain? Pain was clearly in his voice. Pain, she reflected, indicated that their foe was hurt, possibly shot – she’d heard five gunshots after all, so it stood to reason that he may have taken a bullet. If that was the case… who could have shot him?

  Taking her by surprise, the door just beneath her balanced body burst open, threatening to make her slip. Part of the frame shattered in a shower of splinters where the lock was feebly bolted, disintegrating from the force of the sharp, booted kick applied by the intruder, the lock giving no resistance or security at all. The man who’d moments earlier been clamouring from room to room had entered swiftly, his Browning 9mm aimed ahead of him, his left hand clutching a dark crimson patch that continued to spread across his off-white T-shirt.

  “I know you are in here Sophie, so let’s not do anything rash – you wouldn’t want me to kill anyone on purpose!”

  Sophie’s breathing had all but stopped. Calmly she watched… and waited, a feline poised to pounce. The man had hurried into the room without care or heed, the door swinging closed behind him, his back to the carefully poised girl pressed above the door against the ceiling. She had a clean shot, she felt compelled to take it, but not yet. She couldn’t shoot someone in the back, that was the coward’s way. She wanted to see the man who was hunting her; wanted to see his face, to see his eyes, before she closed them forever.

  Although not seeing anyone, not hearing the slightest of sounds, the man sensed he was in the right room; he knew they were in here.

  Sophie watched Cooper as his attention was drawn to Meredith’s bed. A most obvious choice of hiding place. She knew he would find Meredith and Stanley, after all she could see them clearly herself even high up from her vantage point. Subconsciously she’d known this would happen all along and part of her would argue that it was part of an elaborate plan. She’d used them as bait.

  “Come out, come out… wherever you are,” the man in the bloodied shirt said in a playful, singsong voice. “No one is going to get hurt,” he started to stoop to look beneath the bed, “I promise,” he added.

  An ornament fell to the floor from the window ledge, disturbed by the curtain, smashing against the floor. It was the second of Meredith’s ornaments to receive such a fate.

  Abruptly, Cooper whirled round and fired a reckless shot in the direction he’d glimpsed movement and heard the ornament crash, smashing a hole in the wall beneath the window, quickly concealed behind the still billowing curtain.

  “Okay, I lied… someone IS going to get hurt.”

  Sophie heard Stanley let out a small, nervous whimper.

  “I know you are under the bed little ones. The question is: is Sophie there with you?”

  Beneath her, the door slowly creaked open and the silhouette of a familiar person holding a gun walked into view just as the opening chords of The Show Must Go On began to play on his mobile phone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  George

  The sound of the first bedroom door being kicked in quickened George’s pace as he climbed up the stairs, though he continued to move quietly, barely making a sound, using his knowledge of the family home to his advantage.

  “Where are you!” The voice came from one of the rooms up ahead.

  George inwardly sighed relief to hear that the man who, only a couple of minutes earlier had shot his house sitter and friend, had not found his son or daughter.

  George was nearing the top of the stairs, but ducked down as he watched the man who, even in the dark murky shadows, looked a wreck in his blood coated T-shirt with lumbering gait; blood was now staining the front of his jeans and continued to spatter the wooden flooring about him, a trail of stippled crimson following him in and out of each room. George observed the man take a swinging kick against another of the closed doors, splintering the frame under the force, bursting the door inwards.

  “I know you are in here Sophie, so let’s not do anything rash – you wouldn’t want me to kill anyone on purpose!”

  What does he mean? Sophie isn’t here. George was puzzled, mentally scratching his head.

  George climbed up the last of the stairs and stopped short of entering the first bedroom on his right – his daughter, Meredith’s room.

  “Come out, come out… wherever you are… No one is going to get hurt.”

&nb
sp; George was now standing outside his daughter’s bedroom door, peering in through the small gap. Ahead of George, Amanda Slocum’s aggressor was standing with his back to him. As he stooped down, he said, mischievously: “I promise.”

  George aimed the gun and made ready to fire, his index finger wrapped round the trigger, applying slight pressure.

  An ornament fell to the floor from the window ledge, disturbed by the curtain, smashing against the floor.

  At blinding speed, the man turned and fired a shot towards the ornament, smashing a hole in the wall beneath the window.

  “Okay, I lied… someone IS going to get hurt.”

  George heard Stanley let out a small, nervous whimper.

  Stanley! George took a step forward and silently entered the bedroom.

  “I know you are under the bed little ones. The question is: is Sophie there with you?”

  George watched the man crouch down by the side of the bed and make ready to use his weapon.

  Before George was able to act, the opening chords of The Show Must Go On began to play from his trouser pocket.

  No!

  The man, still crouching, rotated from the hip and fired his gun.

  BANG!

  “Noooooooooo!!!” George heard the howl of rage in his head, not realising that he had started to shriek it.

  Not waiting to find out whether he was hit or not, George fired Slocum’s pistol just as he became aware of another being discharged above his head.

  BANG!

  BANG!

  George’s shot took the assailant high in the arm, winging him sideways; the shooter above his head was more lethal, more accurate. She’d taken a kill shot and placed the bullet into the centre of the intruder’s forehead, blasting a hole through to the other side, decorating the wall behind him with globules of blood and brain chunks, the spatter dripping and sliding down the paintwork. The man dramatically slumped to the floor, his hand still clutching the gun, spasmodically twitching.

  The mobile phone continued to ring, Freddie Mercury’s voice, though muffled, escaped from George’s pocket: Empty spaces – what are we living for…

  “Dad!” The voice carried down from above him and George looked up. “Are you hit? Are you all right?”

  “Sophie?” He could not see her but the voice was unmistakeable.

  She dropped down from the compacted position which she’d maintained between the two walls above the door, landing in a squat beside her father.

  Does anybody know what we are living for… The ringtone continued.

  “What are you doing here?” exasperated, he aimed the question in the direction he thought his daughter was now standing, unable to see her without the aid of special glasses and being in the wrong part of the room to see using the wall mirror.

  “Dad!”

  George looked himself up and down, and smiled reassuringly. “I’m fine, love. Look, he missed.” George pointed to the bullet that had punched into the wall just inches away from his head. But it had been a close call.

  Behind the curtain, in the pantomime…

  “Just!” Sophie saw the shredded material in the sleeve of her father’s shirt. The bullet had missed him by the narrowest of margins.

  “Sophie, I want you to tell me why you are here… but first…” George pulled out his mobile phone.

  The show must go o-o-on!

  He pressed the green connection icon, ending Freddie Mercury’s dulcet tones. “Hello?”

  “George? It’s Harry.” The voice sounded distant, the line very faint. She could have been in Alaska or on the moon for all George knew.

  “Are you okay?” concerned. “Where are you?”

  “I’m okay George, I’ve not been harmed – not yet. But I’ve lost Charlie… When I was taken I left him by the road…”

  “It’s okay, Harry. I have Charlie. He’s safe with me, just a little banged up and bruised.”

  George heard Harry sigh.

  “Thank God.” Harriet went quiet for a moment, absorbing the news that her son was all right. She then went on: “George, listen − they will let me go if you do something for them.”

  “Harry, I can come for you.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid. They said they will kill me if you don’t do exactly what they ask.”

  George fell silent. Stanley was crawling out from beneath his sister’s bed, followed by Meredith, struggling a bit, due to how limited and oppressive the space had felt. Her face was slick with sweat.

  “Okay, Harry. Who are they, what do they want?”

  “Who they are, I haven’t a clue. One of the guerrillas, though, I recognise. He’s been after us for a long time.”

  “Dominic Schilling?” he offered, almost knowingly.

  “Yes, that’s him. He nearly killed us with his car.”

  “What do they want?”

  “It’s something to do with a diamond. They said for you to meet with them at Ed’s Easy Diner in the London Trocadero tomorrow, 12:00 p.m. where they’ll give you further instructions.”

  “Let me guess, they want to use Sophie?”

  “Just do what they ask. I want to come home.” Harriet was crying.

  “Okay my love. Stay strong. I’ll get you out of this. Trust me.” Before he could add, I love you, the line had been cut off.

  “Oh dad! Why was he trying to kill us?” Meredith had bounded over to George and had wrapped her arms around his waist. She was crying silently, tears rolling down her cheeks. “And where’s mum? I’m scared!”

  “Meredith, later I will explain everything, but right now we need to help Amanda.”

  “Who’s Amanda?” Stanley had been quietly sitting in the furthest part of the room.

  “Your house sitter, Mrs Slocum – she’s downstairs. She needs medical attention.”

  “That old witch,” blurted Stanley.

  “Hey!”

  “Dad, please tell me what’s going on?” Meredith was now standing up; the glasses perched atop her nose allowing her to see Sophie, who was standing next to their father.

  “There isn’t much time. Go get some things, we’re leaving.” George turned and left the bedroom, a moment later was bounding down the stairs to check on his friend from the distant past. Opening the front door he found Amanda slumped over. He placed his right hand against her neck, feeling for her carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

  Meredith and Stanley had soon followed George down and hung back, watching from a safe distance. Obviously, Sophie was nowhere to be seen – but she was there also, standing not too far behind the children.

  “Is she going to be okay?” asked Meredith, remorseful, regretting the nasty things she had called her.

  George shook his head and looked down to the ground gravely. Before standing he closed the dead woman’s eyes. For a long moment he quietly considered what next to do. He sighed with regret and stood up.

  “Come, you two wait in the car, try not to upset Charlie, he’s in a lot of pain with his arm. Sophie, I assume you are still with us; you can come and help me get some of our stuff.”

  “Yes, sure dad.”

  “Oh, and Sophie… thanks for shooting that guy in the head. I think you may have saved me.”

  “I don’t know, dad. I’m sure your second shot would have been better…”

  If I’d been able to take a second shot; I got lucky, he thought to himself. Jeez, I am so out of practice... His thoughts changed direction when something occurred to him.

  “There’s just one question, Sophie: where did you get the gun from?”

  “Um...” like a guilty child, she tried to think up something plausible. Instead she avoided it tactfully, going with: “It’s a long story dad. Just don’t expect to get your d
eposit back on the apartment...”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ryan

  “So you’ve been the rat, all this time. My very own assistant… conspiring, colluding, conniving against the Company… helping THEM get away. I’ve trusted you. Why? Why’d you do it?”

  Ryan’s hands were cuffed behind his back and his feet were manacled in chains. He was sitting on a wooden chair, it was uncomfortable and the only piece of furniture within the holding cell.

  Samuel Jackson was pacing the room, wafting a draft as he manoeuvred back and forth. Despite the air con he was perspiring profusely and a dark patch had spread rings beneath his armpits and stained the lower back of his shirt.

  Ryan’s face was bruised and bloodied from a pummelling received, his tongue was swollen and bleeding, a thin trail of blood running a line down the left side of his chin, a consequence from having bitten a chunk from it and the result of a vicious punch from one of the heavies that had collared him; furthermore, it had fractured a tooth and uprooted another. His mouth was a throbbing mess which did nothing to help encourage him to talk.

  Resolutely, Ryan sat in obdurate silence. He’d acted like this since the corporation’s goons had hauled him in and trussed him up like a common criminal. Despite the threat of torture and violence he’d been unfazed and uncompromising.

  “Why, goddamn it!?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Ryan croaked hoarsely, barely loud enough for the Security and Intelligence Director to hear. It was because of my daughter, he said in his head, unable to say it aloud because he knew the senior man wouldn’t get it. His daughter was dead, and someone was accountable. In his mind, George was the only one who could help him see retribution and justice for Clara.