The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Still, no matter Ryan. Say what, or as little as you want; you can stay stubbornly silent for all I care, all will be known soon enough,” he paused for emphasis. “I have your phone, Ryan. We know that you used it to contact George before we grabbed you. You’ve been careful, I grant you that, up ‘til then. Making that call was your only failing, your downfall. Stupid, stupid man,” Samuel shook his head in mock disappointment. He smiled a huge grin, like the joker in a pack of cards. “I really should thank you for it though, Ryan. We now have George’s telephone number. We are now triangulating his exact position as we, well, as ‘I’ speak.” Samuel turned to the door and rapped his knuckles against the toughened glass panel.

  A couple of seconds later the door opened and in stepped one of the security men who’d chased Ryan Barber down and who’d dragged him back to the operations centre.

  Turning to the newcomer, Samuel spoke sternly:

  “Cullum, see that our guest here…,” hand gestured towards Ryan who had turned his head slightly away, “repents for his actions. Afterwards, do what you will with whatever’s left of him.”

  Cullum raised his eyebrow with an unspoken question.

  Following with an unspoken answer, Samuel laid a loose hand on the burly security guard’s shoulder and nodded affirmation, patting him gently. Samuel made to leave, hand poised to knock the door, signalling his wish to exit the cell. He turned to look over his shoulder. “Oh, Cullum. Can you bring me a little trophy?”

  “Sir?” Confused.

  “Nothing too fancy, just bring me… oh I don’t know… his heart. Or his head. Whatever’s easiest.”

  The Director rapped the door twice, quickly disappearing as soon as the way out was unlocked. The door closed slowly behind him.

  Cullum considered the instruction for a moment before addressing Ryan. The Director had left him with the job to do, never dirtying his own hands. It was often the way with the most senior in organisations. They issued the orders, no matter how decidedly dirty the task, leaving a lesser man to carry out the deed or misdeeds.

  “I’m sorry Mr Barber. You know, it’s a shame because you were always kind to me. I like you,” he spoke sincerely. “Because of this I promise to make it quick. Despite what the Chief wants, you will hardly feel a thing.” He looked up towards a surveillance camera pointing down from a corner in the room, a small flashing red light confirming that it was in full operation. The interrogation was being digitally recorded for future reference and Samuel’s perverse sense of amusement. Cullum exhaled noisily, shaking his head.

  Ryan looked down at his cuffed hands, at his restrained feet and felt resignation at what was about to happen, accepting the inevitable.

  “It’s okay Ricky; I know it’s not personal.”

  Cullum walked behind Ryan’s chair and without further word or warning, enfolded an arm around the sitting man’s neck, applying pressure to the restrained man’s carotid arteries and jugular, depriving his brain of oxygenated blood, causing what, in the medical profession, is called a cerebral ischemia. It was commonly called a sleeper hold, often faked in wrestling matches. Cullum wasn’t faking. Swiftly, Ryan went limp within Cullum’s grasp and slumped over, blacked out within the chair. It took less than five seconds. Using two fingers to the neck, Cullum checked for a carotid pulse.

  Good, he thought. Ryan wasn’t dead, just unconscious. When doing the ‘blood choke hold’ properly, the desired affect would always result in the subject blacking out. Cullum was a practiced expert having used the method many times, especially when he was younger and worked as a bouncer for a local night spot, diffusing situations and ending patron disputes. He’d earned the nickname Sandman because he was so successful at putting people to sleep.

  “See, Mr Barber, I said it was going to be painless. It’s better this way. Now you won’t feel a thing.”

  Cullum cracked his knuckles using one hand over the top of the other, and left the room momentarily to locate a black body bag (a stock of them were kept in the utility cupboard on a shelf next to bottles of all purpose cleaner and a large supply of toilet rolls), the sort that’s watertight and has a zipper down the centre, regularly used by pathologists or medical staff when transporting dead bodies.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Emily

  Samuel was once again in his office having been absent for more than an hour − a peculiarity that had not gone unnoticed. The door was closed and the blinds at the windows were all drawn making the room unnaturally dim. Seated in front of him was a small, bespectacled woman with elfin features, long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

  She’d follow at the Director’s beck and call, though truth be told this was the first occasion she found herself sitting ahead of the most senior man in the building. In her hands was her security pass card, a younger version of herself looking up at her. She fiddled with it nervously, turning it over and over, shuffling it from one hand to the other like it were a pack of cards.

  “How are you holding up Emily?” the Director asked, seeing the fear in the intelligence officer’s eyes. He didn’t wait for a reply, adding: “I know it’s a shock to learn that someone we all trusted and all held dear has betrayed us. Ryan was more than just a colleague to me – he was my friend.”

  “I’m fine… sir. I just can’t believe it, not Ryan. He was like a father to me.” Literally! Emily felt weak, starting to weep. She couldn’t believe what had transpired that afternoon. The day had gone from bad to worse.

  “Here.” Samuel offered the young woman a bright white handkerchief he’d unceremoniously produced from a pocket, his initials SPJ embroidered into the cotton. Emily took it and gently dabbed at her eyes. “It will be all right,” said the Director. He stood up and walked round to the front of his desk, circling behind the small woman and placing two large hands on her shoulders, massaging them. “So tense, let me help you.”

  Emily relaxed and felt the strain begin to ebb away. She closed her eyes and murmured from the pleasure the massage gave her. The Director stopped, knowing his boundaries and returned back to his seat at the head of the table.

  “Better?”

  Emily nodded. Despite this she still felt moisture leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  “Now, Ryan was special – not someone we will ever be able to replace, not easily – but,” he waved a hand theatrically, “the Assistant Intelligence Officer position is now up for grabs. I look at the challenges we come across in our lives, not as problems but as opportunities; Ryan turning out the way he has, presents us with a very difficult challenge.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “On the other hand, it also gives someone unique an enormous opportunity.” Samuel smiled. “Emily, I’ll be straight with you. I need someone I can trust… more now than ever before. You’ve been with the company what, two – three years?”

  “Four years, sir.”

  “Quite. Well, if I can be so bold, I think you’re good for the part.”

  “I’d be honoured, sir. But aren’t there better qualified analysts?” she asked, a flattered lilt to her voice. “There are others who’ve been here longer.”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged, “but who worked closer to Barber? Besides, managing that lot,” indicating the people downstairs with a sweep of his hand, “should be easy – half of them idolise you already.”

  Emily blushed. “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

  “Enough of the ‘sirs’, Emily, call me Sam.”

  “Okay. Thank you… Sam.”

  “Good, that’s settled then. Your first job is to glean as much information as you can from this.” The Director conjured Ryan’s mobile phone from some place out of view and placed it onto the table in front of him, slipping it across the shiny surface towards the bespectacled woman. “Ryan used it to call George Jennings earlier today. It shouldn’t prese
nt someone of your ability too much difficulty in helping us find the fugitive once and for all.”

  Emily smiled uncertainly. She reached for Ryan’s phone and palmed it, trying not to think of the man to whom she owed everything.

  “And Emily. Utmost discretion. You don’t need me to tell you that we are under the spotlight. Tom Kaplan has gotten himself involved because there is an external pressure to deliver the product the corporation promised. It would be satisfying if it were us who brought George and his daughter to heel.”

  “Understood, sir,” Emily chose to forgo the informality as she stood to leave. “Thanks again. I’ll crack on with this,” indicating Ryan’s mobile phone, before hastily retreating from the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ryan

  Ricky Cullum dragged the body bag from the white Mercedes van, only slightly guilty that he allowed it to fall to the hard forest ground with force that had the potential to break a bone or two. The occupant was lifeless and in no position to complain.

  Devoid of insignia or markings, the nondescript vehicle he’d driven had gained little, or no attention as it made the hours’ long journey from the garage at the rear of the Kaplan Ratcliff control centre and ended up deep within a heavily wooded area.

  Parked in a small clearing at the end of a winding dirt track that was overgrown in places, he’d traversed for ten or so minutes and found the perfect place to bury the body.

  He knew it well, having used it before. Hell, he’d used it more than once, the site was a regular potter’s field. He’d never pretended to be a good boy, or that he enjoyed his job, but someone was being paid to do it, and at five-thousand a pop, he was loath to turn down the money. He had a mortgage and a wife with an expensive habit (Josephine collected Swarovski crystalware, which she displayed throughout their four bedroom home).

  Far off the beaten track, the security man knew that this area of forest was rarely used, except, on occasion (sometimes more often), by him. Deep within the forest, once called Waltham forest, a tiny area flanked by silver birch and pedunculate oaks, was pinpointed by a mound of freshly excavated dirt, a shovel poking out from the large heap awaiting his arrival, a half-empty bottle of water and a backpack lay close by. The hole was deep – approx seven-feet – deeper than a standard grave, and crudely fashioned; long and wide enough to fit the remains secured within the body bag. In truth, it could probably fit two or three bodies. Cullum wasn’t taking any chances, not wanting the cadaver unearthed by scavenging critters looking for an easy meal.

  By the time he got there, Cullum was panting from the exertion of dragging a body and sweating profusely. Arriving at the prepared site, he stopped, dropped the body bag at the site’s entrance and wiped his forehead with a Kleenex, taking a mouthful of water from the small bottle he’d placed there.

  A crow cawed noisily from a tree close by. Cullum looked up at it and shivered. He hated the sight of the carrion crow – black and sinister. He wasn’t superstitious, but wasn’t it bad luck to see a single crow?

  Picking up a stone, Cullum tossed it like a missile towards the bird.

  CAW-CAW-CAW

  The crow was unmoved by Cullum’s act of hostility, cawing louder.

  CAW-CAW-CAW

  Setting his mind straight, ignoring the crow, Cullum walked over to the body bag and dragged it closer, bringing it to a halt once it lay alongside the hole. Stooping down to his knees beside the bag, the security man shoved the body into the grave and watched it fall the seven-feet to the bottom. Peering down, he smiled; satisfied the job was nearly done.

  With the shovel, Cullum refilled the hole from the pile of dirt, and afterwards camouflaged the area with forest debris he’d carefully collected before digging earlier. He was nothing but meticulous in his work. The soil that was leftover he put into a garden refuse sack – he didn’t want to leave any clues behind.

  Once finished, the clearing looked almost how it had appeared on his arrival. To the casual observer, nothing appeared to be outside of the ordinary. Satisfied, Cullum retrieved his backpack, emptied the bottle of water with one, long pull, and with the refuse sack full of dirt, the backpack on his shoulder, and the shovel in his other hand, he wandered back to the Mercedes van, hearing the crow caw one last time.

  Cullum was exhausted. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes van, dabbing his brow with another Kleenex. Using the rear view mirror he studied his reflection. Face was dirty, lined with streaks from where sweat had run; his hair, though short, was greasy and untidy. His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy. In short, he looked a total mess and his body fragrance further compounded the urgent need for him to take a shower. Maybe two, so bad he looked. He felt no better.

  “Well, that’s done,” Cullum straightened the rear view mirror and composed himself for the journey back to Kaplan Ratcliff, away from the forest, away from the burial site. He started the Mercedes’ engine and shifted the gear from neutral. The passenger in the seat next to him had been impassive, contemplative and quiet. He finally broke the silence:

  “I appreciate you doing this Ricky; I owe you a debt of gratitude.” In the passenger seat sat a man whose face was swollen, bruised and bloodied, and whose shirt was stained with drying crimson. He tried his best to conceal his appearance beneath a West Ham United baseball cap. In his hands he held a plastic container with an airtight lid sealing within its macabre contents. Just thinking about it made the man gag reflectively every so often.

  “We’ll never be even, Ryan. But I owed it to Clara. She was always sweet to me. I miss her.”

  The atmosphere in the van turned subdued.

  “Me too, Ricky. Me too.”

  Talk of his daughter now had that affect on the former Assistant Intelligence Officer. After a couple of moments he shook himself out of his melancholy and risked some small talk.

  “Who was the organ donor?” he asked, indicating the plastic container by lifting it slightly from his lap, curbing the urge to heave.

  Cullum laughed. “The word ‘donor’ implies there had been a choice or support in the giving of this heart.” He shook his head. “The benefactor had and did little of either.”

  “Was he someone we knew?” Ryan asked anxiously.

  “No one who I will miss,” replied the security man cheerfully. “Let’s just say I carried out an act of kindness for society.”

  Somewhere in London a homeless guy, dishevelled from head to toe, grimy all over with lank dirty grey hair and a matching beard that was almost as long as Dumbledore’s, stumbled upon an empty sleeping bag and scant belongings left strewn in disarray behind a waste bin not far from the city’s busy shopping district. A quick, furtive glance from one side to another – to check that he wasn’t being observed – before he scavenged the few items for himself (the sleeping bag, a photo frame with a picture of a child with her father, a small suitcase containing some old clothes, and a half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich, concealed within a blue plastic carrier bag) placing them in an old Waitrose shopping trolley, one of its wheels squeaking noisily, which contained all of his worldly goods (amounting to very little) and a small Norfolk terrier dog, curled up amongst a bundle of clothes – every successful beggar’s obligatory friend.

  “Here we go Jasper, something to keep us warm in the winter,” the homeless guy rasped. “And a new wardrobe!” he chuckled. He tossed the picture frame into the trolley with barely another glance. The brown dog looked up absently, made a little sniffy-whining sound, then curled back up again, preferring sleep to the company of the smelly old homeless man who now pushed the trolley away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Harriet

  “George? It’s Harry.”

  “Are you okay?” he sounded distant, almost distracted, but the poor connection did not fail to convey the note of concern in his voice. “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…” She sounded a little panicked, her voice going up an octave.

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

  Harriet sighed, closed her eyes and blinked back tears. “Thank God,” she said, before going quiet, absorbing the news that allayed her deepest fears. After a moment she dared to speak again, trusting her voice not to crack.

  “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. “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?”

  “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.” Harriet had begun to cry, her words wracked by sobs. “I want to come home.”

  “Okay my love. Stay strong. I’ll get you out of this. Trust me…”