The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  The Director stood watching the security officer from the balcony as he approached the metal staircase, then mounted it noisily; each footstep clanged upon the steps, ringing out for everyone’s attention.

  “Cullum?” Samuel startled the man, momentarily off balancing him. He’d not seen the Director looming above like a gargoyle. And just as ominous, he thought.

  “It’s done, sir,” he said, breathless and a little shaky, making for the second last step on the stairs leading to Jackson’s personal floor. “Ryan’s dead.”

  “Good,” responded Samuel miserably. He looked down in resignation, avoiding the security officer’s eyes. “In the box, is that…?” he left the sentence trailing, unfinished. He couldn’t say it even if he’d tried.

  Cullum nodded quickly. “It is. What do you want me to do with it?” He was now on the metal balcony overlooking the command centre; stopping in front of the Director he suddenly felt overwhelmed by fatigue and muscular pain, his body aching from the exertion associated with hard labour, which was unsurprising. The fact was that a little earlier he’d dug, and then refilled, a grave. Although not unused to carrying out this type of task, it wasn’t one his body had ever adjusted to and never would.

  Samuel guided the man into his office with a wave of his hand, hanging back for the bedraggled officer to move deep into the room before closing the door. He waited for him to sit at the large conference sized desk before sitting himself at the head of the table, his back to the video screen hanging from the wall.

  “You know, in some cultures, it was thought that to eat the heart of your enemy enabled you to consume their spirit and absorb their strength. Some even believed it would make you immortal, can you believe that?”

  “You plan to eat it, sir?”

  Samuel laughed, loud, hearty, almost false, his voice booming and echoing around the large room. “Do I look like a savage lunatic to you?” Not waiting for a reply, the Director continued, “No, I don’t mean to eat it. I will pickle it instead and keep it on display as a permanent reminder to me, and a deterrent to others. This is the fate that befalls those who mean to deceive me. If it wasn’t so barbaric, and murder not so illegal, I’d have had you bring me his head and place it on a spike like the Kings of old.” Samuel sighed. “I belong in a different age,” he said whimsically, before returning his attention to the security officer.

  You belong in a nuthouse, Cullum thought distractedly. For a moment Cullum worried the Director was seeing through the pretence, and his guilt from the fabrication caused his cheeks to flush. He felt hot and sticky all over. Like the woodsman in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, he was going to fool the master with a decoy − only his dupe did not come from a pig. Samuel misread Cullum’s demeanour, thinking it more to do with the security man’s exertions than anything duplicitous or untoward.

  “I’ll leave it on your desk then.” Cullum placed the Tupperware box onto the desk and pushed it towards the Director. Ridding himself of the grisly prize gained him a little confidence.

  “Tell me... did Ryan suffer a horrendous ordeal?”

  Cullum was slow in his reply. “I can tell you that, sure,” he said, comfortable with the lie but taking no chances with eye contact. Instead he stared at the Tupperware box. “Ryan screamed like a baby throughout... until, that was,” he paused for effect, “I cut out his heart. He watched it beat its last then just slumped forward; bled everywhere − even on my shoes − and then died.” He had rehearsed this in his head − over and over − so the lie sounded quite natural by the time he needed to recite it.

  Samuel didn’t suspect a thing.

  “Good… good.” He sounded sad, withdrawn even. His thoughts were in turmoil.

  “I’ll be off then...” Cullum stood to go. Samuel was deep in thought and hadn’t heard the security officer. Neither did he notice Cullum hastily retreat out of the office and disappear back down the stairs, exiting the room with barely a second glance.

  But somebody else did.

  The secret to successful spy work was having a heightened skill of observation. Being able to see and hear things most people barely register was essential; and it was a talent the newly appointed Assistant Intelligence Officer had been born with.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Theo

  George had brought the Peugeot to a halt outside the semi-detached house which he knew belonged to Harriet’s father. It had been her family home, the place where she’d grown up, the place where Harriet had lived before George had whisked her away like the prince in every young woman’s fairytale.

  The house had a short driveway on which a black BMW was parked in front of a garage, the mahogany ‘up and over’ door of which was pulled up to reveal another car; a silver Porsche Boxter convertible, its roof retracted.

  Although it was still warm, the overhead light had faded as night closed in. A new moon sidled up the eastern sky, pale and discrete like a tiny cloud. The time was edging towards half nine and full darkness was an hour away.

  “Kids, you wait here. I’ll come and get you in a moment.” George turned the ignition key, killing the engine and the radio (which had been on a Norfolk station playing rock tunes).

  “Where are we?” Stanley stifled a yawn, peering out of the car at the house alongside where they’d parked.

  Ignoring the question, George climbed out of the car, poked his head through the driver’s side and reassured his children:

  “I won’t be long. I just need to check everything is alright.”

  George turned, strode forward through the gates leading into the driveway, then continued further towards the front door of the house, passing the BMW on his left and a well tended garden to his right, the short lawn vibrant green, lush and ornate – it would not have looked out of place on day one of Wimbledon.

  At the door, George depressed the doorbell placed below the number ‘seventy-three’, and listened to the subtle chime from within that ‘dingdonged’ just the once, slightly muted by the double-glazed white PVC door. A moment later a shadowed silhouette could be seen shuffling forward through the frosted and stained glass, the twin roses adorning the twin set glass panels allowing light to filter through but minimal sight of the interior from the outside.

  A key was turned from inside and the sound of multiple security bolts within the double-glazed unit clicked and grated as the man inside unlocked the door. It opened up fully to reveal a tall, lithe man in his late sixties, though his appearance belied his age. Standing six-feet high, he appeared much taller to George, owed partly to the way he stood and the thick soled slippers he wore on his feet; he was confident and projected virility as though trying to impress, his chest thrust out. Though his hair was white, it was cut short and his craggy face appeared youthful despite some obvious wrinkles, masked by the deep tan that could only have been gained from an exotic or extended vacation abroad. George would later learn that Theo had a week earlier returned from a cruise around the Caribbean, and from the way he was dressed he looked like he was still in holiday mode. He wore a loose cotton shirt buttoned up to halfway, and three-quarter-length stone-white trousers. The dark blue slippers looked odd to say the least.

  “Well, well, well… George Jennings.” Despite living in Norfolk, the man’s upbringing was in the East End of London. His voice had not lost any of its cockney accent. “You’ve got a bloody nerve showing up ‘ere,” he said, folding his arms resolutely across his chest. “A bloody nerve.”

  “Theo,” George said by way of acknowledgement.

  “So… Why have you thought it prudent to break you and your wife’s vow of never seeing me again? Despite me offering an olive branch before my wedding… and another before the ‘basin of gravy’ arrived.” Theo had thrown in some cockney slang, ‘basin of gravy’ meant ‘baby’.

  “Can I come in?” George asked.

&n
bsp; “No, you bloody can’t! You tell me what has your knickers in a twist at such an hour.”

  “All right, Theo. Alright. It’s about Harry.”

  “What about my daughter? She isn’t dying, is she?” A look of concern flashed across the older man’s face. He dropped his arms to his side.

  “No… no,” George quickly reassured, throwing his hands up in a gesture that meant ‘forgive me’. “She is in danger, though. I need your help.”

  “Tell me, George Jennings. What of my daughter? Where is she?”

  George proceeded to outline the day’s events, making light of the whys and wherefores, but laying on the plight as thick as one could without mentioning the attack at Willoughby Rising, or the fact that since Harriet had emancipated all ties to her father, Sophie had been born and that she was... different.

  “Why haven’t you gone to the police?” asked Theo reasonably in response to George’s outlandish claim that his daughter had been kidnapped and held for some sort of bizarre ransom.

  “It’s complicated,” George replied earnestly. “We are being pursued by others – resourceful others – we don’t know who we can trust.”

  “So you came to me. Not because you want to, I see… but because you have no choice.” Theo wasn’t a stupid man.

  George shrugged, intimating agreement. “Sorry,” he said. Theo took a deep breath and sighed.

  “Where are the children?”

  George glanced over his shoulder as he spoke. “In the car, back there.”

  “I see,” Theo took a moment to consider the situation, deliberating over the moment. “What exactly do you want from me George?” he finally asked.

  “Just… sanctuary. For a couple of days.” It would turn out to be longer.

  “Okay, despite all else, you are family. Just for a couple of days mind. Let me go tell Camilla that we are having guests whilst you round up your brood.”

  “Thanks Theo.” George meant it and half smiled to his father-in-law. Without emotion, the older man turned away and pushed the front door to, leaving it slightly ajar, an invitation to come in when ready.

  A quick trot out of the garden, George returned to the car and climbed back in, the door he left open.

  “Dad, where are we?” Stanley asked again, his tone anxious, slightly pitchy. He’d watched his father disappear behind a row of conifers, placed in such a way to the front of the house it afforded the property an illusion of remoteness, privacy and security. It gave little and none.

  George smiled warmly, noticing similar looks of apprehension on Meredith and Charlie, squashed up together in the back of the car. Sophie was still invisible to him without the glasses.

  “I’ve brought you somewhere safe. These people we can trust. We can stay here a couple of days until things have settled and I’ve got your mother back. Come let me take you in, introduce you to your grandfather.”

  The click of Sophie’s seatbelt sounded as she unclasped the restraint. She started to open the door.

  “Not you Sophie. I think you ought to take your medication first. Theo is in for enough surprises without you turning up like that.”

  Without speaking, Sophie pulled the door closed again. Meredith noticed the look of annoyance on Sophie’s face in the reflection of the rear-view mirror but chose to say nothing.

  “When you’re done love, lock the car and come and join us.” George tossed the car keys in the direction of his daughter, always amazed to see things just ‘disappear’ within thin air. He closed the driver’s door behind him. “And Sophie... don’t be too long.”

  Escorting the three children, George took them up the driveway, past the BMW and the open garage, and stopped at the front door, peering through the opening.

  “Theo? Is it okay to come in?”

  The older man reappeared, followed by a much younger woman in tow. Camilla, Harriet’s former friend, was holding Theo’s hand, being led like a prom queen to the dance floor. She was how he remembered her, stunningly beautiful, painfully thin with a complexion that was pale, almost milky-white – like that of a porcelain doll, giving no indication that she’d only a week earlier returned from a trip to Saint Lucia, Barbados and the Cayman Islands. Standing within Theo’s broad shadow, she appeared just as fragile. Her hazel-brown eyes, delicate nose and bright red lips were accentuated by the mousey bobbed hair that framed her face. Wearing a floral print dress that hung from her shoulders on thin, bootlace straps, and white slip-on sandals, George could see how easily Harriet’s father would have been charmed by her. She was an attractive woman.

  “Well, well, well. Don’t you three look a sight for sore eyes?”

  Meredith, Stanley and Charlie stood together in a huddle behind George, almost cowering away from the tall old man standing at the door. Their appearance was ruffled, sweaty and grimy – and with Charlie’s arm in a cast, they indeed looked a motley crew, bringing to mind images of children from an old Charles Dickens novel, maybe Oliver Twist or Great Expectations.

  “Kids… meet your grandad, Theo.”

  “Grandad? Mummy said he was…” Stanley stopped abruptly; a sharp elbow to the stomach from Meredith suspending the sentence.

  “Theo, your grandchildren: Meredith, Stanley and Charlie,” George presented each child with a pointed finger.

  “Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “There is one other, but she is making herself more… presentable. It’s been a long journey.”

  “Well, don’t just stand out there. Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home.” Theo, still holding his wife’s hand, led George and the three children through the hallway into a sparsely furnished living room. “Are you hungry? Stupid question – kids are always hungry!”

  George couldn’t fail to notice the many photographs framed symmetrically on the main wall above a grand fireplace, surrounding a wall mounted flat screen television.

  Theo noticed George’s quizzical look, and followed his son-in-law’s gaze. A particular photograph had caught his eyes.

  “Aren’t they beautiful? Twins – Josephine and Henry! They are both abed, but I’m sure they will be delighted to meet you all in the morning.”

  She had checked that no one was close by or driving past when she opened the car door and climbed out. Unseen, she walked round to the boot, popped the catch and reached into the deep receptacle for the sports holdall. Unzipping it, she revealed within its guts the jet injector and the many vials of serum that countered the unique physical side effect to her genetic modification. With the injector and a vial of the ochre liquid, Sophie returned to the passenger seat and sat down. Preparing the injection was simple. She loaded the jet injector like an automatic gun, pushing the vial into the butt of it, applying pressure until the small bottle ‘clicked’ into place, its foil seal breaking.

  “Here we go again,” she muttered, holding the jet injector in her right hand. She reached round to the top of her left arm, pressing the injector’s gun-like muzzle to the side of her bicep. Once in place she depressed the trigger, releasing the gas pressure with a jolt, injecting the serum in a quick burst that was so fast she barely had time to register the stinging sensation. What she did feel was the immediate warmth that always followed the injection, spreading up and down her body just beneath the skin but flowing throughout; the tingling sensation was almost like pins and needles, though pleasant, it was also mildly irritating and always made her want to go to the bathroom.

  Placing the jet injector on the driver’s seat, Sophie sat and waited for the serum to take effect. Holding both hands, palm facing in front of her, she watched with bated breath as her transformation began. Starting at her extremities, first her fingers and toes reappeared, then fluidly visibility spread up her body in tandem with the warmth flowing through her; her arms; her legs; her torso; finally her head.r />
  “There I am,” she whispered, then using the mirror, she tidied herself up by combing a hand through her hair, which she then tied into a tail with a hair band she’d kept in a pocket.

  No longer any need for care, with no threat of shocking or surprising anyone, she opened the car door without thought – narrowly avoiding a passing cyclist, who teetered for a few yards but managed to retain balance.

  “Look what you’re doing! Jerk!” yelled a furious woman in luminous pink cycling shorts and a dark ill-fitting T-shirt, her balance still slightly wobbly as she closed in on the junction at the end of the road.

  “Sorry!” called out Sophie. The woman replied by flashing a one fingered hand gesture behind her as she rode away, a sign universally accepted as ‘go away’. Clearly she hadn’t accepted Sophie’s apology.

  Sophie closed the car door behind her and returned to the boot, replacing the jet injector unceremoniously back into the sports holdall, and zipping it back up before removing the bag from the car in its entirety together with her backpack and the bag she’d collected containing items belonging to her siblings. Her father’s bag and suitcase (which Amanda Slocum had prepared), she left in the car, once again concealed with the closing of the door.

  A slow walk round the car, through the open gate into the driveway, past the BMW and the open garage door, then the short distance to the front door; Sophie soon enough found herself outside the house within which her father and her recently acquainted siblings were now holed up. The white double-glazed door was closed. She reached for the doorbell and depressed the button. The subtle ‘dingdong’ sounded, soon followed by a gentle rapping against the glass as a dark silhouette came to the door.

  “You made it, I see?” George said slightly concerned at the time it had taken her, allowing his daughter to enter. Seeing her after what he called an ‘SVA’ or Sophie’s Vanishing Act, he always thought he noticed a subtle change in her appearance – it was almost as though she was getting older before his eyes.