The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  How old are you now, Sophie? This morning she was sixteen – now she could have passed for eighteen, or almost. Before she was able to read his thoughts, George smiled, genuinely pleased to see her.

  “Come, I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Entering the living room, from the doorway George announced his youngest, but eldest looking, daughter, as though broadcasting her arrival in the court of a King or Queen of old. “Theo, this is my other daughter… Sophie.”

  As Sophie stepped into the living room the three younger children gasped.

  “You’re real?” Meredith’s eyes were wide, stunned. She looked up at her father, her eyes imploring, begging for some sort of explanation.

  Without uttering a word, using just his eyes and a subtle shake of the head, he told her to be quiet. He said more in that one look than he’d said in the whole of the car journey.

  “I thought you were a ghost,” laughed Stanley.

  Putting the children’s strange comments down to tomfoolery, Theo waded from the other side of the room to where Sophie and George now stood, just ahead of the doorway.

  “Welcome my dear…” Theo took hold of Sophie’s hand and gave it a gentle shake. “So beautiful.” Turning to George, the older man said: “Tell me, is she adopted because I can’t recall you having children BEFORE you and Harry disowned me.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Emily

  Leaving the office suddenly had gained some unwanted attention, but Emily Porter hadn’t cared. She had to get out; had to get away. Things were snowballing out of control.

  Hitherto, she had been watching the security man and her boss exchange words from her work station before they disappeared within the Director’s office. To any casual observer or those passing she appeared to be engrossed in her work, the flat screen in front of her flashing video images and sundry items that gave the pretence that she was working on something important (an Excel spreadsheet open with many lists of stats and data, boring to glance at and unintelligible to those passing – reinforced the charade).

  The two men had been standing on the mezzanine floor overlooking the command centre; the security man who’d just arrived was holding a plastic container. Had he brought Samuel a cake? she wondered.

  The newcomer was dishevelled and weary looking, and after a laborious climb up the metal staircase, stood in front of the corporation’s senior intelligence office like a prefect in front of the headmaster. The way he stood interested the newly appointed Assistant Intelligence Officer; the way he held the plastic container intrigued her further as to its contents.

  Emily had closed her ears to all the background noises and all distractions that were a constant hubbub around her and focused on the faces that loomed above the floor, reading their expressions, their mannerisms. Using her little-known skill, acquired as a child to help communicate with her deaf mother, she pried into the conversation taking place above her, reading their lips.

  Cullum? Samuel Jackson was facing the security officer as he climbed up the remaining steps.

  It’s done, sir. Ryan’s dead. The security man turned just enough so Emily could read his lips.

  Good. He paused. In the box, is that...? Emily tried to see what it was the security officer carried.

  It is. What do you want me to do with it?

  The Director turned and showed the security officer called Richard Cullum into his office, ending any further intrusion by Emily into their conversation.

  Ryan’s dead...

  Emily jerked back in shock upon realising what she’d ‘lip-heard’, the sudden movement of her elbow knocking a half-full cup of coffee over, fortunately spilling liquid away from her computer, the dark brown sludge sluicing across the desk, over its edge, and dripping to create a puddle a couple of inches away from her chair’s castors and not far from her handbag.

  “Oh sh…” she had stopped herself in mid-curse, pulling up a wad of tissues from a box hidden behind the computer monitor and half-heartedly mopping up the mess. By the time she’d finished swabbing up coffee from around her workstation and starting on the puddle on the floor, the office door on the mezzanine floor above had re-opened and the security man was hastily retreating back down the metal stairs, making his way out of the command room. It looked to Emily that his legs could barely carry him out fast enough.

  “No,” she whispered to herself, pulling up the bunch of brown, sodden, glob of soggy tissues. She dropped them into a waste bin situated between her desk and what had been Ryan’s. His name plate was still positioned atop his computer’s base unit beneath the Dell VDU screen.

  He can’t be dead, not my mentor. Not my…

  She had left the building in a hurry, driven out of the underground car park erratically, her steering all over the place, her tyres screeching as she took corners too fast – it had been a miracle that she’d arrived home in one piece.

  Turning her phone off, closing the curtains at all the windows, and keeping the lights off as darkness slowly descended, Emily had closed the world out and sought refuge in sleep. Taking above the ‘recommended’ dose of sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed, she’d drifted off to sleep soon after lying her head down on the pillow. Until the morning, the nightmare that was yesterday had momentarily gone away, blanked out by medicinally induced slumber.

  But all the memories, the grim abysmal truth and the grief and sadness, all returned, multiplied a thousandfold as Emily had slowly awoken. At first she was bedraggled, then slightly hungover from the side effects. After a short while the subdued memories gradually reformed in her mind, superseding all other feelings.

  Now, twenty-four hours later, she was sitting back behind her desk, her ill-gotten promotion did little to compensate the immense loss she was now feeling. Ryan, his desk left as it had been the day before, was gone. Not only from his job, but from life itself. He had been like a father to her. He was the entire reason why she had joined the company in the first place, straight after university, shunning the advances of several corporations all offering employment to the academic starlet, choosing instead the dark and shady mysteries of a multinational biochemical company that spied on the activities of its competition almost as feverishly as it pursued its own affairs.

  Shock and grief threatened to destabilise her so she locked her computer, picked up her Gucci Hobo handbag (containing everything a woman needed) and left the chaos of the command centre to seek solace in the washroom, passing through two security doors (which she unlocked with her key card) and locking herself into the third of the small toilet cubicles placed in a row like stalls at a horseracing meet.

  Behind closed doors she fought back the tears that had leaked almost continuously since she’d learnt the terrible news that Ryan Barber was dead. Taking her completely by surprise, an agonising cry escaped from her lips, echoing within the rest room. Sitting on the toilet lid, she clasped her head in her hands and started rocking back and forth.

  The pain of loss was like nothing she had experienced ever before in her twenty-six years. She’d been three and too young to comprehend what death really was when her actual father had died suddenly from a brain tumour. Her mum had often spoken of him as though he was some sort of saint, but the young woman never knew him. The only father figure to feature in her life was Ryan, a kindly man who lived across the street and who had taken her under his wing when she’d become friends with his daughter. A single parent himself, she’d often fantasised that he and her mum would get together; it was similar to a whimsy that Ryan’s daughter, Clara, had often talked of, but knew it could never happen. Ryan had been hurt too much by his ex-wife, the scars running too deep to ever heal.

  When Clara had died in the explosion at the hands of the very company that her father had helped build, Ryan sought solace from the woman he’d treated almost as kindly as he had treated his own daughter. He had b
een in bits, his whole world all but destroyed. If it hadn’t been for her she knew he would have had nothing.

  Now he was dead.

  Why had Ryan done it?

  He’d known the type of people he worked for; knew he could not play games or attempt anything untoward, no matter how noble his thinking – had he not learnt this from the death of his daughter?

  Emily’s tears were streaking mascara down her face as she came to terms with the truth of the matter.

  “It was because of what he did to your daughter, that was why you did it, wasn’t it Ryan?” The question was barely whispered. She wished he was there to answer her. Had she known, she might’ve been able to help – she felt her loyalty was more to him, not to her employer who often resorted to dubious means and nefarious practices in getting what it wanted.

  The discordant Pizzicato chime came from her handbag lying just ahead of the toilet, the accompaniment to a text message’s arrival. Sniffing, she reached down to the light pink/grey crescent shaped bag and retrieved the Samsung Galaxy phone from deep within. Whilst her hand was in there she pulled out a tissue from the travel pack of Kleenex she always carried with her. It was almost empty.

  Sniffing back tears, she unlocked the phone with a swish of a finger, lightly tapped the small yellow envelope on the screen and waited for the message to flash up. She removed her spectacles. In the microseconds of waiting she blew her nose and wiped some of the moisture from her eyes. This action did little to improve her appearance. The mascara tracks made her look like someone from a KISS video.

  The text message was from someone familiar. But it had to be a trick she reasoned, for its sender was someone she’d learnt just the afternoon before was deceased.

  She read the message and deciphered its meaning:

  Hi Em,

  Know that I’m safe.

  Remember Penshurst Place.

  R. x

  The text had been sent from a number she did not recognise, but the authenticity of its author was unquestionable. The only other person who knew of Penshurst Place and its significance to Ryan and her was Clara – and she was dead.

  She could hardly believe it and couldn’t help breaking out into a big, cheesy grin.

  Of course Ryan isn’t dead. How could she have believed it? The man was resourceful and something of an enigma. He would never have put himself into harm’s way, not without a means of escape well established. A regular David Blaine was Ryan Barber.

  Relieved to learn that the former Assistant Intelligence Officer was still alive, she picked herself and her handbag up and unlocked the toilet door. Using the large full-length mirror that supplied a backdrop for the half dozen Royal Doulton wash basins that bordered the wall across from the toilet cubicles, she cleaned the mascara streaks and fixed her tousled appearance. Emily replaced her spectacles and readied herself for the return to her desk, and a pretence that everything was all good and dandy.

  Although obviously relieved she pondered over the source of her torment: Samuel and the security guard.

  Had she misread, literally, their lips?

  She doubted it as it was the only means of communicating with her mother, and she’d had a lifetime’s worth of experience. No, there was nothing contextual in what they had been saying. The security guard had been specific in his description of Ryan’s demise.

  Emily applied makeup (from her tardis-like handbag) and mulled over what she had lip-read, and what was indicated in Ryan’s text.

  “Know that I’m safe,” she repeated for herself. “Sort-a implies that I may hear otherwise.” Ryan means for everyone to believe that he is dead. “The person saying that he WAS dead is the security guard who stated that he did it.” It was an elaborate story concocted for the benefit of the Security Director, who no doubt had given the order.

  But what was going on? Why had Richard Cullum told the Director that he had killed Ryan? Unless...

  “Unless he was working with Ryan.” It made no sense, but she was willing to entertain the idea. “The security officer was lying to protect him. He knows that Ryan is still alive.” She whispered it but the acoustics in the ladies’ washroom amplified her voice and she flinched from the echo of it.

  Emily relaxed and smiled to herself. In her head she heard Ryan, a note of praise in his imagined tone:

  Well done, Emily. Well done.

  “I have to find him. I need to know what is going on.” She barely whispered this time as she reapplied her ruby-red lipstick. She smacked her lips together and a moment later left the washroom, hoping her short disappearance from the command centre hadn’t been noticed, not that she needed to care. She was the second-in-command, after all.

  Re-entering the command room she couldn’t help feeling guilty. Paranoia embraced her as she took to her desk; she imagined everyone was watching, whispering behind hands about her. She was convinced they had all seen that she was gone from her desk for what may have been an inordinate amount of time – much longer than a wee or a poo would normally necessitate.

  A glance up to the office on the mezzanine floor calmed her momentarily. The Director was in his office, probably marvelling over the container which the security man had brought him, salivating over its contents, whatever they were − she didn’t dare to think.

  Without thought she picked up the phone’s handset from its cradle and pressed the Directory key on the base, keying in the surname of the security guard:

  C U L L U M

  There were two Cullums stored on the phone’s database. The first was Alison who worked in human resources, a pencil-thin woman with an oily complexion, short black hair and a stud in her nose. The second Cullum was who she wanted.

  Richard Cullum – or Ricky to his friends. She didn’t know him at all and had never really acknowledged him, but now she found herself pressing the dial button alongside his name and waited to be connected to his extension or for the call to be forwarded to his mobile.

  A moment went by with just the sound of the ringing tone filling her ear and the conviction that the man she was calling was not going to answer; unexpectedly the ringing tone stopped, replaced by a man’s gravelly voice.

  “Security Desk, Cullum speaking.”

  At first Emily couldn’t speak, her mouth was so dry she thought the ability to form words was going to fail her.

  “Hello?” Cullum pressed.

  Just silence was all Emily offered as she struggled to regain control of her mouth. What’s wrong with me?

  “Hello, who’s there?”

  Emily was looking around the control room now convinced that people were listening in to her.

  “Okay, whoever this is it isn’t funny. I’m going to hang up now!” Agitated, Cullum was about to cut the call.

  “Wait!” Emily made herself jump by the sound of her voice and all of a sudden she found the restraint that had impeded her speech was gone. “I need your help.”

  Now it was Cullum’s turn to be quiet. He gave no indication that he’d heard her.

  Undeterred by Cullum’s silence Emily continued: “I want to know where Ryan Barber is.”

  Emily heard the security man sigh. “Who is this?”

  “Emily Porter – Ryan’s replacement.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this Miss Porter, but Ryan’s dead.”

  Emily removed the handset from her left ear and placed the cold plastic earpiece to her forehead. Until then she had been unaware of the headache that was starting to form and the plastic provided a microsecond of relief. She placed the handset back to her ear and resumed talking.

  “Richard. Quit lying to me. We both know that he’s alive,” she paused, nervously glancing about her. “I want you to take me to him.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  George

 
Ed’s Easy Diner was located just off Piccadilly Circus on the ground floor of the Rupert Street side of the Trocadero opposite The Blue Posts pub.

  George had arrived a good half-hour early for the pre-arranged appointment. Leaving the kids back at Theo’s, George had driven into the nation’s capital together with Sophie, but had ordered her to stay in the car whilst he met with his wife’s captors alone. Driving into the city had been slow but they’d allowed enough time.

  “But I can help,” she’d pleaded.

  George shook his head. “It could be a trap. I can’t risk losing you.” With that he’d walked away from the girl who seemed to be changing and growing by the day, ignoring further protest and heading towards the point his wife had instructed him to meet.

  At Ed’s Easy Diner George had ordered a ‘Just Outta Bed’ breakfast and an Iced Coffee Frappe and sat by the window to wait for his order; he watched the hundreds of everyday folk walking by, the many tourists easily identifiable with their foldout maps and their cameras hanging round their necks like medals from the 2012 Olympics and the local businessmen, sharp suited and rushing about their lives in search of their next pound, euro or dollar. He tried to gauge as to whether any of them were potentially heading his way to meet with him. Although Ed’s had only been open half an hour a steady number of customers had entered into the eatery and by the time the waiter had presented his ‘Just Outta Bed’ breakfast and Iced Coffee Frappe, most tables around him were full – a basis for why a number of patrons stepping through the doors glared disparagingly at him – George was seated by himself at a table that had been laid for four.