The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E)

by Ishbelle Bee

  “Thank you for coming,” he says, and looks at Icabod who rises and shakes his hand. His voice has a foreign accent, rich and deep with something playful underneath.

  “Thank you for seeing us.”

  Mr Cherrytree approaches me, “Shall we get started?” and then looks to Icabod and Goliath, “If you could both wait here, we will be about an hour. My assistant will bring you up some refreshments.” And Mr Cherrytree escorts me out of the room, as though leading me onto a dance floor.

  Inside his office is a large brown sofa, which he tells me to sit upon. He perches himself opposite, like a great black bird. He is not at all handsome, his forehead egg-shaped and his teeth quite crooked: glinting, hidden within that black bearded mouth. I imagine he likes to look at himself in mirrors.

  Stare into me. Ogle your reflection.

  He likes what he sees. Mesmerizes himself in the glass. And today I am his mirror.

  There are no pictures of the dead in here. Only an odd, beautiful clock on the wall, decorated with tiny snakes coiling like orange peel. There is something about this clock that is wrong, unnatural. It is an object of horror but I don’t know why.

  “Firstly, you have nothing to fear. I am experienced in dealing with, shall we say, peculiar cases,” Mr Cherrytree says, revealing a glint of razor white teeth. “I need you to relax. Take deep, slow breaths.” I do as he requests. He watches, perching on the edge of his seat like a crow.

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  He reaches across the table and picks up a little pink box, and, opening it, reveals chocolate truffles dusted with cocoa. “Take one and put it in your mouth.”

  I do. It melts on my tongue. He’s a curious wizard, I think, luring little girls into his tower with sweets.

  “Close your eyes, Miss Mirror,” he says, and my eyelids shut like a book.

  I can smell his breath: peppermints. “Imagine that you are walking down a long corridor and at the bottom of the corridor is a red door. You feel comfortable and safe as you walk towards this door.”

  I do not feel safe.

  He continues, “You feel very light on your feet as though you are floating. You keep walking. The door is getting nearer and nearer until you are close enough to touch it.”

  I can hear the clock ticking.

  “Open the door Miss Mirror.”

  I can see the red door. I can hear the clock ticking. I can smell the peppermint.

  “Open the door and tell me what you see.”

  I turn the handle and I say, “I can see a big red butterfly. It is dancing in front of me. It is very beautiful.”

  “What is happening now?” His voice sounds far away, as though I am dreaming.

  “The door has shut behind me. Someone has put the butterfly into a jar and it is dying.”

  I am sure he is stroking my hair. I can feel his fingers.

  “What can you see now?”

  “I can see you. You are taking a photograph of me to add to your collection. You want me on your wall.”

  I am starting to feel unwell. I think I am going to be sick. I grip the side of the chair but I can’t open my eyes.

  “What are you?’ he asks.

  “I was trapped in a clock. I am inside a little girl.”

  I try to open the red door and get out. I try to open my eyes.

  I can feel someone picking me up and carrying me. I try to shout out but my mouth opens and nothing comes out.

  I am placed inside some sort of wooden box. I think I am inside a carriage. I feel the wheels move and the sound of horse hooves. I think he has put me in a coffin.

  I scream the word Goliath over and over and over. I can hear the windows smash. I can hear gunshots.

  A bird is screeching in the air above us, following the carriage. It is Goliath. I know it is him.

  XII: September 1888

  The Feast

  My name is John Loveheart and I was not born wicked.

  Tonight my ancestral home is full of demons. We are having a party. Isn’t that wonderful! I have chosen to wear red velvet this evening, to match the decor. There are red banners hanging from the battlements, red candles and lush volcano red tapestries and carpets. My favourite colour.

  The decor may be my choice but the guests are not. Mr Fingers has chosen them all and every one of them is a variety of monster. The invitations were very pretty. Little red hearts like valentine wishes painted on them. A heart is the most appropriate symbol for this occasion, as this party is being held in my house and I am Mr Loveheart. Curious symbol, the heart, isn’t it? They are all over my clothes. They are all over the invitations. I even have my keyholes shaped as hearts. Every door opens a heart. What is my obsession with them really?

  Sometimes I think I am quite mad.

  Sometimes I think I am a strange key. Swallow me and I will unlock every door inside of you.

  The stars this evening are really something special. The sky looks like it has been sliced open like a belly and they are all falling out. We are always half in another world, I suppose. When I look through my telescope I still keep an eye out for my father. Dear Daddy, if only you had been made of stronger stuff. You’re floating out there like a limp-winged angel. Not much help really. The planets tonight hang on wires like a theatre curtain. I just need to turn the wheel to make them move. We are all in some ways collectors of oddities. I happen to like stars and hearts. Mr Fingers, on the other hand, likes his clocks, tickety-tock.

  We are having someone special for dinner tonight. She’s in a cage hanging over the dining table. She’s a lot bigger than she was before and she doesn’t look very happy. Dearie me. The lace trim on my sleeves has fallen into the chocolate pudding, now that is a problem. You must always look your best for parties such as these. And you should see the dining hall, it looks splendid. Enough food for a hundred guests. A feast to feed a hundred demons in dinner suits. We all have big appetites and sharp teeth. And I am one of them.

  A great mirror hangs in the dining room. Shall we look at our reflections? Am I the only one who doesn’t want to look too closely? And what does that make me, a half monster? I look at them all, eyeing up the buffet, wanting to get started. Mr Fingers sits in my father’s chair, seated like a king. While my real father is lost in space somewhere.

  The woman – Mirror – stares at me from the cage. Drugged by the cowardly Dr Cherrytree. Her eyes are open, she is aware of everything going on. Something inside me wants to stroke her face, something inside me wants to save her, save myself. I wander over to the great table of food to be near her.

  “Hello, Miss Mirror, how you’ve grown.”

  Mr Fingers rises from his chair to make his speech. “Welcome, friends.” A hundred pairs of eyes turn to look at him. The woman, Mirror, sits slumped in the cage. I stand next to her, dressed in my bloodiest red. Daddy, the Demon Lord of the Underworld, is speaking, so we must all be quiet and listen.

  “Thank you so much for coming to my home,” he preaches.

  It is my home. It does not belong to him. I glance at Dr Cherrytree standing by his side. He continues, “Tonight, friends, we have a very special guest. You may have noticed a woman in a cage over the table,” (and he laughs – oh, how funny he is!) “Well, she is our dinner. It has taken me quite a while to find her. She has moved from an Egyptian tomb to a grandfather clock to a little girl. And now here she is. And once she is eaten, I will absorb the soul of the Egyptian princess!” A round of applause.

  Mr Fingers looks over to me. “And this would not have been possible without the help of my son, Loveheart.”

  Another round of applause. Why are they clapping? Why do I hear teacups breaking?

  The drug inside her makes it hard for her to speak, but she tries. She looks through me like light through a diamond. Blinding me momentarily. What witchcraft is this? I can see my mother’s face reflected on hers. I can feel my father’s body frozen in space. All the noise around me, a hundred voices and yet it is her silence that is m
aking me listen.

  I was born a prince in a great kingdom. My mother and father were murdered by monsters. I was kidnapped and changed by a demon. My soul is a black hole. And yet she is making me want to kill every wicked thing in this house until a great pile of bodies is left with Mr Fingers on the top of the heap. I look at the dinner guests; child killers, rapists, fraudsters and they are inside my father’s house, they are inside MY house. I can hear her speaking to me. She is making me remember my name.

  * * *

  Loveheart Loveheart

  Loveheart

  Loveheart Loveheart

  Loveheart Loveheart

  Loveheart

  Loveheart

  Loveheart Loveheart

  Loveheart Loveheart

  * * *

  She reaches her hand through the cage and touches mine. “Mr Loveheart,” she says with difficulty, “the lemon drizzle sponge is a little dry.”

  “Yes it is,” I reply, and take my pistol out. There are tears running down my face.

  I point it at Mr Fingers.

  Part Two

  July 1888

  I: The Clockmaker

  TICK TOCK

  My name is Alfred Chimes. I run a small clock-making and repair shop in East London, and I am seven hundred years old and not yet dead. The question then remains, how have I managed to prolong my life? The answer, I’m afraid, is not a pretty one. I am a killer of children. I stuff their souls into my clocks. Do you know what the soul of a child looks like? They are fairylights, little dazzling things. Zooming, sparkly and hopelessly scatty. Food for angels.

  I make very fine clocks, for a very fine price. I suppose I am part serial killer, part magician. To the human eye, I look about eighty years old and I stoop and shuffle about. My beard is long and white. No one suspects what I really am. I am essentially overlooked. I am the wallpaper, always in the background.

  Today I received a gift, wrapped in pink paper with love hearts all over it. It was a handcrafted grandfather clock, one that I had made many years earlier. The message on the card read:

  * * *

  Thought you’d like it back. I fancied a clear out.

  Mr Loveheart ♥

  * * *

  It had been battered about a bit and the soul was missing but it was still a very beautiful clock, good enough to lick all over.

  I had previously sold it to his father, who had been a very good client of mine until his untimely disappearance. I had heard of his son, this notorious Mr Loveheart. Mad as a hatter, they said. An eccentric. Funny dress sense. Unlike his father who had seemed to me an introverted gentleman, with an obsession for time machines. Fell into one, so rumour had it. And now his son had contacted me. Curious fellow.

  I wheeled the clock into the back room of my shop. With a little love I could bring it back to its former glory and sell it on at a nice price.

  And then the doorbell rang and in stepped a policeman, very smartly dressed. Not at all the usual type. His face had strong features: a large nose and the most piercing hawkish eyes. Accompanying him was an officer of a lower rank, who fumbled with his jacket and didn’t wipe his feet on the doormat.

  “Good morning, sir. My name is Detective Sergeant Percival White and this is Constable Walnut. We are investigating a missing child case and have been making inquiries locally. Do you have a moment for some questions?” His voice was strong and steady. Incorruptible, I thought.

  “Of course, sergeant. What would you like to know?” What an interesting day. A gift from an eccentric and a visit from the police.

  “The girl’s name is Daphne Withers, daughter of a local barrister. She went missing two days ago,” and he showed me a photograph of her. Hair long and yellow, tied with a ribbon. I remembered her coming into my shop for a gift for her father. I remembered stuffing her into a barrel and throwing her into the Thames. Her essence was in a beautiful little wristwatch sitting in my window, a lady’s watch with a topaz decoration of a butterfly.

  “Hmm. I am afraid I have never seen the child.”

  Something changed in the expression of the detective. It was light moving through shadow.

  “That’s interesting.”

  “How so?” I inquired plainly.

  “Her mother says she was coming to your shop to acquire a watch for her father as a present for his birthday.”

  “Well, I am rather old. I don’t remember everything clearly much anymore.”

  Constable Walnut scribbled something down. I continued, “I suppose if she had been the daughter of a market trader, you wouldn’t be making any inquiries.”

  Detective Sergeant White looked steely at me. “It is true that police resources are not always fairly distributed to every missing child case, but I make a point of investigating them all, sir.”

  “I am sure you are a credit to your superiors.”

  “Please take another look at her picture, Mr Chimes. Maybe it will jog your memory.”

  I examined the picture again. Clicked my tongue in a way I thought gave the impression of racking my old brain for a memory. It reminded me of her hair and the way it smelt lemony.

  “No, I really can’t recall her face.”

  “How long have you been in this shop, sir?”

  “Oh, it must be fifty years. I really should retire, but I love my work so much.”

  “Do you have an assistant?”

  “No, I work alone. I have a cat though,” and I pointed to the black lump of fur with the jade eyes which sat perched on the chair. “Her name is Cleopatra.”

  She was the only witness to my atrocities and she, I am sure, would remain silent on the matter.

  “How’s business?” asked Constable Walnut.

  “Very good, thank you. I get a lot of requests for handmade pieces. Some of my clients live abroad and most of them are rich, with peculiar tastes. But I do get the odd person frequent my shop, though most around this area can’t really afford my prices.”

  “Are you married, or have anyone staying with you?” inquired the detective.

  “I am completely alone and I have sadly never married. I was never lucky enough to meet the right woman.”

  Detective Sergeant White looked eagle-eyed around the shop, and it was then that he spotted something. I realized I had made a mistake. Around Cleopatra’s neck was a yellow ribbon, which I had taken off the girl, kept as a memento. He had spotted it. But it surely wasn’t enough proof.

  The detective examined the photograph of the girl and then stared at the cat. “Would you mind if we looked around the premises?”

  So, he wasn’t going to mention it. A ribbon wasn’t enough to convict me.

  “Of course. Through the door is my workshop and living quarters. Nothing much really.”

  And off the detective and his constable went. Cleopatra purred softly, I almost thought she was smirking.

  A thick sea-green velvet curtain separated the shop from the workshop. It hung heavy, like a stage curtain. I followed them into the small space, the ladybird grandfather clock standing in the corner, my work desk covered in mechanisms and trinkets. The room was poorly lit but comfortable, and I watched Constable Walnut poke around while the detective merely viewed with his eyes. Sharp eyes, I thought. His attention was drawn to a pile of empty barrels and wooden crates in the corner of the room.

  I explained them immediately. “For transportation of my large clocks.”

  And then his eyes moved to the ladybird grandfather clock.

  “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “From a previous case. A young girl was locked up inside it.”

  “I created the clock and sold it many years ago to Lord Loveheart.”

  “Lord Loveheart, who disappeared?” said Detective Sergeant White.

  “Yes, his son John Loveheart returned it to me. I am not sure why. You may have heard of him, he’s something of an eccentric.”

  “I would like a list of all of your clients, Mr Chimes.”

  I looked through my bureau d
rawers and retrieved a roll of my regular clients, which held about twenty or so names, and handed it to him begrudgingly. The list thankfully withheld the names of my more sensitive clients. He examined it carefully.

  “Quite a collection of customers you have here. What makes your clocks so special?” And then he looked at me, and I felt for the first time in my life I had encountered someone who was able to see right through me. Eyes like a spiritualist. Telescopic.

  “My work is very highly regarded. It’s an artform, really. See the engravings on the clocks, delicate craftsmanship, it’s hard to come by. I have been established for nearly fifty years so my reputation precedes me.”

  “And with a client list like this you choose to remain in this area of poverty and filth.”

  “It’s my home, detective sergeant.” And the children are easier to catch here, I thought.

  The constable scribbled down everything I said while the Sergeant put the list of my clients into his pocket. “We may need to ask you further questions at a later date.”

  “Very well, but I am not sure how on Earth I can assist you. I have told you everything I know, which is nothing.”

  The detective stroked Cleopatra, who purred softly in response.

  I watched them leave, the doorbell ringing as the door shut behind them. A delicate warning.

  Along the Thames, a barrel bobbed up and down, a barrel that should have sunk to the bottom. It floated towards the shoreline.

  II: Detective Sergeant White, Constable Walnut & the Clientele List

  I had examined the list carefully as Constable Walnut and I walked back to the police station. “There’s a lot of very influential people on this list, constable.”