Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘They ask for nothing.’

  ‘That’s the part I don’t like. It stinks. Everybody’s on the take for something. Hey,’ Kersh sneered at her, ‘maybe they want to put my brain in a glass jar! I seen that movie too.’

  May-Beth clasped her hands in her lap. Her plain, unpainted face and dumpy body were like an insult to Kersh. He thought of Sophie, raw stringy hands, chipped nail polish. Eyes smudged with mascara. The girl of a petty crook and three-time loser. Mr Big Shot who’d never had the breaks, who’d never taken his chances, except the wrong ones, and never got away with any of them. He’d never had a knockout of a woman in his entire life. Somebody with class – like his all-time favourite fantasy, that snooty Sue Ellen dame out of Dallas. Big goo-goo eyes, moist lower lip, and legs right up to her ass. Instead it was that dumb bleach-blonde Sophie Molosz – or this dried-up stick of an old maid.

  Always last in line, Kersh. Never up front with the smart money. He was sick and tired of it.

  ‘The second between life and death can be everlasting,’ May-Beth said softly.

  He decided to humour her. ‘With me frozen in it.’

  ‘Yes.’ May-Beth’s brown eyes were calm and sure.

  Suddenly he had an idea. ‘OK.’

  It was so abrupt that she was confused. ‘You agree to it? You believe?’

  ‘Sure.’ He glanced casually away for a second and lowered his voice. ‘Take off your pants.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the deal. Do as I say and I’ll agree.’

  He really had the hots today, and May-Beth was the only relief within a million miles. He didn’t think she would, and then his breathing shortened as she reached below the table. He lit up again greedily, his palms damp, and had the pleasure of watching her as she wriggled her hips, squirming in her seat as she tugged her pants off, then stuffed them in her purse. The thought of it made him rock hard. She gave a tiny scared nod to say she’d done what he asked. Lounging back in the chair, Kersh let his hand fall lightly over his aching crotch. ‘Nice, honey. Touch yourself Know what I mean?’

  He saw her hand move down, and a moment later she closed her eyes. Her chin started to quiver. Paper rustled as the guard turned a page, but he didn’t look up. Kersh worked on himself through the coarse weave of the blue serge work pants, his gaze never leaving her face. May-Beth’s mouth parted a little; her shoulders jerked in rhythm. She opened her eyes and stared into his, her throat moving, little panting breaths making her nostrils flare and contract. Then she gave a sharp sudden gasp and bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed tight shut.

  Kersh slumped back and groaned, and crossed his legs. He hoped the congealed stickiness around his crotch wouldn’t show through and betray him.

  He sucked in smoke hungrily. They were all alike, these holy-roller broads. Ice on the outside, pure as the driven snow, but actually begging for it.

  May-Beth’s eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. ‘You agree to it, as you promised?’

  Kersh lit another cigarette from the smouldering butt, and shrugged. ‘Sure. Maybe that way I’ll get to fuck you for real.’ Curiosity nagged at him. ‘Explain it to me. They strap me in the chair, right? They throw the lever… and then what?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ May-Beth smiled. ‘I’ll pray for you, Frank.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Whatever. You do that.’

  On his way back to the Block, Kersh wondered what the hell had gotten into him to go along with such a crackpot notion. Perhaps he was more scared than he dared admit, even to himself. The prospect of death put all kinds of weird thoughts in your head. Everlasting life all wrapped up in a single second, for instance. Jee-zuzz.

  3

  Phew.

  Cawdor sank down into his swivel chair, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. It coddled his masculine ego, having a woman find him attractive. Yet if he wasn’t careful there was a danger he might send out the wrong signals, and what started out as a harmless bit of office flirtation could end in –

  Jeff Cawdor sat bolt upright in the chair. The imaginary sweat on his brow all of a sudden popped up for real: that’s how long it took for his autonomic system to react and his glands to respond to the shock of seeing a man sitting in the black leather chair across the desk from him. A dark-skinned man with a hollow-cheeked, intelligent face and large brown eyes that were made to appear even larger by the magnifying lenses of his silver-framed spectacles. His long, slender brown hands were clasped loosely in his lap, the collar of his expensively tailored overcoat, which had seen better days, turned up by his pointed ears.

  Cawdor blinked, dumbly confused. How come Phyllis hadn’t said anything? Warned him he had a visitor? But that wasn’t right either, because he knew perfectly well that his secretary would never allow anyone – whatever the circumstances – inside his private office, where there was confidential information; definitely not while he was absent. That’s what the visitors’ chairs in the outer office were for. Visitors.

  While he was staring and pondering, and trying to recover from his shock, the man said with the ghost of a smile, ‘Quite a storm we had. Did you enjoy it?’

  His voice was cultured, his tone measured, each word enunciated carefully and precisely.

  ‘My name is Cawdor,’ Cawdor said. ‘And this is my office. Would you mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing here?’ It crossed his mind to call Phyllis in, ask her how this joker had managed to bypass her desk. Then he remembered she would be on her way down in the elevator, eagerly carrying out a love mission for her lean, rugged hero who existed only in her head.

  ‘I’m Doctor Khuman. How do you do?’

  The Indian leant forward, extending his hand. His nails were long, pale ovals, carefully manicured. ‘Clearly you weren’t expecting me, Mr Cawdor,’ he went on, unabashed, when his offer of a handshake went unheeded.

  ‘Clearly I wasn’t. Should I have been?’

  ‘I… wasn’t sure. It isn’t possible, in every instance, to predict. I was hoping otherwise.’

  Predict? The word made Cawdor wary. Into his mind swam the vision of an Indian mystic promising to foretell his future in return for a fistful of dollars. His tongue snagged against the rough edge of a metal filling that was working loose, making him wince, which served to sharpen his irritation. What was happening to security in this building? There were guards on duty in the lobby downstairs, plus UltraCast’s own reception desk, then Phyllis as the final frontier – and this guy waltzes past the bunch of them.

  Doctor Khuman said, ‘I’m sorry for my unexpected arrival, but there was no other way. I can see from your expression that you are angry at this sudden intrusion.’

  ‘Not yet I’m not, but give me a couple of minutes. D’you ever hear of making an appointment? Or using the phone, maybe?’ Cawdor waved his hand over the cluttered desk. ‘Look, Doctor Khuman –’ (And what kind of doctor was he, anyway? Psychiatry? Divinity? Flying Saucers?) ‘-I really am very busy, as you can see. If it’s a medical charity or some religious cause, I suggest you write to us stating your business and I’ll see how we can help. I have deadlines to meet, so I’d appreciate it if –’

  ‘There isn’t time for that, my friend.’ The Indian was leaning forward, his thin elegant hands pressed together. He closed his eyes for a moment, two vertical lines creasing his forehead, as if concentrating hard. Silence hung over the faintly humming computer terminal.

  He said, ‘This is difficult for you, Mr Cawdor, I appreciate that, but even more difficult for me to explain. How can I put this? There is some kind of disruption about to take place, though I sense it only imperfectly. You might call it a dysfunctional element in the flow of events, cause and effect at odds with one another –’

  ‘What are you telling me, that the end of the world is nigh?’ Cawdor interrupted. ‘I’ve heard all that before.’

  Doctor Khuman’s smile was strained. ‘I knew this wouldn’t be easy,’ he murmured, half to himself. He sighed. ‘But I had hoped
you would be prepared for my visit, you see.’

  ‘No, I don’t see. And I really don’t have time for this. I’ve tried to be polite, but you just barge in here and upset my work schedule …’ He frowned, genuinely perplexed. ‘Just how did you get in, right past my secretary? No way she couldn’t have seen you.’

  Magnified by his silver-framed spectacles, the Indian’s eyes gleamed large and brown. ‘Oh, she did see me, of course, but then she became distracted. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere. In fact, so I believe, she was thinking of you. That seemed to be the general course of her thoughts.’

  ‘If you can read Phyllis’s mind, maybe you can read mine also.’

  Despite his flippancy, Jeff Cawdor felt his heartbeat quicken. Unsettling that a total stranger should have picked up on the ‘secret’ shared only between himself and Phyllis; more than that, it was uncanny. He felt as if his innermost private domain had been invaded. Before he could check them, his thoughts took off on their own, raising such demons as blackmail, extortion, threats to his personal wellbeing and that of his family. Doctor Khuman, in actual appearance, didn’t embody the image of a blood-chilling spectre or the psychopathic axe murderer who casually walks in off the street, for example – but in the real world people didn’t always conform to the popular myths of Hollywood type-casting.

  He voiced what was uppermost in his mind. ‘Have you come here to issue threats or to warn me about something?’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention to do either. You see, strange as it may seem –’ Doctor Khuman gave a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders ‘-it’s you, Mr Cawdor, who possesses the real insight into what I fear is a potential disruption. And in your hands alone lies the power to change it.’

  Cawdor said testily, ‘Change what? How can I do that when I don’t understand what you’re talking about? If I had this “insight” you’ve granted me, then presumably I’d know what it is I’m supposed to change. I don’t, on both counts.’ He got up. ‘Seems you picked the wrong guy, doc. Thanks for the visit. You can find your own way to the elevator. Good morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Or good afternoon – whatever.’

  The Indian remained seated. Even now, and in spite of the annoyance he felt, Cawdor had to admire his composure. If in actual fact the man was some kind of faker, or charlatan, he’d perfected it to a fine art. There was a quiet, dignified seriousness about him, a complete lack of melodramatic flourish, that made Cawdor almost accept him as genuine. Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Are you by any chance planning a trip abroad?’

  Cawdor stared at him. Again, the sudden quickening of the heart. He resisted the urge to curl his fists, letting his hands hang loosely by his sides.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes, I am. So what?’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘Yes –’ Cawdor checked himself. ‘How do you know I’m married?’

  Doctor Khuman stroked his pointed chin, frowning. ‘I can’t be certain, but there is something about your forthcoming trip that disturbs me.’

  What’s the pitch now? Cawdor wondered. Travel insurance? ‘Listen to me for a second,’ he said, the testiness creeping back. ‘In place of all these vague hints about “disruptions” and “insights” and how disturbed you are about my welfare, why don’t you spit it out in words of one syllable? Then maybe I could extract an ounce of sense from all this. If you’re not peddling travel insurance, what are you trying to sell me?’ He grimaced as the rough filling found the tender spot again, right on the money.

  Doctor Khuman had risen slowly to his feet. He said in his gentle, educated voice, ‘If I were a salesman, Mr Cawdor, I doubt very much I’d last out the week, do you? You’ve bought nothing from me, and you believe nothing I’ve told you.’ He spread his hands, sighing. ‘I do wish, truly, I could be more explicit. But, you see, I don’t know the precise details and exact circumstances. The beliefs that give rise to these feelings, this sense of foreboding, are of a general philosophical nature, not hard scientific prediction.’

  ‘What beliefs are those?’

  ‘The Tantric tradition of the Buddhist faith.’

  Cawdor suddenly relaxed. He almost chuckled, the relief was so tangible. He hadn’t been too far wide of the mark, he reflected, when the notion of the Indian mystic looking for a hand-out had popped into his mind. Except that Doctor Khuman didn’t appear to be the panhandling type of religious zealot. Maybe he was genuine after all – a disciple of Buddhism, as he said – though that didn’t help Cawdor any. What he knew about Buddhism could be written in large block capitals on one side of a postcard. He recalled vaguely that they believed in reincarnation. You died and came back as a higher or lower order of being, depending on how well or badly you’d lived your life. Or something like that.

  ‘Look, I respect your personal beliefs, OK? You came here with the best of intentions, fine. Can I save us both some time, and say, Have a nice day and don’t get run over in traffic?’

  Doctor Khuman bowed slightly. ‘I’m very sorry to have disturbed your business routine, Mr Cawdor.’ At the door he turned and said, ‘One last thing. Have you broken a mirror recently?’

  In the distance, a rumble of thunder reverberated faintly as the storm moved over New Jersey.

  ‘No, so I’m not anticipating seven years’ bad luck.’

  When Doctor Khuman had departed, Cawdor stood at the window and stared out at the city. It looked no different from how it had looked thirty minutes ago, except that now the dark clouds had gone and the buildings and streets were bathed in bright sunshine, like a gigantic stage set under the glare of arc lamps.

  Nothing had changed; everything was reassuringly the same, or so it seemed.

  Baking heat blasting off concrete: the cars in the parking lot of the Louisiana State Penitentiary shivered as in a mirage as May-Beth came through the gate in the chainlink fence. The prison was built on a concrete raft in an area of cleared scrub. Beyond this, the ground became a thin dried crust, liquid mud underneath, with gnarled trees, creepers and decaying vegetation forming a dense, steamy, impenetrable barrier.

  Any prisoner unlucky enough to be lost out there had several hundred square miles of alligators and snakes to worry about – a prospect that made escape hardly more appealing than the dead man’s walk to the chair.

  May-Beth’s distorted reflection rippled along the torpedo-shaped length of the silver trailer, its small portholes of smoked-blue glass like the blank stare of a blind man. Sagging on its axles, the trailer was at least thirty years old, and patchworked with the corners of posters long since ripped off, a few faded strips hanging down, yellowed and stiff. May-Beth reached for the tarnished handle, but before she could grasp it the handle turned and the door swung open on creaking hinges.

  Inside, after the dazzling glare, it was black as the tomb, and stifling hot. May-Beth slid on to the bench seat, feeling her way, and heard the door click shut. After a moment or two she was able to make out the thin, erect shape directly opposite. Pale-faced, and in spite of the heat clad in stiff black suit and straight-brimmed hat, the man she knew only as Preacher sat with long fingers splayed on bony knees, the folds of material draped from his skinny flanks dusty and worn with age. May-Beth shivered. Whenever he gazed at her with those fathomless dark eyes set in bony sockets, she had the feeling of soft fingers exploring her mind, delving into her thoughts. She suddenly flushed hot, alarmed and mortified that he might be aware of what Frank Kersh had made her do. But he gave no sign: an absence of expression on the gaunt, lined face.

  The trailer was moving. May-Beth glanced outside. Through the blue-tinted windows the landscape looked strangely dark, as if underwater, the twisted trees like fantastic growths on the sea bed.

  ‘You seem agitated, my child. Did he insult you in some manner, by word or deed?’

  May-Beth avoided Preacher’s eyes. ‘No, not at all – nothing happened,’ she said rather too quickly, wishing the blood would leave her cheeks. ‘I asked him, like you said, about that b
oy he killed – if he was sorry for what he’d done. He said no, he wasn’t, and never would be. I guess he’s accepted it, the fact he’s going to die nine days from now. All the appeals have run out.’

  ‘He may die,’ Preacher said, ‘but some part of him, a tiny fragment, will continue to exist.’ He seemed deadly serious. ‘If you were able to convince him of the truth of our message.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘Did you convince him, May-Beth? Did he believe you?’

  ‘I guess so,’ May-Beth said evasively.

  ‘And he doesn’t repent!’

  May-Beth glanced at him then, such was the throaty fervour in his voice. She sensed that he was trembling inside the stiff black suit and the plain white shirt, tieless, buttoned up to the neck. Yet not a tremor passed over his face.

  She said hesitantly, ‘I just wish I could understand why this man’s soul is so important to you –’

  ‘Not to me, child. To the Messengers.’

  ‘I mean, to the Messengers.’

  ‘Should we abandon him, because he has sinned? This man Kersh is a challenge to our faith. He has a mind, devious and cunning, one that dwells in its own psychopathic universe.’ He released a thin sigh. ‘I could explain it, but these matters are beyond someone of your limited intellect.’

  May-Beth’s shoulders went back. ‘Now that I’ve done what you wanted, got him to agree, I’m stupid, is that it?’ Her lower lip jutted out. ‘I may be stupid – I wasn’t educated in a proper fashion – but I ain’t dumb enough to believe you can save him from the chair in the last second. That’s what you told me to say, so I did. Maybe Frank believed it, but I don’t buy it. When they throw that lever and pump in the juice, that’s him gone. Finito. There ain’t time for him to spit.’

  She drew breath, astounded at herself. There was a long timeless moment when nothing happened, except the silver trailer continued along the strip of concrete road that ran straight through the swamps. On either side scummy green pools bubbled and belched. Curtains of creeper hung down like witches’ hair. In the shallows, on the verge of the road, an arrow of ripples disturbed the surface as a scaly creature glided through the reeds, searching for dinner.