Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘I’m an old friend of the –’ Gribble’s voice cracked. ‘The family.’ He coughed and shook out a red-spotted handkerchief to wipe his nose and hide his emotion.

  Used to dealing with distress, Doctor Straus had evolved the strategy of simply ignoring it.

  He paused for a moment at the glass-walled cubicle of the nurses’ station, had a word with the duty nurse while Gribble hung back, then glanced over the clipboard chart she handed him. From Straus’s expression, Gribble discerned nothing either way about Cawdor’s condition. The doctor beckoned him on. Outside the door, he took two paper masks from a wall dispenser and showed Gribble how to fasten and adjust the sticky-backed tapes. They went in.

  The only illumination came from a single cowled wall lamp on a bracket. The figure under the white sheet looked bloated and enormous, absolutely motionless. But then Gribble realised that the sheet was draped over a cage. Wires trailed down and across the floor to monitoring equipment on a trolley. Blips and traces moved on a blue screen. Doctor Straus bent over the patient. His silvery brows came together in a frown as he studied Cawdor closely. He made sure the tubes and drip feeds were properly in place and then stood back, stroking his chin through the mask. Gribble tiptoed forward on the rubbery floor. There wasn’t much to see. He might have been looking at a dead body. There was no sound of breathing, and the raised sheet hid any movement of the chest.

  The face, unmistakably Jeff Cawdor’s face and remarkably untouched in spite of his ordeal, was unearthlily pale.

  Gribble stared at him. He felt he ought to say something. He’d heard that the voice of a loved one or a friend could penetrate into the consciousness of someone even in a deep coma. Didn’t they sometimes play the patient’s favourite music? He gently cleared his throat to speak, with not a clue what to say, just anything to make human contact, and Cawdor opened his eyes.

  Gribble nearly fainted. His legs buckled and he swayed backward. He would have fallen for sure if Doctor Straus hadn’t grabbed his shoulder. It was like seeing the eyes of Frankenstein’s monster blink suddenly into life. Gribble gasped, ‘Oh my God… Oh sweet Jesus!’

  The eyes were dulled and unfocused. They weren’t looking at him, Gribble realised, or at anything. Then he saw the lips twitch in a tortured parody of a grin and he nearly passed out again. Doctor Straus held him.

  ‘It’s all right, take it easy. That sometimes happens. It’s an autonomic reaction of the nervous system. The mind’s autopilot cuts in and operates the body’s mechanical processes.’

  ‘You mean he don’t know he’s doing it?’

  ‘Your friend is unconscious, Mr Gribble.’ But Doctor Straus was frowning again as he looked towards the monitor screen. ‘However…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. Except the EEG patterns are not consistent with traumatic shock syndrome.’ Doctor Straus knelt and followed the traces with a manicured finger. ‘These peaks, you see? Levels of brain activity are abnormally high for someone in his condition. As I mentioned before, the mind closes down all but the most vital functions in order to protect itself. This is by no means the regular pattern.’ He looked up at Gribble. ‘Does Cawdor have any history of epilepsy? Psychokinetic dysfunction?’

  ‘Ain’t got a clue, doc. He never mentioned it.’

  Doctor Straus got up, shaking his head. ‘At the appropriate time I’d like to carry out a brain scan. Can’t risk it until he’s in better shape, though. No evidence of physical injury to the cranium, but there might possibly be internalised damage caused by shock syndrome and lack of oxygen. He was in the depressurised cargo hold for over an hour, I’m told.’ Doctor Straus indicated they should leave. In the corridor he stripped off his mask and said thoughtfully, ‘Those EEG readings. Similar to what one sees at peak dream times when the brain is at its most active.’ He gazed down sombrely at Gribble. ‘Let’s hope that’s the explanation. Your friend is dreaming.’

  Gribble didn’t understand. ‘Why? What if he ain’t?’

  ‘If he isn’t, Mr Gribble, those readings could indicate possible brain damage. In which case – his physical injuries aside – there’s nothing we can do for him.’

  ‘But he’ll recover, doc, won’t he?’

  ‘Damage to the brain is irreversible, Mr Gribble. Permanent. For ever.’

  Gil Gribble glanced through the Venetian blind. In the dimly lit room with its flickering blue traces the figure seemed to be floating under the shroudlike sheet. The eyes were closed once more, Gribble saw, in the ghastly pallor of the face.

  ‘So how do we know if Jeff’s dreaming or not?’

  ‘We won’t know,’ Doctor Straus said, turning away, ‘until he wakes up.’

  ‘Let us give profound and humble thanks to our Saviour and Redeemer. The way has been prepared and made straight. The circle is unbroken and shall remain unsundered. May the blessings of the Beamers be upon Him, and keep Him safe in His tower of granite and glass.’

  Elder Graye arose from his kneeling position and bowed to the stone slabs in the shape of an ‘M’. The semicircle of figures in their black robes bowed also, the prayer of thanksgiving a mumbled drone on their lips.

  As he departed, Graye glanced across the chamber. The creatures behind the thick wall of greenish glass were quiescent: they had been fed fresh meat recently and were basking contentedly under the artificial sun of the halogen lamps. So recently that the jaws of the alligators were still shiny with rivulets of blood, and the boa constrictor drooped heavily on its branch, weighed down by the lump that stretched its skin to a pearly sheen. They had shared the meal between them, savouring every morsel. It was regrettable, Graye felt, that a replacement for Wilde would have to be found, but unavoidable. Not only had his handsome looks been spoilt by a broken nose, he’d also been encumbered by the deformity of a withered hand that had been almost severed at the wrist.

  But there were other candidates, Graye was confident, who with proper grooming could host The Lovebeams Show.

  Changing into his dark suit of grey pinstripe, he went up in the private elevator to his office at the peak of the pyramid. Through the angled smoked glass the sun was a dull purple ball low in the sky. It was growing late, but for him the time of greatest activity. As night fell over the Americas, other continents were awakening to a new dawn. Unresting during the hours of darkness, he would place calls, send faxes and E-mails to Africa and the Middle East, to India, Eastern Europe and Russia. The global reach of Grace MediaCorp was expanding – established on some continents, a fledgling on others – and the work had to go on, day and night, unceasingly, to bring the Beamers of Joy and their Message to every living soul on the planet.

  The way had been prepared and made straight, the circle unbroken, thanks to their Saviour and Redeemer.

  Kersh had done everything that was expected of him. Indeed he had done more. Recognising the danger Cawdor presented, he had intervened personally, and decisively, and at great risk to his own wellbeing. Leaving the safety of the tower had been a foolhardy act born of desperation. Graye hardly dared contemplate what might have happened had the outcome been different – if Cawdor had not been defeated. For that would have meant the end of Kersh, and his failure would have wrought destruction upon them all. Total annihilation of their dreams.

  But the gamble had paid off. Kersh had triumphed, and the battle had been won. The way had been prepared and made straight. Now Graye’s work could proceed unhindered. So, with rejoicing in his heart, he relished the night ahead, beaming the Message to the faithful.

  Seated at the desk, his back to the flattened oval of the sun balanced on the horizon, he didn’t see the dark clouds slowly gathering, obscuring its face. Against this panorama, the silhouette of Graye’s head was a dark asteroid, his eye-sockets like craters of deeper, darker shadow.

  He looked up sharply as the bronze-panelled door opened. For anyone to enter without being summoned, or without receiving his express permission, was not only unheard of, it was unthinka
ble.

  Graye’s finger strayed to a button on the console beside him.

  Mara BeCalla’s heels cracked like pistol shots on the marble floor. As she strode towards him, her tall statuesque figure seemed to shimmer before his eyes; for an instant it was transformed into the short, dumpy form of a round-shouldered girl with a pale, pudgy face surrounded by frizzy hair. Graye’s outstretched finger curled into his palm.

  Then Mara BeCalla was standing in front of the desk, clasping a black leather purse in both hands. Her green eyes studied him for a long silent moment. An icicle of doubt, of trepidation even, pierced through the man behind the desk. He might have dismissed it as fanciful were it not for that flickering change in her appearance: seeing, or rather sensing, the aura of May-Beth as Mara BeCalla crossed the floor. The membrane separating those two selves – whether or not she herself was aware of it – was ominously thin, and did not bode well.

  Graye folded his hands in his lap and waited.

  Mara BeCalla then did something outrageous. She sat on the corner of his desk. ‘Your scheme for Sarah Cawdor and her daughter didn’t come off, did it, Mr Graye? Evidently Cawdor knew more than you bargained for. He had forewarning and was able to enter this building and rescue the child, thereby preventing the ceremony taking place. You could say he outsmarted you.’

  ‘You mean that he possessed some knowledge of the past?’ Graye shrugged this aside. ‘A few fragments, perhaps, imperfect and incomplete. Had Cawdor known the whole, he would never have embarked on that final, fateful flight. In his ignorance he did so, not understanding that our Saviour and Redeemer had the power to intervene.’ Graye smiled thinly. ‘So you see, Miss BeCalla, we were not “outsmarted” as you put it. This feeble attempt of yours at scoring cheap points is quite misplaced and also a waste of my time. I have work to do.’

  His finger moved towards the button.

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  Her cool rejoinder had the opposite effect, making Graye pause. Mara BeCalla met his piercing stare unflinchingly. She said, ‘What if he did outsmart you and you don’t know it? But go right ahead, Mr Graye. If you want to go on believing Cawdor is dead, go ahead and press it.’

  In the silence, Graye withdrew his hand, which formed itself into a bony fist. ‘Cawdor was killed. He was shot several times and thrown into a freezing baggage hold. He didn’t survive. It isn’t possible.’

  ‘The facts you state are correct,’ Mara BeCalla agreed airily, ‘though your assumption isn’t. Cawdor did survive.’

  ‘Impossible.’ Graye’s thin body inclined towards her, his eyes dark and hooded. ‘What is this nonsense? Have you any evidence? And, even if you have, why should I believe it? Have you seen the man alive?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Then what proof have you to make this preposterous assertion?’

  ‘An eye-witness account.’ From her purse Mara BeCalla took a hand-sized microrecorder and placed it upright on the desk. ‘Before I had my own show I started out as a TV news reporter. So, to earn my corn and safeguard both our interests, I thought I’d do a bit of double-checking. I traced the copilot, First Officer Greg Richards. This is an interview I did with him. He insists that the man who was shot during the hijack was found alive in the baggage hold. The man received emergency medical treatment in the sickbay at the Naval base, where he was kept for fourteen hours, and then transferred –’

  ‘You trust him?’ Graye interrupted harshly.

  ‘He had no reason to lie.’

  ‘I didn’t suggest he was lying, Miss BeCalla. But that he was mistaken. Did you speak to the Naval doctor in charge of the case?’

  Mara BeCalla tightened her lips. ‘No, I did not. Security was on red-A alert and it was impossible to gain access to the base. I happened to meet First Officer Richards in the lobby of the Orange Park Resort Hotel, which is directly across interstate 295 from the O’Neil Naval Air Station.’

  ‘You “happened to meet” him?’

  ‘We had a few drinks in the Cypress Gardens Bar. After the third Tom Collins he was most cooperative.’

  Graye’s pointed tongue flicked out to moisten his hard, thin mouth. He was becoming agitated. ‘Did he say if Cawdor was lucid or dysfunctional? Were there any signs of personality disassociation?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. I’m a journalist by training, Mr Graye, not a psychiatric nurse.’

  ‘Let me hear the tape.’

  Mara BeCalla picked up the microrecorder. But instead of switching it on she crossed her legs and lazily swung her foot, gazing past him to the flattened purple sun in its wreath of storm clouds.

  When Graye spoke there was a weary stoicism in his voice. ‘Very well, Miss BeCalla, I accept what you say. He received treatment at the base. Then what?’

  ‘Moved to New York by private charter plane. Richards said it was Cawdor’s business partner, a man named Carlson, who arranged it.’

  ‘Does he know where Cawdor was taken, to which hospital?’

  ‘No.’

  Graye pushed back his chair and abruptly stood up. Kneading his veined hands, he turned away and for the first time noticed the storm clouds blotting out the sun. He stared fixedly through the tinted glass wall. ‘He must be found. Find him.’

  Had Mara BeCalla expected a word of thanks or a sign of gratitude, she was both disappointed and mistaken.

  ‘You’re asking me to find him?’

  ‘Why not you? Don’t deceive yourself. If Cawdor has survived it will affect your future as much as mine. You have no choice. Without Kersh we have no future.’

  This confused her. ‘But he’s in no danger. You said Kersh was safe unless Cawdor could find a way through, and he can’t. That’s what you said –’

  ‘On the basis of probability that Cawdor was dead. Can’t you understand? Cawdor should have died in the baggage hold. The probable outcome was his death, but it didn’t happen. So now we are faced with another probability.’

  Mara BeCalla felt the blood leave her face. She slid off the desk.

  ‘That Cawdor might… succeed?’

  ‘Kersh exists in a place and time beyond our direct influence. He is safe there. He has the power to protect us. But we must do everything we can to protect Him also.’ Graye swung round. ‘Speak to Carlson as a reporter. Get him to tell you where Cawdor is located.’

  ‘I already have.’ Mara BeCalla held up the microrecorder.

  A ghostly smile stole over Graye’s face. ‘You don’t play all your cards at once, I see.’

  ‘I talked to Carlson on the phone earlier today. He refused to give me any information. Just that his partner is being well cared for.’

  The smile faded. ‘Then don’t waste time. We need that information from somewhere. Somebody has to know.’

  In the murky twilight that thickened the air between them, the silence stretched on and on. The bloated sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving behind angry massing storm clouds shot through with spikes of fiery red.

  2

  Perched on the arm of Gribble’s tatty couch, Annie Lorentz sipped her coffee from a chipped mug. Watery sunshine of late afternoon washed over the cluttered room from the high narrow windows. Across the street, the stone balustrades and columns of the university library gleamed pale and damp. She’d been working there when she received Gribble’s call, following up her research on the traditions and folklore of the Haida tribes of northwest America.

  ‘You’re the expert.’ Annie shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I am telling you,’ Gil Gribble said, his voice highpitched with annoyance. He jabbed at the screen. ‘I didn’t put this in. Christ, I don’t even know what it means!’

  ‘You don’t sleepwalk, do you, Gil?’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny. Listen, Annie, after I came back from the hospital I worked till late last night, and everything was fine. I switch on this morning and all I get is a screenful of garbage.’ He peered round at her in his myopic fashion. ‘You’re the expert in hieroglyph
ics and all that stuff. Can you decipher it?’

  ‘These aren’t hieroglyphics,’ Annie Lorentz said.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Gribble sighed. ‘This is your field, after all – dialects and languages and ancient lingo. That’s how your mind works, linguistically. I think numerically.’

  ‘Numbers could come into this,’ she said, leaning forward.

  ‘Yeah? How?’ Gribble scratched his scrub of beard. Forehead puckered, he gazed at the block of letters on the screen:

  Annie studied it. ‘Well, the first thing is that the rows are all of equal length, twenty-five characters per line. So that suggests some kind of pattern or arithmetic progression. And there are five lines, which might be a clue.’

  ‘There could’ve been four or six. So what?’

  ‘There could have been but there aren’t,’ Annie Lorentz said patiently. ‘That’s what. Quiet a minute.’

  Gribble obeyed. He guessed that she was working through different groups and combinations of letters to find coherent words. He had already tried that himself, and reckoned he had stumbled on the key. But he wasn’t going to tell Annie Lorentz that. It would have blown his excuse for calling her and requesting her help. And, the fact was – apart from the pleasure of her delightful company – he really did need another keen intelligence to help him figure out the meaning.

  Annie Lorentz was scribbling on a pad. She’d broken the top line down into five-letter groups – RRTSE, DHESE, YDSNH, RDSAE, and so on – trying to make anagrams of them. Nothing. She crossed them out and started again. After three or four minutes, and as many failed guesses, she muttered to herself, ‘Of course, that’s it. Gotta be!’

  Gribble craned to see the pad. ‘You found something?’

  ‘It’s a form of mirror writing.’ Annie Lorentz tapped the screen with the pen. ‘See – reversed and upside-down. Take the first vertical line and recite it backward.’