Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  ‘Why do you suppose Jeff sent you the message?’ Doctor Khuman smiled. ‘He referred to it as the “Beast”, which is your pet name, I believe, for the program you devised. That’s what I meant when I said he is seeking a way through. How or why Jeff knows this, or hopes it might help him, I’m not sure –’

  ‘Then let’s do it!’ Gribble burst out, excited at the prospect. ‘I got the VR headset and the Zone program in my car. I can set up the whole box of tricks in Jeff’s room, no problem. Do we give it a go?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Huh? Why the heck not? Come on, doc, let’s get moving!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gil, given Jeff’s critical physical and mental state I couldn’t permit it. We must proceed slowly and cautiously –’

  ‘Just let him sit there, you mean, like a cabbage?’ Gribble’s face had reddened. ‘That ain’t helping him any.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t wish to help him?’ asked Doctor Khuman quietly.

  ‘Well, uh… No, doc.’ Gribble glanced sideways at Annie, a little shamefaced. ‘It’s just that, well, seeing him that way, a shadow of the guy I knew, it gets to me. And I keep thinking of… I mean, I can’t forget what happened to –’ He stumbled over the words. He wanted to express what he felt about Sarah and Daniella, but emotion choked him into silence.

  ‘That could be one of the reasons why the state of shock persists,’ Doctor Khuman told him. ‘The memory of what happened to his wife and daughter is too painful for him to confront. So to safeguard itself the mind operates a kind of protective trip mechanism that encases it in mental lead shielding. We must be patient, give Jeff time to assimilate the loss, come to terms with it.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Gribble muttered, his polite self once more, though in truth he didn’t think Khuman was right. All this abstract theorising was driving him crazy. Doctor Khuman had Jeff’s best interests at heart, that he didn’t doubt, but talking round and round in circles instead of doing something was getting them nowhere.

  Hiding his frustration, Gribble said, ‘Somethin’ still puzzles me, doc. The message Jeff sent, the mirror writing and the five-letter words …’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Why only five letters per word?’

  ‘That’s simple. Because on his left hand, naturally, there are only five fingers.’

  ‘His… left hand. The one that’s injured?’

  Doctor Khuman nodded.

  Gil Gribble sighed. ‘Well, he’ll sure be glad to get rid of that plastic sheath, or cast, or whatever it is. The itching is driving him crazy.’

  ‘The itching is imaginary,’ Doctor Khuman said. ‘His left hand was smashed beyond repair. I had no choice but to remove it.’

  It was on the Tuesday morning, a few minutes after eleven, when his secretary buzzed through to say he had a visitor. Don Carlson was puzzled. ‘That can’t be right, Helen. I’ve no one scheduled.’

  ‘You’re right, Don, you haven’t,’ Helen confirmed. ‘But I think you’ll make time for this one. It’s Phyllis Keets.’

  Don didn’t hesitate. He made time. Because that bizarre episode with Phyllis and Jeff somehow seemed part of what had gone wrong in recent months. In fact, as he recalled, Phyllis’s accusation that Jeff had sexually assaulted her was how this nightmare scenario had kicked off From that point the whole shooting match had gone rapidly downhill on a grease slide with a following gale.

  Phyllis was pale and obviously distraught, and the first thing he did was to sit her down on the couch and ask Helen to bring in some coffee. The second thing he did was to seat himself at a safe distance in an armchair, the ceramic-tiled coffee table between them.

  She wasn’t crying, but he could tell she had been, and recently, and Don got the impression it had taken a lot out of her, getting this far. She sat with her plump knees pressed together, her hands never still in her lap. ‘I can’t make you understand, Mr Carlson, how awful I feel at what I did. It was terrible of me. I don’t understand it myself.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ Don asked quietly, knowing what was coming.

  ‘What I told you on the phone, about… about…’ Phyllis gulped in air like a stranded fish. She stuffed a lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth, shutting her eyes tightly. ‘It never happened.’ Her voice was muffled.

  Don said with icy politeness, ‘I’m sorry, Phyllis, I didn’t hear you,’ though he had heard perfectly well.

  ‘It never happened like I told you. None of it did.’ She glanced up, blinking rapidly, as Helen placed a tray on the table. Helen caught Don’s eye as she turned away, with a ‘Want me to stay?’ lift of the eyebrows. He shook his head and she went out.

  ‘You know, Phyllis,’ Don said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ‘this confession is as shocking as the accusation you made against Jeff. For you to come straight out like this and admit it was all made up, a pack of lies, I find quite incredible. Have you any idea of the stress and anguish you caused him? What the hell was it all about? What were you playing at, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘I was jealous, I guess.’

  ‘Jealous of who, what? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  Phyllis stared miserably at her clenched hands. ‘His wife, Sarah. I was in love with … I thought I was in love with him, with Jeff. He was always so nice to me. We had fun together – I mean, just laughs, you know, joking and stuff? I thought it was more; I wanted it to be more; but nothing ever came of it. Then I started to hate her. She had him and I didn’t. How or why it happened – what I did – I can’t explain, Mr Carlson. It was unforgivable.’

  Don shook his head in weary despair. He felt so angry and frustrated he wanted to reach out and give the stupid cow a full-handed stinging slap right across her fat pitiful face. It took most of his self-control to resist the temptation.

  ‘Good for you, Phyllis,’ he told her bitterly, ‘but it’s a bit late in the day, wouldn’t you say? So why tell me all this stuff now when it’s too damn late to do any good? You want me to forgive you on Jeff’s behalf? Pat your hand and tell you it’s fine, forget it, water under the bridge? I can’t do it. Well, I can, but I fucking won’t.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to,’ Phyllis said quietly. She sniffed and dabbed at her button nose. ‘I felt so ashamed when I heard what happened to his wife and daughter. Like I was in some way to blame. I can’t sleep or eat or nothing. The shame of it never leaves me in peace for a minute.’

  ‘That’s tough, Phyllis,’ Don said. ‘Or do I mean “tough crud”? I think I do.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Carlson. Honestly and truly, I wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘There is. You can collect your severance cheque on the way out. You know where the cashier’s office is.’

  ‘Yes.’ Phyllis nodded meekly. ‘It’s one floor down.’

  Don Carlson goggled at her. It began to fit together. He’d speculated to Jeff that Phyllis Keets had suffered a nervous breakdown, and it seemed he was right. The woman was out of her tree. Living on the planet Zarg.

  He met her eye nervously as she gazed up at him. ‘Is he going to be all right, Mr Carlson? He’ll make it, won’t he?’

  ‘We hope so,’ Don said stiffly.

  ‘I wish I could tell Jeff how sorry I am. And wish him well, too, of course. Such a terrible thing to have happened.’ Her face went ugly as she began to weep. The tears traced shiny paths through the thick powder on her cheeks. Now she had started she couldn’t stop, sobbing uncontrollably as her shoulders heaved.

  Don said awkwardly, ‘If it’ll make you feel any better, Phyllis, I’ll get word to him. OK, will that do? Then you can start eating and sleeping again,’ he added dryly.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carlson, oh thank you.’ Before he could react she reached out and grasped his hand in both of hers. He recoiled from the warm, clammy pressure but left it there, enduring the ordeal in stomach-churning silence. ‘Tell him, tell him,’ Phyllis was weeping and babbling hysterically, ‘I ne
ver wished him any harm, and what a cruel thing I did, and if I could take it back I would, I’d give anything to do that. Please tell him that, please!’

  Don extricated his hand, and it took an effort not to wipe it on his trouser leg. He said, ‘I can’t tell him personally, Phyllis. He’s been moved upstate to the Troth Clinic or some such place. I’ve already promised Jeff will get your message, and I’ll make sure he does. That’s the best I can do.’

  He thanked the Lord, then, that this seemed to calm her. She wiped her eyes and even attempted a watery smile as she pointed at the jug on the tray. ‘Coffee’s gone cold. My fault. Sorry.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Don said automatically, as he was thinking, Out of her tree without a fucking parachute. She’s right here, guys. Just make sure those straps are good and tight.

  The elevator doors opened to admit Phyllis Keets to the basement parking garage of the Chrysler Building. She walked past the dimly gleaming ranks of cars and limos to the bulbous-nosed RV with ribbed all-terrain tyres and mirror-reflecting windows. At her approach the side door slid open and an arm was extended to help her inside. The door slid shut with a solid clunk.

  Phyllis settled herself on the bench seat and noisily blew her nose into a tissue.

  The five figures, attired in dark suits, waited for her to finish. She fumbled in her purse for another tissue, wiped her stained cheeks while they patiently waited some more.

  ‘Are you catching cold?’ Graye inquired.

  ‘I had to give a performance.’

  ‘Was it a success?’

  ‘He seemed to think so.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Phyllis pushed the crumpled tissues into her bag. ‘When the Oscar nominations are announced, check out my name.’ She looked up, eyes dry now, stony. ‘I found him.’

  5

  The bed felt solid. The bedsprings creaked as he moved his weight.

  Cawdor gasped and laughed weakly. For a horrible moment he’d thought he must be dead, but the creaking bedsprings reassured him he wasn’t. He pressed his foot to the floor, and that was solid, too. He moved across the solid floor to the door. The corridor was dark and there was a musty smell – but of course the house was very old, Cawdor reminded himself, with stone floors and arched portals and hanging tapestries thirty feet long.

  The floor was gritty underfoot. Mrs Brandt was an efficient housekeeper but sweeping wasn’t one of her many talents. He paused in the chill corridor with its flagged floor, uncertain which way to go. Ahead of him in the gloom was a staircase, the varnish on the banister rail worn through to the wood where many hands had scuffed it away. Cawdor climbed the staircase to a part of the house he’d never been before. Unlike the rest of the building, this was more like a hospital. The floor had a rubbery feel to it. The walls were a restful shade of green, with globes in the ceiling casting an even light that didn’t hurt the eyes.

  There was an acrid smell in the air, as of something burning.

  Cawdor paused in mid-stride. A door, slightly ajar, seemed to be inviting him to push it open. He did so and went in.

  A figure shrouded in a white sheet lies on a bed, wires trailing to the floor. The shrouded figure twitches; the torso jerks; the legs quiver. There is the dry crackle of electricity, and the smell of burning is stronger now, stinging his nostrils. Afraid to look, and yet compelled to, Cawdor moves to the bed and pulls back the sheet.

  Then freezes, rooted to the spot.

  The man lying there – rubber pads clamped to his temples, face tight with pain as the surges of electricity course through his body – is himself. Cawdor stands by the bed, the sheet in his hand, gazing down numbly at his own white, foam-flecked face.

  The eyelids flicker and spring open. The eyes are dulled and unfocused. They register Cawdor’s amazement, and a sudden nervous spasm jerks the tortured features into what might be a grin.

  Took your time, Jeff…’ The lips slowly form the words, as if each word is an agony. ‘But you finally made it.’

  Cawdor reaches out, only to see the image of himself and the hospital bed fading away. The sheet in his hand disperses like pale smoke. The figure in the bed is now a vague blur, hovering in space, like a pencil sketch with only the outlines left.

  Leaning against the wall, Cawdor wipes cold sweat from his face. His limbs are shaking, whether through fear or fatigue he doesn’t know. He squeezes his left hand into a fist, trying to stop the pins and needles shooting through it.

  Cawdor raises the hand in front of his face and examines the fingers. He shuts his eyes. The tingling sensation continues as before, but there’s something else. Something he didn’t expect.

  He can see the hand through his closed eyelids.

  The hand is floating, ghostlike, unattached, in midair. He opens his eyes and stares at it.

  He turns away and for the first time sees the plate-glass window. It takes up the whole of one wall, like a polished black mirror. He cups his hands to the glass and stares out. Buildings loom, rising up to a starry sky – a slice of crescent moon high above. He looks down below and sees a swamp of industrial waste, belching toxic fumes. And there are people down there, trudging through it, greyfaced, emaciated, wearing masks. Like the lost souls of the damned.

  Cawdor stares through his cupped hands.

  Who are these people?

  What city is this?

  From the window, Cawdor gazes down into the dark miasmic canyons, and far below he sees a deserted highway. Cluster of lights in the distance. A car pulls in at a gas station. A thin man with lank fair hair takes a gun from the glove compartment and tucks it inside his dark-blue windbreaker. While the attendant fills the tank he strolls inside and browses through the magazines. The attendant returns, a fat red-haired kid of fifteen or sixteen, wiping his hands on a rag. The man with lank fair hair and the bad eye swivels round, one hand free, the other inside his windbreaker. All the cash you have, sonny. Hand it over. Now. The kid turns to the drawer. His hand hovers, drifts below the counter. He turns suddenly, burnished blue barrel raised. Go ahead, scumbag. Make my day. Grins with gapped teeth. Take your hand outta there. Slowly. The man with lank fair hair looks surprised. The look of surprise transfers to the red-haired kid as the man with lank fair hair brings his free hand up and fires from the hip. Sucker punch. The gun was tucked into the back of his pants. The kid slithers on his own blood. His belly is dripping. He does a soft-shoe shuffle and tries a back flip, which doesn’t come off on the wet floor. He stares up at the man, remembering his lank fair hair and bad eye and scar for all of three seconds, before another bullet goes through his windpipe and another lodges in his left lung. The man with lank fair hair scoops out the cash drawer and stuffs a dozen Twinkie bars into his pocket. Shakes his head. Make my day! What a jerk-off.

  Cawdor watches everything – watches the kid slither and drop behind the counter. Watches the man with lank fair hair bundle the leaking leaden body in the trunk and speed away down the dark deserted highway – and can do nothing. The events will not be changed. How can they be changed, when they are taking place inside Kersh’s brain?

  But, if nothing can be changed, Cawdor thinks despairingly, why is he here? Kersh exists, and while he continues to exist these events will continue to happen, enacting and re-enacting themselves …

  Behold in this mirror all your past and future times …

  He looks through his own ghostlike reflection in the gleaming black surface of the window, and suddenly he realises what Doctor Khuman has been driving at since the day they met. History could not be rewritten. What was past was gone for ever. If it was the only past. The future was infinite in its permutations, so why not the past?

  An infinity of pasts.

  Cawdor begins to perceive what Doctor Khuman had meant about the unity of all things – the endless cycle of birth, death and rebirth – being broken in one place. A small gap through which one could enter into something strange and new, not bound by the everyday plodding pace
of the here and the now.

  There is a way through. A gap exists and, if Kersh could find it, then so can he.

  Cawdor stands at the window looking up at the pale slice of moon. It remains stuck there like a piece of silver paper. Around it the stars are fat and brilliant, sparkling against the black velvet sky. Nodding to himself, a slow smile creeps over his lips. He now knows without the slightest shadow of doubt that Kersh is the man on the balcony on top of the tower.

  And that Kersh is the man he has to destroy.

  Kersh has the uneasy feeling he’s being got at. He can’t put his finger on when and how it started. Just that things seem to be out of whack all of a sudden.

  Stretched out on the sofa, Jack Daniel’s on the rocks in one hand, remote zapper in the other, he tries to relax with some favourite entertainment. He knows what he wants to see, and flicks up the picture, boosts the stereo surroundsound to near max, settles back and takes a stiff belt. Spotlights stab down on to the stage. A drum roll starts up, giving him goosebumps, because he’s already feeling the thrill of anticipation. Then the applause builds like a wave breaking over rocks as a shadowy figure strides out from the side of the stage, and Kersh can feel the tension shoot through the auditorium like an electric charge.

  Nobody beats the King in live performance. Not even Frankie boy, and he was pretty hot in his heyday.

  Kersh’s grin sags. Liquor dribbles out and drips off his chin.

  The tall lean guy with the sideburns and the snarl and the hip swivel has turned into a bloated whale in a sequinned suit with a pasty face made out of Pilsbury dough. He doesn’t stand there: he squats, all 275 pounds of him. He doesn’t walk: he waddles, hairless chest and flabby gut bursting through the buttons of his shirt. And that curl-lipped snarl has turned into the weak pleading puppy-dog look of a drunk begging for a hand-out.

  Kersh can only stare; he’s too stunned to do anything else. He doesn’t want this. Not only that, he didn’t ask for it. And anything he wants he asks for and gets. That’s part of the deal. Twenty-one-year-old Elvis live in performance was what he asked for, not this pathetic, middle-aged fat slob dressed up like a Christmas tree.