Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  ‘So I’m going to be sacked?’ Dawn sobbed, suddenly losing the last shreds of control.

  ‘Well, you can hardly continue to work here, can you? What you have done isn’t just a breach of regulations, it’s an act of sexual abuse against someone in your care.’

  ‘Abuse? No, it wasn’t like that…’

  ‘Our patients are classified as vulnerable adults. You were the responsible party. And whatever it seemed to you, the rules are clear that it was you who abused the relationship of professionalism and trust which should exist between you and your patient. It’s a criminal offence, and if found guilty you will be put on the sex offenders’ register.’

  Dawn Evans was in floods of tears now. ‘No, no, that’s not true,’ she wailed.

  ‘Well, did he assault you at any time, or force you?’

  She considered for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ever do anything to you that was not consensual?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No.’

  ‘Then you have no defence, have you?’

  Dawn Evans hung her head so low that she looked like a broken doll. Mordant’s plaything, used up and abandoned.

  He turned to his papers. ‘I’m afraid my hands are tied on this. We have to suspend you for gross misconduct, and once the police have finished you will be escorted from the premises today.’

  Dawn Evans began to wail like a child.

  Lamb handed her a paper handkerchief. ‘Now, this isn’t yet a dismissal. You are entitled to a later meeting to which you can bring along a representative either from the union or a lawyer, or a friend, before this is formalised as dismissal, if you think any part of this process has been unfair. Here are all the leaflets that detail your rights.’ He handed her a sheaf of brightly coloured pamphlets. ‘However, I would greatly appreciate it if we could do this in a circumspect manner. An employment tribunal would be a public event, and your name and that of Broadmoor would undoubtedly suffer the scouring of an unsympathetic press. If we could informally make that agreement, I will happily extend your notice period so you get paid two more months.’

  There was no reply. He glanced up at her, a small, nervous and desperate figure. ‘Do you have any questions?’

  She nodded. ‘Once he’s recaptured, can I apply to visit him?’

  Only then did Lamb understand the depth of the hold that Mordant had over her, how the loss of her job, the stigma, the shame, the criminal record were nothing compared to the realisation that she would never see him again.

  ‘Dawn,’ he said, ‘I have tried to save your feelings, but you have to wake up. We found this with the other stuff. It’s obviously nothing but a piece of fantasy. Nonetheless, Mordant doesn’t care about you. His thoughts are elsewhere.’

  He showed her a cream envelope, addressed to the director, and already opened. She slid out an invitation card, on whose reverse was a message written in Mordant’s copperplate.

  Richard. Sorry to have to rush off like this, but I’m getting married next week. I would love to have stayed for the tribunal, but needs must!

  On the front of the envelope was embossed a title:

  Wedding invitation

  Mr William Mordant and Miss Lydia Mira Nikolayevna Roskova

  Saturday 25 April 2015

  Midnight

  Venue TBA

  Dawn Evans picked up the card and her face darkened and hardened, changing shape before his eyes. ‘The bastard!’ She tore the card in two. And then put the pieces together and ripped them in two again, her jaw set. She stood up, glared at Lamb and said: ‘I take it you have finished with me now?’ She was about to throw the fragments of card into his face, then thought better of it. Instead she put them back in the envelope, stowed it in her bag, and stalked out, slamming the door.

  The moment she left, Lamb picked up the phone to Geoff Featherstone. Someone should make sure she hadn’t retained any keys.

  * * *

  Dawn Evans slammed every door in the corridor as she strode towards the staffroom. Muttering to herself she almost bowled over another nurse as she tore down the stairs. How could he spurn her love, her affection and all the risks and sacrifices she had made for his happiness? How could he be so deluded as to even imagine marrying some world famous model who hadn’t even heard of him? She went to her desk, unlocked the drawers and dumped her possessions, her casework, the mug with its kitten on the side, and her spare shoes all into one cardboard box. She tried to log onto her computer, but it flashed a message: access denied. She rushed, because she now knew there was something important to do before the police arrived. She grabbed a jotter pad and wrote a short, anonymous but very informative note. She folded it, put it in the envelope with the pieces of Mordant’s wedding invitation, and slid it into her trouser pocket. She then headed for Cavendish Ward. She passed through three security doors, relieved that the access combinations hadn’t yet been changed. This took her into a corridor she hadn’t visited since the night of the six-man unlock, all those weeks ago. She then slid the envelope under the door of Lunatic Lucy’s room.

  * * *

  THREE DAYS

  Leonard Lucifer Smith was sitting in a wheelchair in Broadmoor’s staff car park, waiting to go to Frimley Park Hospital to assess progress since his operation. Two uniformed security staff, Roger and Phil, manoeuvred the chair onto the disabled lift at the back of the plain white van, and when it was up, secured him inside. Lucy scrutinised them. Roger, the driver, with a florid face and white beard, was like a tattooed Santa. Phil with cropped dark hair and a broken nose, more like a bouncer. Hefty blokes gone to seed in middle age, the typical screw physique. Easy meat if he decided to kick off. But they were talking over him like he didn’t exist. Anyone in a wheelchair, well, they can’t be much trouble, can they? They probably thought he couldn’t walk. Well, he could. It hurt a bit. But he could do it. If he needed to.

  On the night of the razor wire, they had eight screws with him down at A&E. Now just two. A complete loss of respect, that’s what it was, despite the handcuffs they still kept on him. Still, in the two months since, much had changed. The whispers in his head that GCHQ was monitoring his thoughts had gone quiet. He’d stopped nicking kitchen foil from the Broadmoor nosh-house to line his room against radio messages. The shrink, Kasovas, was delighted at the progress he was making and had complimented him on not refusing a single day’s medication in the weeks since the attack. But it wasn’t the drugs, it was something in his head. It was almost as if he knew that he was now going to get a mission in life. And then, just yesterday, like a message from God it had arrived.

  Dear Lucy,

  I would like you to know that your injury was inflicted on you by William Mordant. Now he’s absconded I’m sure you have friends outside who can trace him, and perhaps this invitation will help.

  an anonymous friend

  The great thing about all this was that Lucy had a very good idea where Mordant would choose to get married. And, with any luck, he would be there waiting for him.

  * * *

  Virgil had arrived as arranged, and was kept waiting in the cold outside the baroness’s apartment block. The buzzer wasn’t being answered, and neither was her phone. He was just about to ring Natasha when he saw her walk around the corner towards him. She said that he could wait inside until her mother arrived. ‘Where’s Mira?’ Natasha asked.

  ‘She’s safe. She’s staying with Ram’s family in Belgravia for a couple of nights. It’s pretty secure there. I’ll be staying there as well for the next few nights, but I had arranged to meet your mother to find out more about this mental patient who escaped.’

  ‘Ah yes, William Mordant. Do you think he’ll stalk her?’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Virgil said as they waited for the lift.

  Once in the lift, Natasha started working her phone. ‘I’m just texting mum to remind her that you’re here. It’s unlike her to be late.’

  They exited on the third floor, and wa
lked the short distance to the apartment. Natasha unlocked the front door, and called out as they walked in. No reply. She wandered into the kitchen to put coffee on, after showing Virgil into the large and comfortable lounge. Virgil absorbed the various art works, one of which seemed to be a large drawing of the baroness, nude, wet-haired and apparently asleep draped over a settee. In fact it looked very much like the settee he was sitting on. Come to think of it, the cushion where he was sitting did feel damp. He stood up, and felt his trousers. Natasha came in and saw him prodding the seat cushion.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘The seat’s wet.’

  ‘Really?’ She prodded the seat. It was quite damp. Then she turned around and stood still. ‘Oh. She’s got a new drawing. It’s another Wōdan. Look.’

  Virgil looked back at the drawing. ‘It can’t be one of his, can it?’

  ‘It looks like his others. I know the style by now,’ Natasha said, sipping her coffee.

  ‘But she’s posing on this settee,’ Virgil said. ‘It’s got the pattern, and the coffee table.’

  Virgil looked at her saw her eyes widen. He took the framed picture off the wall, rested it on the coffee table and tried to read the signature which was partially obscured by the large frame.

  ‘He’s been here,’ Virgil said. ‘In the last twenty-four hours, with her.’

  Natasha looked again at the drawing, then picked up her phone and rang her mother’s number. It went to voicemail. ‘I’m really worried,’ she said. Virgil watched the fears tumble down her face, fears that would inevitably lead to the conclusion that he had just come to. Asleep in the drawing? Or dead.

  * * *

  Five miles from Frimley, Lucy announced he needed a toilet, and no, it couldn’t wait. They whinged and complained, but Roger eventually stopped at a petrol station, and reversed round the back of the payment kiosk, up to the toilet. He and Phil unloaded him, and wheeled him past the jet wash and tyre air bay into the large disabled cubicle.

  ‘Right. There you are. You going to be alright then, mate?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Fine and dandy, assuming you’re happy to wipe my arse for me,’ Lucy said, holding up his handcuffed wrists.

  ‘Bloody hell! I told you we should have brought the closeting chain,’ Phil said, referring to the ten foot chain which allowed a secured patient to preserve their privacy inside a toilet cubicle. ‘But, no, you said it’s just a short journey, he won’t need it.’

  ‘Alright, smartarse. Unlock him,’ Roger said. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  Phil got the keys from his belt and unlocked the cuffs, then turned to go. ‘You’re going to have to lift me on,’ Lucy said. ‘And close the fucking door. I need some privacy.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Roger said. He closed the door, shooting an exasperated glance at Phil. They wheeled him next to the toilet bowl, bent over to get a lift under his legs, while Lucy put one huge arm around the neck of each. Just as they were about to lift he smashed their heads together as hard as he could. Phil hit the floor, out cold, while Roger needed to have his face smacked hard into the floor a couple of times to still his cries. Kneeling on the floor, Lucy grabbed them by the throat, a thumb hard on each Adam’s apple as they came round. ‘Make a sound, fill a coffin. Understand?’ Their terrified eyes signalled agreement. He stripped them of phones and radios, got them to undress to their underwear, made Roger spread-eagle face down, and got Phil to handcuff him, arms behind. Then he handcuffed Phil, back-to-back and upside down against Roger. He balled their socks, stuffed them into their mouths, holding them in place with shoelaces tied tight around their heads. He then took Roger’s second set of cuffs, pushed Phil’s bare feet either side of one armrest of the wheelchair, and cuffed them together, so he couldn’t move without taking the chair with him. He gathered up all keys, wallets, coins, which he wrapped up in a shirt with the phones. He squeezed himself into Phil’s jacket, and felt in the pocket.

  ‘Look. I’ve got twenty pence!’ Lucy said, holding up the coin. ‘If I hear as much as a whisper out of you, I’m going to take the air pump and shove thirty-three PSI of compressed air up your arses till you explode!’

  Lucy found a pen on a chain by the cleaning rota certificate, snapped it off and walked to the door. Before leaving he turned to them and pointed to his own legs. ‘Behold, he can walk. Hallelujah! It’s a fucking miracle!’ he closed the door behind him, scrawled out of order on the outside, and then climbed gingerly into the driver’s seat of the van. He rifled through the glove compartment, found a pair of scratched sunglasses and put them on. Then he found the van keys, started the engine and drove off.

  * * *

  While Natasha again tried to ring her mother, Virgil discreetly searched the flat. The bed in the master bedroom was dishevelled, and had clearly been used, while the main bathroom was draped with soggy towels. The other two bedrooms didn’t look disturbed. There was no sign of a body. When he came back into the lounge, Natasha had prised off the back of the picture frame. The drawing was indeed signed by Wōdan, and had been made on the back of another picture, a watercolour of flowers.

  ‘Natasha, we have to ring the police,’ Virgil said gently. ‘When was the last time you heard from your mother?’

  ‘This morning,’ said Natasha. ‘She texted me asking for Mira’s mobile number and home address, because she wanted to invite her to a party.’

  ‘Did you give them to her?’

  Natasha nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course. And Ram’s home address and phone too.’

  Virgil sank his face into his hands. ‘Oh God, I don’t think anywhere is going to be safe now.’ He looked up. ‘Do you know why it was I wanted to speak to your mother?’

  ‘Something about Wōdan I suppose. He’s a murderer, isn’t he? Is that what you are going to tell me?’

  Virgil nodded slowly. He knew he couldn’t dare go into details while there was still some hope that Suzannah Earl may still be alive. And Natasha, watching him, knew as much. It is probably too late now for the baroness. But saving Mira’s life was still possible. Virgil picked up his phone. He had a long list of calls to make. Mira first, then the police.

  * * *

  Virgil didn’t normally attend the Thursday afternoon Team Mira meeting at Stardust Brands, but these weren’t normal times, and after making his calls he hurried along. He’d been guarding Mira at Ram’s home in Belgravia for several days, and now they were both needed for a very important decision. The newspapers were full of the missing baroness and the hunt for the multiple murderer William Mordant. His obsession with Mira appeared prominently in many of the newspapers, alongside a chronology of the turbulent few months of the world’s most beautiful woman.

  ‘It’s down to this,’ said Jonesy, tossing his spectacles onto the table and folding his arms behind his head. ‘Mira, you could easily cancel this funeral tomorrow. Given what’s happened no one would blame you. On the other hand, if you do go, you’d seem courageous and principled, and it might help to erase some of the stain over the Lawrence Wall issue. We’d definitely see some positive social media outcomes.’

  ‘Come on, we’ve got to keep her safe. That’s the number one priority, ’ said Portia, slapping her hand on the table. ‘We can’t send her out there!’

  Mira, dressed in black jeans and sweatshirt, sat with her legs pulled up onto a chair, resting her chin on her knees. She turned to look at Virgil. ‘What do you think, would it be safe?’

  ‘There is going to be a significant police presence. If Mordant shows up anywhere near that village, they’ll have him. But having said that, it is still effectively a public event. The newspapers have written up that you are going to be there, so it could attract any type of trouble. It’s your decision either way.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ Mira said, ‘I spoke to Mrs Stevens for over an hour just last week. She was crying the whole time, telling me how much Danielle adored me. And I gave her my word that I’d be there.’

  ‘Yes, but I guess she’d unde
rstand,’ Thad said.

  Mira laughed. ‘I don’t know that she would. Her daughter died trying to emulate what I did in Village of the Dead. It seems pretty selfish to give my word and then break it. I mean, you guys are always going on about my brand and everything, right?’

  ‘Moi?’ said Jonesy, smiling.

  ‘Yeah. I mean, I’m supposed to be pure, trustworthy, and dependable. Isn’t that what you told Suressence?’

  Thad shrugged. ‘I guess I did.’

  ‘I think you should go,’ said Kelly. ‘You’re showing you are bigger than this. Virgil will look after you.’

  Portia turned and glared at Kelly, as if she’d only just realised she was sitting there. ‘Don’t you have some of the post still to handle? The fan mail agency has really struggled in the last few weeks and could probably do with your oversight.’

  Kelly looked outraged and turned to Thad, who nodded in agreement with Portia and said. ‘Yeah. We’ve got a decision anyway, Mira’s going. And perhaps we could get some coffee when you’re done, Kelly. Thanks.’

  Kelly stood up and stalked out, leaving an atmosphere.

  ‘So Thad, are we going to get a press release together about it?’ Jonesy asked. ‘To emphasise her principled stand. Or do we leave them to draw their own conclusion?’

  ‘It’s a tricky one,’ Thad said. ‘We could offer some interviews just after the funeral, that would seem less self-serving. Just a few, maybe BBC, ITN and Sky. How’s that sound?’

  The next moment there was a huge bang, and the sound of breaking glass. The door to the next office flew open and a huge cloud of black smoke and dust blew in. They were showered in glass fragments from the transom panels above. Everyone sat stunned for a second and then a horrible screaming started from the next room, followed by the deafening sound of the fire alarm.

  Kelly!

  Virgil was on his feet in a second. He clicked his fingers at Mira and pointed: under the table. She was just staring into her lap so he yelled ‘Mira, now! Everyone else lie on the floor. Don’t anyone move until I get back. Mordant could be here.’