Mirror Image

by Michael Scott

  He parked the car, climbed out and carefully locked it. The narrow street was buzzing, valets busily parking customers’ cars in a parking lot that catered to the comedy place next door and the nightclub. Talbott could feel the throbbing in the air as he approached and he cringed at the thought of entering the noisy, hot interior, which was undoubtedly crammed with people. There were two large security people at the door, ridiculous in their black suits; they gave Talbott the once over, nodded, and for a moment, he thought they were going to stop him, but they apparently thought better of it.

  The noise inside the room was a physical thing. He imagined he could feel the very air tremble with sound. His head begin to throb immediately and he was conscious of his heartbeat increasing in time to the pulsing of the music. How anyone could come to a place like this for pleasure was beyond him.

  It took him ten minutes before he finally got the barman’s attention over the noise, and there was surprisingly little change from his ten bucks for his bottle of Perrier. He turned his back to the bar, squeezing through the sweaty bodies before finding a small breathable space, looking for Manny.

  The stench in the place was almost overpowering, a combination of a hundred perfumes, both male and female, sweat, alcohol, the sweeter tang of hash and the vaguest hint of rot and damp. How could this be pleasurable, he wondered again.

  He sipped the water, his hard cold eyes watching the crowd. The problem was that Manny’s outfit was similar enough to scores of the young women present, and he knew that unless she actually passed right by him … there! He immediately pushed his way through the throng, following the young girl, using his height to watch her move, relaxed, through the crowd. The pulsating lights were infuriating, making him clumsy, and if there was skill to moving through a crowded room, then he obviously didn’t possess it.

  Manny was lounging up against a wall when he finally caught up with her. Her right leg was raised high enough to display that she was wearing no underwear, her head tilted back against the wall, a hand-rolled cigarette drooping between her lips. The man standing directly in front of her, his hand high on her thigh, was old enough to be her father—older probably.

  Talbott shouldered his way into the couple and plucked the man’s hand off the girl’s thigh.

  “Hey, what the fuck…”

  Talbott brought his face close to the man’s, smelling his aftershave and sweat. “She’s my daughter,” he hissed.

  “She’s over the age of consent!” he blustered.

  Talbott’s hard fingers grabbed a fistful of the flesh that bulged over the older man’s waistband and squeezed. The smile on his face was terrifying. “Do you enjoy pain?” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the throbbing of the music. “Now fuck off!” He gave a final twist to the flabby stomach flesh for emphasis, and the man turned pale in agony before backing away from the terrifying figure.

  When Edmund Talbott turned back to the girl she was gone!

  60

  IT WAS turning out to be a shitty night.

  It hadn’t started out right and it was going to end in tears, she knew that.

  Manny had been feeling off all day, a little distracted, a little dizzy, like she’d done some grass or speed, but she hadn’t done drugs since she’d come back from Paris—well not much really, a few tokes at Amanda’s party a couple of weeks ago, but nothing serious.

  Maybe it was just all the madness in the air over the past couple of weeks. People she’d known had died for Christ’s sake! Surely that meant that she was entitled to feel a little crazy?

  She’d planned to stay in, but late in the evening she’d opted for a long leisurely bath rather than a shower, and soaked for the best part of an hour and that had helped to wake her up. She’d climbed out of the bath and dried herself off in front of the full length mirror, curious at the peculiar changes taking place in her body. The hair on her head, for example, was really growing quickly and her pubic hair, which she’d recently had waxed, was now growing in as well. Her breasts, which were full, actually looked and felt heavier, and she was obviously putting on weight, too, because her stomach looked slightly rounded, though when she checked it on the scale, she discovered she’d lost a pound. Must be something to do with her period, she decided again; maybe it was coming early this month. Wasn’t stress supposed to bring it on—or did that delay it?

  She needed a night out, she decided. On her own: just go out, go wild, drink a few cocktails, maybe toke a few joints, find a nice guy to dance with …

  And it was a mistake.

  She’d realized that about five minutes after entering the club. In the time she’d been away in Paris, the character of the place had changed. It used to be the “in” place to be seen, limousines lined up outside, celebrities would come and hang out, the paparazzi would have a field day photographing the rich and famous as they entered, blocking the entrance and then hanging around waiting for them to leave in a disheveled state, drunk and slightly high. Now the club had turned into a cattle market, with a lot of older guys cruising for girls who couldn’t be older than some of their daughters. The music was a lot louder, too, and the colored strobes that she used to find so exciting now only confused and disorientated her. All the old faces were gone—except Miriam, who’d been the coat check girl when she’d last been there and who remembered her. As Manny handed over her coat, Miriam slid her a joint with her ticket, “Help ease the pain,” she grinned, nodding to the dance floor.

  She’d been relaxing against the wall when this creep had come up to her: short, slightly pudgy, with a shirt open down to his naval. He slid his hand up her leg, saying nothing, concentrating on looking meaningfully into her eyes—which translated as a leer—and she was contemplating kneeing him in the balls, when security had come up and shoved the guy away. She’d wanted none of this, and didn’t want to be leaned on by the security guy. God alone knows what he thought with her dressed in this get up. She was sorry she’d worn it now, especially here, where some of the girls leaning against the walls were eyeing the men with a professional interest. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if some of the security guys were in on the action, and she certainly didn’t want them to think she was a freelancer. In Paris anyway—and Los Angeles too, she assumed—girls working without a pimp tended to end up hurt.

  So, while security was having his few words with the creep, she slid away from the wall, ducked into the cloakroom and grabbed her coat from Miriam, promising she’d call her tomorrow, and was out of the place before either man even noticed she’d gone.

  The fresh night air hit her with an almost physical blow and she stood swaying on the street for a moment, desperately resisting the temptation to vomit. She’d only had one drink, but whatever had been in that joint had been good shit.

  Cab or walk?

  Common sense said cab, so she walked, padding barefoot down the street, dangling her heels in her hands.

  It was a little after eleven, a cool night in November, and the city seemed almost relaxed, all the sounds were muted, and the pulsing of the club faded rapidly as she walked away from it.

  She walked east on Sunset, and ignored the lewd comments from a couple of passing drivers. She wanted to walk a little further to clear her head before making a decision, but there was no way she could go home like this. Her dad would still be up and she didn’t want him to see her dressed like this, or in this state. She must have walked for almost a mile when she decided to rest on the stone steps leading to a building. A fountain spat water, white noise drowning out the traffic. Manny sat peering into the rectangular water fountain, drawn by the mixed colors of deep blue and turquoise mosaic tiles. She had been staring into the flat reflective surface of the water for a few seconds before she realized what she was seeing.

  There was a face beneath the water. Looking up at her. Manny rubbed her eyes, smudging her brown-black mascara and eyeliner across her cheeks.

  An oval face, with prominent rounded cheekbones, full lips, and dark up-til
ted eyes.

  And it was watching her. The mouth opening and closing, calling to her.

  More and more of the body came into view—the shoulders, the chest, arms, hands, fingers, raising upwards, reaching for her, clutching at her, coming closer to the surface, rising up out of the blue waters—and when the body broke the surface Manny knew it was going to pull her in.

  And she couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Could only watch in horrified fascination as the woman came ever closer.

  The mirror image was familiar, desperately familiar, and the portion of her mind that remained coolly practical was trying to work out where she’d seen the face before, but somewhere at the back of her head, she wanted to believe that this was nothing more than the shit she’d been smoking.

  But in her heart and soul, she knew that this was something more than a hallucination, this was too real, the image was too powerful.

  She was looking down into the water, locked onto the shimmering reflections … when cool, long fingered hands burst from the surface, locked around her shoulders and dragged her down.

  * * *

  “YOU WERE SWAYING to and fro when I saw you. I knew you were going to fall into the water. You could have drowned.”

  Manny Frazer looked up into Edmund Talbott’s scarred face and then fainted gracefully into his arms.

  61

  JONATHAN FRAZER had given blood on dozens of occasions, and it was a simple straightforward task, with absolutely no pain, merely resulting in a mild discomfort in the crook of his arm. So extracting a pint of his own blood should have been no problem—or so he thought.

  It had taken him the best part of two hours to get close to three-quarters of a pint. His left arm was one enormous bruise and the ragged puncture in his vein now almost spitefully refused to close. The bathroom sink and mirror were speckled with blood and the stink of his own sweat was heavy on the pine-scented air.

  Jonathan looked at the glass beaker full of the viscous liquid, and wondered if it was enough. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, surprised at the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the lines on his face. He looked old, he decided, old and tired.

  He ran his fingers down through the stubble on his chin, scratching. He hated being unshaven; it was practically the first thing he did each morning, and usually again just before dinner. He had shaved this morning, surely he didn’t need to shave again? He stopped, and then stepped out of the bathroom to look at the red glowing figures on the digital clock on the nightstand.

  Two minutes past midnight.

  He stared at the clock, watching the digits change from two to three. Where had the time gone? It had seemed to slip away while he’d been staring into the mirror watching the naked woman make love to the fat man before she killed him. It was a dream, nothing more, except … except that it had been so real. So vivid.

  He looked at the bottle of blood again. He must be out of his fucking mind to even consider it!

  But he had seen something in the mirror, he reminded himself. And now he was going to see if he could see it again. He was conducting a scientific experiment. If nothing happened he could feel stupid, and he could curse himself for being seven sorts of a fool. But he had seen what blood did to the mirror; this was not going to fail.

  Wincing with the ache in his left arm, working slowly and painfully, he cleaned up the bathroom, wiping away all traces of the blood, flushing the evidence down the toilet. As he came out of the bathroom he glanced at the clock again.

  Twelve thirty.

  He had the house to himself. Manny had gone out, and he doubted he’d see her again before dawn, so he had plenty of time. He’d spend an hour or so with the mirror, and then give it up. He looked at his wife’s dressing table, and wondered where she was, whose arms she was in. Well, if everything went according to plan, he’d soon know.

  He began to giggle then, the sound high-pitched and hysterical in the empty house.

  62

  SHE’D BEEN married about seven years when Celia Frazer had her first affair. Wasn’t it men who were supposed to get the seven year itch? Celia had a lot of time on her hands then: the nanny looked after Emmanuelle during the day, Jonathan had been busy building up and expanding the business. She’d been bored and it wasn’t entirely her fault: Jonathan was as much to blame.

  That first flush of passion that had brought them together had worn off and Jonathan seemed quite content to allow it to bubble along at a simmer. But she needed him to be a little more responsive, a little more demonstrative, in showing his love for her. A peck on the cheek in the morning, another at night when he came in from the store and by bedtime, he was usually too tired for lovemaking, except on the weekends.

  But on the weekends she usually arranged a dinner party or organized a night at the theatre with friends or a movie with the result that when they returned home, she was usually too tired—or too drunk—for lovemaking.

  They had also become a little bored with one another.

  So, given the combination of circumstances, was it any wonder that she looked outside her marriage for satisfaction? Her first lover had been a neighbor, a foreign diplomat stationed in Los Angeles. His wife spent much of the time abroad and he’d been lonely. Theirs was a purely physical relationship and it had lasted on and off for nearly three months, and had taken place right under Jonathan’s nose—although she was quite convinced that unless he had actually come home and found them making love in the bed, he wouldn’t have noticed. The affair ended when her lover was posted abroad, and Celia Frazer was just as pleased, she was becoming bored with him anyway.

  It had been a year before she’d had another lover, this time on the first vacation she’d taken on her own. He had been a French student, about ten years her junior, waiting tables to earn money to put himself through college for the coming term. The sex had been unsophisticated but his staying power had been phenomenal.

  The following year there had been another holiday romance, and then after that, well, it became almost a habit. Jonathan’s idea of a vacation and hers differed tremendously, and once the precedent had been set that they should vacation apart, that became the pattern. Finding a lover for the duration of her two or three or four week vacations was now part of the fun.

  This year had been a little different, however. She had met Colin, a young surfer dude who had come to Hawaii to experience big surf. He’d offered to help her improve on her surfing skills, and while she had little interest in surfing, his toned and muscled body attracted her. He had planned to leave a few days before her vacation was due to end, but she persuaded him to stay on as her guest … not that he needed very much persuasion. Colin was a glorious and accomplished lover, always careful to ensure her own satisfaction first, before taking his own. They’d flown home together and he had invited her to join him up in Lake Tahoe where he was a ski instructor for the winter months.

  It was an invitation she didn’t want to refuse, but she couldn’t justify taking off on another vacation having just come back from one. Could she?

  But when she arrived home, Jonathan had been in shock at the death of that horrible Farren man. He’d been stamping around the place in a foul temper; there’d been police everywhere, and while the social circuit had suddenly rediscovered her, she knew they were only looking for tasty bits of gossip. She needed to get away for a bit, so she finally decided: hell, why not? She could go off to Lake Tahoe and enjoy herself with someone she liked, or she could stay at home, miserable, with someone she didn’t really care about one way or another. Maybe that was what was wrong with their marriage: they didn’t really care for one another, weren’t really interested in one another, they had become too bound up in their own lives, their own petty interests. Where had the sharing gone?

  She’d still hesitated about making the final decision to go to Tahoe—because she felt that in some ways it might be the final decision. But when Jonathan started actually sleeping in the guesthouse, well then, it was an easy decision to make.


  At least with Colin she knew where she stood. Their relationship—if that’s what you wanted to call it—was almost purely physical. He was eight years younger than her, and his energy and boyish enthusiasm made her feel like a teenager again.

  She was still young. She should be out there enjoying life. Maybe it was time to start thinking about a divorce.

  At least while there was still money to be split.

  * * *

  CELIA FRAZER, PLEASANTLY sated by the two bottles of wine they had drunk over dinner, lay back on the bed and watched the young man undress. Colin Mariner was tall, perpetually-tanned, broad-shouldered, and slim-hipped. Nine months on the water ensured toned six-pack abs and his shoulder length hair was bleached golden blond. And Jonathan—skinny, pale-skinned, short, graying black hair, with the beginnings of a paunch—compared very unfavorably with him. In fact, there was no contest.

  Kicking off the single sheet, she turned her head to look at herself in the dressing table mirror, running her hands down her naked body. She thought she kept herself in pretty good condition. A good body, maybe a little too slim, small firm breasts, a flat stomach and narrow waist. The muscles in her thighs were clearly delineated now from all the surfing which made her seem slightly out of proportion … maybe she’d go to the gym and work on her shoulder and chest muscles. She brushed the palms of her hands up across her flat stomach, aware now that Colin was watching her. Maybe she’d think about slightly bigger breasts, too, the new implants were apparently absolutely amazing.

  Celia turned back to Colin, cupping her breasts provocatively. “What would you think if I had them made bigger?”

  The young man laughed. “I like them just the way they are,” he said, climbing onto the bed between her outstretched legs, leaning forward to delicately kiss each nipple. “Besides,” he added with a startling white smile, “anything more than a mouthful is a waste.” His mouth opened wide, then closed around most of her breast.