do me in me if I try to lift it out.’
So meantime both the tree and the washing line were still there, in situ.
The couple was looking up. The way they seemed to stare in my direction was eerie, almost as if they could see me. It made me feel as if they knew I was there watching them through time and space which was, I suppose, pretty much what I was doing. It was just such a pity that the mirror didn’t work like a videophone or webcam. If it did, we could have had a face-to-face, spoken con-versation. I could have asked them why the hell they were there, ask them if they had any idea at all of what they were doing to my head, turning up like this and turning my familiar world up-side-down and back-to-front.
As it was, I could only look and attempt to make a ‘wild surmise.’ (Another poetical quote, this time from the ill-starred romantic poet John Keats. He’d always seemed too soft a writer but in recent times I’d taken a shine to him.) An attempt was as much as I managed. Even though I tried to force my mind to understand what was happening, I didn’t succeed. Not one iota. My mind stayed an artistic blank.
Laurie and Iris quietly faded from the mirror
and my phone beeped a text at me. I blinked. Laurie and Iris had completely gone but the text-message remained, illuminated by the blue backlight of my phone. I decided to ignore it, for now. It would only be Rach or Em again.
At least I was certain of now was that I had not imagined them, Laurie and Iris I mean. That they had been a figment of my imagination was possible once, maybe even twice, but definitely not three times. It wasn’t until my back started aching from having sat hunched on the edge of the mattress for so long, that I finally decided one thing. Those images weren’t simply like photographs, they were photographs. Once I had accepted that notion it seemed so obviously right that it had to be true. Nothing else seemed truer. Not that this ‘discovery’ shone a bright light on matters for me, far from it. I was still woefully ignorant.
Ignorance is meant to be bliss but it felt to me more like some sort of cruel and unusual punishment. Laurie and Iris were going to do my head in.
I got up and paced my room. Once you decide something is a ‘fact’ it sometimes becomes easier to move onto the next ‘fact’. How good were the chances, I wondered, of the images - the photos - being the very same ones that had once decorated Laurie and Iris’ home, each photo a precious memory of a part of their lives together? Even though neither Laurie nor Iris themselves, nor their photographs, were themselves any longer in the house, had their long presence there made them visible to me via the mirrors? (Yes, I know this
sounds like Harry’s séance stuff and nonsense, but. . .) And if so, why was I seeing them? Why me, and no one else? Was it because the mirrors had begun to haunt me before Laurie and Iris had even made an appearance in them? Could be.
And, the biggest question of all, how?
I had no answers. And then, just as I felt I was reaching out to take hold of a vague intuition of
how I might find out something more, my phone began to make another sound, not a text this time, but an actual call. I got such a shock, my vague intuition dissolved, dissipated, disappeared and died.
Is this how the Trojan War began?
It was Troy.
‘Uoy detxet I.’
‘What?’
‘I texted you,’ he translated.
‘Did you?’ I looked down at my phone. He was right. It hadn’t been Rach or Em.
‘Just a minute.’ I opened the text.
Do you know about Palindromes? it read.
What on earth did that mean?
‘What on earth does that mean?’ I asked him.
‘I just wondered if you did,’ he said. ‘And if you do know about them, do you like them. I do.’
‘Like you like speaking backwards?’
‘Yeah. Palindromes are the coolest things. They read exactly the same forwards or backwards. You can have single words like ‘radar’, or whole sentences like ‘Dammit, I’m mad!’’
‘You said it,’ I said. ‘Is that all?’
‘Not, there are lots more. There are even
palindromes in the DNA sequence.’
‘I mean is that all you wanted?’
‘I guess so.’
‘You texted me and then you rang me to talk about palindrones?’
‘Palindromes.’
‘Palindromes.’
‘Yes.’
I hung up.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. So I did both, in that order.
Heart to (h)ear(t)
Em rang next, an hour or so later. This was unusual for her. As you know, she much preferred to text than to talk. So I gathered it must be important.
‘The three of us weren’t planning to go to the mall today, were we?’ I said.
‘No, but Rach and I went anyway,’ Em said. ‘We were going to tell you but, you know, you explained how you and Harry were busy with some talent thing.’
So, my best friends were deserting me. (I know, I was over-dramatising, but . . .’)
‘Would you have come if we’d asked?’ Em asked in the pause that followed.
‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Or maybe not,’ said Em.
‘Things have been pretty hectic here lately,’ I said. ‘It isn’t as if I haven’t wanted to go out, it’s not that at all.’
‘Well, there’s still plenty more days,’ said Em, in a conciliatory voice. ‘We want to hear all about
the talent thingy, you know.’
‘I sort of got roped into it before I knew what was happening,’ I said, realizing that since my generous offer of help to Harry, my fabricated excuse had metamorphosed into a genuine one.
‘Will we see you and him on TV?’
‘I’m trying not to think about that,’ I replied. ‘Maybe.’
‘Will we be able to come and cheer for you?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Make sure you do. Anyway, I - we, that is, cause Rach is listening in and agreeing with everything I’m saying - just wanted to say sorry, you know, about Troy. Getting him to call you and all that. And for the way it turned out.’
‘That was uncalled for,’ I said.
‘We know. And we’re sorry, really sorry. We didn’t mean to go and spoil things.’
‘Spoil my illusion,’ I said. ‘It was probably for the best.’
‘The holidays haven’t been the same without you Athens.’
‘The holidays haven’t been the same, full stop,’ I said.
‘What is the matter? Really the matter?’ Em asked. ‘We’re both worried about you.’
‘Things are just . . . busy,’ I said. ‘Unexpectedly busy.’ (Funny how truth could sometimes disguise a lie. Or should that be the other way round? Or - DEEP THOUGHT - was one thing a mirror image of the other - palindromic?)
Finding out more
It was obvious that, apart from what May had told
me, I knew next to nothing about Iris and Laurie. A picture might be worth a thousand words but the pictures I was seeing were saying next to nothing. I had to find out even more about them - Laurie and The Missus, I mean.
In my room, alone, I continued to cogitate. In the distance I heard the bang-thud of a hammer and guessed Harry was busy on his escape-chest
reconstruction. I briefly wondered if, when he heard the sound, Dad would promptly investigate and throw (metaphorically speaking) cold water on Harry’s plan. I figured probably not. Dad tends to favour any sign of Harry, or me for that matter, following in his DIY footsteps. The beat of hammer on wood brings joy to his heart.
I got back to doing some serious thinking about Laurie and Iris, trying to retrace my steps to the idea I’d first had when Troy had rung and interrupted. May had said she might be able to tell me more but I guessed that when it came down to it she wouldn’t have much extra to tell. Not enough to satisfy my questions, at any rate. It didn’t seem as if Laurie had taken either of them - May or Barry - into
his confidence, especially not in his later, alone-years. May wasn’t the pushy type either. She wouldn’t have questioned Laurie too closely or pried into his personal life.
I diverted briefly into wondering whether, if May and Barry had had kids, Iris and Laurie would have turned out to be surrogate grandparents and things might have been different for all of them.
Anyway, none of these speculations were helping me. May said she hadn’t heard from Laurie for about a year and nothing at all from the son who’d managed to persuade his father to leave
the family home. And there was the brain-wave I’d almost lost sight of. Laurie’s son. Of course!
But how could I get hold of him? The answer was strikingly close to home. Dad.
I went on the hunt and found Dad in the lounge where Harry had held his séance, poking in and around the fireplace not, as I’d guessed correctly,
harassing Harry about the damage he was most likely inflicting on his (possibly valuable antique) chest. Dad heard me come in.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Feel the bricks around the mantelpiece.’
I touched them. ‘What about them?’ I said.
‘Rock them a bit,’ he said. ‘Try this one.’
I gently pushed and pulled on one of the bricks. I felt it kind of unclick. It started to come away from the wall, in a dry-powdery sort of way.
‘That’s enough,’ said Dad. ‘Leave it there for now.’
‘But it’s loose,’ I said. The brick felt uncannily like a wobbly tooth. Once it started to wriggle I wanted to keep nagging at it until it popped out. Not unlike the way I’d niggled at my nearly forgotten idea until I’d remembered it.
‘They’re all like that,’ said Dad. ‘The tendrils of dry rot have spread through the mortar. It’s in the process of eating up the whole structure. The downward pressure of the brickwork is possibly all that’s holding it together. If we shifted a few random bricks the whole thing might collapse.’
‘Don’t sound so perversely excited about it,’ I said. ‘It sounds mega dangerous.’ I took a step back, not at all keen for the chimney to fall on top of me.
‘Not so dangerous if we dismantle starting from the top,’ said Dad. ‘Brick by brick. Were you looking for me, by the way?’
‘I was,’ I said.
‘Fire away then,’ said Dad.
‘When you and Mum bought this house,’ I began, ‘did you ever get to meet Laurie and Iris’ son. He was selling it for Laurie, remember?’
I could see Dad shifting mental gears as his
brain moved from fireplaces to house sales.
‘Yes, sort of,’ said Dad.
‘What do you mean, sort of. Sort of meet him or sort of he was selling?’
‘Oh, he was definitely selling it on Laurie’s behalf,’ said Dad, ‘but as he lives up north the actual business side of things went through an agency and our respective lawyers. We were never in touch with him directly about anything to do with the house.’
That was a disappointing answer but hopefully not the end of the lead I was pursuing. ‘Do you have a document with his name and address on it?’ I asked.
Dad thought about this. ‘Possibly. I can’t remember. The contract we signed will very likely have it on with him as the person who had power of attorney.’
‘Power of what?’
‘Attorney. POA. That just means he was able to act on his father’s behalf.’
‘Laurie would have given him permission, you mean?’
‘That’s it. A POA is usually something you put in place while you’re still in your right mind, before you’re not anymore if you know what I
mean? Actually your Mum and I should set up one of those for us as well before it’s too late.’
‘Don’t say things like that Dad!’ I said to him.
Dad shrugged, a little apologetically. ‘Time marches on for all of us,’ he said in a gloomy
voice.
‘You’re sounding like our clock,’ I said. He knew what I was referring to. Did Dad’s words suggest that when he looked into a mirror he also
didn’t much like what he saw there - age-wise, I mean? Somehow I didn’t believe so. Dad wasn’t the sort of person who looked back with regret.
I asked him, ‘Do you think it meant that Laurie had lost his mind by the time he moved north?’
Dad considered this. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘It may just mean he gave permission for his son to handle the sale of the house because he didn’t want to have to deal with all the complications it would have involved. I don’t really know for sure, sorry.’
‘Can I see the contract?’
‘Ask Mum where she’s put it. She looks after all that sort of thing. But why?’ Dad added, ‘What’s it all about?’
I’d known he’d ask me this so I had my biography excuse at the ready. Good thing I hadn’t done it yet otherwise I couldn’t have.
‘Really?’ said Dad, after I’d ‘explained’. ‘That’s unusually ambitious.’
‘Thanks Dad! Worth a try though,’ I said, trying to sound bright and optimistic about it. ‘If I can talk to the son I should be able to find out more about the parents,’ I said. ‘Maybe even talk to Laurie if that’s possible.’
The funny thing was, as I said it the excuse suddenly seemed to blossom into a very real
possibility. Maybe I could write my biography about Laurie. Maybe I was starting to want to. Anyhow, the main thing was that if I could talk to him then perhaps I could find out, straight from the
horse’s mouth so to speak, what he thought was going on with the mirrors.
Rediscovering the lost art of letter writing
That night, after I’d spun her the same yarn I’d told Dad, Mum agreed to hunt out the contract. She wasn’t too thrilled about doing so. She’d had a hard day, she said, with lots of clients and she still had to write up some case notes. ‘And I’m in court for the next few days,’ she said.
‘Can’t you look for it first, please, please, please!’ I wheedled and begged (most un-becoming, I know, but I didn’t want this thing to drag on forever. I wanted to get back to my real life as soon as possible. I was amazed at how long I’d already been able to hold myself together. I didn’t know how much longer I’d manage.) ‘I might even pull out some weeds for you later on.’
‘Hah!’ she said. ‘Operative words, ‘might’ and ‘later on’. I can read you like a book Athens. Anyway, I’ll have a hunt for it after tea. You can help with that, at least. I don’t imagine your father has thought about getting a meal ready for his hard-working spouse.’
‘Dad’s been working hard, too,’ I said. ‘Under the house. He’s discovered dry rot, he said. It’s got into the chimney.’
‘The chimney! God, I knew this place was a massive mistake’
‘You mean you might change your mind and
move again?’ I asked.
‘Never!’ she said.
I hadn’t wanted to move again either, despite
all the inconveniences of the renovation process. But now . . . what if the mirror business never got sorted? Would I still want to live here then? Maybe moving was going to be the only way of
escaping from the pictures in the mirrors.
Mum eventually found the contract and gave it to me. I unfolded it, my eyes skimming the text. A lot was small print, very legal stuff written in what seemed to be another language altogether, a language much more mysterious than Ancient Greek, Granguage or Backwards. Then . . . Dad had been right. Laurie’s son’s name was on the document as having power of attorney. The son’s full name was Mitchell Laurison. Seeing his name writ large made me realise that, until now, I hadn’t given any thought to Laurie and Iris’ last name. Funny last name, too, when I saw it in connection with Laurie himself and with his and Iris’ son. Not funny as in ha-ha, but as in curious. It sounded, and looked, a lot like ‘Laurie’s son.’
Old Laurie was Laurie Laurison. Did that mean that Laurie’s own father or maybe his grandfather a
nd other relatives way back had all had the name Laurie, or Laurence perhaps, and that’s how it had all started? Laurie, son of Laurie, son of Laurie, ad infinitum (= forever. Thanks Ms Kidd. Classic!)
Perhaps the oddity of being called Athens had something (small) going for it, after all.
The contract included Mitchell’s address so I had no excuse not to get in touch with him if I wanted to.
‘Do you think he’ll mind if I write to him?’ I asked.
‘You can but try,’ Mum replied. ‘Why don’t
you have a chat to May next door? She might know.’
Talk about mothers and their extra senses. ‘I already have,’ I said.
Mum’s eyebrows lifted. Any second now and I’d be in the witness box giving evidence on May’s behalf.
‘Things aren’t too good there,’ I said, before Mum could cross-examine me.
Mum nodded. ‘Just like we thought, eh?’ she said.
‘I suggested she come and see you,’ I said.
‘Things must bad then,’ Mum said.
What exactly was I going to write to Mitchell? Something like this maybe:
Dear Mitchell (or ‘Mitch’, or ‘Mr Laurison’? Which was the better option, I wondered.)
I’ve seen your parents in several of the mirrors belonging to the house that they (and you) used to live in and which we bought (cheaply) off you.
Spooky or what, eh?
Why’s it happening? What should I do about it?
Yours sincerely, (or should that be faithfully?) the going-slowly-mad but-doing-her-best-to-hide-it,
Athena
Imagine being on the receiving end of a letter like that! Strangely, for an aspiring writer, I was crap at writing letters. I could hardly remember what a ‘letter’ looked like. It was years since I’d
The Houdini Effect Page 11
