Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  * * *

  The Sunday papers gave his story no more than a few inches. Discreet and simple. Philip would have hated that. “A tragedy for the young family,” they called it while the search, they said, “continues”.

  And for the first time ever, Sunday dinner at her mother’s was torture. She and the children were met at the door with open arms, the instinctive contact teeming with a fusion of pity, despair, affection and tears.

  “Mum,” she whispered before her mother could speak, “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Not in front of the kids.” She nodded towards the two trailing behind her.

  And like a pro, composing herself, Sylvia bent down to their level as if nothing had happened.

  “Well, just look at you two! And what exactly have you been up to?” she cooed adoringly at her grandchildren. The enthusiasm was a little overdone to the adult ear but, to the children, it was just the encouragement they needed and heeding the prompt they sat on each side of her to fill her in on the day’s adventures.

  A quiet, if tense affair, the afternoon was filled with the apprehension of unasked and unanswered questions. There would be plenty of time for them, but just now wasn’t that time and, cutting the visit short, she took herself and the children home.

  That bedtime she lay beside her son. They discussed the day’s events and the meaning of life according to a curious six-year-old.

  “Mummy, when is Daddy coming home?”

  And there it was: quite out of nowhere, the question she had been dreading for days.

  “Soon,” she lied, not knowing what else to say. “You miss him, don’t you?” she asked softly, his answer no more than a sleepy comfortable nod, his eyes weighed down as he snuggled closer to his mum. She stroked his head, thinking desperately of something positive to say without lying to him.

  “Daddy won’t be back for a while yet, Matthew, but I’m sure he’s missing you too.”

  “Can we ring him? I want to tell him about . . . the dragon scales we found . . . in the woods today . . .”

  His voice was beginning to slow and slur and his eyes were almost fully closed. She knew that she didn’t have to answer because soon he’d be fast asleep. She stayed with him, lying beside him, stroking his soft hair and rubbing his smooth, round and rosy cheeks, her whole being bursting with love and the instinctive need to shelter and protect him and his sister. And once she was sure they were sound asleep she dragged herself up and secured their duvets in turn.

  From the picture frame on the bedside locker, Philip’s face stared up at her. If he were there, in front of her, she would have punched him hard.

  “You idiot!” she whispered to it in the silence of the bedroom, her voice laced with contempt. How could he leave them behind? What kind of a man was he? And resisting the temptation to remove the picture from the room altogether, she settled instead on deliberately placing the image face down before turning out the light and tiptoeing out of the room. They deserved better and more.

  Chapter 14

  It was on days like this that she wished she still smoked. Even after nine years, every now and then she still got the nicotine urge and today was one of them. She sat in the car, looking out at the yellow double-panelled door that loomed ominously before her. Bathed in a feeling of anxious anticipation, like a student taking a test for which she hadn’t studied, she opened the car door and got out.

  It had been over a week since Philip’s disappearance but she hadn’t had the courage or the desire to come here. Till now. Even then it was prompted by Maloney who said he just wanted to look around. “Routine procedure,” he’d called it when they had spoken that morning. He would meet her there.

  The grass on the small front lawn was in desperate need of a cut while a few opportunistic weeds had begun to peep through the dark soil around the season’s last remaining and tired-looking daffodils. She knew how they felt. Without waiting for Maloney, she put her key in the lock, reaching the moment she had been dreading: back at the house to which she swore she would never return. Turning the key slowly, she took a deep breath as she entered. Its familiar smell immediately seeped into her nostrils and, feeling like an intruder, she stood statue-still, not knowing where to start, or for that matter what exactly it was she was supposed to be starting. A small pile of post was gathered at the base of the door.

  For show, if for nothing else, she called out in the silence, “Hello? Philip?”

  As if this might, by magic, make him reveal himself from his really, really, good hiding place. There was no surprise when he didn’t. The atmosphere felt empty and cold with the doors to the adjoining rooms closed tight, making the space feel slightly claustrophobic. She stood for a while, waiting, before picking up the post and going through to the kitchen. She didn’t really know what to expect but one thing was for certain: it wasn’t this. The place was spotless, immaculate even, just as she left it, except cleaner, if that were possible. There were no dishes in the sink, no bin overflowing underneath. The chairs were placed perfectly around the table and the curtains neatly tied up in deep swooshes – just the way she liked them. It was like she had never left, except it was tidier. Upstairs was just the same. The laundry basket was empty, not even a lone sock could be found in the bowels of the wicker container. Stepping cautiously, afraid of what she might find, she made her way into the room she had shared with him. She half expected to see the suitcase from his trip full and ransacked at the bottom of the bed where he would normally leave it for her to sort out. But no. It had been unpacked and placed squarely on the top of the wardrobe from where she had removed it almost two weeks ago. The clothes she had packed, the chinos, the shirts, all freshly laundered and hanging perfectly in the wardrobe along with all his other clothes. Nothing was out of place; everything was as it should be – on a normal day, that is. But today wasn’t a normal day. Today she should be coming into a house that showed signs of life. She should see things missing, stuff out of place. She should have been able to imagine what Philip had done before he’d left, live his supposed last steps maybe. What he’d had for breakfast from the dishes in the sink, what he’d worn the night before by the laundry in the basket. What he’d put on that morning. Did she really care or was she just curious? She scanned the pristine rows and layers of monotone apparel laid bare in his closet.

  As far as she could tell Philip must have left the house wearing nothing but those damn socks because everything else was right there in front of her with no gaps.

  The bed was made with the bedspread creased neatly under the two firm pillows. The co-ordinated cushions sat upright, propped perfectly in position. The towels carefully folded over the rail in the en suite. Nothing, not a single item in their collection of remaining possessions, was out of place.

  The door to his study was unlocked and ajar which in itself was unusual. This room was always locked. Philip insisted on it. She entered like a prowler, waiting for a second at the threshold with bated breath, waiting to be snared.

  The room smelt of him, wafts of musky Gautier aftershave still clinging valiantly to the air. The room even looked like him, if that were possible: deep timber tones in contrast to the cream of the barley-coloured walls, oozing testosterone from every nook and every cranny, with the luxurious pile of the chocolate-brown carpet wrapping it up nicely in a quiet hush. This room was gifted by the sun in the mornings but there were no curtains on the windows overlooking the landscaped green outside – just wide timber Venetian laths bound together with an off-white fabric tape. She pulled them up tight to the lintel and let the golden morning sunlight change the atmosphere from dark and subdued to fresh and sophisticated, its rays bouncing off walls and glistening on the polished timber surfaces of his den. This room was originally supposed to be the nursery but Philip wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t switch his things into the smaller room, citing a lack of light and poor Feng Shui as his excuse. At the time she didn’t really mind and let him be but now, as she continued her visual journey, touching each
of his possessions, she felt nothing but bitterness. And curiosity. She was curious about what the hell he was thinking, about what he had done and why he had done it.

  Philip could spend hours in this room, but what exactly he did in it she had no idea. Sometimes she would hear him batter away furiously for hours on the keyboard, other times there would be no sound at all. Sometimes she assumed he was sitting in his leather recliner reading the papers or perhaps listening to one of the hundreds of CDs in his cherished collection. He had an excellent cross-section of music, everything from rock to opera, and used to tease her in the early days about her own taste in music. Esmée tended to go for the melodic songs, ones you could sing to and get lost in the words, and so he labelled her taste as “mainstream” which, she supposed, was true. But it didn’t preclude her from liking some of what he called “intellectual” or “experimental” sounds. He used to boast of eclectic rhythms and mention bands that she had never heard of or whose CDs she was ever likely to purchase for herself. But after a while, as if bored by his own little humiliating game, he stopped sampling his collection with her, preferring instead to lock himself away to explore alone. He, she thought, was a stereotypical music snob, with the notion that it was impossible for a Take That fan to like Beck too. The longer they were together the less he cared to know about her taste but she always kept an inquisitive eye on his. Occasionally, secretly, she would use the spare key to go into the study and check out his latest purchase . . . and snoop around to see what else he might be up to in there. She never found anything suspicious – just confirmed that he was absolutely anal, with hundreds of CDs all stored neatly in upright holders, catalogued alphabetically according to category. Looking at it now, all neat and proper, she gave in to the juvenile urge and deviously took Oasis’ “Wonderwall” from his rock and pop category and placed it purposely after Verdi’s Aida in the classical section. Paul Weller trapezed over Cirque De Soleil, Bob Dylan found comfort next to Placido Domingo, Pink Floyd took pride of place atop Madame Butterfly, Michael Bublé courted Moby, while Shirley Bassey flirted with The Fratellis. It was guaranteed to drive him mental when he got back. A sobering thought: when he got back.

  Running her hand across the smooth walnut surface of his desk, she asked herself if she really thought he was alive. For sure, she wasn’t entirely convinced that he had taken his own life and the absence of any idea as to what exactly he was running from both scared and infuriated her immensely.

  She sat into the oversized leather chair that squeaked for want of oil as she moved herself from side to side. Dwarfed by its vastness, she inspected his lair.

  He has a great vantage point from behind his desk, she thought, surveying the entire room and out of the window from just that position. The black state-of-the-art flat LCD screen sat to the left of the desk, the keyboard to the right and the telephone more towards the front, leaving an open expanse in the middle for ‘stuff’. But there was nothing on it except for the leatherbound blotting mat that hadn’t so much as a scribble on it. She gently swept her hand across its top, checking her fingers for dust. If this were her desk, she thought as she rubbed non-existent particles from her fingers, she’d have bits and pieces everywhere – papers, pencils, books, pictures: stuff.

  She had bought his last year’s Christmas present, the antique chess set that now sat hardly touched on a top shelf, on eBay.

  Her attention shifted to the computer. She pressed the silver power button on the hard drive perched underneath and listened as it whirred into action, powering up the slim display in front of her. As always strings of numbers and meaningless words flickered on and off the screen. She watched patiently as it went through its normal start-up procedure, waiting for the familiar blue-sky picture to pop up before her. Every now and then she would browse the Internet while she was in the study. If Philip knew she’d been dropping in to play with his equipment he’d have gone nuts! She went to meticulous lengths to conceal her presence, always careful not to touch anything but the computer and to delete the history of her electronic journey before she logged off.

  But as she sat there, waiting for it to go through its normal motions, she was alarmed as the screen went through a new sequence, one she didn’t recognise. She sat forward cautiously. If she were a dog her ears would have cocked, to listen more closely to its innards chug until the screen eventually took on its familiar vibrant blue colour but with a luminous white rectangle in its centre.

  “Password,” it said, its cursor blinking at her from the white box.

  Stunned by the simple yet unexpected communication that flickered mindlessly she sat back into the chair, processing the consequences of this unforeseen request, too afraid to respond but equally afraid to turn it off. It had never asked her for a password before. Shit. Her immediate and instinctive reaction was panic: Philip will know I’ve been messing here.

  It took only a few moments to remember his absence, which incredibly she remembered with relief. No need to panic. Then she felt guilt.

  The ring of the doorbell broke the guilty spell. She couldn’t turn the machine off quick enough so she unplugged it from the wall and, leaving the room she closed the door, leaving Philip’s world behind her.

  She was tired. She didn’t have the energy to keep asking why? Why he left the door open. Why he encrypted his computer. Why he tidied up so well. Why he took off his shoes. Why he jumped off the cliff. Emotionally, she was shot.

  She had wanted rid of him, wanted him out of her life, and now that her perverse fantasy had come true she had no place to turn for comfort.

  The doorbell rang again. Maloney, she assumed. Coming down the stairs to answer the now-persistent ring, she noticed a box tucked into the alcove beside the empty coatstand. It was open and filled with some of her things: perfume, an old hairbrush, some odd ornaments, the pink pashmina Philip had bought her for one of their anniversaries. It sat inconspicuously, ready for her to fetch. She didn’t remember filling it, but assumed nonetheless that she had and had forgotten it in her rush to leave.

  She opened the door to greet her visitor, who was not alone.

  Alarmed by the sight of two officers standing behind Maloney, she froze and stood there holding on to the door. Had they found a body?

  “Don’t panic,” Maloney assured her. “This is just routine. We just need to take some prints that will help us identify Philip. Nothing more.”

  Relieved, she let the two men, on Maloney’s instruction, go upstairs to the bedroom. Picking up the box at her feet, she led Maloney through to the kitchen and placed the box on the counter beside her car keys to make sure she didn’t forget it again.

  Then Maloney was offered tea and a stool at the breakfast bar.

  They sat opposite each other, taking their first sips of the hot tea in silence.

  “So. How have you been?” he asked finally, his words breaking the nervous tension that seemed to fill the otherwise sunny kitchen.

  “Fine, I suppose,” she replied, slightly distracted by the fresh-washed smell of him that filled the room. “Just trying to get on with things.” She shrugged.

  He nodded his approval.

  She got up to stretch over the sink and open the window.

  “This has been weird though,” she added, indicating the house with a broad sweep of her hand.

  “How so?”

  “Well, coming back. The last time I was here wasn’t that sweet.” Her mocking tone was directed at him rather than herself.

  “Sorry. I only meant . . .”

  “I know. I’m just being facetious. It’s hard, you know, since they stopped looking.”

  “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “It’s like I’m caught in some strange state of limbo. I don’t know what to do next. It’s not like I have someone to bury. He’s just gone. But not gone, if you know what I mean. He’s still here really and I can’t really get on with things. I can’t actually visualise things without him.”

  The sudden rise of his eyebrow
told her that he had misunderstood.

  “No,” she protested, blushing at the implied suggestion, “I don’t mean like that. I’m not after some emotional reconciliation! I mean, he always figured in my imagining of how this new phase of my life might go. He’d be here. Not in a good way – he’d just be here.”

  She could feel the pressure of a week’s worth of uncried tears gather force at the back of her throat. The last thing she wanted to do was cry now. Not with Maloney. He was fishing. Regardless of how decent he was being by listening, she could tell he was after something and, recognising the threat, she shifted focus back to him.

  “Have you found anything helpful?” she asked.

  There was a fleeting pause, but it was gone so quickly she thought she had imagined it.

  “Not yet. But we’re working on it. I wanted to see if there is anything here that could point us in a direction. Does he have a PC here?”

  “Yep. Upstairs in his study.” She blushed as she remembered her panic earlier.

  “Is it okay for me to take a look? See if there is anything on it that can help?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And is there a safe anywhere in the house?”

  “Jesus!” she responded, slightly startled. “I don’t think so – unless he has one concealed in his study. How very James Bond!”

  His look in response suggested there was something more to the task than just “routine procedure”.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” she asked.

  “Okay, let’s get this done,” he responded, ignoring her question. He stood up and placed his mug in the sink. He gestured to the ceiling and unnecessarily asked her permission. “May I?”

  She nodded her assent and left him to it. Her tour was done. But she followed his progress anyway from the safe distance of her kitchen, tracking the sound of his footsteps as he walked about the study and bedroom.

  He took longer than she expected. Eventually he and the others came back downstairs. After a few quiet words in the hall, the other two left and Maloney joined Esmée in the kitchen.