Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  She had contacted a solicitor named Paul Collins some weeks back. He appeared to be a gentle, soft-spoken man but, Lizzie claimed, was a Rottweiler in negotiations. When they met first the conversation had been about Philip’s assumed death. Now that he was alive, things needed to take a different turn. She was tired of being the victim, tired of the endless cups of tea, the war councils and family conferences that all centred round her and her issues. Enough. It was time to take control. She had the advantage of advance warning and needed to use it as a lever and be prepared for what was to come. She might not have been the architect of her past, but she would make damn sure she was the architect of her future.

  Now she lifted the phone and told Paul Collins she needed to see him as a matter of urgency.

  * * *

  They met in his office and, once Paul confirmed that as her solicitor everything they discussed, outside of money laundering or criminal assets, would be protected by client confidentiality, Esmée told him everything: from Brady to Spain, she left nothing out. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it but listened intently without interruption, every now and then lifting his pen to jot down some notes.

  Finished, she sat back, tiredness beginning to consume her. Her lids were heavy and her head lightheaded.

  “Well,” he proclaimed, “this really changes things, doesn’t it?” He smiled warmly. “Esmée, you have nothing to worry about. You will get through this in one piece and with your dignity intact.”

  She could have fallen asleep there and then, she was so relieved by her confession and comforted by his words. He, Paul Collins, was going to take care of her.

  And Paul had been busy. He’d completed all his discreet enquiries, quietly gathering the facts but without giving his strategy away to anyone who cared to take an interest in what he was doing. Although the DPP had been naturally tightlipped about how they planned to run the case, a “reliable source” close to the case was able to advise a little on the allegations of fraud and based on that was able to speculate, hypothetically of course, what might be coming down the line.

  Paul was also able to tell her that because Philip was Robert and Robert was still alive and by all accounts still married to Julie, Esmée wasn’t his wife in the eyes of the law, so she had no responsibility regarding his actions or liabilities. He talked through Philip’s properties, drawing little sketches and diagrams on his notepad to help explain and link all the pieces. He listed the bank accounts held in his name and the amounts in each. There were five in total and they were all more or less empty. Except for one: the only one in their joint name, which held the princely sum of seven thousand euro and which she could legitimately access. But Esmée wanted none of it. And even though she was absolutely entitled to at least a fifty percent beneficial interest in the house, the home, in which they had lived together as a couple, she just didn’t want it. She had already moved out and now wanted out fully. And as for the money, well, she she’d cope. She would find a job and survive. She just wanted ties severed and a clean slate to start again. She knew Lizzie would have something to say and was likely to preach about what was rightfully hers, but Esmée wanted nothing more out of the relationship except separation. She didn’t expect Lizzie to understand, but could deal with that eventuality in her own time.

  “And there is also a safe-deposit box which is held in . . .” Paul checked his notes “the ABAW Bank.”

  “A safe-deposit box? I didn’t think banks still used them?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Why did he have that?”

  “That, Esmée,” he replied sympathetically, “I cannot tell you.”

  “Well, how do I get into it?” she asked, curious about whatever it was Philip held so dear and so precious – or so incriminating – that it had to be kept in secret.

  “You can’t, well not immediately anyhow.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he replied matter-of-factly, “you need either the body or the living person to do so.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” she asked, getting impatient with Paul’s cryptic witticisms.

  “It means Philip needs to be pronounced dead for you to have access, and even then you would need to apply to the court for permission. You are no longer,” he reminded her, “his next of kin.”

  “But that’s crazy, can we not just go into the bank and ask for it?”

  “I practise the law, I don’t write it,” he smiled back in response.

  “A safe-deposit box,” she muttered to herself. “What was he up to?”

  “Again, Esmée,” Paul replied with a shrug of his shoulders, cupping his hands to the skies.

  Esmée smirked at this. It wasn’t his fault Philip was a devious bastard.

  “Do you know how long he’s had it?”

  Paul lifted the sheet and scanned it.

  “It appears he took it out in 1996.”

  Esmée did the quick sum in her head. “He can’t have,” she challenged. “He was still Robert then. Philip Myers only came to life by my guess around 1999.”

  “Well, that’s what it says right here,” he replied. “See for yourself.” He handed her the page.

  “Holy shit!” she whispered as she scanned it. “I’m now completely confused. Philip Myers, you have me stumped!” She handed it back to him, stating defiantly, “Well, I need to get into that box if only to find out what the hell he was involved in. He has taken me for a fool this long . . .”

  “Well, then I suggest you go bring your non-husband back because that’s the only way you’ll be able to do that,” Paul offered, closing the file on his desk.

  She left the office not so much in a daze as in a trance, over and over asking herself the same questions: What was he doing? What had he got that he wanted no one else to see? And how can I get into that box?

  The beginnings of an idea flickered in her head as the doors opened into the foyer. Logic and reason tried to bat it back to the depths of her mind from where it was spawned, but stubbornly it refused to die. It gathered momentum as she walked down the street in the damp and blustery autumnal day.

  It might work, it could work, she reasoned with her common sense and conscience. Risky but possible.

  Teetering on the edge of conviction she quickened her pace, plucked her phone from her pocket, searched for the number then dialled Julie’s mobile, determined to put an end to Philip’s manipulation.

  On the day she and Julie first met Esmée hadn’t revealed her identity or relationship to Robert. She didn’t think she had to, but that had now changed. Now she needed Julie. But whether Julie wanted to be part of it was a whole other question. They hadn’t spoken since that day, so this call was likely to seem more than a little strange.

  Julie answered after four long rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Julie, it’s Esmée Myers.”

  “Oh. Hi, Esmée. How are you?”

  “I’m good – you?” she responded, bursting with a need to just get on with it.

  “Great, thanks. What can I do for you?”

  “Are you around today? I need your help.”

  Esmée declined the initial suggestion of coffee around the corner from where Julie worked – it wasn’t an appropriate place to reveal herself completely.

  “Why don’t I call round to you this evening?” she suggested.

  * * *

  When they met that evening and had settled with mugs of tea in Julie’s kitchen, Esmée introduced herself properly. She told her everything. How Philip and she had met, how they dated, then married and then how their life together had fallen apart. Telling her was as much therapeutic for Esmée as it was awkward. It helped that she and Julie were connected by their experience: they were both victims of Robert’s manipulation, but likewise they were both survivors.

  Julie’s reaction was one of stunned but distant shock, like she had built up a Robert-proof blockade around her and was impervious to any pain either instigated or directly c
aused by him. Esmée both admired and doubted her resilience, not convinced that anyone could be that anaesthetised. But she drew encouragement from it and could see a glimmer of hope that she might indeed to able to persuade Julie to help her in cracking open the safe-deposit box.

  * * *

  A week later Esmée and her companion entered the old-style high-domed banking hall for the first time. Like something from Mary Poppins it hummed with the quiet hush of the daily activities.

  “I can’t believe Mom finally agreed to this,” Harry whispered to Esmée as they approached the counter that circled its perimeter.

  “Me neither,” she whispered conspiratorially in return. Her legs shook, her stomach churned and her voice quivered. She couldn’t believe she was doing this herself. Where was the cautious, risk-averse woman who only last week would have balked at an idea like this, never mind concoct it? “But what’s the worst they can do? Arrest me?”

  “Ehh, yeah!” Harry replied, his stomach jigging with nervous excitement. “But don’t worry – we’ve got this covered. Trust me,” he promised confidently.

  “Are you sure you understand what happens if this goes pear-shaped?” she asked. “It’s not too late to say no. We can always turn around and leave.”

  “We’re here now,” he said, as they reached the counter.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Esmée, but I can’t agree to it. I hardly know you. And I’m not sure I appreciate you even suggesting it,” Julie said from her stool at the breakfast bar.

  “Suggesting what?” Harry asked suspiciously, entering the room.

  Both women turned and looked at the young man, blessed with his father’s good looks.

  “Nothing,” Julie said firmly, giving Esmée a look that told her the conversation was over.

  “Mum,” he asked again, this time with more purpose, “what’s up? What’s happened?”

  Esmée was tempted to speak but decided against it. Julie had already decided and there was no point in pushing it. She was right anyway. It was a ridiculous idea, an irresponsible, reckless, risky and illegal act that if they were caught at could land them both in jail.

  Julie was standing now and Esmée took it as a signal for her to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Julie. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a stupid idea and I’m sorry.”

  “Mum?” Harry prompted.

  “Just leave it, Harry, please!”

  “If you don’t tell me now I’ll just follow her,” he pointed towards Esmée who was ready to leave with her coat on and her bag slung over her shoulder, “and make her tell me!”

  “Just go,” Julie said, turning to Esmée, disappointment evident in her eyes.

  True to his word, the key was hardly in the ignition when Harry knocked on the car window.

  “Tell me,” he said firmly.

  “Sorry, Harry, it was a preposterous idea. I shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have even considered it in the first place. Your Mum is right. And I can’t tell you without her permission.” She put the car in gear. “You’ll need to ask her,” she said with finality, released the brake and drove away, feeling dense and humiliated.

  What an idiot, she told herself, banging her fist on the steering wheel.

  * * *

  Just after she had put the children to bed, their story read and lights out, her phone rang.

  It was Julie’s number but Harry’s voice.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Esmée smiled down the phone, his gesture warming her heart.

  “Harry, you’re a good man, really you are. But your mother is right. I had a remarkably dangerous notion that I have now dismissed. But thank you anyway.” She could imagine Julie having a complete meltdown – she would if the roles were reversed. No matter how strong or how urgent the need to see whatever was in that box, was it really worth the risk to her and to Harry?

  Julie came on the phone.

  “He wants to help. He’s sure he can do it.”

  “Thanks, Julie, but I can only imagine the fight he’s put up. You’re his mother. You trust your instinct. I appreciate his offer, but I shouldn’t have even considered it in the first place.”

  “Yes, there was a . . . discussion, of sorts, this afternoon,” Julie confirmed. “But he really wants to help you – he likes you,” she said, giving an unconvincing chuckle down the phone. “But he said some things to me today that he has never expressed before. There are a lot of demons inside of him, all centered around his father. This may help him face a few of them. Make him feel like he’s doing something, setting things to rights, finding justice.” Her voice quivered on the last words and she paused for a minute, obviously overcome.

  “But, Julie, we both know it’s a crazy idea. If we get caught . . .”

  “I know. And he knows. But it’s his decision now. He’s old enough, so he says, to make it.”

  Esmée felt nevertheless that she should make the right decision for all of them and refuse to go ahead. But then they would never know what was in that box . . . and it could be something that would make a significant change to all their lives.

  “Okay. May I speak to Harry again, please?”

  “Hi.” Harry was back.

  “Let’s agree to make you up. But if both your mum and I aren’t convinced you look the part, we back down and call the whole thing off. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  They dressed him in a beige cord blazer, polo shirt and chinos.

  “I look like some kind of throwback to the eighties!” Harry objected.

  “It makes you look comfortable,” Julie argued, fixing his hair, recently styled to look like Philip’s, with flecks of grey appearing now at each of his temples.

  “I don’t see what was wrong with the suit.”

  “It was trying too hard,” she reasoned. “This has to be natural. Think George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven.”

  “I can do that,” he grinned but then glanced back at himself in the mirror. “But not like this – I look like shit!” he moaned, poking at the bags under his eyes from an instructed sleepless night. “But I could live with this,” he added, stroking the week’s worth of facial hair that had been cultivated across his mouth, cheeks and chin. Neatly clipped and trimmed it gave him an all-important look, distinguished and mature.

  Costume complete, he came down the stairs for a final inspection.

  Neither Esmée or Julie said a word, as both were thinking the same thing: he was so like his father. Tears welled in Julie’s eyes but never spilled. They were convinced.

  The picture in Philip’s passport that Maloney had only a fortnight ago returned to her was about seven years old so the age gap, visually, was not extreme. The biggest risk would be if the bank staff actually knew Philip – well, then they were stuffed. However, Esmée believed that risk was slight. The statement Paul had given her didn’t show any transactions against the account connected to the box, and he had no other accounts with that bank, so the risk, they all agreed, was worth taking.

  Esmée voiced what they were all thinking. “Only one way to find out!” She handed him the brown leather attaché case. “Don’t forget this – it’s a vital part of the operation.”

  * * *

  “Can I help you?” the man standing tall behind the counter, dressed in a navy-blue suit, asked.

  It wasn’t too late, Esmée deliberated, her heart palpitating dangerously. She had to keep her hands clasped to stop them from shaking. They could just turn around and leave now, no harm done.

  “Yes,” Harry said quietly, expecting his voice to echo. “I’d like to access a deposit box. Please,” he finished, minding his manners.

  “Certainly, sir, and your name is?”

  “Myers, Philip Myers,” Harry said slowly and clearly.

  “Thank you, Mr Myers. If you could bear with me, please, just one moment?” He again smiled and both Harry and Esmée smiled back, watching him slip behind a screen to a cluster of desks.
/>   Harry took the opportunity to check on his accomplice.

  “You doing okay?” he asked quietly.

  He was remarkably calm, she thought, scarily so. Confident and charming, just like his dad . . . a compliment she chose to keep to herself.

  “I’m good,” she lied as the bank official returned, still smiling.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, Mr Myers. Can I ask you to take the lift – just down that hallway there?” He pointed to a narrow corridor to their right. “If you go to the lower ground floor, Imelda at the desk will take care of you from there.”

  They thanked him in unison then turned and made their way to the lift.

  It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the brightness of the banking hall to the dull corridor and the even darker lift.

  Harry pressed the button. The lift whirred loudly and stopped with a jerk.

  “Just remember,” he instructed quietly as the doors opened. “I’ll take the lead.”

  The doors opened straight into a waiting area where a golden deep-pile carpet with dark-red walls and an oversized teak desk greeted them. A long comfortable sofa was positioned to the right matching timber side-tables at each end. Massive table lamps straight out of a five-star hotel lobby cast a warm hue over the discreet space.

  A curly-haired young woman smiled expectantly at them from behind the extravagant bulk of the desk. She was well turned out, her shirt pristine and the bow in her bank-issue cravat-style scarf perfectly folded and sitting neatly just in the hollow of her neck.