Mirror Man

by Jacques Von Kat

  ‘I prefer John-Michael. That’s my name,’ I told her.

  ‘Fair enough. John-Michael, it is. When I was younger, younger than you are now’—she started to tell her story even though I hadn’t given her an answer—‘I used to live on the council estate. One day, this new family moved in from out of the area, and the kids were always looking for trouble. The talk on the streets was that the lass from the family wanted to have a scrap with me. She’d heard I was the hardest lass on the estate. That’s the reputation you get from having brothers,’ she said, gently nudging me with her shoulder. I slid a little away from her. If she noticed, she didn’t mention it. ‘You still with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘I stayed out of her way as long as I could, until one day she confronted me. I tried to walk away, but she kept pulling at my hair—hard.’

  ‘My sister said girls pull hair when they fight,’ I said.

  WPC Thompson hummed. ‘Most do, but not me. No, I went into that fight like a lad with my fists punching and my legs kicking. In the end, my brothers had to pull me off her. And you know what? She never came near me again. So, you see, John-Michael, I don’t need anyone looking out for me.’

  I closed my eyes and thought about WPC Thompson’s story as I listened to the sounds in the park. A gentle breeze rustled the trees and the shouts and screams of children playing nearby invoked a long-forgotten memory in me. ‘That happened to me once,’ I told her.

  ‘Why? What happened to you?’

  ‘My sensei had to take me off someone once—at karate,’ I said, shuffling my shoes on the loose dirt beneath them. ‘I started hitting my sparring partner, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. He said everyone was yelling at me to quit. I didn’t hear them. I wasn’t allowed to go anymore after that.’

  ‘Hmm, I see. Why didn’t you hear them telling you to stop?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I moved my gaze to the overcast sky. ‘I used to get focused on one thing and everything else going on around me shut off. I’m better now.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve worked that out, John-Michael.’

  ‘Thank you, umm, ma’am…’ I said. I couldn’t very well say sir, could I? She’d probably clip me around the head.

  But she laughed. ‘Ma’am? Ooh, hark at you with the niceties. Officer Thompson will do.’

  ‘Okay, Officer Thompson. Can I go now?’

  ‘Not yet. Now I’ve shared something about myself, I think it’s only fair that you tell me what happened to you and why you were running through the park like Carl Lewis.’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You will have to tell me something, John-Michael, or do I need to fetch PC Williams to take you home again?’ she said. ‘You know he won’t be happy taking you home twice in one week.’ She made to get up.

  I sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. Just don’t tell PC Williams, please. He’ll tell my grandad,’ I said as I pushed my palms together into an almost-praying position.

  ‘Deal,’ she said.

  ‘This lad beat me up,’ I told her.

  ‘If you know karate, why didn’t you defend yourself?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sensei said you can’t use it outside the dojo. Plus, I can’t remember much. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘You should always try to defend yourself. Nothing wrong with that,’ she told me. ‘Anyway, back to what happened. What lad? And why?’ She had a suspicious tone to her voice that I was all too familiar with from Mum.

  I crossed my arms but winced when I pressed on a bruised rib, so held my hands on my lap instead. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. I was only browsing albums in the record shop, and this lad called me a weirdo. I left, and the next minute, he’s kicking me in the street,’ I said, my eyes focused on the dried blood on the back of my hand that I’d forgotten up to wipe off. I licked my finger and rubbed it away.

  ‘I see…’ Officer Thompson pondered. ‘And what were you doing before you went into the record shop? Did you happen to be following this lad you mentioned?’

  ‘Well, yes… But he hadn’t noticed me, and I never did anything to him,’ I added quickly.

  ‘You’ve been told not to follow people, haven’t you, John-Michael?’

  I nodded. I knew that. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d been told what I was doing was wrong.

  ‘In any case, that doesn’t mean you deserved to be beaten up over it. He could have just told you to clear off. That’s what I’d have done.’

  She drummed her fingers on the bench and didn’t speak for several minutes. I looked up slightly and observed the park. There weren’t many people here, just a couple of mums pushing their kids on the swings and several others throwing balls and frisbees to their dogs. It was still mild out, but in a few weeks, the weather would be warmer, and the park would get much busier.

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do, John-Michael. You’re going to tell me what this rogue looks like, then we’re going to go find him and have a word,’ she said.

  I chewed on my lip and shook my head. What if it made him angry, and he tried to find me and beat me up again, or worse? Bring his friends along too.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not allowed. Mum said I shouldn’t tell tales.’

  ‘Okay. Well, why don’t you walk back with me through town, and I’ll make sure you’re safe. We can see where PC Skive-a-lot has got to. I’m due back soon, anyway.’

  I pursed my lips. It would be nice to have some protection as I walked back just in case I should bump into him again. So, I nodded and picked up my books, tucking the bag under my arm as we made to leave.

  ‘What’s them books you’ve got?’ Officer Thompson asked as we walked.

  ‘Books on babies,’ I said. ‘My sister is having a baby soon, and I want to learn all I can about them.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that something.’ She chuckled. ‘You’ll make a mighty fine uncle.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled, and we continued on in silence.

  We started walking not long before we got to town, she questioned me again.

  ‘Did this lad have any tattoos?’ she asked. ‘These lads around here all look the same with their stupid outfits, don’t you think John-Michael?’

  ‘No, they’re not all the same. Everyone has subtle differences I notice them all when I’m watching or following people.’

  ‘Oh, is that right? Like what?’

  ‘Different buttons, laces, tattoos, hair, the way they walk, the way they stand, all sorts.’

  ‘You notice these little things, do you? Why are you following these people? It can’t be just to see what they look like and what they are wearing, can it?’

  ‘I’m looking for something?’

  ‘What fashion crimes?’ she laughed.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I whispered.

  Why did everyone always ask me that? I was just about sick of it.

  ‘Well, you must be able to give me an accurate description then?’

  ‘I could yes. But I’m not allowed, mum said.’

  ‘Yes, I know what your mam said, but I’m the police and I outrank your mam.’

  ‘You do?’ I asked her.

  ‘Of course, I do. Now, are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Okay I nicknamed him The Skinhead,’ I told her.

  ‘Great, well that doesn’t exactly narrow it down they do look the same as each other,’ she sighed.

  ‘Yes, sort of, but they don’t all have tattoos on their back of their necks,’ I said.

  ‘No, they’ve got them on their hands and their faces and everywhere. I’ve seen kids draw better pictures then what they’ve got tattoos.’

  I laughed at her comparison.

  ‘Wow, hold on did you just laugh? I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before John-Michael.’

  I bit my lip. I never laughed often, had nothing much to laugh at before.

  We were back in town now, near the shops I wanted to go home through the orchard to avoid it, but
she told me not to be scared and we should go straight past the shops. I reluctantly agreed, as we got near the jewellers, we spotted four skinheads, she turned to face me, and I looked down.

  ‘Right, you just wait here a minute, look in the shop window or something,’ she told me.

  WPC Thompson walked towards them exaggerating her swagger trying to make herself look bigger than she actually was.

  ‘Oi, you four, stop where you are,’ she yelled.

  I looked at the group expecting them all to run off when they spotted her, instead, they started scuffling amongst themselves trying to pass a small bag onto the other. The skinny one of the group ended up with the bag and he was pushed to the floor in the commotion as the other three scattered in different directions. He also happened to be the kid who had kicked me earlier. She grabbed him by his collar and twisted it round in her hand it looked as though she was choking him.

  ‘What’s this?’ she yelled and grabbed whatever he had in his hand. She reached for her handcuffs and pulled his arms behind his back, cuffed him then dragged him to his feet. He staggered as he got up and they almost went down together in a heap.

  ‘It’s not mine, ‘e dropped it,’ he said as she inspected the package and pulled out a tobacco tin.

  ‘You’re coming to the police station with me,’ she said after examining its contents.

  ‘I told you it’s not mine. It were Rob, Frankie and Mick’s,’ he whined.

  ‘Well, they’re not here now are they, you little squealer,’ she shouted for the gathering crowd to hear.

  She pushed him towards the direction of the police station, then paused, she turned slightly to the side and gave a sort of wave even though she had her hands full. I made the rest of the way home on my own.

  Chapter Nine

  At home, I disappeared to my bedroom. I removed my jacket and hid it in my laundry pile, wondering if I’d be able to get blood out of the denim. Then I went to the mirror to check my head, gently peeling back the plaster. The cut had stopped bleeding, and with the way my hair fell, you would barely notice it.

  I lifted up my T-shirt and checked my chest and stomach. I had a red mark on my side, but no serious damage, and it only hurt if I pressed down on it. I had come away fairly unscathed for my first fight. Though I guess I couldn’t really call it a fight, since I didn’t take part.

  I slumped onto my bed, and a mixture of relief and anxiety washed over me. Everybody had warned me this would happen, but I’d refused to believe them. What would I do now? How would I know who was safe to follow and who wasn’t? The beating had shaken my confidence. Could I potentially fall victim to those I followed? Would I have to stop now? So many questions whirled through my head, making my temples thud and ache at the same time.

  For now, I would have to stop all my efforts until I could figure out what to do next. Though the thought only filled me with dread and made my stomach knot. The happiness I’d felt this morning had evaporated with a quick blow to the ribs. I’d followed people for as long as I could remember. When I was little, I would be at my mother’s side one minute and gone the next, padding off after some stranger down the street. And now it felt as though I had to stop all I knew. I had wanted to stop, yes, but in my own time. Not because of my own stupid mistake.

  I didn’t move from my bed, not even when Grandad knocked on my door asking if I wanted supper, as I hadn’t been down for tea. He told me he’d booked in a couple of services for Friday. I’d told him that was great as enthusiastically I could, and I heard him harrumph and shuffle back down the hall.

  I didn’t sleep well, only nodding off here and there, getting less sleep than I was used to. I tried reading the baby books I’d borrowed from the library to drift off again, but they didn’t help much, either, and there were parts I didn’t understand.

  To take my mind off the thudding in my head and the twisting in my stomach, I dusted the mirrors in my room, then decided to reorganise my music records. I currently had them in alphabetical order by genre, and by my favourite ones in that genre. I took them all off the shelf, wiped them down, then proceeded to sort them into alphabetical order by the artist’s name.

  By the time I was done, the sun was rising, and I could only wonder if what I was looking for in the people I followed wasn’t real. What if it was just something I’d thought up as a way to distract myself from the words Mum said to me all those years ago, for everything I was missing out on? What if Tina was right? What if I was perfect the way I was?

  *

  After my usual breakfast, I hurried to work, taking the shortcut through the orchard. I kept my head down, not looking at any reflections in shop windows. If I didn’t have a job, I would have quite happily stayed in my room after breakfast with my head under the covers until my world was back to how I liked it. But deep down, I didn’t think things would ever be the same again.

  I froze in the middle of the pavement as I turned the corner. The Suit was coming out of Claude’s Antiques, and the same horrible shiver ran from my toes to my scalp.

  Crap! I thought. I’d forgotten all about him. I’d have to remember to include this sighting in my journal when I got home too. I hadn’t included The Skinhead. I didn’t want any lasting reminders of that disaster.

  I watched The Suit as he tugged on the hem of his jacket before brushing the front of it with the back of his hands and repeating the same motion with his sleeves. He walked away with his shoulders back and arms swinging.

  Suspicious, I walked through the door, and the bell rang.

  Mr Phillips was missing from his usual spot.

  I paused and took a step back; some items were out of place. Nothing missing, just off by a few centimetres. And drawers in some of the bureaus and sideboards hung open, like someone had been searching for something and not had the patience to shut them properly.

  ‘Mr Phillips?’ I called.

  No reply.

  I knew where every antique belonged in the shop. I had it all memorised. Any time a piece sold, I would remove it from the picture stored in my head. I wondered if Mr Phillips had lost something, or if The Suit had stolen something.

  “Mr Phillips!” I shouted again.

  Nothing.

  I checked the till. Mr Phillips had taught me how to use it, though I’d only used it twice. The till still had money in it, so it was unlikely The Suit had robbed the place, and nothing appeared to be missing—except for Mr Phillips.

  I hurried around the shop, straightening everything, and shutting the drawers, then walked through the passage, passing the locked door to the flat upstairs, to the kitchen and the back office. But he wasn’t there.

  I frowned. He had to be somewhere; he would never leave the shop unattended. I checked the back door, but it was locked from the inside.

  A distant, muffled shuffle.

  My head snapped up and rotated on my neck. The sound had come from the room where I worked.

  I went straight there and stood in the doorway, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. Then a tuft of white hair drew my attention. I approached it and found Mr Phillips sat on the floor behind a wooden tea chest. His head hung almost on his chest, his usually slicked-down hair was out of place, and his shirt was dishevelled, like someone had grabbed him by it and twisted it in their hands.

  ‘Mr Phillips?’ I whispered.

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Phillips?’ I said a bit louder, wondering if he was asleep, or worse.

  But his head shot up. ‘Who is it?!’

  I averted my gaze quickly when his eyes found me. ‘It’s me, Mr Phillips. John-Michael.’

  ‘John-Michael?’

  ‘Yes, is everything alright? What happened?’

  ‘Oh, John-Michael. Help me up, will you? I won’t look you in the face,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, okay.’ I said, even though I was clueless as to what had happened and why I had found him huddled in the corner. I felt uncomfortable touching him. I might have worked with him for eight years, but he
wasn’t family (and sometimes touching them could be a challenge).

  I grabbed a duster and draped it over my hand, then helped Mr Phillips up and guided him to my chair. At least then I could see him in the mirrors.

  I watched as he straightened his shirt and smoothed down his hair. I gave him a minute before I probed him again. His face looked pale and clammy. I couldn’t decide whether to phone for a doctor or the police. He looked dazed, like he had seen a ghost. What could The Suit have possibly said to him?

  So, I left him sitting and put the kettle on. I knew he kept a bottle of whiskey in the back of the cupboard, so I poured out a good measure (I knew it was good for shock), then I made two cups of sweet tea and brought them back on a round tray advertising Darley’s Brewery. Mr Phillips hadn’t moved from the position I’d left him in.

  I set down the tray and handed him the whiskey first. He swallowed it down in one gulp, coughed and spluttered, then gave the glass back to me. I didn’t know if he wanted a refill, as he didn’t say anything, so I went and topped it up, anyway. He took the refilled glass from me but only took a sip this time and smacked his lips.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, sounding a bit more like himself. ‘I needed that, lad.’

  ‘What happened?’ I finally asked.

  ‘Hand me that cup of tea,’ he said, indicating with his head.

  Realising Mr Phillips probably wasn’t going to move from my seat anytime soon, I pulled over an old chair in need of upholstering so I could sit. I shuffled uncomfortably in the seat as a spring jabbed me in the backside, then I handed him his tea, which he took with a slightly trembling hand.

  ‘If anything happens… to me,’ he started to say, then cleared his throat. ‘If something should happen to me,’ he said again, ‘I want you to know they are in the large safe. Don’t let anyone get their hands on them. The key to the small safe is in the back of my pocket watch. All my important documents are in that safe; you’ll be needing them. And the key to the bigger safe is in a small box in there too. You’ll know how to get the key out, won’t you, John-Michael?’