The Other Side of the Mirror

by Lex H Jones

  “You don’t think Pope is behind this? That really wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Carl admitted, deciding against telling his fellow detective the depth of his recent experiences with the hit-man. “But right now he’s the only lead I have here.”

  “You know where to find him?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Carl... I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re kind of a suspect as of now.”

  “You are fucking kidding me.”

  “I wish I was. But... well, you’re a big guy, the murderer's a big guy... it’s your gun that’s been used—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Trent, you don’t actually think—”

  “Of course not, Carl. Come on!” Trent assured him.

  “Still, I gotta keep an eye on your movements until we get this sorted. Technically I should bring you in for questioning, but I ain’t doing that ‘cause it’s retarded.”

  “I’m going to go speak with Pope,” Carl informed him. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Thanks, Carl. Don’t go nuts about this, okay? Don’t get reckless and angry, it makes the situation even more dangerous.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Carl insisted.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s Pope.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven;

  Clutching at Straws

  T he stained-glass windows of St Michael’s Church were illuminated from within, shining their message of hope and faith onto the streets outside. The message fell on deaf ears and blind eyes as it had done for years. The largest window bore the image of an angel holding a candle before it, the light from inside the church causing it to glow with an unnatural warmth that seemed eerie and out of place given the filth of the surrounding area. Carl didn’t believe in angels, he never had. Even if there were any out there in the ether, they’d long since turned their gaze away from the City. If the angels themselves had given up hope of making the place any better, then who else should be dumb enough to try?

  The door to the church was unlocked, free for anyone to come inside and rob the place if they chose. Strangely enough, no one ever had done. The devout would say that even the vilest of criminals would think twice about breaking into God’s house. The more sensible would suggest that it was something to do with this being the Church of His Holiness. Pope was here at least once a day, which the City at large knew. If you were a crook looking for an easy break-in, a church frequented by the most dangerous man in the entire City would be a poor choice. Not even worth the risk, anyone would agree.

  Carl swung the door of the church open and entered, leaving the snow and the cold behind him, save for that which still clung to his boots and rested on his shoulders. The church was lit by hundreds of candles, as it had been the last time the detective had seen it. It occurred to him that in the past few weeks he’d been in church more than he had in decades. Not for a wedding or funeral like normal people who avoided church, but to speak with a man who kills people for money. The same man who now stood at the far end of the church lighting candles on the altar.

  “Why’d you steal from me, Pope?” Carl demanded as he walked down the red-carpeted aisle, drawing his gun and training it at the hit-man’s head in one fluid motion.

  “Please put your weapon away, this is a house of God,” Pope requested as he blew out the match he held and tossed it aside.

  “Normally I might respect that, but tonight I care to the sum of zero,” Carl replied. “Answer the question, why did you steal from me?”

  “I don’t steal, we’ve discussed this before. The last time you were here, I believe.”

  “Maybe you don’t class it as stealing because in some weird way you think it belongs to you, I don’t care. The fact is you took my old gun!”

  “I assure you that I didn’t.”

  “You wanted it, and now it’s gone. What’s more is it’s being used to kill people. Never occurred to me before that our serial killer might just be a professional trying to make his work look like that of someone else.”

  “You seem confused and agitated,” said Pope.

  “What do you expect? My gun has been stolen without me even knowing it, and now it’s being used to kill people!”

  “You’re telling me this serial killer of yours is using your own gun?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “And you actually think that I’m the serial killer?”

  “Are you telling me you’re not?”

  “I can tell you that the only lives I have taken recently are those you are party to,” Pope said sincerely. “And that I did not steal your gun. Why would I have come to your house two nights ago to buy it if I had already stolen it on some previous occasion?”

  “To cover your tracks maybe, I don’t know,” Carl suggested. “The fact is there’s not many people that could break into my house without me knowing it. Actually that’s a short list, the only fucking name on it is yours!”

  “Then perhaps your home wasn’t broken into,” Pope offered. “You may have misplaced the gun or sold it.”

  “I think I’d remember something like that.”

  “You’d be surprised what we forget. When was the last time you even used it?”

  “I don’t know,” Carl admitted. “It wasn’t long after I gave you that scar, I remember that much.”

  “If it has been out of your sight for such a long time, it could have been stolen at any point. You’re only now aware of the fact, and would you please holster your gun?”

  “Alright,” Carl conceded, placing the gun back inside his jacket.

  “So are you willing to accept that I had nothing to do with this?”

  “I’m not willing to accept anything just yet. I’m a suspect in my own damn investigation!” Carl remarked with an angry laugh.

  “They made you a suspect? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Glad you think so. Although I hardly think your character testimony would hold up in court.”

  “I’m assuming this has less to do with the likelihood of your actually being the murderer, and more to do with the corrupt elements of your police force wanting to see you swing from the rafters? Metaphorically, at least.”

  “Or literally, given half the chance,” Carl sighed. “Lot of the ‘high-ups’ don’t like the fact that I do my job the way I’m paid to do it.”

  “They’d never make any charges stick, just because it was your gun that was used.”

  “If they own the judge, jury and witnesses they can make any case they like,” Carl explained. “Thankfully I have friends on the force who’ve got my back right now. Not many of ‘em, but better than nothing.”

  “So your plan is to keep on with the case and find the real killer before they start to round up the necessary ‘evidence’ to pin this entirely on you?” Pope enquired.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And you honestly thought I was likely to have broken into your home and stolen from you?”

  “You broke into my home earlier this week, remember? Who’s to say you didn’t take it before I arrived?”

  “If the purpose of that break-in was to steal from you, I certainly wouldn’t have waited for you to arrive home. I’m also fairly confident that you know this, and don’t honestly believe me responsible for your missing weapon.”

  “I’m pissed off and I’m a little crazy right now, Pope. I’m clutching at straws.”

  “I can help you.”

  “I’ve already taken more help from you than I should have.”

  “I’m not going to kill anyone else for you, I meant help of a subtler kind. Let me take you somewhere. It’s not far to walk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight;

  House of

  Ghosts

  M adam Chong’s House of Ghosts was about a five-minute walk from the Church in good weather. When the ground was covered with ever-deepening snow and the wind pushed against you like th
e hands of a thousand invisible demons, it was more like fifteen minutes. Still, Carl had walked further than this in worse weather, so he didn’t complain. The weather was bracing, it kept him focussed. With Pope walking at his side he needed that focus. No matter what they’d been through, he still didn’t feel like he could entirely trust the guy, and probably never would. Refusing to give your full trust to a hit-man was a sensible place to be, in any case.

  The House of Ghosts was a tall, black building with dark windows and black wooden doors. From the exterior it was impossible to tell what went on inside, and Carl was forced to admit that he had no knowledge of the place.

  “If you’ve never been told about it, then you wouldn’t know,” Pope explained.

  “So what is it? Chinese hookers, Chinese food or Chinese drugs?”

  “Whilst you’re here, you can get all three,” Pope smiled. “But none of that is for us tonight.”

  “I’m not a fan of the cryptic, Pope, so drop it and explain what this place is and why we’re here.”

  “Do you recall stories of the old Opium dens in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries?” Pope enquired. “Well this is something similar.”

  “Chinese drugs?” Carl repeated.

  “Yes, but with a purpose. Madam Chong specialises in a herbal tea that she refers to as ‘Blue Dust Lily’. It is inhaled as much as it’s consumed, and it provides a singularity of purpose.”

  “Makes you high?” Carl shrugged.

  “Interestingly enough, no it doesn’t. Hallucinogenic drugs normally provide the effect of taking the mind to realms it is unaccustomed to, places outside of normal human experience. The Blue Dust Lily has the opposite effect, forcing the mind to take a journey deep within itself, to the recesses that are not often accessed.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “It’s very good for memory loss,” Pope explained. “It’s commonly accepted these days that the mind holds onto every experience it is ever given. Things that we believe we have ‘forgotten’ are merely stored in a deeper area of our mind that the conscious part of it cannot access. The tea of the Blue Dust Lily allows us to see what is stored there, so that we might utilise it.”

  “You’re freaking me out a little with all the psychology know how, Pope.”

  “I read a lot.”

  “So how do you know about this place?”

  “I used it myself, some time ago,” Pope replied. “I had forgotten something that it was necessary to recall.”

  “What did you need to remember?”

  “I had misplaced a sock.”

  “You’re kidding,” Carl asked with a frown.

  “Not at all. When you do what I do, details are everything. I had become careless and misplaced a single item of clothing. In and of itself it may not seem like much, but one act of carelessness leads to another. One day I am misplacing a sock, the next I neglect to correctly count the number of rounds I have discharged. It was therefore necessary to recall where I had placed the sock so that the pattern could be corrected before it began.”

  “And you found it after drinking this blue tea?”

  “Of course,” Pope nodded. “And it will help you recall what happened to your gun. If nothing is shown to you, then it truly was stolen.”

  “You know, I remember the first thing I ever heard about you,” Carl chuckled with a slight shake of his head. “Before we even met, it was something they used to tell newcomers to the force. They’d say, ‘two things you need to know about living in the City—don’t drink the tap water on East Side, and don’t make an enemy of Charles Pope.’ Sound advice, I think.”

  “You’re not my enemy, Detective.”

  “If I come out of this place alive then I’ll accept that statement,” Carl nodded. “All right, I guess I’ve come this far. Just let the record show that I think this is insane.”

  “Duly noted,” Pope nodded as he knocked upon the black wooden door and awaited a response.

  A small slot in the centre of the door was slid open, and two dark eyes stared out at Carl and Pope. The eyes looked at one man and then the other, and then the slot was closed. Seconds later the door was unlocked and opened, revealing an ageing Asian woman dressed in a long purple Kimono.

  “Good evening, Mr Pope,” she smiled with a slight bow. “And your friend.”

  “This is Detective Duggan, he is in need of your speciality.”

  “Ah, he has forgotten something that must be recalled. Very important for a police officer.”

  “Can we get this over with?” Carl suggested.

  The Chinese woman led the way into the dark building, as Pope whispered to Carl that she was in fact Madam Chong herself. Carl was somewhat surprised, expecting that the owner herself would never be seen amongst her customers. Madam Chong led them through the winding hallways, passing doors that opened onto scenes of drug-induced sex and delirium. Carl found his nostrils beset by a thick smoke that was a concoction of the various herbs, legal and otherwise, that were being burned in each of the rooms. He coughed a little but ignored the scent, focusing instead on keeping sight of the small Asian woman who seemed to flutter down the hallway with a speed that hid her age. Pope walked behind them both, the hallway being too narrow to fit two people side-by-side. After passing more doors than Carl had thought possible, so many in fact that he wondered if they had gone around in a circle, Madam Chong opened a red door into a small room. The two men followed her inside to find a quaint little room, illuminated by candlelight that shone from paper lanterns adorning the walls. On the floor was a circle of red mats, in the centre of which was a grey urn with a single incense stick placed inside.

  “Please, sit,” Madam Chong insisted as she ventured to a table placed in the corner of the room. On the table rested several pots and jars of varying shapes and sizes.

  “I have no need of your services today, Madam, but if it does not insult you, I shall be content to observe,” said Pope.

  “As you will,” she nodded, taking three of the jars and bringing them over to where Carl had seated himself on one of the mats.

  Madam Chong poured the contents of each jar into the urn and reached beneath it with a lighted match. It was only then that Carl realised the urn was full of water and placed over a small iron furnace, inside of which were chippings of dark wood. As she dropped the match into the grate, dark red flames licked upwards and embraced the base of the urn. Carl hadn’t expected the fire to start so quickly, but the smell of the flames revealed that the wood chippings were probably laced with an accelerant of some kind. Before long, steam began to rise from the urn, at which point Madam Chong used the incense stick to stir it gently, before lighting the top of it. The flame flickered around the incense stick and then travelled downwards into the liquid below. At the point of contact the liquid ignited momentarily in a blue flame that was gone as soon as it had burst into life. Madam Chong then took some metal tongs and used them to place a cup inside the urn and fill it with the herbal mixture. This she then placed on the floor in front of Carl.

  “Let it cool,” she instructed.

  “And what, just drink it?” Carl enquired.

  “No. You must first breathe in the vapours; let them fill your head. Only then can the waters fill your stomach.”

  “This is stupid.”

  “Your Eastern medicines dull the mind. Our Western ones sharpen it. Which would you say is better, Detective?”

  “How long am I going to be in the can after drinking that?” Carl asked as he caught sight of Pope, stood in the corner of the room. In his hand he held something that he had removed from a white envelope. Upon catching sight of Carl watching him, Pope replaced the envelope in his coat pocket.

  “It is cooled. Take the cup and close your eyes when you have drank from it,” Madam Chong instructed, regaining Carl’s wandering attention.

  Carl swallowed his pride and lifted the cup, touching his fingertips against it first to ensure it wasn’t likely to burn his
hands. He was glad to find that the cup was made of a thick porcelain that succeeded in insulating the exterior from the heat found within. As he stared into the cup, he found that the liquid was indeed a blue colour. Carl wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but he had wondered if the name had actually been literal. With a deep breath, he allowed himself to inhale the steam that was slowly rising from the liquid below, letting it bathe the inside of his throat and nostrils with a tingling, warm sensation. After taking three more such breaths, he drank deep of the cup and forced himself not to wretch at the awful, perfumed taste of the tea.

  “So why do they call this the House of Ghosts?” Carl enquired as he closed his eyes.

  “Memories are the ghosts of things that once were. They are still here, but only in our minds, if we choose to see them,” Madam Chong explained.

  “Right, well I don’t think this crap is working, because I ain’t seeing much of...”

  Carl opened his eyes and immediately stopped his protestations. He had expected to see the figures of Madam Chong and Charles Pope observing him in the bizarre tea-room, but instead he was faced with something else entirely. Neither of his companions were visible to him, although he had the sense that they were still present. What he now saw was the hallway of a house that was familiar to him but somehow distant and detached from any emotional state. There was a plant-pot to his right, and a staircase to his left. Through the gaps in the wooden spindles of the bannister he could see photographs hung from the wall leading upstairs, but the pictures themselves were obscured. Everything seemed to loom over Carl as though he were much shorter, and the image itself was entirely drained of colour. It was like viewing his old black and white TV screen through a fishbowl. Carl then heard a sound coming from directly above him, but it was distorted and warped like it was being heard through water. He looked up and could see a man staring down at him, shouting angrily, his words unclear but spoken with such ferocity that each one carried a weight of spittle to accompany it.