The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  Returning from the kitchen, Sophie was restored to her ‘normal’ condition.

  “When can I see mum again?” She’d not seen her mother since her birthday. April sixteenth. There had been three candles on the cake.

  “I don’t know.” George was being honest. It wasn’t his choice, but Harriet’s. She’d willingly donated an egg, even acted as a surrogate for George, but despite sharing her and George’s genes, she refused to accept Sophie as her daughter, knowing that science had been used to manipulate her genetics, changing her in more ways than the obvious. She spared as little time as she could with the girl, ultimately refusing Sophie any interaction with the other, natural children in her family.

  Harriet agreed to see Sophie only at Christmas and on her birthday – this was more to appease George than out of any desire to see her.

  George didn’t have the heart to tell Sophie this. Life was hard enough as it was without learning that your own mother didn’t want anything to do with you.

  Deep down, Sophie knew much of the truth. After all, she was a freak, an experiment with extra features, despite what her father often said. Although George had never spoken of the children, she knew everything about Meredith, Stanley and Charlie. She’d visited them often at the old house, sneaking into her father’s car and using her invisibility to slink into the house unseen, observing them as a fly would from a wall.

  That was before they had moved to the detached house in Seabrook; before, when there was a large mirror in Meredith’s bedroom, a looking glass for the rest of the world to see her – well, the nine-year-old Meredith who lived in that bedroom at least – the only way she’d been able to see Sophie.

  Sophie sighed. She felt like an animal caged up in the apartment she’d lived in for the past two years. Very little human interaction, nothing but the isolation and her father’s ‘lessons.’ They varied from the foundation studies, the basic numeracy, literary, history, science and geography to other, mentally stimulating exercises, honing stratagem and problem-solving abilities; adding to this physical training, building upon her strength and agility, she mastered the fighting techniques and skills of krav maga and kali, martial arts that equipped her for close range fighting, and weapons training; she’d had extensive instruction whilst cooped up during her short life at the apartment.

  For a fleeting second she remembered her fight and weapons teacher, a man her father claimed was found in the backstreets of Soho, but someone who’d hinted a closer connection; Malaxi Bacaunawa, or Maxi as she called him, a little Filipino man much shorter than her slender, but moderately built frame. Standing at five feet two inches, he was the shortest and skinniest man she’d ever seen. And totally bald, with not a single hair on his body, not even eyebrows. He’d been hard on her, very disciplined, and the training had been bruising and relentless. Yet, with the exception of her father, he’d been the nicest, kindest person she’d ever known… She allowed the image to dissolve as her dad interrupted her thoughts.

  “You know I said I was going to have to go ‘later’,” he started. “The time’s now.” He glanced nervously at his watch.

  Sophie was used to her father’s comings and goings. He had two lives. One involved her; the other inextricably didn’t.

  “It’s to do with your mother,” unbidden, “she’s in danger.” Sophie already knew this from the telephone call she’d overheard.

  “Let me come with you,” a note of pleading in her voice. “I could help.”

  “No. Sophie, it’s too dangerous. There’s too much to risk.”

  “I’m not a child anymore,” she challenged. George begged to differ. Although sixteen in appearance her cardiac and respiratory systems had pumped blood and absorbed oxygen for only a handful of months more than three years, a realisation of the genetic modification that had taken place – the manipulation of which would continue its aggressive rate of aging until her body had developed to its peak at twenty-one; this would be well within the next year. From her physical age of ten (all so long ago... back in February!) Sophie’s body had aged at the genetically enhanced rate of one-and-a-half years per month. At the synthetic age of twenty-one her body’s growth would slow dramatically to less than a tenth of a normal person, the benefits of which were countless, especially for, but not limited to, the military, for which these genetic alterations were originally designed for.

  In theory, by the age of seventy, Sophie would have the body and appearance of a twenty-six-year-old woman. Who at seventy wouldn’t give all they had and more for the health and strength of a supple, agile, twenty-something, with the prospect of many more years ahead of them?

  With the laboratory destroyed, his colleagues dead, and all the data, the notes, his entire research, annihilated, all that remained of his work stood in the room in which he was about to leave (and on the laptop computer which he stowed in a safe hidden beneath the floorboards; and of course the flash drive which he hung around his neck).

  “Lock yourself in the safe room until I get back.” George crossed the room to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Turning away, he walked to the window and peered out through the curtains again. The Bentley was still parked across the street. It was hard to tell, but he thought he could see something glinting inside, as though reflecting the sun…

  A camera?

  A rifle scope?

  “Bye dad...”

  He gave it no further thought.

  Sophie disappeared from the room. Before he left the apartment, George heard the sound of the safe room door closing, the high security locking system latching into place and the bleeps and warbling sounds as the alarm activated. A quick check on his android phone confirmed his daughter was secure, the safe room ‘app’ pulsating a light green. She was secure, protected, and knowing he could check on her at any time by touching the ‘app’ on the screen (which would produce a live video feed of the room at any given moment) helped him relax a little; but not by much.

  And not for very long.

  Chapter Seven

  Harriet

  Harriet ushered the small boy out of the treatment room, picked him up and carried him the length of the corridor. Already she felt like they’d overstayed longer than they could afford, a burning fear grappling inside her. She felt sick, her heart pounded fast. She had a headache that stabbed from above her eyes. Ignoring all these feelings she knew she had to act now, get herself and her son to safety. Once safe, return home for Meredith and Stanley. And George. Her family. These were her concerns; her priorities. Family was all that mattered.

  You don’t have any time. They have tracked you. Get out of the hospital. GET OUT NOW!

  The call had been over half an hour ago. The nurse casting Charlie’s arm had noted Harriet’s agitation, but said nothing. It was none of her business. Harriet had repeatedly checked her watch; kept glancing at the door. All these mannerisms indicated something was wrong. Was she guilty of something? The nurse continued to apply the plaster, unrushed. She would only finish when the padded arm sling had been placed.

  Harriet glanced at her watch again. How had only half an hour passed? It felt more like an hour or even two. Every second that crept by she expected to see their pursuer. She didn’t know much about him, but she’d recognise him should he appear. She’d seen him before when he’d turned up at their first house before they’d ‘disappeared’. That had been a little over two years ago now. There were others on their trail, but he was her main concern. The Man In The Suit, she’d called him. He’d been unflagging in his pursuit. Harriet likened him to Robert Patrick in Terminator 2, the cop made from liquid metal. The Man In The Suit was worse. He was assiduous, a constant threat.

  Dominic? That had been his name. He’d claimed to work for Kaplan Ratcliff, the corporation where her husband had spent most of his time doing his ‘research’; bu
t she knew there was something not quite right about him. It was something about the man’s eyes. She’d also glimpsed the gun beneath his jacket, peeking out ominously, itching to breathe, to exhale its deadly breath. There was also something about his whole demeanour which warned her that Dominic (if that was his name) wasn’t afraid to use it.

  Since then she’d learnt to keep low and be ever vigilant, always watching, checking behind and ahead of her, nervously glancing this way or that.

  She never knew why The Man In The Suit had let them go, but Harriet knew that he wouldn’t be that charitable again. In truth, the man had regretted that single action more than anything else in his life, often playing back the moment in his mind, the moment that he’d let them slip away.

  They’d eluded capture ever since – almost like they’d been alerted to the danger, always one step ahead.

  Leaving the hospital was easy and uneventful. Too easy, Harriet thought. It was still warm and the early afternoon sun was bright, making her squint, her eyes adding to the pain that throbbed in her head. She’d left her sunglasses behind in the mad panic of getting her son to the hospital. The time on her Seiko Sportura chronograph watch, with its white leather strap: 2:21 p.m.

  “I want to go home,” Charlie griped, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. Four-year-olds didn’t appreciate that life didn’t revolve around them.

  “Soon,” Harriet replied. She scanned the surrounding area, watchful, more attentive towards the car park and any cars that might look out of place. She looked for vehicles with dark, tinted glass windows. She searched for men loitering suspiciously on corners or in doorways.

  Seeing nothing that aroused uncertainty, Harriet carried Charlie across the car park, passing three rows of parked vehicles and jogging across a road in front of an approaching Mini Cooper receiving a blast from its horn. Despite the haste, she was careful of his broken arm, and soon found herself standing next to the red Toyota Prius. From her pocket she found the key and unlocked it with a quick press of a button.

  Quickly, she strapped Charlie awkwardly into his seat in the rear, careful of his broken arm dangling within the sling tied about his neck.

  Climbing behind the steering wheel, she took a moment to compose herself, took a deep breath, keyed the ignition, and then put the car into reverse.

  Before reversing, Harriet spied two black cars fast approaching, tyres screeching as corners were taken too tightly, clouds of dust kicking up behind them. The vehicles pulled up outside the hospital in the spaces outside the Accident and Emergency entrance marked with a large yellow grid − designated for emergency vehicles only.

  Three men jumped out of the first vehicle followed by two from the other. All five disappeared into the hospital, oblivious to the glares of patients and passersby who stared at the less than discreet manner of their arrival.

  They’re here, she thought to herself, watching and waiting. She had seen these people before, though they all looked the same, she mused. Black suits, black ties, black sunglasses. Wannabe FBI agents, or extras from the Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones Alien movies, Men in Black. They were Dominic’s people working for Kaplan Ratcliff.

  Calmly, Harriet reversed the Prius out of the parking space and drove slowly so not to arouse suspicion. Out of the hospital grounds she drove, round the roundabout and onwards to the dual carriageway, her nerves still jangling but beginning to relax as distance began to build between her and her foes. She exhaled noisily, checking her rear view mirror, risking a glance to her son strapped in the child seat. Satisfied she focused her concentration fully on the road ahead. Taking the next roundabout, she turned right, heading for the road that would lead towards the coastal road.

  Towards safety.

  Towards the house that − for four weeks − she had called home.

  “That was close,” she whispered to herself, though Charlie’s ears pricked up. She dared to increase the speed, wanting to put more distance between her Prius and the danger she’d left behind at the hospital. She knew it wouldn’t be long before her pursuers realised that she had taken flight and resume the chase.

  Cars occasionally passed from the opposite side of the road, though it was relatively quiet for most of the way ahead; although winding, there was a speed limit on the road of sixty mph, occasionally reducing to forty when passing a stretch of housing or entering a length of road notorious for road traffic accidents. Harriet took the car closer to seventy, feeling the speed with every twist and throw of her body. The road’s surface was in a little disrepair, marred by divots and potholes overlooked for repair by the local cost-cutting council adhering to a strict spending budget. Charlie was being pitched from side to side, the child seat rocking with the car’s momentum; Charlie groaned and winced from all the jerky movements his arm was being subjected to.

  “Mummy, I feel sick.”

  “Close your eyes sweetie,” Harriet continued at the same speed, undeterred. “The feeling will pass. We’re nearly home.”

  Charlie made retching noises and though he tried hard not to, he vomited noisily into his hands; yellow and white liquid bubbled from his mouth, chunks of breakfast cereal and a makeshift lunch of sausage roll and Pringles overflowed and trickled through his fingers, splattering his top and pooling around his lap. He started to cry.

  Great!

  Coming up, the road sign to the side of the road advised of a junction that joined, creating a crossroad. Harriet maintained her speed though could not deny that she wasn’t distracted by her son’s distress and discomfort. Charlie’s retching and vomiting had stopped, but his crying had turned into thick, wracking sobs; tears were streaming down his cheeks, a snot-bubble was forming at his nose.

  “It’s okay Charlie. Mummy will fix this when we get…” the sentence was unfinished. From the corner of her eye, Harriet saw something moving fast through the trees to her left, something metallic, heading towards the junction she was fast approaching. She wasn’t concerned, vehicles approaching had to stop; she had right of way. Sunlight sparkled and reflected from the silver-grey shape through the trees, not slowing as the crossroads were about to meet.

  That’s not right, she thought.

  Playing out in what appeared to be slow motion; Harriet continued to watch the movement through the trees of what turned out to be a silver Mercedes, not taking her eyes off it as she drove the car up to pass the crossroads. She could see everything clearly; the car, the driver of the fast-approaching vehicle, the determined look upon his face, and the recognition of it as it dawned on her.

  She knew him.

  “Oh no!” She screamed, the moment of dread, of fear, and of intermingled realisation of what was about to happen, flashed before her eyes, halting only when –

  CRASH!!!!!

  The impact hurled her body forward, her seat belt digging deep into her shoulder and pulling tight across her stomach, winding her. It felt like her lungs were about to explode.

  The sound of glass shattering and metal scraping as the Mercedes hit Harriet’s Toyota Prius at the rear, crumpling and buckling the metal wheel arch above the left alloy wheel, forcing the car to careen out of control ten meters before flipping over, the car rolling like a toy − first to its side, then over onto the roof, then to the other side, then back on its wheels − before rolling a further 360˚; sounds of smashing, of exploding glass, of chinking metal, of scraping, of loud bangs as tyres blew, of more glass as the windscreens, front and back, and the windows to the sides all shattered, and the crumpling of more metal, together with the sound of the engine as it continued to whirr, an accompaniment as Harriet absently continued to press the accelerator pedal down to the floor. With this cacophony of sounds, she watched the horror play around her in magnificent HD3D, watched as her car rolled two times, felt every impact as it flipped over the embankment and heard the tremendous SMASH! as the vehi
cle came to a sudden halt upside down in amongst a heavy brush of brambles, nettles and wild grass.

  Dazed and confused, her vision was impaired, blurry. A cut across her forehead leaked blood past the corner of her left eye, dripping down the ridge of her nose.

  What had just happened?

  Gradual realisation crept in.

  “Charlie?” Harriet struggled free from the seatbelt, pressing the release button; gravity did the rest. She dropped like an oversized stone, landing heavily on the underside of the roof, shattered glass crunching under her weight. She scrabbled under the upturned seat to where her son hung, strapped to the child’s car seat, fragments of glass piercing the pads of her hands. He was staring out ahead, eyes wide, catatonic. Initially she thought he had stopped breathing, or maybe it was because time was frozen still. He looked like a china doll, not a mark on his upside-down face.

  “Charlie,” she repeated, and at first the small boy, whose good arm hung downwards, all limp, all lifeless, failed to reply. Harriet, fearing the worst, started to howl hysterically. Then Charlie inhaled sharply, a panicked intake of air akin to that of a near-drowned victim breaking free from the watery depths. Oxygenated, Charlie began to scream, the sobs and the vomit from just a bit earlier long forgotten.

  Dispersing the histrionics, Harriet reached out to her son and stroked his head. “Shush, baby, we’re okay,” she reached to the seat belt and released the straps. “It’ll be okay,” the reassurance was more to herself. As the belt was released, Harriet caught her son. He winced from the sudden drop and the pressure on his arm. He continued to cry, fat tears falling down his cheeks.

  Composing herself, Harriet glanced through the webbed glass of the windscreen behind her, the rear-view mirror, though still attached to the glass, was also cracked (that’s going to bring bad luck, she mused); then to her left and right, out through the empty windows to the sides.