Samuel stood up and crossed to the glass wall that gave him an overview of the command centre. “Damn it, Ryan!” The outburst startled the Assistant Intelligence Officer. “Why can’t they just come quietly… or just lie down and die? Haven’t we gone through enough?”
“George is smart, Sam. Hell, it’s his daughter we’re targeting, who wouldn’t go all out to protect their children?”
The Director grunted, returning to his seat.
“George isn’t that smart, Ryan. For two years he has managed to keep one step ahead of us, always avoiding us, missing the traps or outrunning our field agents. We’re always close, always within a whisker, but somehow... he knows.” Samuel steepled his hands in front of him, his elbows on the desk “I’ve had my suspicions for some time now, Ryan. I’ve been in denial, but I can’t deny it any longer. He’s got help, he must have. I believe we have an internal problem.” He sighed sullenly. “We have a mole in our midst.”
“But that’s impossible, Sam. I vetted all the applications; I can vouch for every single analyst and every agent,” Ryan genuinely sounded incredulous, hiding his fear and the inner turmoil behind his act. “We did countless checks; they’ve all been polygraphed.”
The Security and Intelligence Director looked sternly at his deputy; a worrisome thought clearly troubling his mind. “That’s what I fear the most Ryan, someone is determined and... very skilled at lying.” He then visibly relaxed, exhaling deeply. A reassuring smile surfaced. “Do me a favour; see to it that you find him. Or her,” he paused again for emphasis, “and when you do, you know what to do.”
“And what is that, Sam?” not entirely needing the answer spelt out to him, but wanting to hear his intentions.
“Exterminate this… scourge. I want them burnt. Set the fire so hot that even his soul gets incinerated.”
Chapter Nine
George
George exited the building through the back entrance, looked furtively from one side to the other, peering suspiciously through the gap of the open door; satisfied there was no one watching (Was there someone out front? A nagging thought), that he was unobserved, he darted across the small green, a sign staked to the ground warning:
ABSOLUTELY NO BALL GAMES.
On his left, a small play area designed for the local pre-schoolers with half a dozen apparatus upon which three children (a toddler and two robustious four-year-olds) currently played, their mothers sitting in a gaggle, talking animatedly, not watching nor caring for the man running away from the apartment block behind them; on the right were half a dozen washing rotary lines, metal trees bearing laundry for fruit. He cleared the green and vaulted a low wall that bordered the gardens, scant protection in such an exclusive area of the nation’s capital; should anyone have wanted to use the rear as a means to break in, it would have been child’s play. George thought there ought to have been a sign fashioned to rival ABSOLUTELY NO BALL GAMES. This one reading: Thieves: THIS WAY!, hand pointing helpfully should the property’s mediocre defences not be clear enough.
He made his way through a series of alleyways that eventually led to his car, safely parked in a neighbouring road, and (he hoped) far enough away to avert the attention of any would-be pursuers. To further avoid detection he often changed number plates, the latest having been screwed into place just two nights previously.
Bursting out of an alleyway, he reduced his speed and slowed to a more leisurely, less conspicuous pace. He felt bad about leaving Sophie in the apartment by herself − though it was only natural − paternal instincts deep-rooted and borne out of fear. He needn’t have worried, she was no ordinary kid. She was more than capable of taking care of herself − thanks to him. Better equipped, in fact, than most sixteen-year-olds. Better even than men twice that age!
His car was a small Peugeot 207, blue in colour. Being a common car with a common colour helped camouflage his comings and goings amongst the ordinary everyday folk that travelled into and away from London. Additionally, it was economic to the wallet with low carbon emissions, a concept not shared by his pursuers who erred towards brash, bold, gas-guzzling vehicles favoured by government agencies (and narcissists) the world over.
Desperate for news about his wife, he reached for his mobile phone, and pressed the shortcut dialler for Harriet.
The ring tone played out for twenty seconds before going to voicemail.
“Hi, you have reached the voicemail of Harry, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can…” It was her voice, so familiar, so clear – it was like she was sitting next to him.
“Harry, call me when you get this message. I hope to God you and Charlie are all right.” He ended the call, but before replacing the phone in his pocket, he typed a short SMS message:
OKAY… I’M COMING HOME.
He pressed send. A moment later the delivery receipt ‘dinged’ on the phone, a confirmation message envelope flashing up on the screen.
Behind the wheel of the car, George reached to the glove compartment, unlocked it with the ignition key and pulled out a small leather case. Unzipping it he revealed a tablet computer, the sort readily available in most supermarkets. A Google Nexus. He switched it on. Upon loading – it took thirty seconds to go through boot up and presentation of ‘unlock’ screen – he keyed in a five digit password (4-2-0-1-0) and opened up an application that enabled him to track his wife via the GPS signal transmitted from the electronic device he’d insisted she wore. It was strapped discretely to her ankle and acted much like a tag on a criminal serving out a sentence under home curfew. In fact, it enabled George to view the whereabouts of anyone whose GPS coordinates were installed, whether it be on an ankle monitor (like his wife), or from a simple mobile phone. If he had the number and keyed it into the search facility within his programme, he’d be able to see whomever and wherever any one was at any given moment.
His children all had a GPS tracking device strapped to their wrists. Looking like an ordinary wrist watch, these simple to use gadgets enabled George to maintain a watchful eye, despite being far away for a greater part of the time. Meredith wore a pink one, the boys had blue.
Likewise, he wore a similar gadget attached as a pendant to a gold chain Harriet had bought him for his fortieth Birthday. This was mainly for Sophie’s benefit, helping her feel ‘close’ to him when he was away; she could also spy his movements and gauge when to expect his return. These devices all came about after the first ‘attack’, around the time the laboratories were destroyed and Thomas, Maksim and Clara died.
On the screen a map powered by Google appeared. He zoomed in on the map and counted the five pulsating blue dots that indicated GPS traces. It was reassuring to know where his family was − it gave the illusion that they were within ‘touching’ distance.
By pressing any of the dots with a finger he could see details of who it was being tracked, and exactly where the GPS coordinates were located.
George did exactly that, lightly tapping each dot in turn. All, except for Sophie, were within forty miles of each other; he could see that Stanley and Meredith were still both at the house, Willoughby Rising. Sophie was obviously closest, her signal was emitted from a transmitter she was unaware of, surgically planted inside her brain, situated just behind her left eye, deep within the ocular cavity. George had had it planted there before she was a calendar month old. Although unaware of its existence, very occasionally she would feel the slightest twitch behind her eye. It was mildly irritating, though she put the sensation down to tiredness and it would always be gone after a night’s sleep.
The GPS locators he was most interested in were currently stationary on a road eight miles west from home. The two signals had merged into a single pulsating blue dot.
George softly touched the tablet’s screen with the pad of his right index finger and saw the confirmatory information, two speech bubbles co
lliding with each other:
Charlie Jennings: Location, Seacrest Road.
Harriet Jennings: Location, Seacrest Road.
George sighed, slightly relieved, but perturbed by a nagging doubt. His wife and child were okay, that he was certain. He hadn’t been too late. His earlier warning to Harriet − provided by a mystery tipper − had been enough to get her and Charlie clear of the hospital, helping them to safety.
He put the tablet computer down onto the passenger seat, turned it so that it was facing him, allowing him to view the map every so often without taking his eyes off the road.
Starting the engine, George made the decision to move; only when Harriet was in his arms and the kids were seated around his feet would he feel completely at ease – no matter what his obligations were, or how deep his troubles may be, first and foremost came family. He allowed his imagination to conjure an image of the five of them sitting together, no longer anxiously turning at every corner or in fear of each stranger that ever approached. How long had it been since the time when they had laughed easily together, an act most families took for granted?
A couple of Christmases ago? Easter last year? He couldn’t remember, it had been so long.
Had it been two years already since the explosion at the laboratory?
He couldn’t be sure, but one thing was certain. He’d do anything to keep his family safe and return them to the idyllic days when they’d been a proper family.
Soon... There was something he needed to do first.
The image in his head melted away as the tablet computer next to him started to emit a slow, oscillating bleep, an indication that one of the GPS signals was moving. A sideward glance indicated it was Harriet. The dot had changed colour to red, a disclosure further heightened by its rapid pulsation.
“That’s good, Harry,” George muttered, “keep on moving.”
George steered the Peugeot away from the residential street and his home in Chelsea, and made his way towards the one-way system that would eventually take him out of the city and to a bypass that would indirectly route him via a couple of A-roads to Seacrest Road, approximately one hundred miles east; he would soon be heading in the direction of where his wife currently travelled.
The tablet computer, continuing its bleeps and pulsing dot, did not immediately deliver the information that George needed to know.
He wouldn’t realise that his wife was no longer heading towards Seacrest or home, but instead away from it towards a destination unknown. Neither would he notice that Charlie was not moving with Harriet, that his GPS signal was still blue, pulsating only and unmoving.
These facts eluded him and would go unnoticed for twenty-one minutes, by which time it would all be too late.
Chapter Ten
Sophie
Sophie waited almost fifteen minutes from the time her father had left the apartment and the moment she decided to hell with this, before letting herself out of the panic room.
From the confines and safety of this room, she’d watched her father on one of the nine surveillance screens fixed into the farthest wall; images transmitted from cameras located in and around the property, strategically placed, flashed up on the colour monitors, all being recorded digitally. She’d watched George from the camera hidden outside of the apartment as he left by the back door of the building; watched further as he exited the building and crossed the lawn at the back of the apartment, passing the small play area and the rotary washing lines, jumped over the small boundary wall, making his way to the car she knew was parked in a neighbouring road. He disappeared altogether once entering the first of a small series of alleyways.
Allowing time to put distance between them, Sophie had waited patiently. Whilst waiting she petted the stuffed toy kangaroo – Flopsy – her comfort toy from when she had briefly been an infant, a gift that George had presented to her after taking the rest of his family to London Zoo, small consolation for missing out on a day out with her father, mother and siblings. She had never been to the zoo herself – but she’d seen the photographs with Meredith, Stanley and Charlie, their faces beaming in delight from the array of animals that paraded within their enclosures. Sophie had wished she’d been able to go.
Sophie especially liked the photographs of the gorillas. How large and powerfully built they were, a species not too distant from our own. She’d studied the photograph and could read the sadness within the gorilla’s eyes. It was a sadness she felt akin to – after all, was she no different to the caged animal, trapped behind closed doors?
Once certain she was safe to do so, she deactivated the alarm, turned the wheel that locked the safe room’s steel door, and stepped out into the more comforting surrounds of the living room. She left her stuffed toy, momentarily discarded. This was a routine, an action she’d performed countless times since her body had developed into teenage proportions − as soon as she’d been left alone.
Sometimes she’d forego her meds to bring about the onset of her heteroclitic form, so as to venture out into the world, go to places many could not − unnoticed, unrestricted and unobserved. Free to do whatever she wanted. Like the first time she’d left the apartment to visit her family, unbidden, it was initially out of curiosity. Towards the end it was simply from love and out of human need for contact.
The last such time had been over four weeks ago. She’d sneaked into the car when George hadn’t been looking, lying low in the back seat. For the whole journey she would concentrate on being as quiet as physically possible, trying to breathe as silently as one could. As always when trying to be quiet, she found a sneeze trying to foil her act of concealment, but always she managed to hold it in.
At the house she’d climbed out of the car and ventured into her father’s second home unseen. She’d often done the round trip, returning to the apartment either by reversing her initial actions and stealing a journey back via George, or by being adventurous and taking the bus, surprising travellers with subtle pushes and shoves, having a giggle when she took a fancy at being mischievous; knocking hats off passersby and tripping up lecherous youths when their antics had gone beyond that of a joke. There had even been the times, she often reflected, that she took great pleasure from tying the laces of shoes; sometimes, when feeling ultra wicked, she’d take greater amusement from tying the laces of two different people’s shoes together, watching with unrestrained hilarity the resultant calamity, of limbs falling into an intertwined heap.
In the house, away from the apartment, she’d spend a lot of time with the children. At first she hadn’t known who the three children were. Two boys: Stanley and Charlie; one girl, Meredith. It didn’t take long to realise that these children were her siblings, how they looked so much like her; and after coming to terms with it, she embraced her newly discovered family from a distance, stealing a family photograph from a photo album, which she’d doctored by adding a cut out of her own image amidst the sibling portrait. She kept it hidden beneath her pillow.
Things had gone on like that for two or three months, but then she made the mistake of falling asleep in Meredith’s room.
The first she’d known that Meredith had discovered her was when she was woken from her slumber with a start.
Meredith had screamed. It was as though she had seen a ghost.
In point of fact, this was indeed exactly what Meredith had thought. Standing in front of the antique mirror that stood atop the dresser, its wooden frame gilt-edged and carefully carved in a wild English garden style with roses, thistles and brambles, the image of an older girl appeared deep within the glass, lying strewn across her bed. When turning around and looking towards the place the girl was being reflected, all that appeared in front of her was an empty bed.
Meredith had scratched her head, puzzled. Nothing in her nine years had prepared her for the experience of seeing someone in a mirror who wasn’t there.
The only conclusion she could come to was thus: her bedroom was being haunted by a rather scary looking girl.
The scream that followed was ear piercing and long, alerting and alarming everyone in the house and waking the sleeping girl as though she were Goldilocks.
“Meredith!” her father shouted up the stairs, his voice closely followed by his lumbering strides as he ascended the stairs two at a time.
“Shhhhhh. Please!” Sophie had sat bolt upright and was trying to calm Meredith, appealing to her to quieten down. “Meredith, stop screaming. Please… don’t be alarmed.” She was begging and was now standing next to her, an invisible hand laid gently upon her arm. “Your father must not know.”
Meredith stopped screaming, at first puzzled by the feel of the hand pressing against her arm, the indentation appearing in the sleeve of her shirt; she became further startled as her father burst into the bedroom puffing and panting from the exertion of running up the stairs, a knee bruised having taken a stumble at the second last step.
“What’s wrong?” George had demanded, breathy. His cheeks were bright red.
Meredith shook her head. She was confused. What she saw in the mirror could not be possible, and yet there she was, still standing there in the reflection, a finger, poised, held to her mouth in a ‘shushing’ gesture. Meredith turned to face her dad, glancing over to where she knew the girl in the mirror was still standing.
“Meredith?” George pressed, concern still etched across his face. “What’s happened?”
The Girl in the Mirror Page 9