The Girl in the Mirror

by Philip J. Gould

  “Bravo Team, stand down. Do not engage; repeat, DO NOT ENGAGE.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Harriet

  In the distance, a lone vehicle appeared on the horizon, the hood of the car shimmering in the intense July sunshine, its mirrored surface reflecting the sun as if it were a fiery beacon, momentarily dazzling. Dominic had ushered the woman away from the crippled Mercedes, his Beretta aimed at her back, and together they stood by the roadside like a couple of hitchhikers thumbing for a ride; only their ride wasn’t to be with some good Samaritan-passerby helping a motorist in distress. Their lift was pre-arranged and fast approaching from the east on Seabrook Road.

  “What about my son?” pleaded Harriet, aware that Charlie was watching from a safe distance, camouflaged by deep shrubbery and prickly bushes. “He’s only four, he’s not safe out here all alone.”

  “Harry, Harry, Harry…” he spoke slowly, “you mistake me for someone who gives a crap. Your son will be all right, I’m sure. Someone will be here for him soon enough. If not, I’m sure his suffering won’t last too long. You should worry more about yourself.”

  The silver vehicle drew closer. Harriet could identify the make of the car by its four ring insignia. An Audi. Through the windscreen she made out the dark outline of two figures seated within the front. Less than a minute later, the silver Audi Q7 slowed down, pulled over to the side and came to a halt by the edge of the road.

  The driver’s side door slowly opened and the driver, a portly man in his fifties with thinning hair and a moustache, climbed out and walked forward a few feet, surveying the scene. Wearing a light blue long-sleeved shirt, the collar was unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Sweat coated his tanned face, and dark round circles highlighted how hot he was beneath his armpits. Carelessly, he wiped his forehead with the back of one wrist before drying it on the thigh of his trousers.

  “Well done, Dom. I never did like that Mercedes…” He had an American accent, nodding towards the smoking wreckage behind the man and his captive. “I guess insurance will cover it.”

  “I expect so,” nonplussed.

  “I shouldn’t bother replacing the music though.” This is the end had played out, followed by Chris Rea’s The Road to Hell and now Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer. Dominic ignored the insult towards his choice of music. He believed his taste in music was eclectic. Besides, the CD compilation was mood music handpicked for the occasion.

  Harriet barely heard the exchanges between the two men, focused instead on the plight she found herself.

  What to do?

  Everything had gone totally wrong. She feared for what this man and the newcomers intended to do to her; more than this, she was scared for her son. Looking across the road she was sure she could see Charlie’s small form through the trees; his ruffled mop of hair, his little face full of alarm, his cheeks, tear strewn.

  A sideward glance indicated that her captor still aimed the gun her way, though his attention was more directed towards the newcomer than it was on her.

  What to do? The question urgently plagued her thoughts. She was panicked, she felt desperate. Never had she felt so scared, so hopeless and so defenceless.

  She needed to escape; not for herself, but for her son – although that was a given − the question was, how?

  “I guess you’ll need a lift.”

  “You Americans don’t miss a thing,” Dominic replied sarcastically, his English over accentuated and noticeably plummy.

  To the side of the road, not more than a couple of feet away from where Harriet was standing, debris from the car lay scattered amongst a mess of stripped foliage, torn shrubbery, broken-down trees and fragmented remains of a border fence, all demolished by the relentless Mercedes as it crashed out of control off the road, its progress finally halted by the sturdy oak which now wore the German car like a Christmas bauble.

  Considering the debris scattered close by and the potential for one or two of the items, she formulated half an idea in her head.

  “What are you staring at?” The American had noticed Harriet’s fixed gaze towards the ground. “Com’on, let’s get going.” He turned and led the way, a mobile phone suddenly pressed against his ear. He started talking into it.

  Harriet took a pained step forward, Dominic behind her, gun still aimed at her back, and deliberately tripped on nothing substantial, stumbling a couple of steps before falling to her knees with a thud, then falling forward, as though felled by a pro-wrestler weighing 300 lbs. She grunted from the impact and cried out exaggeratedly, the entire act carried out within a couple of seconds. She lay sprawled out on her front – her face hidden from view. She was crying loud and dramatically.

  “There’s no time for a rest… get up!”

  “I... I think I’ve broken something, ” wailed Harriet.

  Dominic stood over her, the Beretta lowered, his guard dropped. He spoke calmly, “It’s probably a sprain. Here...” grudgingly, he offered his free hand, reaching down.

  Harriet slowly pulled herself up, her back still to her pursuer, her right hand wrapped around the base of a splintered wooden support post approximately three feet in length. It was part of the fence that had collapsed from the Mercedes’ impact. A rusty nail jutted out from it menacingly like a crudely fashioned mace.

  Looking over her shoulder, she made eye contact, and smiled. “Thanks,” she whispered. Ignoring the offered hand, she stood up fully, turning awkwardly, pain continuing to burn within her swollen left leg; from the shielded vantage point granted by her outthrust chest she swung the piece of wood in an arc from behind her body, the makeshift club not registering with Dominic until it was too late.

  The club connected squarely with the side of her pursuer’s face, narrowly missed by the sinister looking spike protruding from it –

  CRACK!

  The force propelled the man backwards, the hand which had only moments earlier been poised with the offer of help, now clutching at his head, blood trickling between his fingers.

  Not waiting to see what damage she’d inflicted, with barely a heartbeat passing, Harriet charged after the American as he readied himself to get into the Audi. Coming up behind him at great speed, she brought the makeshift club crashing down, smashing his arm and knocking the mobile to the ground, following up with a hefty wallop, clouting the fifty-something driver on the side of the head hard, grounding him with the one, nasty blow.

  “Youngs? Youngs? You still there?” The electronic voice, also American, emitted from the Samsung mobile talked into the tarmac, its intended lying on his side next to his car, a thin line of blood leaking from a gash to the side of his forehead.

  “Youngs, can you hear me?”

  Harriet stepped over the unconscious man and peered into the driver’s side of the car, glanced to the ignition and noted with relief the small bunch of keys dangling from the ignition key slot.

  “Thank God,” she said, about to climb in.

  Before she could, a sudden burst of electricity stabbed into her back as the forgotten passenger from the Audi crept up from behind the trees and fired the Taser from fifteen-feet; two electrode darts hitting her square in the back, the barbs attaching to her blouse. The sudden electric charge caused a neuromuscular incapacitation that she was powerless to overcome. She fell to the road, her limbs twitching spasmodically.

  “Mitch, you okay?” Brayden reached down to the driver and felt for a pulse at his neck. A strong heartbeat could be felt from the carotid. Almost immediately the man felled by Harriet stirred and opened his eyes. He winced as he gingerly touched his head.

  “You chose a good time to take a piss,” he grunted, slowly raising his head.

  “Youngs?” The mobile was still twittering away.

  “When you gotta-go, you gotta-go,” Brayden, the passenger shrugged. He was young
er than the driver, but taller − six-feet-two-inches, towering above his partner. He was muscular and ruggedly handsome; two day’s worth of stubble had grown making him look older than his thirty-six years. He was dressed stylishly in a white shirt and light tan-colour trousers. Brown shoes completed the look. Unlike the Audi’s driver, very little sweat coated his skin, with no perspiration marks staining the shirt under his arms. He reached into the Audi and pressed a button that released the boot door. Turning his attention to Harriet, he reached down and effortlessly picked her up and carried her to the boot, dropping her in hard with a thud and closing the door after with a slam.

  The Audi’s driver retrieved his mobile phone and put it back to his ear. “I’m here,” he growled.

  “About time, thought you’d been killed or something…”

  “Almost, but Brayden came to my rescue, a proper knight in shining armour,” he muttered.

  “So… you have Harriet Jennings? You sure it’s her?”

  “Yes, positive. Dominic’s photo doesn’t do her justice. She looks prettier in the flesh. A real peach.” Mitch was holding up a crumpled photograph for comparison.

  The line went quiet for a long moment. When finally the voice at the end of the mobile returned, his voice was chill and icy hard: “Good. Excellent. Bring her in and set the plan in motion. It’s what he wanted.” The electronic voice was suddenly gone and Mitch dropped the mobile into his trouser pocket, returning to the Audi.

  Brayden had trotted off to where Dominic was lying semi-conscious from where Harriet had clobbered him. He crouched down and shook the fallen man gently.

  “How you doin’?”

  Dominic sat up gingerly and forced a smile.

  “Just dandy,” he replied. With Brayden’s help, Dominic stood up, but being proud and too British he shrugged off the American’s continued support and staggered a couple of steps independently before dropping to a knee.

  “Guess you need my help after all.” Brayden picked Dominic up and guided him to the rear passenger seat of the Audi, opening the door and pushing him through.

  “I have unfinished business,” Dominic slurred. He shuffled up on the back seat and slouched across so that he was half-lying and half-sitting. Lightly, he touched where Harriet had used the side of his head as a rounder’s ball, wincing as he caressed the swelling.

  “Tell me what to do,” Brayden had stooped down and was peering into the rear of the car.

  “This was going to be my retirement party,” he said sardonically. “In the boot you’ll find the poor schmuck who volunteered to be my stand-in.”

  “Volunteered?” In the driver’s seat Mitch had turned to look over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

  “Well, let’s just say he passed the audition stage and was fast tracked to the judge’s house,” Dominic chuckled at his idle reference to The X-Factor. Brayden missed the jape having never watched the Simon Cowell presented talent show. He much preferred The Voice. “Put him in the driver’s seat then douse him with petrol – you can find a couple of cans of the stuff with his body in the boot.

  “Then let one of these two-inch fellows do the rest.” Dominic handed a small cardboard book of matches − a famous London Soho nightclub advertised on its packaging − to the six-foot-two-inch man and chuckled again. “They’ll need Temperance Brennan for identification after these pyrotechnics. I just wish I’d brought a couple of steaks and a beer for the barbecue.”

  “Tsk!” Mitch was shaking his head at the Brit’s attempt at humour.

  Brayden nodded understanding, then his face changed to a slight look of consternation.

  “Just one thing – who’s Temperance Brennan?”

  “Don’t you watch any TV? Bones?” Dominic glanced at Mitch, his eyes asking the older man to back him up but instead received an equally blank look. “I thought you Yanks liked that crap. Jeez! Call yourselves Americans.” Dom turned away in resignation, failing to notice the sly smile appearing at the corners of both the Americans’ faces.

  Brayden closed the Audi’s door and made off towards the Mercedes to carry out Dominic’s macabre fabrication.

  A thick billowing cloud of black smoke was stretching into the midafternoon sky. The Mercedes was by now a dense ball of fire when Mitch started the engine of the Audi and drove them back in the direction Harriet had originally come from.

  Charlie, though concealed by the thicket in which his mother had placed him, had watched in silence through a small gap that allowed observation. Stifling a cry, he witnessed his mother’s capture and sudden fear enveloped him as the car in which she’d been unceremoniously stowed in the boot of, drove away. After a moment, he crawled out slowly from his hiding place, careful of his arm, snagging his clothes on thorns and bracken but not scraping his skin.

  “Mummy!” he cried, clambering unsteadily to his feet and toddling up the slight embankment to the road’s edge. “Mummy,” he repeated more urgently, tears beginning to spring from the corners of his eyes. “MUMMY!!”

  He watched as the Audi shrunk with distance, becoming a shimmering, silver disk. The heat of the sun had started to become overshadowed by the heat emanating from the blazing vehicle just a short way through the bushes across the road.

  BOOM!

  The explosion caused the ground to shudder, the backdraught lifting Charlie clear off his feet for what seemed longer than a nanosecond, and propelling him backwards three feet to land in a heap deep in amongst the thicket. Once again he was hidden and shielded from the dangers or the deliverance that Seabrook Road begrudgingly offered.

  Before unconsciousness spared him from further fear or distress, temporarily taking the pain of losing his mother and the dull ache that was growing in his broken arm, he heard the distant siren of the first emergency vehicle rushing to the scene.

  He hoped that the nightmare which he now found himself in would be over when he awoke. Maybe his mother and father would be there and he’d find himself tucked up in bed surrounded by his favourite toy dinosaurs and monster playthings, and the smells of cooking wafting up from the kitchen.

  In retrospect, the nightmare wouldn’t be over; this was just the first of many events that would shape an unsettled future for Charlie and his siblings.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meredith

  By way of punishing herself Meredith had locked herself in her bedroom and refused to leave.

  Not even for lunch.

  Mrs Slocum, the house sitter, had hammered on the door relentlessly for what seemed like ten minutes, made threats and even resorted to the undignified position of begging for her to come out – all to no avail.

  Meredith felt terrible, felt more guilty than had she have pushed her small brother out of the tree herself. After all, she had encouraged both her brothers to play in the crab-apple tree in the first place, whilst she, herself, had stayed safe out of harm’s way on the grass down below.

  “I’ll leave your lunch by the door,” Mrs Slocum had called through the double plywood that kept her at bay, her voice tinged with a slight undertone of annoyance. Meredith didn’t realise that had Mrs Slocum wanted she could have easily forced the door with the slightest elbow punch, or kicked it in with a mere toe punt to the right place.

  But she didn’t, resisting the urge that burned inside her, an accomplice to her anger. Instead, she slowly retreated down the stairs biting her bottom lip and cursing silently.

  That had been over half an hour ago. Though in the act of self punishment, starving herself was not part of the plan; it was not something she was keen to maintain, seconded by her stomach, which protested noisily with rumbling and gurgling sounds. She admired those people who went on hunger strike in their fight for some noble cause. Meredith Jennings wasn’t one of them.

  Once sure the house sitter was no longer outside her door, she unlocked th
e barricade and accepted the cheese and salad sandwich that sat on the side plate taking centre piece on the tray presented before her. An apple, some raisins and a Cadbury’s chocolate mini roll completed the meagre offering. It took her less than three minutes to devour the lot.

  Stomach full, Meredith returned to lying on her bed, self-pity once again consuming her thoughts. The scene of Charlie’s fall: the run-up, the incident, the aftermath, playing over and over in her mind like a broken DVD, stalling at the bit where she had lied to her mother:

  “Why did you let him climb the tree?”

  “I didn’t. He did it all himself.”

  She knew better than to lie to her mother. Besides, what did it serve? It didn’t change the fact that Charlie was hurt, regardless of her protests of innocence; she knew her mother had the truth. What’s more, she was responsible for her brother whilst playing outside. She was the eldest − the responsible one!

  How stupid of me to allow it, she chastened. Would the feeling ever end? Would remorse consume her thoughts for eternity?

  At some point sleep had taken her hostage, though not allowing her the sanctity or respite from her guilt. She dreamt of that morning, reliving the incident over and over again; different scenarios, differing perspectives but exactly the same final act and calamitous conclusion.

  A knock at the bedroom door sounded like thunder in her dream before startling her awake, temporarily halting the movie playing within her mind. Knuckles rapped the wood a second time – three quick taps followed by one big ‘bang!’

  “Meredith. Meredith, I need to talk to you.” It was her six-year-old brother.