The Mirrror Shop

by Nicholas Bundock

  Eva, in Barbara’s navy dress, sits in the front right pew of St. Colman’s, Corofin. She looks at the statues and the hanging lamp in front of her and tries to imagine Barbara standing in this small, unimposing church planning her own funeral. Her conversion and this service, Eva decides, must have been devised as a farewell to the community and landscape she loved in respectful accordance with its religious heritage; she cannot believe it was for any other reason, certainly not because of a late-in-life discovery of faith.

  She glances to her left at the coffin on its trestles and remembers her parents’ coffins in Worcester crematorium. Barbara had been her one comfort that day: ‘At least they lived to see you grow up and give them a granddaughter.’ She looks towards the altar, and recalls sitting next to Agnes in another church. She replays their conversation, thinks of Luke. Had Barbara died a few months ago, he would now be seated beside her.

  From behind her come the sounds of a growing congregation. She turns her head to see rows of faces she does not recognise. But at that moment she sees, approaching, a nurse from St. Anthony’s who smiles and joins her in the front pew.

  ‘I think the whole of Corofin is here,’ says Eva.

  ‘She had more friends than we realised,’ says the nurse. ‘Or news of the pre-payment at the pub has pulled in the crowds.’

  ‘A bit of both perhaps, and Barbara would have known it.’

  Eva looks again at the coffin and the white roses, matching the marble communion rail and altar, her sadness eased by the knowledge that she is carrying out Barbara’s wishes. Today will not be a day for tears. She looks towards the chancel and up at the circular stained glass window, so different from the vast east windows of Norfolk churches to which her eyes had drifted during concerts. She tries to recall the last occasion she entered Cantisham parish church – perhaps the flower festival a few years ago. And even earlier, when a friend of Helen’s staying for Christmas had insisted they all accompany her to a carol service.

  Eva stands at the entry of the priest. The service is simple, as promised – no music, no eulogy. But she is ill at ease with the words of the mass, the sprinkling of holy water on the coffin, and the messages of sin, forgiveness and a future life. It is hard to accept that Barbara has requested such a ceremony, and harder still to believe that if her soul survives it will be affected by anything said or done in this building.

  After the service Eva follows the coffin out of the church and watches it placed in the hearse. The nurse remains at her side. Eva asks her to join her in the black limousine waiting behind. It is welcome support; to be alone in this large vehicle would be absurd, over-important. They drive from Corofin to the ruined Kilnaboy church. The funeral director had given a long story of how her aunt had somehow acquired or laid claim to a burial plot in the graveyard. She hadn’t followed the explanation, but on leaving the limousine, is glad of Barbara’s decision; better a burial near a ruined church not far from the lake, than a neat grave in a civic cemetery or the disposal-by-conveyor-belt of a crematorium. A surprisingly large number of the congregation have followed the hearse to attend the committal. Eva is amazed that, despite the request for family floral tributes only, there is a carpet of flowers at the graveside.

  As the coffin is lowered, she recalls an afternoon when Barbara drove her to a remote lake. She had parked on a country road and they had walked a quarter of a mile over rough open ground towards the water’s edge. ‘Watch out for the old peat diggings,’ Barbara had warned her, and a moment later had herself disappeared into one, by good fortune landing on her feet on soft turf. With some difficulty Eva had heaved her out. They had both laughed. The memory brings a smile to Eva’s face, but she restrains herself; the occasion demands respect. And yet, as the coffin touches the ground and the priest begins to speak, she imagines Barbara smiling too.

  When the priest has finished the final prayer and the last mourners have thrown in soil and crossed themselves, she looks at the cards attached to the flowers. Most are from people she has never met, but among those from people she knows is a large wreath of mauve and yellow freesias from St. Anthony’s.

  Not wanting to linger, Eva walks towards the car. The priest joins her, but says nothing. At the door of the ruined church she looks up at an ancient carving of a naked woman holding her legs apart.

  ‘Sheela na gig,’ says the priest. ‘A symbol of fertility.’

  ‘Not exactly Christian,’ Eva says.

  ‘On the outer edge of the church. A little like your aunt perhaps.’

  ‘Hardly – and my aunt never had any children.’

  ‘I think she looked on you as her daughter. She would be pleased that you’ve taken to wearing that dress of hers.’

  Eva is annoyed at the observation. ‘Goodbye, Father, and thank you,’ she says and walks to the limoisine, angry with herself at having addressed the priest as if she shared his religion.

  In the pub a small table with its own sandwiches has been reserved for her. She sits, uneasy, feeling like a visiting dignitary as she receives a succession of handshakes, each with its own story. Drinks and reminiscences flow in quick succession. Some, she is sure, are true: ‘She knew Lough Corrib better than any man.’ ‘She gave my son his first rod.’ ‘When my dad was out of work she took him on as a gardener.’ Others she doubts: ‘In her day Miss McKelvey was the best-dressed lady in Limerick.’ But meeting each comment with a smile, she tries to find appropriate replies in the increasing cacophony. Pub talk with strangers was more Luke’s territory than hers. It would have helped had he been with her today.

  By 2.00pm she decides that justice has been done to Barbara’s wishes, and after more handshakes leaves the party. Refusing the offer of a lift she walks back to St. Anthony’s, deciding she will make a substantial donation to them for their kindness to Barbara and to herself. Nothing else keeps her here. The taxi to Shannon is booked for 4.00pm; she cannot be away soon enough.

  To applause, the busker stands and begins to pack up. The crowd disperses and Luke, no longer safe, drifts away with them. In a road off La Place de la République he finds a restaurant and chooses an inside table, picking up from a vacated table a copy of Le Monde. The prices on the menu seem exorbitant, but he has more than enough cash: why should he at least not enjoy what might be a final meal of freedom? He smiles at his own gallows humour and orders a bottle of Corsican red wine, a starter of local charcuterie followed by lamb. The waiter is unobtrusive and even if he knows his diner is English, makes no attempt to speak in English himself. With the other diners ignoring him, he is safe here. Even so, it is more comfortable to hide his face behind the newspaper.

  The Domaine Alzipratu has a strong flavour of fruit. He drinks the first glass before his plate of cold meat arrives, but the alcohol, rather than relaxing him, sets his thoughts to work at a frenetic pace. He forces himself to eat but his appetite has gone with any hope of escape. He begins to accept that all is over. In desperation he looks around the restaurant. On a wall is a photograph of the cliffs at Bonifacio. He considers driving there and throwing himself off the edge, but the act of self-destruction demands a bravery he knows is beyond him. A few days ago he had been daunted by Norfolk cliffs; these limestone heights at the tip of the island, staring white-faced towards Sardinia, terrify him. He orders more wine.

  As an excuse to remain at his table he accepts the waiter’s suggestion of a chestnut pudding. He forces himself to eat it, and as the waiter removes his plate, is tempted to ask for cognac but changes his mind and orders coffee. It is shortly after 2.30pm when he pays his bill. Not feeling in the least drunk, he steps out into the sunlight and from a shop further down the street buys a bottle of brandy which he carries back to the car, telling himself that if the police are waiting for him, so be it. But the car park is deserted and he entertains the possibility that luck is on his side. Sinking back in the driver’s seat he opens the bottle and drinks from it. Again, his head fills with thoughts of the cliffs of Bonifacio. He expels them with mor
e brandy. Now he finds himself overwhelmed with sadness. He wishes Eva, not Rhona were with him, and he pictures himself in her garden. His thoughts wander to his allotment, in spring, before Rhona had appeared in his shop. He cannot blame her for where he is now, only himself – and Alden who is, even now in death, meting out this revenge. And he has failed a responsibility towards Russ. Overcome by melancholy, by alcohol and exhaustion, he watches the sun slip behind the lorry, and drops into sleep.

  When he wakes it is almost 6.00pm. Any lingering notion of escape on the ferry fades. The evening is warm but he is shivering, and there is cramp in his left leg. After drinking more brandy he leaves the car, but as soon as he stands upright both legs give way under him. For a minute he crouches on the ground before levering himself upright with his back against the skip. Cautiously he walks up and down the length of the car, one hand on its side, until he feels steady. When he has sufficient confidence he walks away from the car park with the intention of finding a café. The act of walking revives him but also makes him aware of a piercing headache. After a few minutes he realises he has lost his way and that he has left his street map in the car. For some time he wanders through a residential area, lost, desperate and perspiring heavily in the dusty heat, pausing for breath in the shade of doorways. An old woman comes out of a house and he asks for directions to the town centre. She ignores him and hurries away. He wishes he had lost himself in the mountains; urban alienation is worse. At the end of the road he joins a busier street. Walking on, he sees a sign, GENDARMERIE NATIONALE. Exhausted, defeated, he staggers through traffic across the road to the entrance.

  Part IV

  24

  Through the cell window Luke watches the sun rise higher. He hears footsteps outside and a noise from his door. A gendarme enters carrying a large plastic mug of water.

  ‘Awake at last,’ he says. He hands Luke the mug. ‘Drink it all,’ he orders. ‘For the head.’

  His head feels clear, but he obeys.

  ‘Come with me.’

  With the firm grip of the gendarme on his elbow Luke is escorted away from his cell and up some stairs towards the sound of shouting from the floor above. At the top of the stairs he is taken along a corridor at the far end of which he sees a group of policemen. A high-ranking officer is haranguing them. He cannot understand what is being said. The uniforms, more militaristic than those of the English police, threaten him. The tone of the irate officer terrifies him. He is led down an adjoining passageway to an interview room. ‘Sit down,’ says the gendarme, pointing to a chair by a table. ‘You will be seen in a few minutes.’

  Luke sits, his eyes on the table top, too scared to look around the room or towards the standing gendarme. There is more shouting from the corridor. Luke raises his eyes.

  ‘There was a fight this morning,’ the gendarme says. ‘The crew of a Russian yacht were involved. It may become a diplomatic issue. We are in a difficult position. Brigadier-chef Cardini will see you soon.’

  Luke stares at the table during an interminable silence.

  The door opens. The interviewing officer enters with another gendarme who places a cup of black coffee on the table and stands with the first gendarme by the door. The senior officer sits opposite Luke. He moves the cup towards Luke. ‘For you.’

  Luke sees the brigadier-chef, uniformed, square-headed, balding, snake-eyed, stare through him as if he knows every thought in his head as clearly as the passport, wallet, belt and restaurant bill laid out in a line on the table between them.

  The brigadier-chef opens Luke’s passport. ‘Mister Brewer. A good name for a drunk. Tell me how you murdered your lover’s husband.’

  Luke cannot speak.

  ‘You had no difficulty in talking last night.’

  Luke begins to mouth a reply, but cannot get beyond, ‘I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Let me remind you. You came here yesterday evening to make a confession.’ He picks up the restaurant bill. ‘You know the proverb, in vino veritas? You chose a good wine for your confession – two bottles of it. But the empty cognac bottle we found in your car – that was a poor choice. Drink your coffee.’

  Luke lifts the cup to his lips. His hands tremble. The coffee is bitter. Every sip washes away the mental clarity he had enjoyed in the cell. As he lowers the cup he sees the gendarmes smiling at each other.

  ‘And of course . . .’ the brigadier-chef turns to his colleagues, ‘. . . la mouette morte.’

  All three uniforms laugh.

  Luke does not understand.

  ‘Isn’t there a play about a dead seagull? My niece told me she loved Peter Pan. Were you a pirate? I think you are a Lost Boy now.’

  Luke again has his eyes on the table. He feels a hand under his chin, raising his head to face his interrogator.

  Trembling, Luke says, ‘Shall I make my statement?’

  The brigadier-chef leans back. ‘But you made your statement last night. Of course, you had so much wine and cognac in you, there was very little point in recording it, even if we could have understood your drunk French and prattling English? I did not even waste the overworked doctor’s time to take a blood sample.’ He looks at his watch. ‘And the alcohol will probably still be in your veins. Drink your coffee.’

  Luke feels sick but drinks more.

  The brigadier-chef winks at his colleagues. ‘Il en a eu assez, n’est-ce pas?’

  His colleagues nod, then laugh.

  The brigadier-chef says, ‘This is the first time we have had a person reported missing by a murdered man.’ He smiles. The others smile too. ‘He and his wife – your lover – and your friends spent most of yesterday looking for you. They called us mid-afternoon. Unfortunately, it took us some time to contact the rental company, but when we did – they have GPS in all their vehicles – we soon found your car. And the empty bottle of bad cognac.’ He laughs again. ‘But you had disappeared.’

  Incredulous, Luke knows he is a victim of some mocking interrogation technique.

  The brigadier-chef continues, ‘But you kindly appear at our door and save us the trouble of a full-scale manhunt. And I inform my friend Monsieur Travers. He wanted me to order you a taxi, but I said to him, “Which taxi driver would want a passenger vomiting all the way up to the mountains?” And I certainly wasn’t going to send you back in one of our cars, even if I had the manpower to transport drunks around the island. I said you could stay here for the night and they could make arrangements to collect you in the morning. But Monsieur Travers changed his mind. Said I was to put you on the next flight to England. Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Luke, mistrustful of his recent memory.

  One of the men by the door says, ‘Eleven hours.’

  ‘Do you feel well enough to leave us?’ asks the brigadier-chef. ‘Finish your coffee.’

  Registering a tone of sympathy, Luke struggles to believe the implications of what he is being told. He has not killed Alden. His shot has missed. He is not even being accused of attempted murder. There is a distant urge to shout, but the shock of reprieve is greater. An inner voice, disturbing, inexplicable, tells him to ask if they have found the bullet case. In terror he looks at the brigadier-chef, convinced he has heard the thought. The brigadier-chef says nothing. His face remains impenetrable. Luke’s hands continue to tremble. He can still see Alden’s white shirt below the bridge. He suppresses the memory with the foul coffee. Some spills down his chin onto his own shirt. He pushes away the cup, a child hoping for a reward after taking medicine. ‘I can go?’

  ‘What can I charge you with? Parking on private property? The owner hasn’t complained. Being drunk and disorderly? Drunk but hardly disorderly. Wasting police time? Perhaps, but you are not worth the paperwork. Or fantasising that you have killed your lover’s husband? If that were a crime and we could detect it, there would not be enough prisons.’ He gets up from his chair. ‘Don’t forget your passport and wallet. You have a friend waiting outside. Your restorer, I believe. Perhaps he ca
n help restore your head.’ He laughs, but his face changes and he says without a smile, ‘I have arranged for you to be on this afternoon’s flight from Figari. He fixes Luke again with his snake eyes. ‘I am sure it is in everyone’s interests.’

  Luke feels the grip of an iron handshake.

  At the door, the brigadier-chef looks back. ‘You have time for lunch before you leave. I suggest no cognac.’

  In dazed disbelief Luke stands to leave. A gendarme is between him and the door. Luke stares at the uniform, certain the past few minutes have been a joke to humiliate him. They know he is guilty of attempted murder. He will remain in custody.

  ‘You will need that,’ says the gendarme, pointing to Luke’s belt.

  Luke stretches a faltering hand to the belt. He fails to find the loop at the back of his waistband. The gendarme assists him, and when Luke has fastened the buckle gives him an approving slap on the back, a gesture which confirms the reality of release.

  By the front desk of the gendarmerie Russ is waiting. Luke wants to hug him, but Russ frowns and points to the door. When they are outside Russ says through his teeth, ‘Not a word.’

  Parked outside is Mathilde’s car. Luke climbs into the passenger seat. He does not finally accept that he is being released until he hears Russ’s door close and the engine start. Even so he can still smell the cell on his clothing, while the taste of police coffee lingers bitter in his mouth. For the first few hundred metres he continues to obey Russ’s injunction of silence. He does not ask where they are going, every inch of distance between the car and the gendarmerie, every building passed, roundabout negotiated, an increment of freedom. While they wait at traffic lights he watches a group of holidaymakers and two old men cross the road. They do not turn their heads in his direction; they are not a threat. He watches Russ follow signs to the N198 and realises they are heading south. As the outskirts of town slip behind them, they pick up speed on a dual carriageway. Safer now, Luke says. ‘I can’t believe I’m out of that place.’