Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  Cawdor shouldered people roughly aside to get to the companionway. Somebody grabbed his arm. Cawdor tried to shake him off.

  ‘Jefferson, don’t be a damned fool!’ Gilbert Gryble had to shout at the top of his voice in order to be heard above the ear-splitting cacophony. He hung tightly on to Cawdor’s arm, his eyes wide and fearful in the round moon of his face. ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t interfere. It’s none of your concern!’

  ‘Then whose concern is it?’ Cawdor demanded, thin-lipped.

  ‘If anyone’s, the captain’s –’

  ‘The captain doesn’t give a tinker’s toss. Neither, it seems, does a single one of these good, pious folk. Let go!’

  He shook Gryble off and leapt down to the lower deck. Booming waves of sound battered Cawdor’s eardrums. They reverberated inside his skull, sending needles of pain through the soft brain tissue. It seemed to Cawdor that his brain was being violently shaken, as a terrier shakes a rat.

  The elders were too preoccupied with their deadly work to notice him. In – out, in – out, in – out went the knoblike heads, lips drawn back, mouths black holes, hurling screaming lumps of sound at the man writhing on the deck, blood pouring from every orifice.

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  Like a battering ram, hammering away without respite, rendering him insensible.

  Cawdor staggered and fell to his knees. He reached out at full stretch, got a slimy hold on the man’s shirt, sodden with blood, and dragged him from the grey circle.

  The suddenness of the silence was almost as painful as the sound had been. Cawdor’s head shrieked with it. His ears rang. Black spots swirled before his eyes. He got to his feet and swayed dizzily for a moment. He became aware that the grey circle had surrounded him and was closing in. Blindly, instinctively, he swung his arm, and had the satisfaction of feeling his fist connect with one of them. He hoped to God it was Elder Graye. But he couldn’t be sure: his blurred vision was only now clearing, and, when he blinked and got his eyes into focus, the circle had broken apart.

  Cawdor glanced down at the man slumped at his feet. His face was a mask of blood. Slowly, Cawdor recognised him. It was Paul, the young man who had been dallying with Elizabeth.

  ‘Come on – try and stand.’ Cawdor lifted him up and supported him. ‘Let’s get you to Doctor Chapman. Move out of the way,’ he grated at the grey line of elders; and, when they didn’t, snarled, ‘I said shift, boneheads. Now. This instant.’

  Elder Graye barred his path. Veins like blue worms were throbbing in his hollow temples. ‘You have committed the most grievous sacrilege by this interference in our sacred –’

  Cawdor stuck the flat of his hand in the bony chest and pushed him out of the way. ‘No time for all that twaddle. Say another word and it will afford me the greatest pleasure to snap your spine. And that is not a threat; it’s a promise.’

  Elder Graye clamped his mouth shut. His slitted eyes in their deep bony sockets went black.

  Cawdor half-carried the young man to the bottom of the companionway. A row of faces stared down. Some frightened, some timid, a few curious and puzzled. One of the faces Cawdor registered, not because it was flawlessly beautiful, and framed by a mass of tangled black hair, which it was, but because it was smiling. The Spanish Woman – as everyone referred to her – was smiling down on Cawdor as if they shared a private joke. Yet he didn’t get the joke, nor much care for that cold, mocking smile.

  Gryble had scurried down the steps to lend a hand. Together they carried the bleeding, semiconscious form up to the quarterdeck.

  ‘I have to say it, Jefferson,’ Gryble panted. ‘I think this a grave mistake on your part. How do we know what he’s done – broken some sacred oath, m’be, or transgressed the tenets of his faith? Perhaps he deserved the punishment they were meting out…’

  ‘They weren’t punishing him,’ Cawdor said angrily. ‘They were killing him.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘All the same what?’ Cawdor snapped. ‘You’d have let him die, would you? I don’t care much for your cosmogony, Gilbert, if it permits you to watch a man killed, right there in front of you, and you don’t lift a finger to prevent it.’

  ‘Of course I would wish to prevent it. If I could,’ Gryble mumbled, shamefaced; and added, ‘Even though cosmogony admits of no moral philosophy.’ He sneaked a scared watery glance over his shoulder, just in case the elders had overheard him. ‘Naturally I would.’

  9

  ‘Naturally,’ Saraheda said bitterly, ‘it would have to be you and no other, wouldn’t it? No one else but you would be so foolish as to intervene in such controversial affairs. What about the captain? What about the officers? Where were they?’

  ‘Busy turning a blind eye,’ Cawdor said wearily. ‘While a blameless young man bled to death.’

  It was late evening, and a refreshing breeze had sprung up. Cawdor had been enjoying it, after the heat of the day, strolling with his wife on deck, until this subject had reared its ugly head. He had tried to avoid it, and then make light of it, but Saraheda would not be deterred or humoured.

  ‘You don’t know for certain he was blameless.’

  ‘You sound as bad as Gilbert Gryble.’

  ‘What do you mean, “as bad as”?’ Saraheda said testily. ‘I’m not “as bad as” anyone. I’m stating my opinion. I’m allowed to do that, ain’t I? I’m not simply and merely your “chattel”, Mr Cawdor. Wife, mother, cook, washerwoman, servant and drudge rolled into one – yes, I am all that, granted – but I also hold views and opinions.’

  ‘No one has ever suggested –’

  ‘And am allowed, I think, to express them.’

  ‘Yes, madam, of course you are,’ Cawdor said placatingly.

  ‘Do not, sir, patronise me. I know that tone.’

  ‘What tone?’ Cawdor said despairingly.

  ‘Insinuating that my views are to be aired only under sufferance from my lofty lord and master.’ Saraheda’s voice deepened to a gruff bass: ‘Let the little woman have her say. That’s the easiest course. One can ignore it, as one always does. After all, it’s only the female way of thinking – the product of a shallow feeble mind.’

  Cawdor remained silent. They were on a new tack now. The original difference of opinion had been subverted, lost and forgotten somewhere along the way. They had entered upon a circular argument that he had less chance of winning than a cat surviving in hellfire.

  The sun was ebbing over the horizon. From it stretched a path of light, like glittering golden fish-scales. At this point, Cawdor reflected, they must be very nearly in the plumb centre of the Atlantic. Over a thousand miles of ocean either side. Several weeks away from the nearest scrap of dry land. It wasn’t a thought to dwell on, with nothing but a few planks of timber separating them from the briny deep. And he had heard someone remark that typhoons were common in the waters they were now entering.

  Saraheda too had fallen silent, perhaps in contemplation of the rosy sunset. Speculatively, to test if their row had been forgotten or not, Cawdor drew her close to him and kissed the side of her neck, which was invitingly warm. He felt her body resist for a second, and then relax and mould into his. He murmured in her ear. It tickled her, and she rubbed her head against his shoulder in a lazy, feline movement.

  Trying to tease her, Cawdor was about to murmur some more, when he suddenly tensed and stared.

  A pale shape was flitting towards them. For a heart-stopping moment, because it moved so silently, Cawdor could have sworn it was a ghost, until he heard a soft footfall on the deck. The shape came directly up to them, dressed in a long, straight, white garment. Eyes and teeth gleamed in a dark face.

  ‘If you will permit it, I must speak with you.’

  Satish Kumar placed the palms of his hands together and gave a slight bow. Cawdor knew about the Indian from Saraheda: she had mentioned the help he had given her in bringing the hot water.

  ‘What do you wish to say?’r />
  Kumar made a graceful motion of his hand, beckoning them to step down into the deeper shadow of one of the lower gangways, or waists, as they were called, which ran lengthwise along each side of the vessel.

  ‘I have become an untouchable,’ the Indian explained, teeth flashing in a grin. ‘From across the white line. I must be careful not to be observed in this part of the ship. Good evening, Mrs Cawdor.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Saraheda replied, amused by his formality.

  Cawdor said, ‘Then it must be important for you to take the risk of breathing this exalted air. Tell me, does it taste any better here?’

  ‘Oh yes, much,’ the Indian answered gravely. ‘As soon as I crossed the line the air was scented with roses.’

  ‘What does it smell of over there?’

  ‘Cowslips,’ Kumar said promptly.

  Cawdor chuckled. ‘You’re more English than the English, Mr Kumar. So why put yourself in jeopardy? What’s to do?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope. The man is a bag of wind, boasting of this, that and the other. Some of it has a grain of truth, perhaps, but most of it is vain bragging. He –’

  ‘Wait. Wait,’ Cawdor said. ‘What man is this?’

  ‘Why – the man who insulted your wife,’ Kumar said, blinking his eyes wide. ‘The one called Franklin Kershalton.’

  ‘Yes. I see,’ Cawdor said evenly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Ah…’ Kumar gave an elaborate shrug, spreading his slender hands. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Cawdor, for placing you in this position. I had assumed your husband was aware of what had befallen you. My humble apologies.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Saraheda said. ‘He has an inkling now.’

  ‘Tell me about this man Kershalton,’ Cawdor said tightly. ‘And what his bragging has to do with us.’

  ‘Kershalton is an evil man, Mr Cawdor, a cutthroat, a thief, and a rogue by his own admission. He boasts of evading the gallows for a foul crime.’ The Indian’s voice became hushed. ‘Some little time ago I saw him in company with Elder Graye – though I know Kershalton is not a member of their sect. Later I overheard Kershalton, in drink, conversing with his young companion, the one named Six-Fingered Sam. He spoke your name and laughed.’

  ‘He spoke my name. Is that all?’

  ‘It was the manner in which he spoke it. And his laughter.’ Kumar’s eyes were bright with anxiety in his swarthy face. ‘He is the kind of man who would commit any base deed for a gold sovereign or two. I have lived within earshot of him these past weeks, Mr Cawdor, and I know his heart is black –’

  ‘You also say he is a vain braggart. Why should I have to fear a drunken scoundrel?’

  ‘Listen to Mr Kumar, Jefferson.’ Saraheda’s voice was husky with trepidation. ‘Ask yourself why Kershalton should make mention of your name. He’s been put up to something. Don’t, I beg you, assume a brave face for the sake of manly pride.’

  ‘You’d rather I crept around, jumping at shadows?’ Cawdor asked sardonically.

  ‘I’d rather you weren’t so pig-headed, but showed a jot of sense, and listened hard to Mr Kumar! You well know the ill-feeling that exists between you and the Shouters – never mind now the reasons for it. You did what you did. Too late to cry over spilt milk. But for heaven’s sake, and for mine, pay heed!’

  Cawdor put his arm round his wife’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘Very well,’ he said simply. ‘I shall.’

  Satish Kumar touched the palms of his hands and bowed. ‘It saddens me deeply to be the bearer of this disturbing news. But I should not sleep easy in my bed, having neglected my duty.’

  ‘Duty?’ Cawdor said, puzzled. ‘Why duty?’

  ‘It is the duty of all good men to resist evil, Mr Cawdor. If we did not, then the world would be in an even sorrier state than it is now.’

  Cawdor smiled. ‘You seem very sure that I’m a good man, Mr Kumar.’ There was a gentle hint of mockery in his voice. ‘Can you see into my heart too?’

  ‘No. But I have observed your actions. Today you saved a man from certain death – while others stood by. It was a good thing, a noble thing, and a brave thing.’ Now it was his turn to smile. ‘No, I do not think my judgement is faulty in this respect.’

  ‘I take it you are a religious man?’

  ‘Yes. As we say in my creed, “No God, no soul”.’

  ‘And what is your creed?’

  ‘I follow the teachings of the Theravada.’

  ‘I do not know it,’ Cawdor confessed.

  ‘It derives from the original doctrine of the Buddha, the Enlightened One, comprising the Three Signs of Being, the Four Noble Truths, and the Noble Eightfold Path.’

  ‘You don’t want for theology, it seems,’ Cawdor said with a smile. He had vaguely heard of the Buddhist belief, and it intrigued him. Satish Kumar, the man, interested him, too. He couldn’t say why. It was an intuition that Kumar held within himself many secrets; held them comfortably and securely, without strain. And thus – unlike most men – had no need to blurt them out in order to appear better, or wiser, than his fellows.

  ‘We have several weeks left of this voyage,’ Cawdor said. ‘I should like to learn more of your creed, and discuss it with you – if you are willing.’

  Kumar bowed. ‘I would be most honoured, Mr Cawdor.’ He glanced up with a mischievous smile. ‘Providing I can cross the white line and am permitted to breathe in this exalted atmosphere.’

  They watched him glide silently away, a pale blur in the deepening purple twilight. Saraheda slid her hand into her husband’s and squeezed it tightly. ‘Mr Kumar was right and I was wrong. Good, noble, and brave. Yes – what you did, Jefferson, was all of those things.’

  VIRTUAL FUTURE

  1

  With a sudden start, Jeff Cawdor sat upright and then slowly subsided on to the bed. The sheets felt damp. His hair was stuck to his forehead and warm trickles of sweat made his scalp itch. He lay there, panting slightly, as the images ebbed and faded away. That was some weird dream. What had he eaten last night to dredge up such a lurid fantasy? Something about…

  What had it been about? Even now, moments after waking, the dream was floating away and dispersing into the air like mist in the morning sunlight. Cawdor struggled to remember, getting tantalising glimpses of a vast ocean, a sailing ship, a warm night under a swaying spread of fat bright stars scattered from horizon to horizon. But, the harder he tried, the more diffuse and ethereal they became, until he was left clutching at nothing.

  Cawdor gave up. No wonder he couldn’t remember: his head was tight and muzzy, and his throat parched raw as if he’d been yelling in his sleep. Some dream all right.

  Beside him, Sarah stirred drowsily. The dim light filtering in through the blinds gave her face a ghostly translucent quality. Cawdor reached out and lightly touched her shoulder. The flesh was reassuringly soft and warm and solid. She moved again at his touch, and he withdrew his hand in case it might wake her. He had no idea of the time, though he sensed it was early by the raw quality of the daylight.

  Being a sound sleeper, he very rarely woke at this hour. He let his gaze wander about the dimly lit room as if it might alight on something different or unexpected; but everything looked just the same. For some reason this gave him immense relief. The bedroom was just as it always was, with his wife sleeping beside him, and, his daughter asleep also in her room three doors along the railed landing. His life, in other words, was proceeding normally. In a little while he would get up, shave, take a shower, and sit down to a breakfast that Sarah had prepared – maybe his favourite of French toast with a round hole cut in the centre to hold a sizzling fried egg, coated in Worcestershire sauce.

  Funny how such little, unimportant things brought comfort. The whole crazy planet might be in turmoil, yet French toast with a fried egg restored his world to one of cosy domesticity.

  Cawdor slid out of bed and padded through to the bathroom, taking advantage of his early start by having a leisurely shave. He’d always been a hot-water-and-
razor man, enjoying the ritual of lathering and scraping as much as anything, never feeling an electric shaver quite did the trick. His face ballooned in the magnifying side of the mirror as he bent towards it, the blade cutting a satisfying swathe through the foam, like a snowplough clearing a drift. Why some men found shaving a chore he never understood: it always revived his spirits, honed him physically and mentally for the day ahead…

  Then he found himself staring not into the mirror but at the mirror itself. He looked down at the tiled floor. In his mind’s eye he saw a heap of broken glass, the mirror’s base and stainless-steel rim among it. Hadn’t he smashed this mirror? Clearly he hadn’t, because he was using it to shave with. Then was it maybe a lingering remnant of the dream that had shocked him awake? He tried to remember, but no good – it was gone, every last scrap of it.

  By the time he was dressed he could hear Sarah in the kitchen and smell coffee and the mouth-watering tang of bacon on the air.

  He went to fetch the morning paper, which was still damp from the dewy lawn, and sat reading it at the breakfast table while he took his first sip of coffee. Sarah slid a plate of bacon and French toast in front of him and bent to kiss his cheek. At the last moment he quickly turned his head so that she kissed him on the lips instead.

  She smiled. ‘You were up early. What happened to my morning cuddle?’ His arm encircled her waist, and Sarah removed his straying hand from her buttocks. ‘You want your daughter to walk in and find us rutting over the breakfast dishes?’ she asked primly, gliding out of reach.

  ‘Where is she? It’s getting late,’ Cawdor said, gnawing at a strip of bacon. ‘Doesn’t she have school?’

  Sarah laid aside a piece of buttered toast and wiped her fingers to open her mail. She couldn’t face anything cooked in the morning. ‘You forget? She’s in the end-of-term play, doesn’t have to show till mid-morning.’

  ‘Still in her room?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Some programme on cable that all the kids are into. You don’t watch it, brother, you don’t rate at all Might as well emigrate to Outer Mongolia.’