Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  He sat up, his head throbbing, a hollow sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. Christ, but he felt dreadful.

  Light from the table lamp glanced off the bottle in splintering fragments that pierced his brain like needle points. He attempted to look at the time, but the rectangular face of his wrist watch wouldn’t stay still.

  Upstairs, from Daniella’s room, he heard the muffled sound of applause and cheering. She had walked out of the kitchen and gone upstairs to catch The Lovebeams Show less than an hour ago. Had he practically finished the bottle and drunk himself into a stupor in so short a time?

  It came back to him then. In his dream he had been dreaming – a dream within a dream. In that dream he had been lying here on the sofa watching the man on TV about to be executed. He had awakened from that dream too, to find himself lying on the sofa. It wasn’t possible that this was a dream too, was it, and he had yet to wake up?

  3

  It was two days later, on a warm peaceful evening, that Sarah dropped the bombshell.

  They were in the garden. Sarah was kneeling on the grass, her hands caked with earth from the Lavatera Silver Cup – grown from seedlings – which she was planting in rows along the edge of the flowerbed. He had uncoiled the water hose and was adjusting the jet to a fine spray when Sarah turned her head to look at him. Her silent stare made Cawdor stop what he was doing. The silence stretched out, like pulling a rubber band to breaking point.

  Then she said, ‘Jeff, I’ve got something awful to tell you. Daniella’s on drugs.’

  Cawdor’s mouth fell open. ‘What? I don’t believe…’ He frowned at her. ‘You mean you caught her smoking a joint or something?’

  Sarah lowered her eyes to the earth she was kneading between her fingertips. ‘That I wouldn’t have minded, I guess. Kids her age smoke grass, I know that.’ She dusted off her hands and rummaged in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘I found this in her room.’ It was what looked like a candy wrapper, a square of waxed paper bearing a red ‘M’ in a black circle. ‘Any idea what this stuff is?’ Sarah asked. ‘What the “M” stands for?’

  Cawdor shook his head. ‘Have you asked her about it?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’d have gone absolutely apeshit over my prying into her personal things. I remember when I was a teenager and wanted to keep things secret from my parents. They respected my right to do it, but once a kid feels that trust has been broken it’s a hopeless cause trying to win it back.’

  Cawdor knelt down on the grass beside her. He hadn’t thought to mention Daniella’s strange behaviour a couple of evenings ago; in fact it had passed clean out of his head. He kept his voice low, because Daniella was in the house somewhere. ‘Sarah, honey, she’s already broken that trust herself, hasn’t she? The trust we had in her. What are we supposed to do? Ignore it, pretend nothing’s wrong, just because you peeked into her personal stuff?’

  ‘We won’t get anywhere by antagonising her,’ Sarah said obstinately. ‘We charge straight in, raising the roof, it’ll turn her against us. Let’s try and think this through, Jeff, the best way to go about it.’

  ‘So what is the best way? You thought of one?’

  Miserably, Sarah shook her head. She picked up the trowel and stabbed it into the flowerbed.

  ‘Maybe the stuff doesn’t belong to her,’ Cawdor said.

  ‘The wrapper was hidden away, stuffed down the side of the mattress.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’

  ‘Before when?’ Sarah said. She was busy with the trowel again, scooping out shallow holes to take the seedlings. ‘I only found out myself yesterday.’

  He recalled how pale and quiet Daniella had been during their spaghetti dinner in the kitchen, and how she’d then become sullen and insulting, totally out of character. Something occurred to him.

  ‘If you weren’t prying in Daniella’s room, how come you know the stuff was there?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t prying; I said it would be a big mistake for her to think I was.’

  ‘So you went in there with the intention of looking for something?’

  Sarah gave a tight nod.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Videos. Not the regular kind,’ Sarah added with a sidelong look. ‘You know the kind I mean. Sandy’s mother said they’re being passed around in school.’

  ‘Daniella watching that stuff? You sure?’

  Sarah gave him a thin, pitying smile. ‘Come as a surprise that your sixteen-year-old daughter is interested in sex?’

  ‘No, course not…’ That was true. More shock than surprise. ‘You find anything?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to disturb all her things, so I left it. But I found the wrapper – and that was even worse than I feared.’

  Taking drugs and watching blue videos? Cawdor’s mind accepted the facts but his heart and soul rebelled. Not Daniella, his own sweet, pure daughter. He couldn’t believe it. Yet the hollow, sick feeling inside gave the lie to his disbelief.

  Phyllis wasn’t at her desk as Cawdor strode through to his office the next morning. Usually she was there to greet him, coffee percolating on the electric ring behind her desk, already reaching for the mug to pour a steaming brimful.

  Cawdor checked the time: 9:07. No coffee and no Phyllis. Was she off sick? He couldn’t remember the last time she had been away from work, it was so long ago.

  But this morning, of all mornings, Phyllis was the least of his worries.

  His mind elsewhere, Cawdor swung his chair to the computer and switched on the CAD system. He had a mountain of work and he’d better get on with it. Worrying over whether or not his daughter had a problem with drugs wasn’t going to resolve anything. He and Sarah had to work it out together, decide between them what action to take.

  About mid-morning, Don Carlson appeared in the main design office, where Cawdor, with the help of one of the electrical engineers, was trying to pinpoint a glitch in a thermocouple circuit layout. The look on Don’s face was enough to tell Cawdor that something was up.

  Don jerked his head to indicate he wanted a private word. They walked together past the rows of desks and workstations with their flickering green screens. Don went ahead into the office and remained standing by his desk while Cawdor shut the door.

  Don’s angular face with its prominent cheekbones was a stony mask. ‘I don’t know how to say this, Jeff, but…’ He stared down at the carpet, Adam’s apple working.

  ‘Not like you to be stuck for –’ Cawdor’s breath failed him. He stopped dead. Something had happened at home. Sarah. Or at school – Daniella. The police had called Don to break the news to him. That’s how bad it was. Don’s air of distress was proof of that. Had one of them been hurt in an accident? A fire at the house, a car smash, a 747 falling on them from the skies?

  It’s … Phyllis,’ Don said, looking as wretchedly embarrassed as Cawdor had ever seen him.

  A wave of relief swept over Cawdor. Thank God it was her (that’s right, she hadn’t shown up for work) and not them. The ugly thought almost made him blush with shame, but the relief was still there.

  He found his voice again.

  ‘What’s the matter, Don? Is she unwell?’

  ‘She’s been on the phone to me.’

  ‘Then she’s OK? She isn’t hurt?’

  Don turned away, shaking his head. Cawdor started to get annoyed. He actually was very fond of Phyllis, and he wanted to know how much of his sympathy this was going to take.

  ‘Phyllis has made a serious allegation…’ Don was looking away, his gaze hovering aimlessly as if it couldn’t settle. ‘She can’t decide whether to report it to the police or not. Jeff, the fact is, she’s made an accusation against you.’

  Cawdor went suddenly cold. He knew what was coming. He knew what Don was going to say before he said it.

  ‘Of sexual assault. When she brought some letters into your office for signing.’ Don glanced up, sp
reading his hands as if in apology. ‘That’s what she told me, and she went into some detail too. According to Phyllis, she was standing next to you at the desk, leaning over, and she felt your hand on her leg. Then you moved it right up and touched her – intimately. That’s how she expressed it. She came out with this stuff over the phone, very explicit, not like Phyllis at all. Incredible that she could have invented such a story.’

  ‘Meaning she didn’t,’ Cawdor said grimly.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it that way.’ Don still wasn’t, Cawdor noticed, looking him squarely in the eye.

  It was more incredible than Don Carlson supposed: that Cawdor had fantasised about just such a sexual episode, and then Phyllis had actually accused him of doing that very thing. How was that possible? That his fantasy seduction had somehow zapped through the ether and implanted itself in her brain? That didn’t make any sense, but nothing else he could think of made any sense either.

  He said to Don, ‘She called and told you this a few minutes ago?’ Don nodded. ‘And when did all this take place, or she say it took place?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. When she brought your letters in.’

  ‘Why didn’t she report it then?’

  ‘I asked her about that. Said she was too shook up. She couldn’t believe you’d do such a thing; it totally shocked her.’

  ‘So she went home and brooded about it – is that her story?’

  Don nodded. His face bore an expression of mingled pain and bewilderment. ‘I didn’t know what the hell to say to her. She was crying as she came out with all this stuff. I couldn’t stop her. I mean, anyone but Phyllis, and there’d be a question mark –’ He snapped his lips together as if the words had escaped when his intention had been to keep them under guard.

  ‘And you believe her, do you, Don?’ Cawdor’s voice was steady and cold.

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘Did I fuck her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. Did she say I fucked her?’

  Don shook his head. He edged his narrow flanks on to the window ledge and rocked foward, his agitated hands clasping and unclasping. ‘If you want to know, she said you put your fingers, then your whole hand, inside her while she was face down on the desk. And you just carried on signing letters as if nothing was happening. That’s what I can’t get over, she went into every detail – like, you know, describing something that had really happened to her. She didn’t just say, “He raped me,” or “He assaulted me,” but gave it the whole works, chapter and verse.’

  Cawdor’s eyes drifted off his partner to take in the hazy Manhattan skyline through the large plate-glass window. He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell Don that he had fantasised the exact same scenario, with Phyllis a willing participant, because Don would instantly, and understandably, jump to the conclusion that Cawdor was inventing this pathetic he to cover his tracks. In fact, the truth of what had happened – the seduction taking place inside his head, and only there – was the one thing he could never reveal to anybody. People would simply shake their heads and give him a withering look of scorn and pity: that the best you can come up with, you degenerate sonofabitch? Take advantage of a young female employee and think you can get away with it by giving out this cock-and-bull story? What kind of a cowardly slimeball are you?

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ Cawdor said. ‘Sit and sweat it out while Phyllis makes up her mind what action she intends to take? And what about you?’

  ‘Me?’ Don gave him a sharp, furrowed look. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’re involved in this because Phyllis chose to tell you about it. Why’d she do that if she didn’t expect you to act on it?’

  ‘I am acting on it,’ Don said, nettled. ‘I called you in and told you, didn’t I? What else am I supposed to do? Christ, Jeff, give me a break, this isn’t easy for me. If you want to know, it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever had to do.’ He sucked at his lower lip. ‘I keep asking myself, Why? Why would she say such a thing, for what reason? She’s a sweet kid, a good worker, been loyal to us. Trustworthy. Can you think of any reason?’

  For the life of him, Cawdor couldn’t.

  Don folded back the doors of the walnut cabinet and poured out two hefty shots of J&B. He added ice from the miniature icebox and the, two men drank silently in an atmosphere that was palpably thick with tension, as if a potent nerve gas had been siphoned into the room. Side by side at the window, staring out, they tried in their separate ways to come to terms with the situation, and to figure out what could be done about it.

  ‘We’ll have to hope she doesn’t go to the police,’ Don said eventually. ‘No question the press will get hold of it then for sure.’ A thought struck him. ‘Could that be it, d’you think? Blackmail? Does she have money problems? She want a payoff to keep her mouth shut?’

  ‘That isn’t Phyllis,’ Cawdor said. ‘Not in her nature. I can only think it’s some kind of…’ He hesitated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nervous breakdown.’

  ‘She been acting strange?’

  ‘No, goddamnit, she hasn’t. We get on really well together, I like her and she likes me.’ Cawdor felt himself reddening. ‘I mean – What I mean is, we have a good working relationship.’

  He seemed to be digging a hole for himself, stumbling over ordinary blameless phrases that had become suddenly pregnant with sinister meaning. Don patted his shoulder. ‘I know, it’s OK, I know what you’re saying. We’ll work this out somehow. It’ll come right in the end.’

  Cawdor finished off his drink in a gulp. He was deeply shaken by this, naturally, but he couldn’t tell Don how deeply. To be accused of sexually assaulting a female colleague was bad enough; to have your secret fantasy turn into horrifying reality was even worse.

  Maybe it wasn’t Phyllis at all, Cawdor thought crazily, who was having the nervous breakdown. Maybe it was him.

  The visit to Glen Cove wasn’t strictly necessary; in fact it wasn’t necessary at all. The contract for a development of luxury condominiums on the headland overlooking Long Island Sound hadn’t yet been awarded, although UltraCast had pitched for it and was included in a short list of three. Cawdor told Don that he needed to take another look at the proposed site because he was worried about the mix of shale, sandstone and rock, and he wondered if their costings had taken full account of the geological substrata.

  It was a weak pretence, which Don recognised of course, but he simply nodded and said, ‘Sure. Go out there, take another look.’

  Cawdor came off the two-lane blacktop and steered the Oldsmobile down a deeply rutted sandy track towards a flat natural basin about 300 yards from the water’s edge. Tall, rattling reeds and wind-blasted bushes were dotted sparsely about, struggling for survival in the sculpted dunes, buffeted by the constant westerlies whipping up clouds of salt spray. Already Cawdor could taste it on his lips. He stood by the car, facing into the wind, thankful to be out of the office and away from New York for just a short while.

  Almost in a daze, he found himself walking towards the sound of unseen waves crashing against rocks, his hands bunched inside the pockets of his jacket. On the promontory he stood for a long time watching the ceaseless motion below him, his face becoming numb from the wind and sea spray. He was actually getting a soaking from the flung droplets, but it was of no importance. There was a small craft of some kind, a fishing boat perhaps, pushing steadily through the crests and troughs to the open sea. He watched it until it was a hazy speck, and carried on watching even when it had dwindled to nothing more than a faint smudge on his retina.

  One word kept spinning through his head. The word that Doctor Khuman had used. That word ‘disruption’.

  That was how it felt exactly – as if his routine, peaceful, happy existence had been violently disrupted by an unknown force, something out there in the vast darkness of his ignorance and incomprehension. Doctor Khuman had talked of cause and effect too, he remembered, of events not being
allowed to follow their proper course. Was this what was happening to him? Somebody or something meddling in his life?

  Thinking back, he tried to pinpoint when it had started. Certainly after Doctor Khuman’s visit, he was convinced of that. Daniella behaving strangely when they were having dinner in the kitchen … No, before that, his sexual fantasy about Phyllis, which had now come full circle with her accusation that he had actually done the deed. And, of course, Sarah finding evidence of drug-taking in their daughter’s room. If these events were connected in some way, Cawdor hadn’t the faintest notion how, or what the whole crazy farrago was supposed to mean.

  But he was forgetting something. The dreams he had been having during the past – what, week, ten days? Ever since Doctor Khuman’s appearance in his office, when the guy had hypnotised Phyllis or some damn thing and waltzed straight in.

  Cawdor screwed his mind tight, focusing his concentration on what the dreams had been about. But dreams, of their nature, were elusive and transient will-o’-the-wisps, powerfully vivid at the moment of dreaming and then just as quickly forgotten, consigned to the trash can of the unconscious, where they came from in the first place. Come on, come on, he raged at himself: it was you that dreamt them, dredge ’em up again from that soggy grey mass you call a brain.

  An image shimmered tantalisingly at the edge of his mind, wrapped in a kind of vague blue haze. It resolved itself into a blue halo. Cawdor edged slowly and cautiously towards the image, scared that if he approached too fast, pressed too hard, it might suddenly vanish. And then, instantaneously, the whole picture came to him of a guy strapped in the electric chair, the blue halo hovering a foot or so above his head. There was a big clock on the wall behind him, the thin red hand sweeping round the face. The guy was in a trance, staring down at his left hand. In his dream, Cawdor remembered, this had been happening on TV – that’s right, he’d been watching a movie, so he thought, or a gruesome fly-on-the-wall documentary.

  OK, he’d dreamt of somebody about to be fried in the chair. A stranger he’d never seen before. So what? That was two or three evenings ago, lying on the sofa, after finishing half a bottle of Irish whiskey. In that state, small wonder his unconscious had conjured up so macabre a scene. He’d recalled it, great, and yet was none the wiser: its meaning or significance – assuming it had one – eluded him.