Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  ‘I was actually sorry we couldn’t recruit you for my MI unit, Bliss. In fact, having seen your scores you would have been perfect for data analysis at Camp Bastion.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Virgil knew he’d done fine on the interview: general knowledge, always good, well read, French and German to a good standard. They said they wanted him for MI. But that was just before HMG’s latest cuts to the armed forces, deferring new recruitment. It was either take up the existing offer from the Royal Green Jackets or sling your hook.

  The Green Jackets still appreciated him when they saw the MI interview scores. That raised a few eyebrows. But nothing compared to the intelligence test result. On day one in basic training at Catterick, Sergeant Davies had whispered to him during kit inspection: ‘So you’re the coon with the IQ of a hundred and forty-three. I should fucking cocoa. Think you can find the fucking boot polish, Einstein?’

  But they had all expected him to be well hard. Black geezer from sarf London? Comes with the territory, dunnit? Sergeant Davies stuck him into the boxing ring and found he was quite tasty as a heavyweight. After a bit of a diet one year he got down to cruiserweight and made the regimental semis. Still, the British Army’s assumptions hadn’t changed in two centuries: black recruits have brawn not brains.

  ‘How did you get my mobile number, Sir?’ The vocative slipped out.

  ‘From Chacewater Associates. They’ve hired me for some urgent recruitment.’ Virgil had registered with Chacewater months ago, and was disappointed not to have been offered anything since the childminding gig. It was a Swiss-based agency, more low-key than the big American firms, but with a good reputation.

  ‘So Bliss, we need a close protection officer to start immediately for a very high-profile principal. As well as the usual CPO requirements, they are looking for social and diplomatic skills, and an unusual analytical role. Right up your street, Bliss, I would have thought. Interested?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Good. Chacewater already has your full background check, but we still need a notional CV, by e-mail if you’d oblige. Can’t quote details, but I think you’ll find the compensation package is very good. By the way, you got an extraordinary glowing reference from one of their clients. Saved his daughter’s life, apparently. Is that true?’

  ‘Contractually, I can’t comment.’

  ‘You have good instincts, Bliss. Meet me at this address at O-nine forty-five hours tomorrow. Stardust Brands Ltd, reporting to a Mr Thad Cobalt. Interesting name, yes? I haven’t met him myself yet.’

  Virgil wrote down the central London location Colonel Forsyth gave him, and the e-mail address.

  ‘And Bliss? Client’s female, by the way. Young, attractive, famous. Remember which way your eyes should face.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ Virgil said, but the colonel had already hung up.

  * * *

  That night, Virgil dreamed he was back in Helmand. As so often it started with the IED blast that got Kev. He crawled over to the burning Spartan troop carrier, a track blown off, the commander dead in his turret. There were cries of pain from those inside, and frantic banging. Virgil tried to release the rear door, but it was too hot to touch. The smoke grabbed his throat, a mixture of acrid plastic and seared flesh. Then the door blew open from inside, and he stared within. He couldn’t describe what he saw, but it filled him with horror. Then he was running, running for cover. He found reed beds, thick and welcoming, and soft earth. He crawled towards a darkened river, its coolness inviting. Reeds swayed, and eddies tugged at the stems. A solitary crow cracked the dusk with its cry. Tendrils of weed parted and a pale woman, swathed in white, floated slowly into view. Water lapped at her ears, her eyelids closed but still fluttering. Then suddenly, he was floating above her, close to her face. Full lips, bluish with cold and trembling, as if in silent prayer. Her hands picked at the white, richly embroidered shift which flapped slowly around her, clinging to her youthful body as she slipped down the languid watercourse. A twig cracked, and her eyes opened. Huge pale green eyes, beauty laced with fear. A shadow passed over her as the river became a calming stream. The girl looked asleep, relaxed and easy. Finally, she lifted her head from the water, smiled and opened her eyes. The eyes were horribly changed. Solid black orbs, each weeping three inky streams down her face and into the stream.

  Virgil awoke gasping. He’d had the Helmand dream so many times, but this was different. The dream had morphed into a river sequence with that girl from some TV series. He’d seen it on Kev’s DVDs when he was out there, just the last few minutes of the final episode. Kev had explained it to him A beautiful girl, the last surviving child of a family in a town under siege by zombies, was consigned to the water. ‘These zombies, with the white faces and black tear stains, are called Qaeggan. They can’t stand running water. It’s the only place she’s safe. So that’s why she has to float down the river to get help.’

  He couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but she was a great hit amongst the lads. Kev had a picture of her taped inside his locker. Virgil remembered that because he’d wondered whether or not to include it in Kev’s personal effects to send back to his parents. ‘One day, I’m gonna marry a woman like that,’ Kev had said. They were the last words he’d ever said to Virgil. He was nineteen.

  Chapter Four

  Virgil had squeezed himself into his best dark suit and forced his way onto a packed Bakerloo Line underground train from Elephant & Castle to Piccadilly. He found MacMillan House easily enough, an anonymous 1930s frontage just off lower Regent Street. Stardust Brands was on the fourth floor, and he emerged from the lift into what looked like an advertising agency. Pop art replicas and magazine front page blow-ups lined the curved pastel-hued walls right up to the ceiling. A very tall and almost jet black receptionist with green lipstick to match her stilettos pointed him to the low tubular chairs in reception. He reclined there uncomfortably for ten minutes looking between his knees at leggy young women carrying artwork and bearded young men in T-shirts with eyebrow rings, gravity-defying quiffs and trendy beards, while sweaty package-laden cycle messengers clattered back and forth to the lift.

  Colonel Forsyth arrived looking just as Virgil had remembered him, with perhaps a bit more white among the sparse sandy hair. He’d obviously tried to dress casually, but his country-tweed jacket, regimental tie, carefully pressed charcoal grey trousers and mirror-shined black brogues made him look like a relic. Thank God he hadn’t worn a cravat.

  They had barely time to exchange greetings before the receptionist took them through to what she called the ‘brand narrative hub’, a large glass-walled oval space. Creative types were just streaming out after a meeting, arms full of glossy documents. One tall man in his thirties stood unmoving at the epicentre of this activity. He had trendy horn-rimmed glasses, a pepper-and-salt goatee beard, a sky-blue jacket and extensively ripped jeans. ‘Sorry to keep you guys waiting. I’m Thad Cobalt.’ As he pumped the colonel’s hand, his other gripped Forsyth’s bicep. Virgil saw Forsyth stiffen. ‘And Virgil Bliss.’ The American had a firm shake. ‘So Virgil, I’m pleased to say we were very impressed by your credentials,’ Cobalt said, signalling they should all sit in more of the absurdly low chairs.

  ‘I’m delighted you found me,’ Virgil said.

  ‘That was down to the colonel,’ Thad laughed. ‘You can’t advertise a job like this.’

  Virgil couldn’t help noticing how the colonel’s eyes were drawn repeatedly to the torn knees of Thad’s jeans. There was something like disbelief etched onto his face, as if the world was flat after all.

  Thad turned to Virgil. ‘The person you are protecting, the principal, is someone I’m sure you’ve heard of. She’s on her way to the Caribbean at the moment, but she’s looking forward to meeting you of course.’ Thad took a remote and clicked. The venetian blinds closed, casting the room into semi-darkness, and a wall-sized screen at the far end burst into life: a shimmering unfocused background, the sound of a woman’s heels
clicking down a street, each click echoed in a flamenco soundtrack. Then a darkened female outline emerged, with flowing chestnut hair silhouetted against a dazzling white door. The clicking continued as she walked towards the screen.

  ‘This is the start of the Silky commercial, I love it,’ breathed Thad. The woman’s face was caught in a searchlight: huge green eyes, dark, almost commanding eyebrows, and a wide and infectious smile. Virgil had dreamed about her. And now he remembered the name: Mira Roskova. The girl that poor Kev had wanted to marry. Right now, the most talked-about face on the planet.

  Thad smirked to see the expression paralysed on Virgil’s face. ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shook his head. ‘Astounded.’

  Thad beamed. ‘You might like this just as much.’ He passed across a letter of appointment, which included a payscale at least twice what he had expected. Virgil thought he’d have to pinch himself.

  ‘The serious pay comes with a serious responsibility, Virgil. Mira is not just a person, she is a multi-million dollar brand. That brand image embodies connotations not only of beauty, but of innocence, of purity. That’s a lot rarer than beauty alone. I can’t emphasise that enough. Her edge over her many modelling competitors is down to being pristine. Men desire her, women aspire to be like her. Advertisers pay top-dollar to have their products associated with that stardust. Shampoo, make-up, skin cream, jewellery, you name it.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen some of the adverts.’

  ‘Well, Virgil here’s the thing. It takes a lot of work to build a woman like Mira into a brand. It takes more than beauty, it’s an aura, a mystique and of course her huge online following. And it has to be carefully managed. There’s a risk asymmetry here too, like tightrope walking. Thousands of hours of concentration and patience to build, but one slip and in a heartbeat it’s gone.’

  ‘Like snorting coke or leaked nude photographs?’

  ‘Yeah, or sometimes even a single ill-judged tweet. We help all we can, but ultimately it’s down to her. Don’t underestimate your role. Your discretion, social intelligence and empathy in steering her public appearances will be as important to preserving our investment as your ability to disarm an attacker. That’s why you got the job. The moment Colonel Forsyth showed us your profile and experience, we knew you’d be right for us, and right for Mira.’

  ‘That’s very flattering.’

  Thad passed him a heavy envelope. ‘Virgil, read it carefully before you sign. I want to underline that you will owe a duty of total confidentiality to Miss Roskova at all times. The fact that you are working for her is confidential, where she lives, any personal habits that you observe, anyone she spends time with, these are all absolutely confidential. The contract is explicit that this prohibition will endure beyond any termination of the service. Any attempt to sell, give or pass on any non-public information, in any medium, and in any jurisdiction unless explicitly pre-approved by Stardust Brands, will incur exceptional financial penalties which our rather savage legal team will pursue from you until Hell freezes over.’

  ‘Got it,’ Virgil said. ‘No boasting to me mates.’

  ‘Spot on,’ the colonel said. ‘So Bliss, we require a lot from you in other ways. You will be on duty as personal protection when Mira’s travelling in public, at public events, parties, news conferences and so on both here and eventually abroad. Mostly you will work alone but sometimes you will be part of a team. You will often double as her driver, but you may also be required to protect her at her own home. We don’t generally envisage you will need a firearm, but my colleagues at Chacewater will file applications on your behalf for all relevant jurisdictions. You’ll need to update your target practice too. We’ve got you down for defensive and evasive driving courses, and to brush up your medical and triage qualifications. Your job is to be at hand, within reach, but not obtrusive.’

  Virgil flicked through the documents, stopping to gaze at one of Mira’s publicity pics.

  Thad continued. ‘There is more. Up until now, an intern here at Stardust has been logging and assessing all the online commentary about Mira. She’s not qualified to assess threats, so it really isn’t satisfactory. She’ll continue to collate the material and copy it to you. We want you to do the analysis, and produce reports. We want prevention as well as protection. She needs to feel safe as well as be safe.’

  ‘Has Mira had personal security before?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the colonel. ‘Mainly on an ad hoc basis, for public events. It wasn’t truly professional, so we were brought in to tighten things up. Things have to be very different now. Chacewater’s risk analysis report is in your folder here.’ He tapped a thick binder lying on the desk. ‘Your job is to execute the strategy laid out in that report.’

  ‘Right,’ Virgil said. ‘I assume that you wouldn’t be recruiting me in such a hurry if she wasn’t in imminent danger.’

  Colonel Forsyth turned to Thad, who answered. ‘Absolutely, Virgil. Do you read the gossip columns?’

  ‘No, not normally.’

  ‘Well, that might change,’ Thad said. ‘Developing a celebrity and PR antenna will make your work easier. Mira has been dating Lawrence Wall. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.’

  ‘The England defender? Of course. Lucky guy.’

  ‘Not any more. They will be breaking up. Not quite yet, but soon. It’s a sad story, and it’s theirs alone, but we don’t expect Mr Wall to take it very well.’

  Virgil laughed. ‘Are you guys running her love life too?’

  ‘I wish.’ Thad smiled. ‘It would make life a lot simpler.’

  The colonel opened his briefcase, and offered Virgil a thick envelope. Inside was a heavy sheaf of documents. ‘In here is all you need to know about Mr Wall. But it’s basically this. Lawrence Wall doesn’t understand the word “No”. He may try to get at Mira in some way, either online or in person. He knows where she lives, and where to find her. They have friends in common. He has the resources to make her life extremely difficult if he so chooses. We are taking precautions, but she cannot be hidden completely away from him. She is a public person too. Your job is to stop him. Preferably diplomatically, preferably gently, but above all effectively. Starting tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Are we just talking harassment, or is her life in danger?’

  ‘Up until a few days ago, Virgil, we would have said harassment,’ said Thad. ‘Then Mira showed us this.’ He passed across a sealed envelope. ‘This may be the most valuable thing you will ever hold in your hands. And the most dangerous in the wrong hands. Open it.’

  Virgil did so. Inside was a five-by-seven photograph. It was a selfie, the face of a slim young woman with one eye so swollen it was almost shut. She also had a bloated lip crusted with blood, and grazes to her shoulders and arms. But most horrifying were the purple finger marks on her slender throat, squeezed by a single strong hand. It was hardly recognisable as Mira Roskova, but it was her.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Virgil said.

  Thad reached across the table and took the photo back. ‘Lawrence Wall did this. And he threatened to kill her.’

  ‘What do the cops say?’

  ‘They will never know.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Look at the fingermarks on her neck. That’s attempted murder!’

  ‘Virgil,’ Thad said firmly, ‘we’ve all made this decision, including Mira herself. If this comes out, her career is over, image smashed, carefully-built brand destroyed. Gone. Finito.’

  ‘So this will stay a secret?’

  ‘Most definitely. Virgil, I’m afraid that stopping Lawrence Wall is down to you, and you alone.’

  Chapter Five

  Mira Roskova: The new face of beauty?

  To see Mira Roskova in the flesh, the thing that strikes you isn’t just her beauty, though she has, let’s admit it, a face that most of us would die for. It’s a vulnerability, a kind of projection of innocence. It seems so personal that I’m reluctant to remark upon it, until I realise that this is exactly
what has made her the most talked about celebrity of 2014. But how can you define what makes someone unique? The look that made the young Brigitte Bardot, Elizabeth Taylor, Nastassja Kinski. While I mull how to tackle this delicate subject, and conscious that her publicist is sitting there reminding me we only have half an hour, I try to tease out some details of this rags-to-riches story.

  MC: So Mira, first of all your name seems to indicate Russian extraction. Tell us a little about that.

  MR: My father was from St Petersburg and my mother is half Italian and half Georgian, so you could say I am a bit of a mongrel. My full name is Lydia Mira Nikolayevna Roskova, which is a bit of a mouthful. They were in London when I was born, so I have British citizenship as well as Russian, though I have never actually visited Russia. They divorced when I was five.

  MC: I know you were an only child, but were you a happy one?

  MR: Well, my childhood was unusual (laughs). After my dad went back to Moscow, my mother – who was a classical musician, a violinist – at first worked at the Royal Academy of Music in London, but then we lived in lots of different towns, mostly across the north of England, wherever she managed to get teaching work.

  MC: Your big break was the BBC series Village of the Dead, just eighteen months ago wasn’t it?

  MR: Yes, it completely changed my life. It was just a bit part, honestly, five minutes at the very end of the series. I was the third choice, picked out of the agency book at literally an hour’s notice. Then I was given this amazing dress, and filmed in the tank, floating down the river like Ophelia, to escape the zombies, Qaeggan they were called, and suddenly… I don’t know, the last scene turned up on YouTube, and went viral, I mean …

  MC: And some of your fans dress up as Qaeggan, is that right?

  MR: (Laughs) Yes, wherever I go there is someone with a curly wig, white face, those horrible black eyes, with three black tear stains under each eye. It’s really huge in Japan, where there is a manga magazine and, I’m now hearing, an anime cartoon based on it. It’s all a bit overwhelming actually.