Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  Just last week, Lamb had run into the Home Office consultant psychiatrist who came to visit Mordant twice a year, quite often with one or two equally enigmatic associates. Godfrey Allen looked like a rotund bank manager, in an expensive suit, with slip-on shoes and a hefty briefcase, and always arrived at very short notice. He resembled no shrink that Lamb had ever met, and was evasive about his alma mater in the brief conversation they shared. Yet his letter granting him privileges of client confidentiality and excusing him from the security search was signed by the Home Secretary herself. Lamb had made inquiries through his various professional memberships and LinkedIn, and though there were plenty of people of that name, none seemed to be quite appropriate for the job that Godfrey Allen appeared to be doing.

  So what was it about William Mordant that the Home Office was still so interested in almost a decade after he was sectioned? And why was it so important that it was kept absolutely secret?

  Chapter Fourteen

  EIGHTY-EIGHT DAYS

  Virgil couldn’t believe they were doing this. If anyone at Stardust Brands got even a whisper of the risks they were running he could be fired, but Mira was insistent that this was the best way to discover the truth about the Qaeggan zombie cult that had grown up around Village of the Dead. ‘You said you wanted to find out firsthand what this whole scene is about, and to do that you have to feel it, dive into it, immerse yourself. Tapping into social media messages will only get you so far,’ she had said.

  So now, at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening, Virgil, Mira and her old school friend Natasha, were stuffed into a packed Metropolitan Line tube train on their way to hear the biggest names in Qaegrock playing at Wembley Arena. There would be tens of thousands there, followers of the TV show, fans of zombie house music, and many of them besotted with Mira. He and Mira could have taken VIP tickets, arrived by chauffeured car, been escorted in safely and then watched the show from on high, safe from the press of the kids who ‘lived the nightmare,’ as Dr Swampheart’s lead singer Trudge had memorably termed it. But now at Mira’s insistence they were right there with them.

  ‘I’m not sure this is good idea,’ Virgil had said, when Mira first mentioned going by public transport. ‘Someone is bound to recognise you.’

  ‘No they won’t. If I’m qaegged up they won’t have a clue,’ Mira said. ‘Look. If you don’t want to come, then don’t.’

  ‘You know full well that if you’re in public, I have to be there. But it’s also my job to point out to you when you are putting yourself in danger.’

  ‘In danger of being able to feel a bit of freedom? Yes, well, you’ve told me. And I’m still going to go. Tasha is coming too.’

  The saving grace was the costume. A good half of those on the train were in full Qaeggan gear. Mira was wearing a cheap black curly wig, white face paint with the three black tear stains under each eye, and a black body suit, suitably tattered as if by claws. Her final additions were the crucial ones: ugly plastic dentures to give her snaggly brown teeth, and the black full iris contact lenses instead of her usual ones. So she could actually see, she had spectacles too. When Virgil came to meet her, she had jumped out at him the moment the lift doors opened on her floor.

  ‘Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack!’ he said.

  ‘So much for my tough bodyguard,’ she murmured, her voice muffled by the teeth. It had succeeded in making her ugly. But for a monster, she still had a wonderful body. Virgil had been more troubled by the disguise she had procured for him. The baggy patched dungarees with a single shoulder strap was okay, but the curly wig and make-up made him feel like a refugee from the Black and White Minstrel Show. Natasha was wearing a ripped yellow vest, torn hot pants and black tights painted with bones. She had in a pair of cats eye contact lenses. Now they were squeezed into a corner of a carriage, hemmed in by a group of six bewigged Geordies, with open beer cans, singing their hearts out. All hefty lads, they cannoned into them with each sway and buck of the train as it roared and squealed its way under north London. Ticket touts worked their way up and down the carriage, followed by hawkers offering the very same cheap Mira merchandise that Jonesy Tolling had railed against.

  Virgil had spent a few hours on YouTube researching Qaegrock, or Q-wave as it was sometimes known, which turned out to be a combination of eighties style electronic house music with Dr Who theme tune overtones, plus a heavy drum beat which was the incidental music for zombie arrival on Village of the Dead. Half a dozen bands seemed prominent, including Dr Swampheart, Qaegattack, and The Death Tears. However, most of the innovation seemed to take place through DJ mixes, which allowed uninterrupted zombie dances of up to an hour, stiff-shouldered hip gyrations, plus plenty of head lolling. To Virgil’s viewpoint it was a perfect encapsulation of the zombie idea. Deathly dull, repetitive entropy.

  The thumping drumbeats of Qaeggan sound hit them hard as soon as they got into the huge arena. In the distance the first band was already on stage. Lasers played across the crowd and dry ice drifted out of a huge brown inflatable mushroom on stage. They queued for half an hour for bottles of water, and watched hundreds of zombies gyrating in strobe lights. Virgil noted that there were far more men than women, and that quite a few were taking tablets. Mira wanted to wade up towards the stage, but before they had a chance to move, someone came up and asked Mira to dance. She waved him away, and instead grabbed Virgil and Tasha and went as a threesome to the dance floor. Virgil adopted the stumbling gait of most of the male zombies. Tasha kept her body still, but swung her head side-to-side, a Qaeggan move copied from the TV show and now a bona fide dance move. Mira though, despite claiming not to be able to dance, swung her shoulders and hips in an extraordinarily alluring way, nothing like a true Qaeggan dance. Virgil nudged her shoulder and bellowed into her ear that she shouldn’t be drawing such attention to herself. ‘Don’t nanny me, Virgil. Do you realise how long it is since I’ve been able to dance in public? I’m sick of having to hide away.’

  Virgil shrugged. He could see her point, but there was going to be trouble, he knew it.

  Soon the inevitable happened. A tall zombie with full black eyes manhandled his way into the group and seized Mira’s hand. ‘You can’t have them both,’ he yelled to Virgil. Virgil looked to Mira, who mouthed ‘It’s okay.’

  Virgil and Tasha danced for a while, but Virgil always propelled her to a place where he was close to Mira. The tall guy seemed to be angling for what was the nearest to zombie close dancing, but Mira kept him at a distance. Virgil noticed that Mira no longer had her zombie teeth in. Tasha, meanwhile, was dancing with a couple of youthful zombies, one male, one female. She too seemed to be having fun. Three big guys pushed past with drinks, and Virgil lost sight of Mira. It was a couple of minutes before he saw her again, further away, dancing with a different partner, a beefy-looking shaven-headed guy wearing almost no zombie gear. Virgil began to push his way through the crowd towards her. He saw the guy swallow a couple of tablets. He offered some to Mira, and she shook her head. Few could keep up with her dance energy, and Virgil noticed a little knot of zombies just standing watching her, looking her up and down. The way they were talking to each other, arms folded, while ogling her gave him a bad feeling. He strode up and put his hand on her shoulder, the better to whisper to her. The beefy guy shoved Virgil’s arm away, putting his own arm around Mira’s shoulder. Virgil didn’t need his lip-reading skills to know he was being told to fuck off. This is exactly what I knew would happen, Virgil thought. I bloody knew it. I’m probably going to have to deck someone to keep her safe. While he considered how much of a scene to make, Mira said something that made the guy turn towards her. She rested an arm on the man’s shoulder, held up her other hand, and pointed towards Virgil. The other guy released his hold on her, and she turned, walked up to Virgil, seized his face in both hands and kissed him hard, for five long seconds. The shock of her mouth on his: hot, soft and delicious, took his breath away.

  ‘I told him you were my boyfriend,�
�� she shouted into his ear. ‘I apologise for abusing you. I needed to do this to back up the story.’

  Virgil tried to stop the grin splitting his head open. He had just been kissed by the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world, and she was apologising for it. ‘It’s okay. Certainly preferable to me having to smack him one.’

  Mira nodded. ‘I hope you are keeping an eye on Tasha too.’

  ‘I am, but that’s in my spare time. I’m paid to look after you. So can we go now?’

  ‘Oh, stop being such a wuss,’ Mira said. ‘The best bit is just about to happen.’ She grabbed Tasha and led them both towards the biggest stage where Dr Swampheart were just getting ready to play their session. The lead singer, an enormously tall and pale man known as Trudge with a passing resemblance to Herman Munster, grabbed hold of the mic, and yelled a hello to Wembley. As he did so, more and more people began to converge at the stage. Zombies of all kinds were moving over, swigging from cans, some holding poles with skulls mounted on them, others swaddled in hooded capes. As Mira led Virgil and Tasha down to the front it got more and more crowded. The drummer started a series of explosive beats, and the feedback of guitars wailed and soared in the background. A giant screen at the back of the stage flickered into life, with a countdown from twenty.

  ‘So Wembley,’ Trudge bellowed as the drums thundered faster and faster. ‘Do you know what you want?’

  The crowd roared back.

  ‘I can’t fucking hear you,’ Trudge said, hand to his ear. The countdown had got to twelve. Around Mira, the press of bodies got tighter and tighter.

  ‘Mira! We want Mira!’ they roared.

  Virgil suddenly felt very anxious. The crowd, the press of bodies, the screaming and the roaring drums. He stood right behind Mira, ready to protect her, but she seemed elated, as if unaware of the gathering danger she was in. The roars for Mira got even louder, and Mira herself joined in at the top of her voice.’

  ‘Well, lucky you,’ roared Trudge. ‘Because we have Mira, RIGHT HERE TONIGHT.’

  ‘We’re going NOW,’ Virgil bellowed in Mira’s ear. ‘This is going to get very bad.’

  ‘No,’ Mira said, ‘wait,’ but already Virgil had taken hold of her arm, and was trying to carve a way through the press behind her. As far as he could see in every direction there were dark, writhing bodies, zombie dancing. The countdown was down to three, and Virgil was expecting that at any moment some searchlight would find them, and the woman he was employed to protect would be torn to pieces by her fans.

  The drumming reached a crescendo then Trudge bellowed: ‘Ladies and gentleman, zombies and Qaeggan, tonight, live from LA, I give you, Mira!’

  Virgil turned his head as the screen burst into life, and there twenty feet high, was Mira. She was dressed in a white gauzy dress, its fabric billowing around her in the breeze. In the background, silhouettes of gnarled trees emerged from clouds of dry ice. She was barefoot, as she had been in the Village of the Dead, but her eyes looked huge and bewitchingly green.

  ‘Hello Wembley!’ the screen Mira said. ‘How are you all?’

  The crowd went absolutely berserk, screaming her name. All around him the fans were sticking out their tongues and undulating them in a vaguely obscene fashion, which Virgil had learned was the Qaeggan reaction to the smell of human flesh.

  ‘We’re just great, Mira,’ yelled Trudge.

  ‘It’s fantastic to see so many of you there at Qaegfest,’ screen Mira said. ‘Show me a light, so I know you are there.’

  Almost immediately, thousands of torches, coloured lanterns and various other forms of illumination appeared. Virgil was amazed. A chant of Mira’s name grew louder and louder.

  ‘Now come closer, reach out and touch me!’ screen Mira called.

  At that moment Virgil, Tasha and Mira were picked up and carried forward by an ocean wave of humanity that squeezed the breath out of them. Everyone was stretching out an arm, most of them with talons glued on their fingers, desperate to reach the screen. To Virgil’s left a whole group of youths fell over, and those behind started to climb over the writhing press of bodies.

  ‘Okay everybody!’ Trudge shouted. ‘We’ll say goodbye to Mira now, and get on with the show.’

  ‘Love to you all,’ screen Mira said and blew a kiss. The crowd went wild. The screen faded to black and Dr Swampheart started its signature track “Hunger for the flesh”. The human wave rebounded a little, and using his greater height Virgil was able to make sure that neither Mira nor Tasha were knocked over. Gradually they were able to cut back through the crowd until they could walk easily.

  ‘So how did you manage that?’ asked Virgil.

  ‘It was recorded in a studio round the corner three days ago,’ Mira said. ‘I’d been invited to Qaegfest months ago. Thad didn’t want me to attend, but it was Jonesy’s idea to mock up the video as a live link. As long as the script is simple, it’s not hard.’

  ‘A little unethical.’

  ‘You think so?’ she looked at him curiously. He realised she had taken her Qaeggan contact lenses out, and was no longer wearing her glasses.

  ‘Sure. You deceived your fans.’

  She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Yes, I’m not as perfect as they say.’

  Virgil was now itching to leave, but Mira and Tasha had joined a huge queue for the toilets, which snaked through a well-lit corridor.

  ‘I need to get you away from here,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘And put your teeth back in. They’ll recognise you.’

  ‘I lost them. And I’m boiling in this thing.’ Mira took off her wig, and shook out her hair, which cascaded down her shoulders. Most of the disguise was now gone, though the face paint still made it hard to be sure who she was.

  Virgil noticed a few people staring at them. One woman just behind them in the queue had nudged her friend and said: ‘It is her. I told you it was.’

  Her friend replied: ‘Can’t be. She’s in America. Just seen her, haven’t we?’

  ‘Hey, Mira!’ a man further down the line shouted. ‘Gissa kiss!’

  Virgil seized Mira’s arm, and started pulling her from the queue. ‘Time to go. Don’t argue.’

  Mira reacted fiercely, and pulled her arm away. ‘Don’t touch me, you bloody oaf. I’m quite capable of walking.’

  ‘Hey, you really look like her,’ yelled a man with a Liverpool accent. Now everyone was staring at them. Hundreds of people choking the corridor, half of them in Qaeggan gear, many brandishing phone cameras. ‘Mira, for Christ’s sake! You’re just making a scene,’ Natasha hissed.

  Virgil looked heavenwards. Thank you Tasha for using her name. People started to call out to Mira, and the message that she was amongst the crowd started to generate hysteria. Two large male zombies lurched over, demanding she be in a selfie, until Virgil firmly blocked their path. But there were dozens more behind, crowding round. Virgil shepherded Mira and Natasha towards the exit, but was soon blocked in. More and more fans were crowding round, everyone trying to take pictures. A few press photographers popped up from nowhere, adding to the crush. Mira hid her face against Virgil’s back as he tried to cut through to the turnstiles. A few security staff hurried up, but the mass of arriving Qaeggan fans chanting Mira’s name was now so great that they were powerless. Virgil, Mira and Natasha were swept aside, and cornered in a side hall of the ticketing concourse, away from the turnstiles. The nearest emergency exit was an impossible twenty yards away. The crowd now seemed to have a life of its own, sweeping people along like a river. A few zombies climbed onto a stanchion to get above the crush, holding arms down to help others. Virgil still had Mira’s face buried against him, and was finally squeezed against a glass door to an internal office. Inside, through part-open blinds, he saw a woman, on the phone. He pounded on the glass. ‘Let us in, we’re being crushed to death here.’ The woman looked up, face frozen in panic, staring. Others began to kick at the glass, and he could feel the heat of Mira’s stifled breath moist against his chest
. Somehow he managed to press his security credentials against the glass. ‘It’s an emergency!’ he bellowed.

  The woman released the catch on the door and stepped away as he, Mira and a gaggle of dishevelled fans tumbled in and to the floor. Virgil couldn’t see Natasha among them. If she was out there alone, she might suffocate among all those painted faces, and taloned hands squeezed against the glass. More people tumbled into the office. Mira had the woman by the shoulders: ‘Get us out of here!’ she screamed.

  ‘What about Natasha? We can’t leave her,’ Virgil shouted.

  The woman led them though another office, down an emergency staircase and onto a concrete concourse. Three girls, who had been screaming when they first fell into the office with them, had now recovered enough poise to get their cameras out, and ask Mira for an autograph. They looked about sixteen. Virgil thought it was safe enough to leave Mira with them while he raced round the side of the building and back up the stairs to the ticket foyer. He found Natasha there, lying on the floor being treated by St John’s Ambulance along with a dozen others who had been in the crush.

  * * *

  The next morning’s Stardust Brands meeting was supposed to be about the Suressence deal, but there was little new to say. Instead it turned into a debrief over the previous night’s Qaegfest coverage.

  ‘This,’ Jonesy said, pointing to the newspapers, ‘is exactly what terrifies sponsors. We could have closed with Ultimate Jewellery this week without this. Quarter of a million quid. Now they’re dithering over the contract because they really can’t handle the zombie association. Gothic pallor, severed arms and plastic gore. It’s the opposite of the youth and innocence we’re trying to promote, ain’t it? Especially, when something like this happens.’

  Almost every front page had the same picture, capturing Mira sheltering behind Virgil’s back. The green of her eyes had been caught in the flash, her arms splayed wide and her luxuriant blonde hair thrown out wildly as she turned her head. All the facepaint had done was to give her beauty an untamed edge. ‘You might think you are a goddess, Mira, but please don’t ever try the omnipresence trick again,’ Jonesy said. ‘Just be in one place at a time.’