Suddenly, every time I walked past one, I found myself stopping to stare back, my reflection suspicious, alert, uncertain. Even in the few crack-free mirrors, especially the smaller ones, my face was bevelled, wavering in the same mysterious way as the migraine line I sometimes got in my left eye wavered. They almost gave me a headache, too. I would turn away from the mirrors only to swing back as if I were trying to catch them off-guard. Stupid really, what did I think was going to happen?
Was that a premonition, or what?
To begin with, nothing did happen, not until weeks after that evening when Harry asked his question, a question that in its own, unexpected way changed
everything. Think of an impossible thing and it
will happen. (A line inspired by Alice in Wonderland. In that book the Queen says, ‘. . .
sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’ I loved that book when I was younger but haven’t reread it for ages.)
The first day of the school holidays.
The time of the pool and party plans aforementioned.
The period in which I should have been starting my biography project.
Harry, in full swing, escaping from his straitjacket, roping me in to help him.
I’d walked past Harry’s room where the door was ajar (cue, Canned Laughter) and Harry was already struggling (again in vain it seemed) to get out of the straitjacket. It was satisfying yet in truth pathetic really, to see him rolling around on his bed, face sweaty, moaning and groaning like a person in terrible pain as he tried to escape from his bondage.
What a way to start the holidays I remember thinking. Little did I know what lay ahead.
‘Who tied you up this time?’ I asked out of polite yet fascinated interest.
‘Mum . . . before . . . she . . . went . . . to . . . work.’
Harry, this embodiment of embarrassment, wriggled and writhed some more, his erratic movements punctuating his words making them staccato.
‘Why don’t you give up on the straitjacket fits?’ I asked cleverly. (Straitjacket Fits = the name of a Southern Hemisphere band from long ago. Mum and Dad still love listening to their music.)
He replied without hesitation. ‘I’m . . . almost. . . almost . . . there. Can’t . . .you . . . see . . . the . . .
straps . . . are . . . coming . . . un . . . done?’
‘Hmm, I guess so,’ I said, going across to inspect them. ‘They look a little looser. But perhaps the struggle is just wearing them out? Like it’s wearing you out. Undoing you. Like it will wear out and undo the judges and the audience
who will probably all have stopped watching by now and fallen asleep.’
‘Strait . . . jackets . . . don’t. . . wear . . . out. . . but . . . if . . . this . . . doesn’t . . . work . . .out . . . time . . . wise . . . I . . . can . . . go . . . to . . . the . . .next . . . thing . . . I . . . have . . . a . . . plan . . . B.’
‘Which is?’
Harry didn’t bother answering. This made me think he might be bluffing. Magicians bluff a lot. On the other hand it may have just been because he had no energy left for words. He carried on undoing himself, or trying to, and I carried on to my room to apply some finishing touches before I went to catch my bus.
Rachel, Emma and I had planned to meet often. Today we were going to the mall, to shop until we dropped. Well, window-shop until we dropped, of boredom. Then we’d spend our meagre savings on hot chocolate and gooey mud cake and sympathise with each other about what we might have treated ourselves to if we’d had the wherewithal.
Tomorrow, the plan was to go to the pool where Troy and Co. would, in all likelihood, also be hanging out. It was strange I have to admit. Lately I’d been thinking about Troy more and more often, I mean at times outside the usual school hours
when I could reasonably expect to see him.
(Remember, I’d been contemplating having him
come to the barbeque, if we’d been allowed to invite our friends.) What did it mean? Was that the reason why the whole thing about love and relationships - Mum/Dad, Iris/Laurie, May/Barry, Harry/Straitjacket (pick the odd one out) - had lately become of such interest to me? Was there a chance that Troy was thinking about me at odd times as well? Realistically I didn’t expect so, although it was pleasant to ponder the possibility.
Should I treat these new feelings with dispassion, I asked myself, analyzing them from a writer’s point of view? Or would this be a cop-out for admitting my true feelings. Did I even know what these ‘true’ feelings were or were they all still too vague for me to fully understand them?
I neither made it to the bus stop that day nor followed up on the question of how I should treat my thoughts about Troy. That afternoon, before I had time to decide anything at all about the Troy question, I had been forced to contact Rach and Em to offer them my humblest apologies for not turning up as agreed even though I’m sure they could tell my heart wasn’t in the apology, just as my shallow desire for malls and make-up, coffee and chocolate, pools and parties had lost their allure, temporarily at least, that afternoon when I saw Laurie and Iris for the first time. Yes, you read right. Laurie and Iris Laurison. The grumpy curmudgeon and his late, beloved Missus.
There were three faces in my bedroom mirror. Only one of them was mine and it was the least
clear of the three. The other two were the faces of a young couple looking into each other’s eyes,
smiling deeply at one another, clearly happy and in love.
Naturally I turned around pretty smartly thinking the faces had to be reflections, the same as mine was. That there must be two extra people in the room, standing close behind me. That was scary enough but at a rational level I knew there was no one else in the room but me. I was alone. And that was scarier still.
I don’t know how long the image stayed in the mirror, it may have been a few seconds or possibly a few minutes. Then suddenly it was gone and all I saw was myself again in the mirror’s usual, everyday clarity: my too large nose, my pulled-back hair, and the puzzled line of my mouth. But in my head was the image of the young people and the strange fact that the room in which they had been standing was the same room I was standing in now.
It hadn’t been a mirror image of my room though, the furniture in it was older, bigger and darker, the wallpaper wasn’t painted over (that had been one of Dad’s first tasks), there were no posters, no collection of teddy bears on the bed, no computer, no mobile phone recharging in the socket above my writing desk: but in every other way it was identical. The same high ceiling, the same ornate trinity-lampshade hanging from it, the same square windows on either side of the bed, the same drapes, the same built-in wardrobe with its massive doors.
The world in the mirror was the same as the one I inhabited, only in a different time. I knew that
straightaway from the clothes the couple were wearing, the way their hair was cut, the fact that I
saw them in black and white, unmoving, like a still photo.
It goes without saying that in my own mind I identified them as Laurie and Iris although at the time I didn’t know for a fact that it was them. They could have been anybody although my guess that it was Laurie and ‘The Missus’ turned out to be correct. I think one of the reasons I didn’t freak out completely was that my first instinct was to blame Harry. He was behind the mirror image.
For years, whenever I asked him how magicians did their tricks, Harry’s second most favourite mantra had been, ‘They do it with mirrors. Smoke and mirrors’. His most favourite was ‘Magicians never reveal their secrets.’ (He tricked me badly once by asking me straight after a particularly impressive trick if I could keep a secret. ‘You
know you can trust me,’ I’d said, far too eagerly. ‘Of course I can keep a secret.’ ‘So can I sis,’ he said, ‘so can I.’ And he walked off. Was that cruel, or what?)
‘They can’t do it with smoke or mirrors,’ I remember telling him. ‘If they did, then you’ve just told me a se
cret, two secrets actually, which is something you’re not allowed to do.’
‘It’s only a saying. It doesn’t mean anything,’ he replied evasively.
But it does, actually. I’ve sneaked a look at some of his magic books and some tricks are done with smoke and/or mirrors. Especially mirrors.
I tried - unconvincingly - to convince myself this
was just another of Harry’s magical tricks. A very elaborate magic trick, to give him credit, but a trick nevertheless, an illusion, nothing more than a
particularly impressive piece of prestidigitation.
I lugged the mirror off the wall (it was heavy and an awkward shape) searching everywhere for whatever apparatus Harry had hidden behind it to create the effect of seeing faces but I found nothing. The wall on which the mirror hung faced a windowless opposite wall so there
was no chance that Harry had rigged something up outside to project what I’d seen onto my mirror. If Harry had been responsible for this, there was no way I could work out how he’d done it.
Quickly I came to the realisation that he couldn’t have done it. And if that were true then I didn’t think even Harry would be able to figure out how what had happened, had happened. So, after the first shock of seeing Laurie and Iris, I im-mediately began doubting that I’d seen anything out of the ordinary at all. It simply couldn’t have been real. It wasn’t possible. I was asleep; I'd been dreaming; hallucinating; in a temporary, migraine-induced trance, even though I had no wavy line in the corner of my eye or the sensation of an impending, sick headache.
Who was I kidding?
The result - I missed my bus. And I didn’t feel like trying to make it in time for the next one.
Two more questions
At first, I tried to put the mystery of the how aside and, instead, focused on a couple of other key questions.
Think rationally about what can be rationalized. This was a phrase I’d found in one of Mum’s
legal-aid advice books. (I quite enjoy reading other people’s books. If they leave them lying around, why not?) Firstly, who were the people in the mirror?
I didn’t want to leap to conclusions but the most obvious possibility (as already stated) was that the young couple was Laurie and Iris. I’d had no idea beforehand what they looked like of course but who else could they be? Okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly a rational realisation but it seemed logical enough. Probably the two of them had been in the back of my mind ever since May had talked about them that first and, so far, only time she and Barry had been over at our place. And then the business with the séance had reinforced it.
The second question was, why? It came in two parts. Why had I seen them, and why had they shown themselves to me? I didn’t have any answer at all to either of those. (Rational thinking has its limitations.)
I decided my next strategy would be to forget all about what I’d seen, to continue trying to pretend I hadn’t seen anything at all. That turned out to be just as impossible as what I knew I had seen. You can suppress fear but it simply stays that way, suppressed. It remains there, lurking like a beast in the background.
I found myself looking at the mirrors more often than I was looking into them as I waited for the next time. Because there was going to be a next time, somehow I was certain of that. The anticipation made me so nervous I found it hard to
think and act normally. And of course I began then to wish that we had never hung on to any of the wretched mirrors.
Tied up, as it were
The next day, after breakfast, it was somehow my turn again to tie Harry up in his straitjacket. I really wasn’t in the mood as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Despite everything however, I tried to keep focused on the day’s pool plan. I was determined not to miss that even if I didn’t feel much like it. The thought of seeing the ‘backwards’ boy kept me resolute.
I said to Harry, ‘Why do you want to carry on doing this?’ and he replied, ‘Why do you think?’
‘Money and glory,’ I snapped at him.
‘Glory first,’ said Harry, ‘but money a close second.’
I felt claustrophobic just looking at him swaddled in the thing. It gave me the creeps, in fact. Harry didn’t seem one iota bothered (that means he didn’t care at all. Iota is the name given to the smallest letter of the ancient Greek alphabet) about what he was tied up in and who might have been restrained in the straitjacket in days gone by. It gave me the creeps but Harry was simply focused on escaping.
‘Why don’t you admit you’re never going to be able to get out of it?’ I said, much more caustically than usual. Harry picked up my mood immediately and gave me a sideways, irritated look.
‘Because I will, eventually,’ he said.
‘You haven’t so far.’
‘Give me time.’
‘The audience and the judges of SHOW US YOUR TALENT won’t wait, not if it’s going to take you this long. It’s painful to watch, not entertaining.’
‘You’ll see. I’ll do it.’
This seemed highly unlikely to me and I said so.
‘But seriously,’ I said to him, letting myself be distracted by his little game. ‘What if you can’t get out? Even Houdini must’ve had an off day.’
‘I won't fail.’
‘You might’
‘Thanks! I’ve already told you. I’ve got a Plan B. I’ve got heaps more ideas,’ he said.
‘Really? Okay then. I’ll believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. But what if you can’t get out of the straitjacket right now, today? Mum’s at work. Dad’s disappeared somewhere.’
‘You’re here.’
‘Not for much longer Harry-o. I have plans.’ I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. ‘I’m escaping to the pool. Don’t count on me.’
‘As if I ever would,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll go see May next door if I have to,’ he added. ‘She’s always around.’
Harry was right. Being at school for the best part of the day meant I hardly ever saw May but Dad (who was also home most of the time) said that she was often ‘pottering about’ (his words) in the garden, which he translated to mean that she just wandered about, ‘looking a bit lost’ he thought. Sometimes she took the car out for an hour or so - ‘probably to get the shopping’ - but that was about it.
‘What does Barry do for a job?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure he told me the evening we had the barbecue,’ said Dad, trying to remember. ‘He works for the City Council. Or is that what he used
to do? Blowed if I know for certain anymore.’
‘Maybe he works in Building Consents,’ I suggested, riling Dad up. His worst arguments have been with Building Consents people.
‘Nah,’ said Dad. ‘He would have said. Wouldn’t he?’
‘Better keep in his good books,’ I said.
‘Nah,’ said Dad again. ‘Not worth it.’
‘What did he say or do that made you turn against him?’ I asked Dad.
‘I didn’t ‘turn against’ him as you so melodramatically put it,’ he said. ‘He’s just not my cup of tea. And, like I said, I feel sorry for May.’
‘He’s not my cup of tea either,’ I said. ‘And I feel sorry for her as well.’
‘If you do ever need May’s help just make sure no one else in the street sees you wearing that thing,’ I said to Harry. ‘You’d bring shame to our family.’
As it turned out, that day I was able to untie Harry, much to our mutual annoyance: his because he was forced to call on me for assistance and mine because I was at home to be called on. As it turned out his cry for help signalled the last straw in the straitjacket saga but his failure only motivated him (eventually, and with my encouragement I have to admit) to move onto his next idea, the real (or imagined) Plan B.
On the other side of the coin, being needed by Harry provided me with a very useful excuse even though I’d rather not have needed an excuse at all.
Excuses
Yesterday, after I’d missed my bus to the mall for
the reason you’ve now been told about, I had to let Rach and Em know I wouldn’t be seeing them as planned. I would have preferred to hole up in my room for the rest of that long afternoon and not talk to anybody, but if I’d done so they would inevitably have been in touch with me and I
wanted to get in first. I preferred to be on the front foot rather than the back.
So I’d texted Em to say I wouldn’t be coming to the mall after all. I didn’t go into details, just offered some weak excuse about being needed at home that day. I knew she would manage with only Rachel. In fact Em was quite capable of managing perfectly well by herself at any mall. She is what my Gran (R.I.P.) would have called, in ‘Granguage’ (Harry’s and my longstanding abbreviation for ‘Gran’s language’) a ‘fashion plate’, which in Gran’s day meant someone who thought only the latest fashions were any good. Rachel, and to some extent I, could live very happily with op-shop oddments (some of which were retro-new anyway) but as for Em, well let’s just say her fashion aspirations were far grander than the contents of her wallet.
After texting Emma I’d phoned Rachel. She had already left for the mall and was, in fact, probably just about to meet up with Em. Rachel, who must have even more recessive genes than I do, calls herself a Luddite (a person who hates new technology. Comes from the nineteenth century. Look it up if you want to know more) and refuses to own, much less use, a mobile phone.
‘They give you cancer,’ she’d once said, ‘and I hate, I just loathe, being at everyone’s beck and call, literally. If I don’t have a phone I can
disappear if and when I want to.’
The Houdini Effect Page 6