Mirror Man by Jacques Kat (ereader for textbooks txt) 📗

I debated rolling mine up, too, but decided against it. I’d look stupid with the shoes I had on.

I took a deep breath and left the bench. I almost had to run to catch up with him; his legs moved fast, as though he was already being followed by someone and was trying to get away.

I tried not to use reflections as much as I had in the past. Instead, I concentrated on a small cross tattooed on the back of his neck. He had various other tattoos down the backs of his arms, including a love heart with an arrow through it and a coat of armour.

I tracked him at a steady pace, though not easily. I had never followed anyone who walked as fast as he did or swung their arms about from side to side so viciously. We didn’t have many skinheads in town; however, I had seen a whole horde of them in Doncaster, hanging around the big shopping centre, smoking, and mouthing off at people. The women’s heads were shaved, too, but they kept a fringe at the front with long strands of hair over their ears and long from the napes of their necks down. I had no idea what the style was meant to represent.

I followed him until he went into the record shop. Normally, I wouldn’t follow someone into a shop. Instead, I would linger outside, pretending to browse the items in the window until they either came out or someone else caught my eye. This time, I decided I may as well go in. I had nothing to lose.

Downstairs was a stationary shop and upstairs was the record shop. The stairs were to the left as you walked in; I heard him stomping his boots on them. The woman behind the counter muttered “Unbelievable…” and shook her head.

I climbed the stairs when I could no longer hear his footsteps pounding their way up. When I reached the top, I saw the owner stood behind the counter facing the records, which were set in such a way he could see if anyone was trying to steal one. He wore a flowered shirt and a flat cap; an odd combination.

I scanned the shop left and right to see where The Skinhead had gone. He was stood to my left at the end of the aisle where the S’swere, most likely browsing the Ska records. I wouldn’t have thought him a lover of swing or soul. I walked the long way round to look at the records opposite him which were the end of the R’s.

As I strolled around, I glanced up at the walls to view all the posters dotted about which I hadn’t looked at before. A poster of a red Ferraricaught my eye. Pinned next to it was a chart poster for the week, plus numerous others of bands such asDuran Duran and Spandau Ballet. I’d only seen them before in Smash Hits and NME.

I arrived opposite The Skinhead, though I didn’t sneak a peek. I wasn’t ready for the next step yet, and there was nothing reflective around to glance at him with.

I could hear him flicking through the sleeves, then every so often he would pick one out. I set my carrier bag down between my feet and copied his actions, flicking through my own section, and when he picked one out, I did too. After I put the third record back, I carried on pretending to scan through them, but The Skinhead didn’t make a sound.

‘Oi, weirdo.’

I stopped. I knew he was talking to me. Who else would he be saying that to? I grabbed my bag, gripping it tightly, and repositioned the mirrors with my other arm as I shuffled down towards the P’s, ignoring him.

‘Oi, ya weirdo. Why won’t you look at me?’ he asked.

I had to leave, and sharpish. I couldn’t go back the way I came round the stacks; it would take too long. There was nothing I could do except run past him.

I didn’t look at him or the shop owner as I moved, but I sensed the heat from The Skinhead’s eyes burning into me as I dashed past him to the foot of the stairs. I went down two at a time and exited the shop.

That was a close one, I told myself as I walked down the street, swinging my bag to calm my nerves. It had been a disaster, and I missed looking in reflections; without them, I lost what was going on around me. That had been the whole reason I never followed anyone into places. There were no guarantees of any reflective surfaces or mirrors for me to use.

I hurried along, keeping a keen eye on the reflections as I walked. I thought I heard footsteps approaching behind me, but I didn’t dare look over my shoulder for fear of my eyes meeting another’s. It was difficult to see anything in the shop windows to my right.

PC Williams’s warning came alive in my head: ‘You know, if you end up following any of them ruffians and they spot you, you’ll be in for a kicking.’

The footsteps got louder and nearer. I never expected the constable to be right. I’d always tried to be so careful, and I’d taken a massive risk today, all because of the happiness that I’d let seep into my soul.

An incredible force struck the middle of my back. I went sprawling onto the pavement, and the mirrors under my arm smashed, sending shards everywhere. I lost the grip on my bag as The Skinhead started kicking me. I curled into a ball, covered my head with my arms, and waited. It couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds, as people started yelling around me. He only managed to get three decent kicks in.

‘Don’t let me catch you near me again, ya weirdo,’ he snarled, then spat. Thankfully, it didn’t land on me. I peeked out through my fingers, spying his back retreating through