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

bird. He was in our town hunting his prey, the same way I was searching for the person who would unlock the secret to making me whole.

He was the same height and build as me, with chestnut hair, and he was tanned, as though he’d been on holiday to Spain for a month. He wore a shiny dark-blue suit that seemed to change colour when the light hit it—almost like a shark, I thought. It had a small collar and three buttons going down—the bottom one was left undone. His trousers were narrowly fitted, and a silky red tie protruded at his neck. The outfit was completed by a three-pointed hanky sticking out of his top pocket. He looked like a sixties Italian film star, earning him the perfect nickname: “The Suit.”

He didn’t belong here.

Though no one else saw him—not even PC Williams, who was normally so observant. I moved to look out the rear window, but he’d disappeared. If I’d been on foot, I would have followed him. He didn’t belong here, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. It wasn’t just that his clothes were out of place here; there was something else…

I folded my arms in a huff and waited to arrive home.

Chapter Two

For the rest of the journey, I focused on my companions’ conversation and more importantly, their thoughts. I liked to envisage what people pondered in their brains as the cogs turned, just like watches. If what I imagined up was interesting enough, it would get an entry in my journal.

I bet PC Williams was considering why Mr Phillips had shut the shop this morning, and as though he’d read my mind, too, PC Williams spoke up.

‘Say, have you been down the high street today?’ he asked WPC Thompson.

‘No, sir. Why do you ask?’

He hummed. ‘Claude closed the antique shop this morning. He never shuts…’ He trailed off.

She shrugged. ‘Maybe he had a meeting.’

‘Not likely,’ he said, shaking his head.

I had to agree. Everyone knew Mr Phillips never closed. Even if he was ill, he somehow summoned the strength to roll out of bed, trundle downstairs, and lift the shutters.

The fact PC Williams was thinking about Mr Phillips made me think about him too. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to how he was acting. He might be in trouble and need my help. He’d never kept secrets from me before, but then I hadn’t outright questioned him about it.

I’d ask him about his meeting as soon as I got to work. Maybe if I got my head out of the watches for a time, I could figure out what was going on.

I switched my attention to WPC Thompson. I supposed she was thinking about the PC who had left her to walk the street alone. It was easy to guess where he was; off riding the town-bike. I’d heard Mum and several of her friends talking about the town-bike. The gossip was that PC Thomas Brown loved the town-bike, though I’d never seen it for myself.

I often wondered what model the famous town-bike was. I liked to imagine it as a BMX, but I couldn’t picture the policeman on a BMX, so I narrowed my options down to a racer; a red one.

The car turned onto Rosemary Drive and pulled up at the end of our long driveway. We lived on the outskirts of town in between Thorne and Moorends on the edge of the peat moors. There were only a few other houses here. Grandad said when the house was first built, the street didn’t have a name, as it was mainly disused farmland.

‘Here we are, lad, let’s go have a word with your grandfather, shall we?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I glanced towards the house, checking for any movement. I wasn’t looking forward to this one bit and secretly hoped no one was home. I straightened the collar on my jacket to stall for time as PC Williams opened the car door, then walked around to the other side.

‘Won’t be long, love, ten minutes tops,’ he said to WPC Thompson as he retrieved his helmet.

‘Alright, sir.’

Off we sauntered down the drive, and I kept a step behind him as we made our way. We didn’t speak as we walked; all that could be heard were the birds singing in the trees and the sound of the gravel crunching underneath our feet. I kept my head down now we were out of the car and I no longer had the rear-view mirror to look into.

Our house had been built over a hundred and fifty years ago and had been in the family ever since. At the roadside stood a garage and a showroom, though it had closed five years earlier. The house itself was set back from the road in the middle of a modest three-acre plot of land. A small cottage sat at the back for the gamekeeper. Our gardener lived in it now—for free, as Mum pointed out regularly. He took care of the gardens and was employed by others around town to do theirs. Fred was a close family friend. Even though he was a lot older than me, I spent a lot of time in his company. He’d been one of my dad’s best mates.

Grandad must have heard us crunching along the loose gravel, as he emerged from the garage. I looked up slightly and watched as he wiped his greasy hands on his overalls; he seemed to be shaking his head as he approached us.

‘Hey, Steve,’ the officer said cheerfully as I hovered behind him.

‘Hello, my dear friend,’ Grandad said, extending an arm to shake his hand. Then he turned to me. ‘Wait for me in the kitchen,’ he said.

‘Yes, Grandad,’ I replied and walked slowly towards the house.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to bring him home again. What’s he done now?’

I lingered by the door at an angle to avoid their faces and to listen to what the constable had to say about me.

‘Hey, no apology necessary.