In Front of the Mirror Alone

A bonus short story - dark and just a little twisted

Note: I don't normally send out stories mid-week, but I wanted to try it out. This is a club for readers, after all. I hope you have fun with it.

—

In the quiet times, I tell myself that if I shut my eyes, he goes away.

But that’s a fairy tale. A lie.

Methuselah is never far away. He’s waiting for me. Always.

Bryony turns her gaze on me and says, “So, Andrew, what I’m hearing is that you’ve attributed a name to your chronic pain, and you’ve called it Methuselah.”

“No,” I reply. “I didn’t choose the name. That’s what he’s called.”

She makes notes while I stare at her, letting the seconds tick away, inching me closer to the end of our session, nearer to my moment of freedom.

“This is interesting.” Bryony smiles at me. Like saccharine. No. Like aspartame. “Describe Methuselah to me. What is he like?”

Like dying alone, I want to say. Like cold steel twisting in my eyeball. But I look at my hands, twist my fingers together and stay tight-lipped.

“Okay,” she says. “If he were a person, what would he look like?”

“He looks like me. Who else could he possibly look like?”

“Right.” Another note. She’s writing faster than before, pressing her pen harder against the pad. She flips the page, frowning, and I know what’s coming next. “Tell me about your medication. How are you getting on with it?”

“Fine.”

“Hm. There’s a note here from Mr Jacobs. He says that you’ve expressed some concerns about your meds.”

I grimace. “They turn my stomach, make me dizzy. But it’s no use complaining. I need them. For Methuselah. I explained all this to Jacobs, but he doesn’t listen. He’s useless.”

“Mr Jacobs is a consultant psychiatrist. He’s one of our most senior doctors, and he’s an expert in your condition.”

“Yeah? And what is my condition, exactly? No one’s ever spelled it out to me. Not the army, not you, not even your precious Mr. Jacobs.”

Disappointment edges into Bryony’s expression, and I realise I’ve been raising my voice. So before she can answer, I mumble an apology, tell her I appreciate all she’s doing for me. She’s trying to help, damn her.

Her smile is back, brighter now. “We can go through your case notes if you like,” she says. “But it will take some time, and I’m afraid…” she glances at the clock, and I stand up.

“Thanks,” I say. “See you next week?”

I take the bus home. I can’t look at the windows, so I make by expression blank and watch the other passengers. Across the aisle, a woman takes out her phone and uses the camera to check her makeup. That’s okay. It’s an electronic image rather than a reflection. It’s safe.

The minute I get home, I run around the house, closing all the curtains before it gets dark. Once I’ve covered all the windows, I can breathe easy while I make dinner.

Chopping the ingredients is always satisfying, the rhythm relaxing, the ceramic blade clean and sharp. The cast iron pan is a faithful friend, and the pungent smell of sizzling meat fills the kitchen. When I cook, Methuselah stays out of my way, so I like recipes that take a long time. Today, I make a beef chilli with the cheapest cut of meat I could find. I have to let it simmer, standing over it and stirring it gently with a wooden spoon until hunger drives me to eat, then I wolf it down fast before Methuselah can show up and spoil everything. I scoop up the thick sauce and shove it in my mouth, even though it’s so hot it almost melts my plastic cutlery. My lips burn, my tongue is on fire, but it’s worth it.

The chilli is good. I used six fat cloves of garlic plus a couple of scotch bonnet chillis, and I can almost feel the aromatic molecules dissolving into my blood stream. I’m so busy chewing, I almost don’t hear the noise outside.

But there it is again.

A cat is mewling, whining in anguish, the sound so pathetic I have to listen. You and me both, I think. More than you could know. A sorrowful smile twitches at the corner of my lips. I can’t help the poor creature. I can’t take that risk.

But the pitiful cries don’t stop. On and on. And they’re close, as if the cat is right outside my house.

I put down my fork and move to the window. The curtains are heavy and, along with the double glazing, they muffle the sounds of the outside world. But this noise filters through, and the cat won’t stop. Instead, its moans grow louder.

I back away, the cat’s cries stretching my nerves razor-thin. Get rid of it. Scare it away. Throw some water at it.

At the kitchen sink, I fill a mug with water, then I hurry to the door, turning off the hall light. There are two glazed panels in the door, but so long as it's dark inside and out, there are no reflections, no danger.

I’m two steps away from the door. One.

I’m reaching out for the handle when a car pulls up outside, its headlights sweeping across my door, beams of light raking across the glass. It lasts less than a second, but it’s enough.

He’s here, standing behind me.

Methuselah’s reflection glares back at me from the dark glass, his soulless stare chilling me to the core. Outside, the headlights have been extinguished, but Methuselah remains. He’s broken free, found a way to step into the light. And now he’s tasted liberty, he won’t go back. Not without a fight. “Going somewhere?” he murmurs.

“No.”

“Liar.”

I swallow hard. “There’s a cat outside. Making a noise.”

Methuselah sucks air over his teeth. “What have I told you about opening that door at night?”

“I know, but…”

“Shut up! You were breaking the rules. And you know what that means.”

I don’t turn around, but in the glass I see his hands creeping toward me. The mug of water falls from my hands, and I clutch my head, despair clouding my vision. Methuselah’s icy fingers curl around my throat, and I choke, fighting for air, babbling, begging, praying.

But my pleas don’t work. How could they?

He holds tight, squeezing the life from me, and my legs give way, my body crumpling to the floor. But maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe I’ll pass out quickly this time. Before it gets too bad.

It’s light outside when I wake up on the floor in the hallway, my body sore and my mouth dry. Arms shaking, I peel myself from the carpet and stand, swaying. There’s a damp stain on my trousers, and I fear the worst, but it’s just water. There’s mud on my knees and dark stains on my shoes. Cocking my head, I listen, but the house is quiet. Perhaps he’s gone.

Slipping off my dirty shoes, I stagger upstairs to the bathroom, and as I open the door, a wall of damp air hits me.

The room is so swathed in steam I can hardly see, and the bath is full, though I don’t recall running it. I creep into the room. In the bath, Methuselah looks back at me from the water’s surface, a sly smile curling his lips. I could push him down, hold him under. The old bath is slippery, and he might not be able to get a grip and fight back.

I edge closer, but as I reach out to him, my fingers trembling, his head breaks the surface. “Come for a good look?” he asks, wiping the water from his face with his hands. “Like what you see?”

“No,” I reply. “I need to pee, that’s all.” I turn my back on him and use the toilet.

“Rough night,” he says. “I had to take you out the back, make you see sense. You’ll be all right now though, won’t you?”

It’s not a question; it’s a threat. I grunt in reply, moving to the basin and washing my hands. I scoop cold water over my face and my cheek stings. Two drops of red splash into the basin and are swirled away. I grab a towel, pressing it against my face, and it comes away streaked with blood. “What have you done?” I whisper, but Methuselah just laughs.

I stalk from the room, slam the door. But still I hear him, his wild, cackling laughter drilling into my skull. I have to get out of the house, and this is my chance. I can slip out while Methuselah is in the bath, so I change my clothes and go, stomping along the rain-slicked pavement.

There’s a police car parked outside a neighbour’s house. What’s happened? I’ve never seen the cops in this neighbourhood before. We’re away from the city centre. My neighbours are young couples, families, old folks. It’s quiet. That’s why I chose it.

It isn’t far to the Cafe Continental, but I don’t go straight in. I linger outside, and I do something I never do. I stare at the steamed-up window, hoping against hope that I won’t see the image of Methuselah by my side. I defy him to appear, and maybe it works, because I see only my own reflection, my eyes round with surprise. And a faint ember of happiness glows inside me.

Someone exits the cafe and a fug of warm air seeps out, promising coffee and comfort, so I march inside. I buy a mug of black coffee and a bacon roll. The young woman behind the counter is fresh-faced and cheerful. According to her name badge, she’s called Vikki. I’ve never seen her before, so maybe this is her first day in a new job. Vikki’s apron is white, her fair hair tied back, but though she looks the part, she seems nervous, her movements stiff and awkward.

Like me, Vikki is a fish out of water, but she hasn’t given up the struggle against life. Not yet. She tackles the ancient coffee machine, yanking out the basket and bashing out the spent grounds as if she bears a grudge. A minute later, I have my coffee and Vikki moves to the till, jabbing at the buttons. The till beeps at her, but she won’t give in and, finally, she beats it. Claiming victory with a satisfied nod, she beams and says she’ll bring my food over.

It’s a nice moment, but when I turn around to search for a table, my throat tightens. The man staring at me has the same unkempt dark hair as Methuselah, the same glassy greed in his eyes. It’s not him, I tell myself. It’s just Ollie. Everything’s fine. Ollie is a regular in here, and sometimes we share a table, chat. He raises his hand in greeting, and I lift my chin in acknowledgement.

As I make my way over to join him, I chide myself for mistaking Ollie for Methuselah. Methuselah is wiry, lean and hungry like a wild dog, whereas Ollie is soft, his black leather jacket straining at the seams when he struggles to button it across his stomach. He lives on a diet of junk food, cigarettes and extra-strength lager. He couldn’t hurt a fly. The slightest exertion sends him into a coughing fit, and as I sit down facing him, the thought of Ollie getting into a fight is almost enough to make me laugh out loud.

“What are you grinning at?” he demands.

“Nothing much.” I drink my coffee, let the bitterness roll over my tongue. It tastes better than usual, and I decide I like Vikki. I hope she stays, but there’s not much chance of that. The staff here change with the weather, moving on as they realise they’re in the wrong place. All the best customers go to the coffee shop a hundred yards away, lining up for their lattes and flat whites. But the place is full of mirrors and photos in glass frames, so I’m stuck in here with the likes of Ollie. The dregs. But this place keeps trading, probably because it becomes a bar in the evenings, serving overpriced bottles of beer to an oddball crowd of students and colourful characters: the kind of people who believe in crystals and wear tie-dyed clothes. At least, that was the impression I got last summer when I walked past one warm and sunlit evening.

Ollie has been reading the local paper, but he folds it and tosses it onto the table.

“Do you mind if I have a look at that?” I ask. “Might be some jobs going. You never know.”

He snorts and pushes the paper toward me. “Waste of time.”

I’m saved from a round of weary grumbling by the arrival of Vikki with my bacon roll. I thank her and bite into the soft white bread, savouring the salty fat of the fried rashers.

“Nice,” Ollie says, and I know he’s not talking about my breakfast. His eyes are on Vikki, his gaze tracking her as she walks away, and I sense the waves of hunger radiating from him.

“So, what’ve you got planned for today?” I ask him, and he snaps back into his sour mood, launching into a tirade about the lack of jobs for people like us. I stop listening while I eat; I’ve heard it all before. Ollie claims he’s ex-army too, and I go along with it. But he doesn’t smell right. He gets confused if I use army slang, and besides, with his smoker’s cough, he’d never get past the medical. But you never know. He might’ve been fitter once, stronger, before something inside him broke and he wound up in the civilian world, cast aside.

I finish chewing and Ollie has changed tack, spouting local gossip. I hear the word ‘cops’ and pay attention. “What was that?”

Ollie frowns. “Aren’t you listening?”

“Yes, but tell me again. I missed it.” I tap my left ear, the one that doesn’t work, and Ollie relents.

“Two cops came in for takeout coffee, and I heard them talking. Some sick bastard killed a cat last night, and they left it on some old biddie’s doorstep. She comes out in the morning, blood all over the path and Tibbles dead on the doorstep. The poor cow almost had a heart attack.” He shakes his head. “They reckoned it must’ve been kids. Nothing the feds could do, the useless sods. If I got hold of those kids, I’d sort them out once and for all.”

“Where was this?”

“I dunno. Somewhere nearby. The cops walked here. Sounded like they’d come straight from the old biddie.”

The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold. I finish my coffee and tell Ollie I have to go home.

He studies me for a second, then says, “You look like shit. Even more than usual.”

“Thanks,” I say, then I head home. The police car has gone from my street, and I take my time, scanning the paths. There. A doorstep has been scrubbed clean, but there’s a dark stain on the path.

A cold dread settles on my shoulders. Methuselah did this, just because the cat was making a noise. Just because he could. But I’ll get the blame. It’s only a matter of time.

At home, I go into the spare room, shift some boxes and open the old wardrobe door. There's a mirror inside, the only one in the house. I should’ve got rid of it years ago, but I kept it, just in case. Opening the door wide, the mirror shows Methuselah lying on the spare bed, dozing. He opens one eye, but as soon as I speak, he shakes his head and pretends to sleep, ignoring me while I hurl bitter words at him. It does no good and, eventually, my voice cracks and I have to run from the room.

Downstairs, I pace the floor for hours. I don’t stop until someone hammers on the front door.

I sneak into the hall. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Ollie.” His voice is strained. “Can I come in? I need something.”

I should tell him to go to hell. How does he even know where I live? He’s never been here, but maybe I’ve told him. Either way, he repeats his request, and I can’t leave him out there, shouting, attracting attention. Straightening my clothes, I go to the door and open it.

Ollie pushes past me. “Cheers, mate,” he says. “Listen, I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

Ollie shrugs. “You don’t want to know. But I need some cash.” I start to protest, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “Why don’t you give me some of your pills? I know you’ve got plenty of them. If you give them to me, I can flog them, make a few quid. That’s all I need.”

“I don’t know, Ollie. They’re strong. If some kid got hold of them–”

“Don’t be stupid,” he interrupts. “I know a dealer, and he’s all right. He wouldn’t sell them to kids.”

Before I can argue and tell Ollie what an idiot he is, he looks past me with a start. “What’s that?” he whispers. “I heard someone upstairs.”

“You’re imagining things,” I say. “I’m here on my own.” I want to look around to see if Methuselah is about to appear, but I keep my eyes fixed on Ollie. “Did you really hear something? I thought…”

“What?”

“Never mind. I can’t give you my meds, Ollie. I might need them.”

“You can get more. You know you can.” He swallows, his throat bobbing. “I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

Now I hear the soft sounds of someone shuffling over the carpet upstairs. If Methuselah comes down and sees Ollie, I don’t know what will happen. But Ollie won’t leave empty-handed. Desperation is etched into every line on his brow.

“All right,” I say. “Give me a second. Wait there.” I grab the pills from the kitchen cabinet, emptying the bottles into a plastic bag.

Ollie appears in the doorway. “What are you doing? You’re mixing them all up.”

“I don’t care. I can’t give you the bottles. My name is on the labels.”

He complains, but I hand him the bag and say, “Go. But this had better not come back on me.”

“Course not.” Ollie weighs the bag in his hand. “Is that all you’ve got? Come on, man, there must be more.”

“That’s everything.”

Ollie grimaces, getting ready to argue, but I don’t give him the chance. “That’s all you’re getting, Ollie. You’d better go. Now.”

“All right, I’m going.” He stuffs the bag inside his jacket. “I’ll see you later.”

Afterwards, I sit in the front room for a long time, clutching my head with both hands. And when I look up, it’s already too late.

Beyond the windows it’s pitch black, and Methuselah looks in at me from the cold panes, beckoning me, waiting for me to come outside and join him in the darkness.

I have to go to him. It isn’t a choice.

He makes me run through the dark streets, my feet flying over the ground while he races beside me, his black jacket flapping as he flits from one window to the next. We run until my head spins and the world blurs. We run until…

Until…

I wake up at home, lying on the spare bed, fully clothed. It’s light, and the brightness stings my eyes. Groaning, I rise and stagger around the house, cleaning myself up. My jeans are filthy, as if I’ve been rolling in the dirt. And my leg muscles throb with every step.

Methuselah must’ve taken my bed, fallen asleep, so I don’t disturb him. I shower and change, being careful of the bruises on my upper body, my arms, my legs. I’m downstairs, making coffee, when someone knocks firmly on the front door.

 Ollie, I think. Coming back for more pills. I make my expression grim, but my jaw slackens when I see the people waiting on my doorstep.

The police officers, a man and a woman, are polite but deadly serious. It’s hard to take in what they’re saying, but they’re talking about an attack. They say something about a woman: a woman nearby.

“I haven’t seen anything,” I say, but they show me a photograph. Vikki from the cafe. Vikki smiling. I try not to react, but the officers exchange a look, ask me more questions. “I know her,” I admit, “but I don’t know anything about what happened to her.”

That’s not good enough for the cops, and when I can’t explain where I was last night, they ask me to go to the police station.

“I’ll get my coat,” I say, and they watch through the open doorway while I grab a jacket from the hook.

“Is that yours?” the policewoman asks, and I realise my mistake. The black leather jacket belongs to Methuselah, and I put it back, choosing an old waterproof instead, grumbling under my breath.

“Whose leather jacket was that?” the policewoman asks.

“A friend’s. He must’ve left it here.”

“He?”

I nod, and she asks me if I live alone. “Yeah,” I say. “Always.”

At the police station, they sit me in a windowless room, ask me stupid questions.

I get through it okay, but then they show me some CCTV footage. On the screen, the Cafe Continental looks different, like a setting for a late-night TV drama. But the figure emerging from the alley beside the cafe is all too familiar.

Methuselah halts by the alley’s mouth, looking left and right, then he strolls away, his back straight and his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket.

“Sir, please sit down,” the policeman says. I don’t recall standing up, but I won’t sit back down. I rush to the unmarked door, hammer my fists against the wood. Someone grabs my arms and I struggle, but not for long. The fight goes out of me, and I can almost hear Methuselah sneering at me, calling me weak. He’s taken my strength from me, bled me dry. Of course he has. You can’t fight a reflection. You only end up hurting yourself.

The police officers guide me to the chair, and someone fetches tea. It’s too sweet, crammed with sugar, but I drink it and feel a bit better. There are more photos to look at, all of people I don’t know, and then a stark portrait of Methuselah. And I flinch.

“You know this woman,” the policeman states, and I stare at him.

“Has she been to your house?” the policewoman asks. “The jacket you picked up earlier — it was a woman’s jacket, and it looks very like the one the suspect was wearing in the CCTV. We need to talk to her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “What woman?”

The policewoman takes a breath, then she pushes another photo toward me, a mugshot, and I stare at the caption: Mattthews, Sally.

Bile forces its way to the back of my throat, and the policeman curses. There’s a commotion, but all I see is the floor rushing up to meet me. And when the darkness sweeps down to claim me, I can’t hold it back.

When I come around, I’m lying on a padded bench. Across the room, the policewoman is sitting at a table, tapping away at a laptop. I sit up and the policewoman gives me a plastic cup of cold water, then she slips out and returns a minute later. She’s not alone.

Bryony sits facing me while the policewoman stands to one side, watching, silent.

With concern in her eyes, Bryony asks how I’m feeling.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

Speaking gently, Bryony tells me that a woman, Sally Matthews, was arrested at my house, where she’s been stealing my meds and dealing in drugs.

“They call it cuckooing,” Bryony says. “A criminal picks someone vulnerable and moves into their house, using it as a base for their illegal activities.”

I shake my head. “That can’t be right. I would’ve known if there was a woman in my house. I’m not stupid.” But even as I protest, my memories stir and shift. I’ve never looked at Methuselah directly, never faced him. There’s always been something in the way, something between us. And when he was in the bath, the room was full of steam and I averted my gaze.

“We believe she may have interfered with your meds,” Bryony explains. “The police found a lot of empty bottles at your house.”

“No, I gave them away. Ollie begged me, and I shouldn’t have done it, but I gave them to him.”

“The other victim’s name is Oliver,” the policewoman puts in. “Oliver Clarke. A friend of yours, is he?”

“Kind of. Is he okay?”

“He’s still unconscious. We think he was trying to sell drugs, possibly the ones he got from you, when Matthews caught him outside the Cafe Continental. My guess is, she didn’t like someone else dealing on her patch. Sadly, the young woman from the cafe got in the way.”

“Vikki. Is she…?”

“Vikki is going to be all right,” the policewoman says. “She was able to speak to us, and it seems that she saw the attack on Oliver Clarke and went out to try and help. She shouted at Matthews. That was very brave, but it was extremely foolhardy. Matthews turned on her and then walked away.”

“Is Ollie going to be okay?”

The policewoman frowns. “It’s too early to say, but he’s tough. As you may know, he’s ex-army. The Royal Tank Regiment.”

I let out a laugh and, for some reason, I can’t stop. Bryony is saying something, but I don’t hear her. Getting a grip, I wipe my eyes. “What?”

“Perhaps that’s where you got the idea,” Bryony says.

“What idea?”

Bryony tilts her head on one side, studying me. “The idea that you were in the army yourself. You may have picked it up from this acquaintance. Oliver.”

“I don’t…” I look at the floor, and my fingers go to my ear, the one that doesn’t work.

“It’s something we were working through,” Bryony says. “In our earlier sessions, I tried to explain the truth to you, but you weren’t ready to hear it. You couldn’t accept it. You’d constructed your own version of events as a way of dealing with the pain after your accident.”

“I wasn’t in an accident. There was a bomb. An IED. It took out my Land Rover.”

Bryony shakes her head. “You were hit by a Land Rover. You were waiting for a bus when the Land Rover mounted the kerb and ploughed into the queue. Several people were killed, and you were seriously injured. That’s why you suffer from chronic pain and a partial loss of hearing.”

“No.”

“There’s something else,” Bryony says. “Your son, James, was with you at the time.”

The room darkens and I see a little face looking up at me, full of hope and excitement. Full of love.

“I know this is painful, but it’s time to remember,” Bryony goes on. “You’d been Christmas shopping with your son, and he was hit by the car. I’m afraid that he was killed instantly.”

“Stop!” I bury my face in my hands, bitter tears burning my eyes. “Shut up. Just shut up!”

But Bryony keeps on talking. “I have to tell you this. It’s time for you to move on to the next phase of your recovery.”

I look up, glaring at her. “Recovery? What the hell are you talking about? What are you trying to do to me?”

“I’m trying to help you deal with what happened. It was a terrible, senseless accident, but it’s time to break free from the version of reality you’ve created for yourself. You need to grieve.”

“I can’t. It’s my fault. I should’ve…”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Bryony says. “There’s no reason for you to go on punishing yourself. The driver went to prison for what he did. He was solely responsible. You must know that, deep down, but to accept it, you’ll have to have to face what happened. You’ll have to remember.”

And I’m there. I hear a car racing along the street, far too fast, and I turn to look. The Land Rover isn’t military, it’s the urban kind, all gleaming curves and tinted windows. In a burst of clarity, I see the driver, then the car swerves drunkenly, and I know I have to find James, keep him safe. He’d wanted to run ahead, and the bus stop was close, so I’d broken the rule of a lifetime, let him go.

I start running, my heart bursting in my chest. James is right in front of me, and I launch myself at him, the roar of an engine drumming into my skull. But as my hand touches my son’s shoulder, I’m thrown into the air and I tumble in slow motion, arms and legs flailing, until I hit the ground with a sickening thud. And the image imprinted on my mind as the world goes dark is that crystal-clear vision of the driver: a vivid snapshot of the split second before he lost control.

“He was fixing his hair,” I whisper. “He was looking in the mirror.”

“That’s right,” Bryony says. She goes on talking, but I tune her out, dream about a desert: the heat and the dry air. I can go there now, because there’s a window in this room, and I see someone waiting for me on the other side of the glass. His outline is faint, blurred by my tears, but he’s there. I knew he’d come for me. Methuselah always comes for me.

And he always will.

—

Thank you for reading. I hope you got something out of it.

If you’re interested, the story’s title is a reference to this quote:

“I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.”

― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye

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