Mirror Man

Chapter One

April 1984

I watched the world and the townsfolk pass me by from the reflections in the shop windows. This part of town was my favourite place to people-watch in my hometown of Thorne, as the façade was made entirely from reflective glass. My second-favourite location was outside the library, though I didn’t sit there often with it being opposite the police station. This spot was better, longer, and I could watch everyone via the store fronts until they vacated my line of sight.

I watched the world like this every day, though it rarely changed. The local family-run shops were dull and gloomy with their aluminium or wooden doors and faded lettering. Even the graffiti on the walls and shop shutters was black and white; the favourite line of the moment was “Thatcher is a…”

I couldn’t repeat the last word.

The town’s façade may have been dreary, but it was the inhabitants I was waiting to see. They brought colour to the world around me. Streaked hair, neon tracksuits, and khaki pants were the current styles. I’d never seen such an array of colours—some days it seemed people had stepped right off the catwalk. Folks around here followed the trends in magazines and Top of the Pops—now even men were wearing makeup. I didn’t know what that was about; you’d never catch me in blue eyeshadow.

A group of screeching mothers strolled past, pushing their even louder screaming kids, no doubt making their way to playgroup or a coffee morning. A police car passed by resembling a giant jam sandwich, and I kept my head down ’til it was gone.

My preferred spot was a battered wooden bench covered by remnants of green paint and which had a concrete frame on either side. With all the jagged reminders of who had sat here before or who was boyfriend and girlfriend, it was apparent to me that everyone who had sat on this bench before me either had a pocketknife or a marker pen in their pocket. I’d yet to include my name; I’d never had a girlfriend, or even kissed a girl.

I scratched off a lone streak of green paint with my fingernail to reveal the rest of the brown slat underneath, then picked at the tiny flecks stuck under my nail. I liked to keep my hands clean, and not only my hands; my face was also scrubbed clean every morning. I couldn’t see any excuse to be dirty if you had access to water—soap was a bonus. When I’d attended school, some kids were unkempt. I couldn’t fathom why; they had to have had water at home, surely.

I looked back to the glass windows, and my pulse quickened as I spotted a suitable candidate. I examined the man’s reflection as it sauntered by. He was average height (around five foot nine), his brown hair was permed, and he had a moustache. The man walked with his hands tucked in his jean pockets, and he leaned slightly to the left. If he had moved his hands up to his belt loops and worn a Stetson, he could have passed for an extra from a Spaghetti Western. I nicknamed him “The Texan.” I gave a name to everyone I followed. I had a nickname too: “The Mirror Man.”

The man reminded me of a gunslinger, and the sight of him brought me back to this morning’s conversation with my grandad during breakfast. He hadn’t stopped talking about Marvin Gaye being shot since it had been reported in yesterday’s paper. He liked his songs; I’d often catch him singing I Heard It Through the Grapevine. I would laugh when he couldn’t hit the notes—no one in our family was a particularly good singer, though we all loved music.

Grandad couldn’t understand what had happened to Mr Gaye. He’d only been forty-five—‘No age at all.’ His words, not mine. He said guns in America were meant to be for protection, not shooting like you were in the Wild West. I told him I was glad we didn’t have them where we lived.

Mum snapped when I muttered those words. She snapped at me a lot—and that’s when she chose to notice me at all. I didn’t know which was worse.

‘Don’t be so naïve,’ she’d told me. ‘Of course, we have guns here! What about farmers, the armed forces, and the IRA? Plus, all the antique ones from years ago.’

I didn’t know anyone with a gun (not that I knew many people), and I certainly wouldn’t have put farmers in the same category as the IRA, I knew that much.

I got up from the bench, smoothed down my clothes, and paused for a green Vauxhall Viva to pass before crossing the road to catch up with The Texan. My heartbeat thudded in my ears as I wondered if the unsuspecting man could be ‘The One’; the person to show me the way.

There had been many potential Ones, though they had all fallen at the last hurdle, plunging me backwards to start my quest again. I tuned out the thumping of excitement in my ears and focused on the task ahead.

I didn’t get too close to my possible saviour, but I was near enough to smell the Imperial Leather soap he used, and I knew his clothes were freshly laundered, as the scent gently lingered behind him. Luckily for me, I was also wearing jeans, so I tucked my hands in my pockets and leaned to the left to mimic the innocent stranger who had the potential to turn my life around.

I followed at a steady pace, and if The Texan stopped, so did I. If he bent down to pick up someone’s dropped coin, I copied the action, all the while keeping a carefully trained eye on as many reflective surfaces as I could to ensure I could duplicate every move, action, and facial expression.

The shadowing was going well. He had no clue I was following him. He didn’t even spot my reflection when he peered into the Aquarius record shop window to examine the new Queen record. I wondered what crossed his mind as he stared at the cover for a moment longer than necessary; perhaps he wanted to buy it, but didn’t have enough money.

We were nearly into the housing estate when I was distracted by another man. He didn’t look dissimilar from The Texan, except this man wore a donkey jacket with NCB (National Coal Board) embossed on the back, indicating he worked down the local coal mine. Though I had to wonder what he was doing in town; he was far away from the picket line at Hatfield Colliery.

The man walked with purpose in his stride, and I nicknamed him “The Coalman” as I followed. An obvious name, I know. I couldn’t smell much from him other than muck and coal. He didn’t smell clean like The Texan; it was like his whole body had been engrained with the smell of his job.

Everybody around here supported the miners. When the strikes started, I’d asked my grandad what a picket line meant after seeing it on the news. He explained that they were striking to prevent pit closures.

‘Being a miner is a brotherhood,’ he informed me. ‘They follow the “one out, all out” rule. They gather in front of the gates to the mine, and if anyone passes, they’re called scabs or blacklegs.’

Grandad could provide no explanation for the first name. I imagined the second one was because they still went to work and therefore got dirty from the coal.

I pursued The Coalman all the way to the jobcentre, where he hovered outside and paced the pavement. He looked at a couple of men stood smoking outside before changing his mind and heading back towards the housing estate with his head bent low and the collar on his jacket pulled up high, as though to cover the shame of even contemplating seeking a new job. I knew what he’d considered doing; I didn’t need to guess, and I barely knew a thing, as my mum liked to remind me—unless it was about watches. I knew everything about watches.

Grandad once said it can’t be nice to struggle to feed your family, as the strikes showed no sign of letting up. Though if anyone should come knocking, he would make sure they had a hot meal and a good, strong mug of tea.

I turned into the estate for my second visit of the day when a police siren forced me to clasp my hands over my ears as the piercing noise shot around my brain like a pinball. I stopped and released my ears, swiftly glancing at the man I’d been following. He peered over his shoulder as the police officer got out of his car and approached the kerb.

The Coalman stared at the police officer, spat on the floor, then carried on. The police and the coalmen hadn’t been the best of friends lately; you only had to pick up a paper to read of the clashes between them.

My stomach felt as though it had sunk to my knees, however, and that’s where I focused my eyes as the police officer stood in front of me. My body tensed. I knew I was in for a terrible talking to. I’d always tried my best to be discreet and avoid the wrath of PC Williams, but not today, it seems.

‘What are you doing, John? How many times am I going to have to drive you home and fill your grandad’s heart full of grief?’ asked the constable. He tapped his foot as he waited for my reply. I didn’t always answer straight away; I needed time to form the answers in my head, or they sometimes came out jumbled—especially if I was nervous or anxious.

‘John-Michael it is,’ I mumbled. Crap! I nearly had it right.

I hated it when others shortened my name. The only people I allowed that honour were my sister Tina, Grandad, our gardener Fred, and Mum (though she rarely did). They didn’t shorten it to John, though. Instead, they called me JC.

‘What did you say, boy?’

‘Officer… Nothing… I wasn’t doing anything,’ I said. My eyes drifted to my shoes, then to PC Williams’s; his shoes hadn’t been polished this morning. I could see spots of mud begging to be rubbed off.

I lifted my head a little and inspected the officer’s uniform from the neck down for a reflective surface to look into, then sighed with disappointment. I was usually always deflated when I encountered PC Williams. He didn’t take care of his uniform like I thought he should. If I were a policeman, I’d have my uniform looking pristine. PC Williams could do with a few cleaning tips, as his buttons weren’t shiny. To me, they looked smeary, like they’d been rubbed with margarine or lard.

‘Don’t be so cheeky, lad. If I didn’t know your grandfather so well, you’d be getting a clip around your ear and a size eleven up your arse. I’ll ask again, John. Were you following that man over there?’ He pointed to The Coalman, who was now disappearing around a corner blissfully unaware of what had been taking place and probably thankful PC Williams had stopped to talk to me instead of him.

I nodded my head.

‘I was out working the late shift last night; I really don’t need this today,’ PC Williams sighed. I guessed he’d been patrolling at the mine.

I paused to choose my words again.

‘I’m not hurting anyone, and it isn’t a crime,’ I said, rubbing the back of my neck. I didn’t like where this conversation was heading. I didn’t like confrontation. The only things that eased my mind in these situations were reflections, cleaning, or repairing watches. I carried a small cigarette case with a mirror in it in the front left pocket of my Harrington jacket. My grandad had given it to me for these such instances, but I thought better of retrieving it on this occasion. Instead, I twiddled my fingers and hands as though I was washing them, but without soap and water.

I could sense PC Williams considering what I’d said, and I could hear his rough hands stroking the stubble on his chin. He couldn’t arrest me, that I was sure of. I hadn’t committed a crime; there was no law against walking down the street. But I knew what else he would be thinking—John-Michael is just plain strange.

PC Williams sighed again. ‘Why aren’t you at work today?’ he asked.

‘Mr Phillips said he had an important meeting, and I wasn’t needed until this afternoon.’

‘A meeting with who?’ he asked, his surprise evident in the rise of his voice.

‘I don’t know, officer,’ I said, shuffling my feet. I knew it was odd for Claude’s Antiques to be closed, but Mr Phillips said he would throw an extra fiver in my wage packet this week for the inconvenience. Though it was hardly an inconvenience to me; it meant I got extra time doing my hobbies. ‘He hasn’t shared any details of the business with me yet. I just repair the watches and clocks and go home. I’m supposed to learn soon, though.’

‘Has he been acting strange lately?’ PC Williams asked.

I bit my lip at that word. It was funny he was asking me if my boss had been acting strange when everyone thought I was the strange one in town.

I couldn’t exactly be sure of what he meant by strange, either; what’s strange to one person might be totally normal to another.

‘Well, define strange?’ I said.

‘Closing early, meetings, odd phone calls, secrecy…’ the constable rattled off.

I hummed and shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

Though, I was sure. I just wasn’t certain if it was my place to tell PC Williams. What if he told Mr Phillips, and I was sacked due to my lack of discretion? Plus, Mum always said not to tell tales. No, I couldn’t tell him.

Really, Mr Phillips had been different these past few weeks, ever since his last house clearance. I’d heard raised voices in the shop and on the phone, but whenever I’d popped my head out to investigate, the person had either left or Mr Phillips hung up the phone. He’d also been in and out of his office, checking his safe more regularly, and a couple of times I found him asleep at his desk and he’d forgotten to lock up.

I heard PC Williams scratch his chin again. ‘Alright. Get in the car, and I’ll take you home.’

I exhaled loudly, thankful the interrogation was over, and climbed into the back of the car. I was pleased in one way; at least now I could look at the officer through the rear-view mirror. The constable got in and immediately eyed me through the mirror as I knew he would.

‘What we going to do about you,’ PC Williams said.

It didn’t sound like a question, but I couldn’t be sure.

I chose not to reply and looked at the officer’s eyes in the mirror; they were a cloudy-blue colour with flecks of green and rimmed red due to lack of sleep. I recognised the familiar effect from my own eyes; I found it hard to sleep at times because my brain often didn’t shut down at night.

I kept my eyes steadfast on the rear-view mirror, but shifted a little as the air remained silent for too long. ‘You know… I’m not hurting anyone,’ I said, repeating my earlier statement. ‘I’m only minding my own business.’

‘Doesn’t look that way to me. If you end up following any of them ruffians and they spot you, you’ll be in for a kicking.’

Visions of thugs and gangsters coming at me with their fists and legs flailing about flew through my mind. I would be careful and make sure his warning never happened.

‘They won’t spot me. I always have my head down and keep to myself,’ I said. The townsfolk had spotted me following others on the odd occasion, but I would usually dive into an alleyway or shop doorway if I thought I’d been noticed. But nobody ever said anything to me. In fact, no one really spoke to me at all.

‘Oh really?’ the constable asked, drumming his hairy fingers on the battered steering wheel. ‘Really?’ he repeated. ‘What about the last time I took you home, aye?’

‘Oh…,’ I mumbled. ‘That was… unfortunate.’

The incident PC Williams was speaking of happened last year in the summer of eighty-three. I’d been following a woman when I accidentally tripped over a loose flagstone and went hurtling through the air towards her. I reached out to grab something to stop myself from hitting the pavement, and I ended up grabbing her skirt and pulling it down. She called me words that I’d only heard on The Sweeney, causing a massive scene.

Unluckily for me, PC Williams had been nearby. I’d had a tough time explaining the incident when I got home. Mum was so angry, she clipped me round the ear, and Grandad shook his head and disappeared into his office until he was ready to speak to me about it.

Grandad walked me to and from work for a week after that, and Mum dragged me to the doctors in an attempt to get me ‘fixed.’ He just said I was a little different and a bit anti-social.

The incident was the sole reason I no longer followed women. And children, you may ask? Well, I never followed them. I might not have known a lot, but even I knew that was a big no-no. Besides, children didn’t know who they were yet.

‘Why do you do it? Can you at least tell me that much?’ PC Williams had asked me this question before, and I always gave the same answer.