Mirrorland, Carole Johnstone [spiritual books to read .txt] 📗

that the wildness in her eyes, the envy, is for my benefit, because she exists at all only to make me feel better; to remind me that I’m worth something to someone. Because she is my friend. My creation.

I hold her hand and look out at the returning sun. ‘I wish I could stay in Mirrorland all the time,’ I say.

And Mouse gives me a slow, watery smile. ‘Me too.’

*

I stare up into the darkness, fully awake. I should have remembered. I should have known. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it – of not remembering, not knowing that Mouse was as real as El or me. But I don’t. Because I’m scared. Scared that I didn’t know. And scared because there was never any explanation for those emails, other than El. Until now.

I get up without waking Ross, tiptoe downstairs with my laptop, sit at the table in the Throne Room.

I think of Ross’s Your aunt? A family friend? She was Mouse’s mum. And then the nightmare of only a few days ago comes rushing back to me. Sharpened. Changed.

The Witch is dragging Mouse along the hallway, into the entrance hall. Mouse is crying, No, no! I don’t want to go!

And when Mum says, You can surely stay a wee while longer? the Witch stops dead. Shakes her head.

Mouse sobs louder, reaches her hands out to us – I want to go to Mirrorland! Please, I don’t want to go! I want to go back to Mirrorland! – and we ignore our fear of the Witch and run forward, take hold of Mouse’s hands as we try to pull her back inside the hallway.

The Witch stops again. Turns and smiles an icy smile. And slaps Mouse hard across the face. Once. Twice. Until we let go. She stabs a long-nailed finger at Mouse’s trembling, bowed head. Glares at El and me – now frozen into silence.

Obedience. This is what family is. The look she gives Mum is ugly with hate. THIS is what it is to be a good daughter.

A flood of light. A slamming door. And then darkness.

I blow out an unsteady breath. Fight the guilt and the fear growing inside me. I know that happened. And I know that I forgot it happened.

I open the laptop, google ‘national records for Scotland’, and then type Mum’s name and date of birth into the site’s search parameters. When I filter to births in the Leith district only, Mum’s is the only entry left. I delete her forename, change the date-of-birth range to five years either side of hers. Four new names are listed – Jennifer, Mary, two Margarets – but when I can’t access any of their details, including exact dates of birth, without registering a subscription, I request and pay for all the certificates, including Mum’s. After the confirmation email mentions a possible two-week wait, I open my email, start a new message to john.smith120594.

If you’re really Mouse, meet me. I know you’re in Edinburgh.

The reply comes right away.

NO. I DON’T TRUST YOU. NOT YET. AND I CERTAINLY DON’T TRUST HIM.

Tell me what you want. I need you to explain, to tell me what’s going on.

I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER. I WANT YOU TO WANT TO REMEMBER. I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU. I’M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. EL IS DEAD. HE KILLED HER.

And it’s this last reply that convinces me my fears have to be unfounded. Must be. Mouse is real, I can accept that, but this last overdramatic cliff-hanger of a cliché is so much El, she is who I hear in my head as I read it. It’s just a game. Just another of her merciless games. The desperate need for that to be true makes me furious again. And so I try to give her enough rope to hang herself.

Who killed her?

A lengthy pause, weighty enough to befit a drum-rolled reveal.

HER LYING HUSBAND.

CHAPTER 16

15 April 2018 at 00:15

Inbox

john.smith120594@gmail.com

Re: HE KNOWS

To: Me

CLUE 8. DON’T DRESS IT UP: EVERYONE IS AFRAID OF CLOWNS

Sent from my iPhone

*

The dress-up cupboard in the Clown Café. This is the clue to the diary page I found five days ago after I discovered clue number five’s page under the bed. It’s the diary page I found out of sequence because I was sick of blindly dancing to El’s tune. It’s the diary page that has frightened me the most.

I don’t open the dress-up cupboard again. I don’t want to read the page again. But I’m shaking anyway. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing up, pulling at my skin. Because I haven’t forgotten what it said.

August 10th, 1998

Something’s coming. Something’s nearly here.

Sometimes I’m so scared I forget how to breathe. I forget that I can.

*

El and I are running again. So fast and so hard we’re tripping over our own feet. A loud metallic thud echoes up through the walls and the sun disappears. The bells ring in the dark. Too many to count. Too many to know which bells, which stars, which rooms.

Deadlights chase us, flash and judder across the walls as we try to run from boots and shouts and roars. Outlaws and prison guards, the Tooth Fairy and Madame Defarge, Bluebeard and Blackbeard. But we’re so far from Mirrorland now, it’s like a memory that isn’t even a memory, just a place we’ve read about for so long that it feels as if we once lived there. Like a shire in Middle Earth or a bloodied square in Paris. A prison in Maine or an island in the Caribbean.

And then we’re crouching down inside the dress-up cupboard, fear pushing us lower, squeezing our fingers tighter, digging our nails deeper into each other’s skin. Because the Clown Café can’t protect us like Mirrorland does. It’s just a place to hide.

We’re pirates and our dad is the Pirate King, El whispers in my ear. In the cold, thick dark. We’ll be okay.

But we won’t be. I know we won’t be.