The Devil's Mirror Read online

  ‘Clever,’ I said. ‘Very clever. Good bye, Sallybill.’

  ‘Sayonara. Adjō. Farvel. Istenhozzád. Hyvăsti. Ila al-laqas. Adiaŭ. Shalom...’

  I climbed under the covers and went back to sleep.

  REPORT FROM: SALLYBILL

  REPORT COMMENCES. LOCATED & MET WITH SUBJECT IN SUITABLY REMOTE TIMEZONE, USED NEW OBLIQUE METHOD APPROVED AT LAST BRIEFING (CODE NAME: 3 WISHES). OBTAINED RESULTS SIMILAR TO THOSE EXPERIENCED BY OTHERS USING DIFFERENT TECHNIQUES: NAMELY, TOTAL LACK OF SUCCESS. SUBJECT DISPLAYS APPARENTLY RATIONAL THOUGHT PROCESSES, LOGICAL WITHIN OVERALL DELUSIONAL FRAMEWORK, PARRIES ALL THRUSTS DEFLTY, EVEN BRILLIANTLY, BUT PERSISTENTLY REFUSES TO ACCEPT TRUE IDENTITY, CONTINUES TO REJECT RESPONSIBILITY, DECLINES TO RESUME DUTIES. COLLEAGUES HAVE REPORTED THAT HE IS NOT RESPONSIVE TO ANY DIRECT REFERENCE TO PERNICIOUS RUMOURS THAT HAVE HAD WIDE CURRENCY EVER SINCE HIS BREAKDOWN (I.E., THAT HE NEVER EXISTED, OR IS DEAD, ET AL.) SO I ESCHEWED THAT APPROACH. RESPECTFULLY & REGRETFULLY SUGGEST SUBJECT BE CLASSIFIED INCURABLE. LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA, ELI, ELI, LAMA SABACHTHANI? END REPORT.

  God Will Provide

  Disappearing invoices, misfiled bills of lading, angry customers, a cranky supervisor, even the coffee machine had broken down: well, Mondays were usually like that. It took everyone a whole work-day, five full hours, to get back into the swing of things after the four-day weekend. Fred Staley, loping on to the company parking lot fatigued and frustrated, just hoped he’d be able to last out the week, all the way through to Wednesday. Things seemed to get on his nerves more and more as he grew older.

  As he flashed his palm at the windshield, the door swung open. He climbed wearily into his CAR, tossed his briefcase on the seat next to him, and touched the starter button. Nothing happened, except for a nerve-rasping bzzzzzzzz. Fred glanced at the DAD. It was flashing seat belt, seat belt, seat belt...

  Fred smiled sourly. Of course. How could he forget that? He really must need a rest. Still, he and Edna had returned from the semi-annual three-month all-expense-paid vacation in the Bahamas just last month. Or was it the month before last? Fred fastened the seat belt, the buzzer went silent, and the Driver-Admonition Dial stopped flashing. He touched the starter button again.

  Another bzzzzzzzz, and this time the DAD flashed shoulder harness, shoulder harness, shoulder harness... ‘Right,’ Fred muttered, fastening the harness and squelching the buzzer. He touched the starter button once more, but still the engine refused to turn over and again the buzzer bzzzzzzzzed and the DAD flashed, reminding him to put on his sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses. True, it was a bright day, and the CAR’s video-sensors had picked up on that, same way they’d known he wasn’t wearing his shades, and the sun was blinding if you drove west at this hour, so it certainly was a good thing that these City-Adjusted Runabouts were equipped with all these terrific safety devices.

  Fred slipped on his sunglasses and touched the starter. This time, the engine turned over with a gratifying purr, and he began to pull out of his parking space. But:

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The CAR stopped dead.

  ‘What the hell now?’ he shouted. The DAD flashed: signal, signal, signal... ‘All right already!’ he shouted, and viciously flicked on his left blinker, and gouged the starter button, and finally, on the fifth try, succeeded in getting out of the parking lot and on to the road.

  Less than ten minutes later, he sneaked a peek at the gauge, and discovered he was almost out of GAS. Luckily, there was a station up ahead, so he pulled up to the pumps and told the attendant, ‘Fill ’er up.’ It was an extravagant gesture, what with Government Approved Sea-water going for $5 a gallon, but Fred felt like splurging. Even so, five bucks! It burned him up. The energy combine was getting away with robbery. Highway robbery—literally.

  Fred remembered the early days, way back when petroleum-fuelled vehicles went out and the new controlled-thermonuclearfusion engines came in, fuelled by a heavy form of hydrogen, deuterium, a rare element but plentifully available in ordinary sea water. He was only a kid then, but he remembered how his father used to just go down to Santa Monica beach, scoop up a bucketful of Pacific, and fill the tank. Didn’t cost a cent. ‘It’s a fine new world you’ll be growing up in, Freddie,’ his father would say. ‘Smogless skies, free fuel, not like when I was a boy.’

  Fred chuckled bitterly to himself as he waited for his tank to fill. It hadn’t taken long for the energy combine to corner the world market in ‘denatured’ (their word for desalinated) seawater, and then lobby for an international law that made illegal the manufacture of engines that could run on the natural ocean stuff. One grain of salt in today’s engines and they stopped cold and wouldn’t start again until they got a complete overhaul that cost you two weeks’ pay. Sometimes, Fred felt like selling his CAR and taking a CAB to work. It was a lot cheaper, but he hated being jostled by crowds, and he was never able to get a seat on those Completely Automated Buses.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. By the time he paid the exorbitant GAS charge and got back on the road, he was red-faced, tight-lipped, slit-eyed, and muttering sullenly to himself. Sure enough, a siren began to wail, and a glance in the mirror told him that a cycle COP was waving him over to the side of the road. Fred obediently pulled over and cut the engine.

  The COP climbed off his bike and sauntered over, taking his time. He was young, very friendly and polite, handsome in his blue uniform and polished boots. ‘Hi, there,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Hi,’ said Fred, returning the smile. ‘Not speeding, was I?’

  ‘No, no,’ replied the COP. ‘But you sure are mad at somebody, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, come on, sir. The CAR doesn’t make mistakes. Its chemo-sensors sniffed it. Increased adrenalin production, among other things. It flashed its danger lights at me as you went by. Standard equipment on these new models. You do realise, don’t you, that you’re experiencing a high degree of hostility? Could lead to reckless driving, make you a hazard to yourself and a lot of other innocent people.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Fred admitted.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘Right here?’

  ‘Why not?’ said the COP gently. ‘I’m certified, you know.’ That he was. His shoulder patch bore the proudly embroidered letters COP, stitched in gold thread. He was a Certified Outdoor Psychiatrist, all right.

  Fred said, ‘Oh, it’s just the usual, Doc. A lot of Monday morning hassle at the job, then the CAR gave me a hard time, and the damn prices at the GAS pumps. You know.’

  The COP nodded sympathetically. ‘Sure, I know. Those prices are murder. So are Mondays! I hate them myself. But things’ll look better tomorrow. Tell you what. I’m not going to write out a ticket. You just sit here a few minutes, calm down, get your adrenalin back to normal, and maybe have a drink to help you relax. Do you have some GIN in your GLOVE compartment?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ It was a punishable offence not to have any, and Fred was no fool. He didn’t want to end up in the SLAMS. From what he’d heard, those rehabilitation facilities run by the State-Legislated Anarchist-Management Service were no picnic.

  ‘Are you going straight HOME?’ asked the COP.

  ‘I guess so,’ Fred said indecisively.

  ‘Why don’t you stop off first for a quickie?’ the COP advised, with, a wink. ‘Might do you a world of good. You do have a GIRL, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Fred, insulted by the question. ‘What do you think I am, a FAG?’

  ‘No offence,’ said the COP. ‘A fellow doesn’t have to be a Federally Authorised Gay not to have a cute little Government Inspected Regulation Ladylove stashed away somewhere. There’s no law says you have to. Not yet.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fred, ‘maybe I will drop in on Gladys for a while, at that.’

  ‘Atta boy! But just sit here for a few minutes and have a little nip first.’

  ‘Will do, Doc,’ said Fred. ‘And thanks.’
/>   ‘Just doing my job,’ said the COP, and roared away on his cycle.

  Fred reached into the Government Licensed Overall Variable Emergency compartment and pulled out a frosted plastic bottle containing a clear liquid. The label read ‘Beefeater GIN.’ Fred had often wondered about that label. It didn’t make any sense. That picture of a funny-looking dude in old fashioned clothes, like something out of a deck of cards, and he didn’t seem to be eating, and what the hell was beef, and what was it all doing on a bottle of Government Inspected Neuropharmaceutical, anyway? Fred shrugged off those questions and took a long swig from the bottle. Ah, he felt better already. He sat there at the roadside a few more minutes, watching the other CARs whizz by. He took a second jolt from the GIN bottle. Then, hoping his adrenalin count was low enough by now, he touched the starter button. The engine hummed into life, and—making sure to signal this time—he pulled smoothly on to the road.

  Should he pay a call on Gladys? He had given that COP the impression that he would, but now he didn’t know. Gladys was a wonderful GIRL, beautiful, understanding, a good listener, great in the Standard Accepted Copulation Kip—‘She should be, considering the salary I pay her every month!’—but, somehow, he felt he should go directly HOME; Edna was waiting for him. She was a good woman, and she worked hard making their Householder-Owned Marital Establishment cosy. He could always see Gladys over the weekend, maybe Thursday.

  Still, he did feel the need of something. GIN wasn’t enough. Maybe...

  ‘I wonder,’ he murmured. ‘It’s been a long time...’ When he was a child, it had always been so reassuring, always made him feel good. And it would only take a few minutes, not like visiting Gladys. He’d be HOME in time for dinner.

  The church, its Gothic lines softened by the shade of blight-proof plastic elms, stood on a quiet side street. Fred parked at the curb, fed a dollar to the meter, and climbed the wide stone stairs.

  Inside, it was deliciously cool and silent, except for an organ softly playing Bach. Incense subtly spiced the air. The harsh rays of the late afternoon sun were dimmed to a restful glow by stained glass windows. Only a handful of parishioners were here at this hour, some kneeling, some seated placidly in meditation. The pastor, a serene, white-haired man, was lighting candles. He nodded benignly to Fred and lifted his hand in blessing.

  Fred fell to his knees before the altar. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Soon, a feeling of well-being began to steal over him. It wasn’t the GIN, he knew that. It was something more. It was radiating as if from the altar itself, enveloping him, reaching into his body and mind, restoring him, soothing his nerves, bringing him peace and contentment. As he knelt, and as the comfort and solace continued to emanate from the altar like a pulsing hypnotic vibration beyond the range of human hearing, tears of joy appeared at the corners of Fred’s eyes and made their way down his cheeks. He wasn’t ashamed of them. He knew he had done the proper thing, coming here. Why had he delayed so long? He would tell Edna, and they would come here together, often, regularly, and be renewed, reborn. It was so simple, really, and so right, to bring one’s troubles to GOD.

  After all, He was a Government Operated Deity.

  The Charm

  Come close. Closer. Lean over me. Put your ear to my mouth. I’m not strong; I think I’m dying; I can barely speak. Listen carefully. At the end of this street, at the corner, on the east side, there’s a small white house with a green roof. A brick path leads to the door. Snapdragons are planted along the path. You can’t miss it. There’s a wreath on the door—it’s old and blackened, and looks like an emblem of death, but don’t be put off by that, it’s just an old Christmas wreath, hung there many years ago and never taken down. No meaning to that, just laziness, apathy, inertia. The door is unlocked. Go in. The house is unoccupied. Nobody home. You’ll see a stairway leading to the second floor. Climb the stairs and go into the master bedroom. That’s the one with the yellow-and-green striped wallpaper. You’ll see a closet. Open it. Several suits are hanging there. Look for one made of charcoal grey hopsack, with a lining of red silk. The jacket has two inside pockets. Left one contains a small notebook bound in black imitation leather. Do not open it and read it. For your own sake I tell you this. Burn it. Burn it in the fireplace right there in the master bedroom. Then go back to the closet and look for what’s called a jump suit, not on a hanger, just on a nail in the back, behind the suits, a blue terry-cloth jump suit with a broken zipper. In one of the pockets, I don’t remember which, you’ll find a key ring with three keys on it. Take this and walk downstairs again, to the library. In the library you’ll see a grey metal file cabinet. One of the three keys on that ring unlocks it. Try them all until you find the right one. Open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. Disregard the folders you’ll see there. Not important. Pull the drawer out as far as you can and you’ll see an envelope taped to the drawer just behind the last folder. Remove it. Open it. There’s another key inside. Put it in your pocket. Don’t bother to lock the file cabinet again. The key opens a locker in that big bus terminal about half a mile from here—you know the one. Go to the terminal (take a cab, we don’t have much time) and open the locker and take out what you find there. A package wrapped in brown paper. Looks like a book. It is, in fact. Don’t open the package there. Go to the men’s room, and lock yourself in one of the booths (make sure you have some small change). Tear off the wrappings and open the book. You’ll discover that it’s hollow, the pages have been cut away to form a small compartment containing a tobacco tin. Open the tin and you’ll find another locker key. Put it in your pocket. Flush the toilet once or twice to allay suspicion. TRUST NO ONE. When you leave the booth, dump the wrapping and the book and the tobacco tin in the container provided for soiled paper towels. Now you must buy a round-trip ticket to Midburg. A short trip, forty-five miles. Possibly fifty. During the bus ride, don’t talk to any of the other passengers. Best thing is to pretend to be asleep, but only pretend, because you are the guardian of the key and it must not fall into any hands but yours. Be alert at all times. When you arrive at the Midburg bus terminal, go directly to the lockers and open the one that fits the key you found in the book. In this second locker, you’ll find another package just like the first, brown paper, yes another book. Take it to the men’s room. Same routine, booth, flush the toilet, et cetera. Inside this book you’ll find a rather large, rusty, old-fashioned, ornamental key. Put it in your pocket. Dispose of the book and wrapping as before. Take the next bus back here. Return to the house with the snapdragons. Go down to the wine cellar. The door is locked, but the big rusty key opens it. Enter the cellar and go directly to the wine bottles. Ignore all but the white wines, the French white wines. Lift each bottle until you find one that’s a fake, empty. Pull out the cork. Shake out the little key you find there. It opens a large metal strongbox you’ll find in the top drawer of the file cabinet in the study—that’s why I told you to leave the files open. Lock the wine cellar again when you leave it, and break the key. It’s very old and rusty, and you should have no difficulty. Throw the broken pieces into one of the file drawers and lock the cabinet again after taking out the strongbox. Open the strongbox with the little key from the wine bottle. Inside the strongbox you’ll find a smaller strongbox with a combination lock. The combination is simply the six digits of my birthday, multiplied by seven. I was born on Christmas in the year of the Great Fire. Any almanac will give you that. When you open this second strongbox, you’ll see an ordinary wooden cigar box. Inside it is a photograph of me as a youth in uniform, and a photograph of a young lady in a flowered hat, and a withered carnation, and a packet of old letters tied with a lavender ribbon, and a prayer book, and a rosary, and a comb I thinks and possibly a pill bottle containing an obsolete prescription surely gone stale and useless by now, and a small pistol that’s lost its firing pin. Some of these objects belonged to my mother. All of them are without any value whatsoever—except for one. And that one is beyond price. It has been with me fo
r more years than I can tell you. In clumsy hands, it invariably causes impotence, or blindness, or insanity, or agonising death. Sometimes all four, in that order. But used correctly, it bestows upon its owner a multitude of blessings. A sweet breath. Perfect pitch. Unfailing virility. The power to bend a dime with two fingers. X-ray vision. Invisibility, at will. The gift of healing by the laying on of hands. Raising the dead. Luck at all games of chance. Ability to complete The Tunes crossword puzzle in under ten minutes. Power to make any woman in the world do whatever you wish. Seeing in the dark. A dazzling smile. Pleasing personality. Photographic memory. Beautiful handwriting. The gift of the gab. The faculty of flight. How to lose ten pounds in two weeks without dieting. How to make friends. How to get into Heaven. Power to kill with a glance. Answers to puzzling questions: riddle of the Sphinx, what song the Sirens sang, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object, if a tree falls on a desert island does it make any sound, is there life after death, what was Judy Garland’s real name? Long-sought secret of perpetual motion. Short cuts to becoming a black belt in karate, Grand Master at Chess, expert folder of paper aeroplanes, bestselling author. How to get an audience with the Pope. Repair your own television set. Turn base metals into gold. Conquer insomnia. Attain peace of mind. What happened to the Lost Tribes of Israel. Where to find the score of Peri’s Dafne, lost for centimes, said to be the first opera. How to temper copper in the forgotten manner of the ancient Egyptians. Secret of eternal youth. Secret of immortality. Secret love-rites of the Hollywood stars. How to get on the cover of Time. How to mate a great cup of coffee. How to be two inches taller. How to read minds. How to foretell the future. How to swim. How to roller-skate. How to be happy. Bring the cigar box back here to me, with all its contents intact. I will then look at those items one by one until I find the one that bestows these gifts and powers, and I will bequeath it to you. Why not? It’s of no use to me anymore. I’m dying. I know what you’re thinking: why am I dying if I possess the secret of immortality? Ah, why indeed? Because I committed the sin of sins, for which no one can be forgiven. The sin without a name it’s called, but it has a name, a name no one dare utter, no one dire think. And so my magic charm has lost its power to help me. I am unworthy. Lean closer. I’m sinking fast. Can you hear me? Forget about all those keys and bus trips. Get a blowtorch, something to slice steel, go directly to the file cabinet and burn your way into the top drawer and into both strongboxes and directly to the cigar box and bring it quickly to me now. The reason you must bring it to me, the reason I can’t simply tell you which of the objects in the cigar box is the magic charm, is that I don’t remember. My memory is dying with my body. But if I see them, touch them, then my memory will come alive and I can give it to you and instruct you in its proper use and you will live a life of great merit and bliss. You will lead the world out of chaos and into a golden age. You will raise Eve from the dust and make her mother to a race of gods. You will, yourself, be a god. You will be God. But I must have those talismans in my fingers, because I don’t remember whether it’s the pistol, or the pill bottle, or the rosary, or the letters, or the lavender ribbon around the letters, or the