Mirrors: Sparkling new stories from prize-winning authors

Mirrors: Sparkling new stories from prize-winning authors Wendy Cooling Specially commissioned short stories, by prize-winning authors, on the theme of Mirrors.READERSHIP: 10 – 14A collection of new , specially commissioned short stories by some of the finest authors of children’s books today: Anne Fine, Berlie Doherty, Leslie Howarth, Mary Arrigan, Gaye Hicilmaz, Jeremy Strong, Malorie Blackman, Elizabeth Laird , Melvin Burgess, Celia Rees, Kate Thompson, Paul Stewart, Vivian French, Alan Durant, Annie Dalton in range of genres – humour, horror, fantasy, traditional, realism and romance. The collection is aimed at good readers between 10 and 14, and the strength of the stories combined with the excellence of their authors will be certainly be welcomed by teachers, librarians and parents. Edited by Wendy Cooling, a well-known and highly respected figure in the world of education and children’s books and the editor of Centuries of Stories. SPARKLING NEW STORIES FROM PRIZE-WINNING AUTHORS Mirrors EDITED BY WENDY COOLING ILLUSTRATIONS BY SARAH YOUNG AND TIM STEVENS CONTENTS Cover (#uc20d01a3-a47d-5631-807c-1c7f739613c5) Title Page (#u8f07857d-37d5-59d9-864b-c80765cf2522) Introduction (#u7eebeff3-10cd-52d1-a150-a3f48c71fdf9) Elizabeth Laird: The Fateful Mirror (#ulink_30a98770-11c1-538a-9542-287e767fb786) Gaye Hi?yilmaz: The Mirrored Garden (#ulink_1ec7fe02-c86c-5138-a23d-cefe4800fe19) Lesley Howarth: Mirrors dot com (#litres_trial_promo) Jeremy Strong: Never Trust a Parrot (#litres_trial_promo) Malorie Blackman: Watching (#litres_trial_promo) Vivian French: Selim-Hassan the Seventh (#litres_trial_promo) Melvin Burgess: Whose Face do you See? (#litres_trial_promo) Celia Rees: Silver Laughter (#litres_trial_promo) Anne Fine: Use it or Lose it (#litres_trial_promo) Paul Stewart: Double Vision (#litres_trial_promo) Kate Thompson: The Dragon’s Dream (#litres_trial_promo) Alan Durant: Rochefault’s Revenge (#litres_trial_promo) Annie Dalton: Lilac Peabody (#litres_trial_promo) Mary Arrigan: The Disappearance (#litres_trial_promo) Berlie Doherty: The Girl of Silver Lake (#litres_trial_promo) About the Contributors (#litres_trial_promo) Other Works (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) INTRODUCTION (#ulink_303e25cf-e6c8-5eec-a470-752aba54a13d) Mirrors and reflections have played their part in stories from the ancient tales of the basilisk and the story of Snow White, to the present day story of Harry Potter. The mythical basilisk could turn a creature to stone with just a look and could only be destroyed by seeing its own reflection in a mirror. Snow White’s step-mother appeals to her all-seeing mirror for confirmation of her beauty. Harry Potter finds the Mirror of Erised and sees in it what he desires most in life – his family. The dictionary definition of ‘mirror’ is something that gives a faithful reflection. In fiction, mirrors do not have to play by the rules! This book contains fifteen newly written stories in which a mirror plays a vital part. One is a beautiful re-telling of the story of Narcissus and his reflection – perhaps the oldest mirror story of all – and the rest, brand new stories that reflect the imaginations of some of today’s finest writers. Read the stories in any order, then maybe you’ll want to go on and look at some of the novels written by these authors. Enjoy! Elizabeth Laird THE FATEFUL MIRROR (#ulink_7a4f1220-17c2-50c8-88a8-2e60c62039b9) The Story of Echo and Narcissus In ancient times, when the old gods ruled from Mount Olympus, a handsome young hunter roamed the earth, trapping in his nets any prey that came within his reach. He was sixteen years old, and already many young women, and men too, had fallen in love with him. His name was Narcissus. In the forest where he hunted, a young girl wandered, looking for flowers. She talked as she ran about, and her tongue, like her feet, was never still. But her speech was meaningless, for the goddess Juno, angered by the girl’s endless chatter, had cruelly condemned her only to repeat the words that others spoke. Her name was Echo. One day, worn out by the hunt, Narcissus lay down in the shade of a spreading tree and closed his eyes. Echo ran past and saw him. She stopped at once when she saw the boy, then crept towards him and stood looking down at him, at the dark curls falling over his high forehead, the blush of red on his cheek, and the slender strong hands that still held his nets as he slept. And as she gazed at him, she fell in love. She longed to touch his hand, to wake him and tell him that she loved him, but she could not. The only words she could utter would be echoes of his own. She crept away and hid behind a tree. I’ll wait, she thought. When he wakes up I’ll follow him and listen. Perhaps he’ll say something I can repeat, to show him that I love him. At last Narcissus opened his eyes, sighed, sat up and stretched himself. Then he looked round. With the sharp senses of the hunter he knew he was not alone. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out. Echo trembled at the sound of his voice, lightly shaking the branch she was holding. The leaves rattled and a leaf fell to the ground. ‘Who’s there?’ Narcissus called again. He thought a wild animal must be lurking in the bushes, ready to leap out at him, so he snatched up his nets and ran forward to catch it. Echo stepped silently aside and hid herself under an overhanging rock. Puzzled, Narcissus moved on through the forest and, flitting noiselessly from tree to tree, Echo followed him. Often he stopped and looked over his shoulder, and she froze in her tracks, so that in the dappled light that shone through the leaves overhead, he would mistake her for the trunk of a young sapling, or a shaft of light, shining on a boulder. All day she followed him, waiting for her chance, her heart brimming over with love and longing. At last, when the sun was setting, Narcissus stopped. He could no longer ignore the uneasy prickling in his neck, that told him by his hunter’s instinct that he was being followed. ‘Whoever you are,’ he called out angrily, ‘show yourself! Come here!’ ‘Come here!’ answered Echo, taking her chance, and summoning all her courage, she stepped out into the open and ran up to him, her eyes soft with adoration. Narcissus stepped back. ‘What’s this? Who are you?’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ repeated Echo, letting her voice linger on the final word. She stepped near to him, but dazzled by his beauty did not notice the cold disdain in his eyes. ‘Stop! Don’t touch me!’ cried Narcissus. ‘Touch me!’ laughed Echo, delighted that at last the words she was forced to say reflected her true feelings, and she tried to throw her arms round his neck. Narcissus pushed her roughly aside. He had never known love, and he had none to give. ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted angrily. ‘How dare you think that I could love you?’ ‘I could love you,’ faltered Echo, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ Narcissus said, and he turned on his heel and walked away. ‘Away! Alone!’ murmured Echo. Her face burned with shame and she slipped back into the shadow of the trees. Rejected, her heart shrinking with misery, she fled from the forest, and wandering aimlessly, took refuge in the cold, distant mountains. There she starved herself, refusing to eat, and at last she pined away, until all that remained of her was her voice. Down in the forest, the spirits of the woods and the water were angry with the cold-hearted Narcissus. They held up their hands to heaven and called out, ‘Gods, punish Narcissus! Let him love, but never be loved in return.’ Nemesis, the god of vengeance, heard their prayers. He began to watch Narcissus, waiting for the chance to punish him. One day, hot and tired after a weary hunt, Narcissus stumbled into a forest clearing, where reeds and lush marsh flowers grew up around the rim of a woodland pool. He knelt beside the water and lowered his head, ready to drink. But then, shimmering beneath him, the image of a face seemed to rise up through the water and gaze at him. The face was framed with black curls that fell across a pale forehead. A pair of eyes, dark in their sockets and full of wonder, looked into his. Beneath the nose, straight and perfectly formed, the red lips were parted in surprise. Enchanted, Narcissus stared. The creature in the water was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and his heart was filled with the first passionate love he had ever known. Trembling, he put out his hand, longing to touch and stroke the creature’s soft cheek. But as soon as his hand touched the water, the lovely face disappeared, fractured by a thousand ripples. Afraid he had been too hasty, Narcissus shrank back, then slowly, his heart beating fast, he leaned forward again. The face had returned. Almost faint with relief, Narcissus cried out with joy. The lips below him parted soundlessly, as if the image was answering his delight. ‘Who are you?’ whispered Narcissus. ‘A nymph?’ The mouth beneath him moved, silently giving back the question. ‘I love you! Oh, I love you!’ cried Narcissus. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his face to the water. The image rose to meet him. The eyes gazed worshipfully into his. The mouth was pursed to kiss. Narcissus shut his eyes, and his head was spinning as he bent lower still, longing to feel the soft lips on his own. Instead of warm flesh he touched cold water. His eyes flew open. The face had splintered again into jagged shards of light. He could see nothing but a writhing nose, shaking shadows where the eyes should be, and a broken mouth that twisted and disappeared, then formed itself again and gaped in horror that echoed his own. Filled with despair, Narcissus lay down on the bank again and wept. It was evening now, and a little breeze ruffled the water. Leaves blew down on to its surface, and fish leaped up from the depths to snatch at the gnats that hovered over the shimmering pool. Narcissus gazed and gazed, but the creature he loved had gone. ‘I’ll stay here,’ Narcissus whispered to the pool. ‘I’ll wait and watch till you return, and then I’ll love you forever.’ He slept when darkness fell. In the morning, the breeze had dropped and an early mist covered the water. Anxiously, Narcissus waited, and as it cleared the face appeared to him again. Narcissus greeted it rapturously and pleaded with his loved one to step out of the water and embrace him, but the cold image only moved silently in reply. In desperation, Narcissus called out, ‘I know you love me as much as I love you. You stretch out your arms and raise your lips to kiss me whenever I lower mine. You laugh when I laugh, and your sighs are the same as mine. Only a little stretch of water keeps us apart, but it could be the widest ocean or the deepest river because however much I try I can never cross it.’ His tears fell then and disturbed the water, and his reflection shattered and disappeared. ‘Where are you going, my love? Come back! Don’t leave me!’ he called out in despair. A kind of madness had seized Narcissus. Unable to tear himself away from the pool, he no longer ate or drank, and he began to waste away, worn out by love. His dark curls hung limply round his face. His cheeks grew pale and thin. His arms could no longer lift the nets which he had once hurled so skilfully to trap the running deer. His legs had no strength now to support him. He could only lie and gaze at himself, and he became weaker and weaker, day by day. Echo heard his despairing cries, and her soft voice repeated them, sending them sadly through the forest clearing, her distress matching his own. At last, exchanging one final long look with his own reflection, Narcissus murmured, ‘My only love, goodbye!’ And he closed his eyes and died. ‘Goodbye!’ Echo whispered, and the surface of the pool shivered as the sound of her voice rippled over it. On the heights of Mount Olympus, the gods grieved for the handsome boy who now lay dead by the pool. They changed him into a flower. And if you, who are reading this story, should roam through the woods in the springtime, and if you should come to a pool in a clearing between the trees, you will find narcissus flowers growing at the water’s edge, their white petals perfectly reflected in the cold clear water. And if you should then climb up to the wild high places, or down to the sea where the cliffs rear up from the shore, or into the caves that tunnel the hills, and if you should call out, raising your own voice, ‘Hello! Are you there?’ Echo will hear you. Echo will answer, repeating the words, ‘You there!’ You will call out again, and she will answer again, and again, her restless soul calling out to you, on and on to the end of time. Gaye Hi?yilmaz THE MIRRORED GARDEN (#ulink_fe754047-f99b-53c6-bdac-f2540ae25db1) I first saw the mirrored garden on my way back from the beach. I hadn’t even wanted to go to the seaside last year, and I’d told them so, but they hadn’t taken any notice of that. ‘Rubbish,’ Dad had said challengingly. ‘You’ll love it.’ ‘Never mind, Chris,’ Dad’s girlfriend, Lizzie, was more honest. ‘It’s only a week. It’ll pass in a flash and there’s loads to do at the sea.’ ‘Like what?’ I demanded. ‘Going on donkey rides?’ Lizzie had shrugged and looked at Dad with her jelly brown eyes. ‘Or making sand castles,’ I persisted, but I didn’t remind her that I was fourteen and not into buckets and spades. She didn’t remind me that she was twenty-one and not into being anyone’s mother, let alone mine. Lizzie and I were as careful of each other as brain surgeons confronted by an unexpected lump. ‘What’s wrong with sand castles?’ Dad asked. ‘I used to love that beach at your age. People made brilliant things with sand.’ ‘Sure!’ I quipped. ‘Like concrete.’ ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant sand sculptures, and…’ Dad isn’t into arty things but he tried, because he knew I was. ‘And sand pictures and…’ ‘Wow.’ Dad swallowed. Lizzie shrugged again. She blinked slowly, like a lizard in the sun, then went into their room to pack their bags. ‘It’s OK,’ I shrugged as well. ‘I’m going, aren’t I?’ ‘You certainly are!’ Dad was brisk although his glance was anxious. My friend Stubby was unsympathetic too. He said that family visits were rarely fatal, and never in a week, but he did agree they were a dreadful bore. Stubby was wrong. We all were. It was boring. It was boring like I’ve never known boring could be, but I didn’t die. I didn’t even sicken. I loved it. I sucked up each gently stretched-out minute and rolled it round my tongue. The boredom was as delicious and chewy as those 2p sweets I used to buy at the newsagent’s on my way home from school, and I wanted more. It was years since I’d actually seen my grandparents: well, three and a half, to be exact. They mentioned this the moment I got off the train. It was awkward. I hung my head and muttered the dreaded word divorce. I always do that in tight spots. People shut up straight away. They didn’t. They shook their grey heads and laughed. It wasn’t Mum and Dad’s divorce that had stopped them from visiting. It was the dog, Jasper. Jasper had a bad heart now, and other problems. He didn’t look like he had a bad heart, but he was big. In fact, when Gran opened the front door and we had all clambered over him, I appreciated their point of view. Jasper was gigantic. If he hadn’t found the three flights of stairs up to Dad’s flat a problem, the stairs definitely might. I’ve made them creak and I’m not huge at all. Later, as I was edging round the bed in the tiny spare room and wondering how to unpack, Grandpa called out. I left my bag on the bed and hurried down, but Jasper had beaten me to it. He was flopped out in the sitting room, drooling chocolate on to the carpet and looking pretty satisfied with life. The odd thing was, that I was happy too. Even after I’d noticed that the family photos on the mantelpiece were all of Jasper, I wasn’t put out. I examined them with Gran. We admired Jasper as a pup in his basket, as a young dog with a big stick, and in massive middle age, with a loud tartan collar, and I didn’t mind at all. ‘He’s done all right,’ Gran folded her arms and smiled to herself. Grandpa nodded and I nodded too. Fleetingly, I remembered Dad in his new black jeans, with Lizzie at his side. ‘Come on then, lad.’ Grandpa had suddenly got up. I jumped to my feet, expecting a walk down to the sea or at least a tour of his greenhouse, but he turned his back. ‘It’s only Jasper,’ Gran confided as the dog lumbered past. ‘He’s got to be reminded to spend a penny now.’ ‘Oh.’ I was glad they hadn’t visited. Old dogs wouldn’t have been Lizzie’s thing at all. That evening Gran turned up the TV, then fell asleep. Grandpa went in and out with Jasper and that was it. Sometimes Gran snuffled and woke up to watch a bit, and sometimes Jasper snored, but nobody spoke to me at all. It was such a relief. Nobody noticed me and I hardly knew I was there. I had cornflakes for breakfast then a small white egg like a stone. When I’d made my bed, I cleaned my teeth with care. I even combed my hair. As I came down Gran was at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ve made fish paste and jam.’ She was holding up a polythene bag of neat, white sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. Jasper sulked. ‘And I’ve put in squash. You like squash, don’t you, Chris?’ ‘Actually—’ ‘Good. I thought you would. Now dear, don’t hurry back. We know what young people are like.’ ‘I—’ ‘We don’t have supper till six. After Jasper’s had his. So ’bye dear, until then.’ I was so surprised I tripped on the step. I didn’t head for the beach, but kept it for last, like the crispiest bite of a Chinese. Killing time, I idled along the silent, neatly gardened street and on into town. A sea breeze swung B&B signs gently to and fro. Bedroom windows opened and lace curtains and the melody of vacuums unfurled. My heart began to beat faster and louder than before. I felt like a hero, a first traveller in an unknown land. If I’d wanted to, I could have leapt from that pavement and walked upon the peaceful air. But I didn’t because later, I saw the mirrored garden and went in. I had dawdled through the shabby high street, which smelt of vinegar from the chippies and old, unwashed clothes. Mum would have adored it: there were charity shops from end to end. I glanced at this and that, then drifted down towards the sea. I leant over the railings and stared at families on the beach. Their white shoulders were going red, their plastic seaside stuff was piled around on the sand. No sign of Dad’s sculptures, but I saw his donkeys, waiting in a row. If I hadn’t had the sandwiches in my hand, I’d have asked how much, and climbed up. I wandered along the promenade, biting into the warm, fishy bread and then the jam. As I tipped back my head and put Gran’s bottle of squash to my lips, I saw something flash, and for once I didn’t turn away. I walked across. The mirrored garden was in the space between a pink bungalow and the last terraced house. Two children with sandy legs, stood on the pavement and stared. ‘Come on,’ their mother, or somebody like one, nagged. ‘You don’t want to look at that!’ But they did so she grabbed their hands, and dragged them past. I drained the bottle and went in. There were no flowers in the garden or anything that grew with roots and stems and fluttering green leaves. Instead, someone had gathered up the remains of all the broken and shattered things in the world: ends of green wine bottles, triangles of blue willow pattern with pagodas and stick-like trees; pebbles and shells and thick fragments of pottery soaked in an old, yellow glaze. Someone had collected these thousands and thousands of smashed and abandoned bits together and cemented them into place. Then they’d built towers and spires and houses the size of shoe boxes and paths and a mountain with tea-cup white peaks of snow above a turquoise tiled sea. Everywhere, mirrors and bits of mirrors had been set into the concrete and they sparkled and flashed and blazed. It was ugly and beautiful and it must have taken someone years and years. ‘Oh, it did,’ said a voice at my elbow as if I had spoken aloud. ‘Twenty-eight, to be exact. And I’m not finished yet.’ I nodded. I understood what he meant. ‘Like it, do you?’ He was a small, sun-burnt man with a thin mouth and wild, wiry hair. I nodded again. In a cracked mirror I saw myself fractured into a million pieces of light, and scattered around. The man’s nails were broken, his hands ugly and worn. I imagined him walking with shoulders bent and eyes downcast. His pockets would bulge as he scoured the ground. I don’t know how long I spent in the mirrored garden, but I had to run through the summer shadows to make it back in time. ‘Had a nice day, dear?’ Gran helped me to more chips. ‘Yes.’ ‘Your father phoned.’ ‘What did he say?’ I could barely get my breath. ‘Not much. The weather was hot.’ ‘You’d expect that,’ Grandpa speared a pea, ‘in Spain.’ That night I left the flowered curtains open and imagined things in the moonlight as I lay on the narrow bed. ‘See that?’ The next afternoon the man pointed to a circle of mirrored petals around half a plastic throne. ‘That’s where I started, twenty-eight years ago.’ ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t asked but it was nice to know. I scratched the skin on the back of my knee. Earlier, I’d ridden a donkey up and down the beach and now I itched. ‘It’s very…’ I stared at the little drops of reflected light which danced on a doll’s hand, and a piece of smoothed, bleached bone. ‘Isn’t it just.’ He sighed and set something straight. ‘But now I don’t really care.’ ‘Don’t you?’ ‘No. Or not much. Or I say something back. But mainly I just keep quiet and do a bit more. Like over there. See? That’s where I’m working now.’ ‘What’ll you do when it’s finished?’ ‘Finished?’ He rubbed his hands together and his rough skin rustled like leaves. ‘It’ll never be that.’ Back at the house after supper, I dried while Grandpa washed up. ‘A mirrored garden?’ He paused as he steered the head of the mop round the rim of a glass. ‘On the promenade, did you say, Chris? I don’t think I’ve heard about that.’ He looked down at Jasper. ‘But we don’t go far now, do we, old boy?’ The dog didn’t move. ‘But it’s been there twenty-eight years! That’s what the man said.’ ‘Has it really? Just think of that.’ Grandpa rinsed out the bowl and squeezed the mop. That night I heard a summer storm in my dreams and when I woke in the morning, everything smelled wet. Before I left, I held up the basin of wrung-out clothes while Gran pegged out the wash. Later, I walked bare-footed on the cold, ridged sand. I ate my sandwiches and spent time with a little kid who was trying to fish off the rocks. I heard the noise as I was walking back. It was like thunder with a car crash thrown in. When I’d belted up the littered, sandy steps I saw a cloud of dust that was as dark as smoke. A small, sunburnt workman had stopped the traffic and held back the curious crowd as the bulldozers moved in. ‘What are they doing?’ I cried out to no one in particular, so no one answered back. In ten minutes the mirrored garden had gone and the place where it had been was flat. The workman stepped back, and the seaside traffic moved once more. The holiday crowd licked ice cream and rolled on. The workman connected up the water and began to hose down the billowing dust. As I watched, he bent down and picked up something that flashed. He rubbed it clean with his hand, then put it carefully in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Your father phoned,’ Gran was pouring custard into Jasper’s bowl. ‘They’ll be back tomorrow, like they said.’ She smiled as she tipped the rest into a jug. I smiled as I watched Jasper lap. And I was glad, really. I was glad. Lesley Howarth MIRRORS DOT COM (#ulink_b10831de-7f47-5526-82c7-eaec22808f80) It started four days before Samantha Lamb’s birthday. You know there’s a Year of the Rat, a Year of the Pig, the Dog, the Horse, in the Chinese calendar? They knew more than we did, the people who started that stuff. I know about that stuff now. Did you know there’s an animal – a secret self – hidden in your reflection? Oh, yes. And the way to see it is— But I’d better start at the beginning. My friend Sam’s birthday was coming up, so I searched the Internet for these mirrors. Sam likes stuff for her room, and I knew she’d just broken one. Finally I found a site selling mirrors. It took an age to download the graphics. But when they popped up, I was gobsmacked. They were pretty amazing mirrors. Twisted spirals of silver around shapes that looked like wolves’ heads. Mirrors like the shields of knights in battle. Gilt ‘chimney glasses’ crested with eagles. Copies of Roman hand-mirrors shaped like the sun. Unbreakable mirrors of polished metal. Used by explorers, the site said. And all at pub/mirror.com. I didn’t know mirrors like that existed. I’d never seen anything like them. I actually never meant to order it. Those mirrors – especially the glaring wolf’s head with the burning ruby eyes – seemed to jump out at me, to make me click on them and order them. I’ll never know why I put the wolf-mirror into my ‘shopping trolley’. Next thing, I’d OKd Mum’s credit card number and the wolf man was on his way. He actually turned up in the cat flap next day. The postman pops parcels through the cat flap whenever there’s no one at home. When I saw the package labelled PUB/MIRROR WORLDWIDE in the darkness of the garage, I felt very slightly sick. As though his burning ruby eyes could read my mind through the bubble-wrap already, and he knew that he wasn’t wanted. ‘And where are you going to put that?’ Mum’s reflection looked back at her disgustedly from the silvery depths of the wolf-mirror. ‘I’m not. It’s for Sam’s birthday.’ ‘Good job. He gives me the creeps.’ He gave me the creeps, too, actually. The wolf man curling around the mirror glared down at me before I went to school. His grinning face, resting on the top of the mirror and hanging down over the edge of it, glared down at me when I came home. His silver paws hugged the sides of it and glinted in the moonlight that leaked in at night around the sides of my blind, and felt like they’d like to hug me too, and not in a friendly way. I got up and put him outside. I forgot about him until I fell over him on my way to the bathroom next morning. He toppled over on to my feet and lay looking up at me, still creeping around his mirror like some twisted mythical beast. I don’t even like you. Get off me! Three days until Sam’s birthday. Why didn’t I send him back? You know in fairy stories, there’s always a forbidden thing, something the person in the story mustn’t do, and then they always go and do it? DON’T forget to go home at midnight. DON’T go into the woods alone. DON’T forget to drop the enchanted nut into the sea for your magic griffin to rest on, all that stuff? I began to wonder about the mirror man, the more his ruby eyes got to me. What did he do, to be stuck there like that, hugging his mirror and hoping someone might want him over the Net? ‘Did you get me something?’ Sam asked. ‘Something?’ ‘A birthday present?’ ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘I got you a present. I got you a present, all right.’ I tried to send him back that night, but Returns weren’t optioned at all, and pub/mirror.com came up with some boring looking pub mirrors, as if that was what they were selling. ‘What happened to the wolf-mirror?’ I mailed them. ‘Gothic Series Sold Out’, was the only reply. No Returns even mentioned, not even a PO Box to send them to. I was stuck with him, and I knew it. Two more days, then Sam would have to have him in her bedroom. Some birthday present. I knew, even then, I should bury him under the noodles and cans in the dustbin and buy Samantha Lamb something else. But by that time it was too late. It had come to me as I was lying in bed waiting to go to sleep. I’d just seen ER and my mind wouldn’t stop. You know the feeling. Not good. The moonlight always came in around the side of my blind, and that night it silvered the claws of the wolf-mirror and made a pale glow in its depths. I got up and turned him to face the wall. Then I got back into bed. I could feel the power in his red-eyed glare, even with his back to the room. The moonlight flooded in anyway, and suddenly I knew what the forbidden thing was, as certainly as if it had been chalked on the back of the mirror, where his silver claws appeared around the backing. Don’t look into the mirror by moonlight, or you’ll see what animal you are. I sat up in bed. What animal you are? I got up and moved the mirror, very carefully, out of my room. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Dad wondered, coming up the stairs to bed. ‘I don’t like him in my room at night,’ I told him sheepishly. ‘I’m not surprised, it’s hideous. I thought it had four legs.’ ‘It has.’ I checked him. ‘There’s one at the back.’ ‘Night, then,’ Dad said. ‘Night, night.’ Sweet dreams, I almost added, except I didn’t get any, myself. Instead, I had the moonlight leaking in around the blind and the feeling that grew and kept me awake until it was driving me mad. Two feelings, actually. One was the certainty that if I got up to go to the loo and had to walk past the wolf-man I wouldn’t be able to stop myself looking into the mirror by moonlight. The other was the certainty that he’d had all four legs wrapped around the front of the mirror, and no leg down the back. In the end I had to get up. I made it past the mirror to the toilet, though his ruby eyes scorched my ankles. I made it back as far as the bedroom door before I let myself see, through half-closed eyes, the place where the wolf-man had been. His mirror glared down the stair-well, reflecting the outside light that leaked up the stairs in the darkness; a plain, silver-edged mirror, so ordinary you might even have ordered it from pub/mirror.com, or from any shop selling candles, or any department store. The wolf-man was gone, I didn’t like to think where. I must have knocked him off his perch in passing; probably he’d rolled down the stairs. Probably if I looked I’d see him, forlorn and glinting, in the hall. But I didn’t look. Instead I slept on the landing in the sleeping bag I found in the airing cupboard, too scared to go into my room. In the early hours, a flash of silver seemed to tumble into my dreams. The glare of ruby eyes reminded me, over and over again, of the one thing I knew I mustn’t do. Dad fell over me at seven o’clock. ‘Lisa! What on earth—?’ I turned over. ‘Dad.’ A hammering headache filled the whole of my brain. Those burning eyes had drilled into the back of my head. They saw what I really was, reflected in their own fiery depths. ‘Where’s that—’ ‘Mirror?’ Dad set it straight. ‘Must have fallen over in the night.’ There he was, but he didn’t fool me. So the mirror-man was back on his mirror, with his wolf-legs folded around it as if he’d never been gone. Flashing around like a slip of silver all night. He’d changed his position, anyone could see. What did he think, we were stupid? ‘Why aren’t you in your bed?’ Dad bleated. ‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’ I said, turning over. ‘Leave me alone,’ I growled. The next night was Friday night, and we went to the cinema for Sam’s birthday treat, as her party was going to be only part of her birthday, as Sam gets everything she wants. The film was OK, not great. We spilled a whole tub of popcorn over the floor, plus these stupid boys kept annoying us, but anyway, it was all right. When I got home I remembered him. The mirror-man upstairs. I delayed for as long as I could. But finally I had to go to bed. It was the worst night yet. I finally got off to sleep all right, which I don’t usually after a Jumbo Cola and a giant bag of Pik ’n’ Mix, which was pants, as they had the wrong prawns and massively big worms, so you have to pay five quid to get one. So at last I was just drifting off. I don’t know, I may have been asleep – when I thought I saw him running round my room. Quick as quicksilver, the mirror-man, wolfing my slippers and flashing over my desk, his red eyes burning, his tongue slavering, his quick tail flicking and whipping. Who was he? The reflection of someone’s secret self, the last person to look into that mirror in the moonlight, after they’d ordered it by mistake? That mirror, that mirror, that mirror. Had been the cause of it. I started up in fright and launched myself at that mirror. In the moment before I smashed it, I saw what animal I was. The wolf rolled off the top of it and raged and boiled on the carpet, changing shape as I watched into the animal that was me, until I put my pillow on top of it, and another pillow on top of that, and my dressing gown and a pile of books, and everything I could find to weigh it down and stop it, that reflection of my secret self… ‘Happy birthday!’ Sam wishes herself, her head around Lisa’s bedroom door on Saturday morning. ‘I let myself in, all right?’ Sam waits, but nothing happens; no move to get her her present. Instead, Lisa puzzles over the pieces of a mirror. Not a very nice mirror, either. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘What does it look like? I just have to piece it together. Then I can send it back.’ Sam picks up a twist of silver. ‘What’s this?’ ‘What does it look like?’ ‘A dragon?’ ‘It was a wolf, but the wolf-man’s gone.’ Sam looks at the dragon’s curved limbs, at the shape it’s designed to hold, its tail licking clean round an oval. ‘What’s this meant to be for?’ ‘He sits on top of the mirror,’ Lisa supplies. ‘When he’s not—’ ‘What?’ ‘Broken,’ ‘You said, alive.’ Lisa’s eyes flash. ‘I said, broken.’ Sam looks at her friend. ‘About my party tonight—’ ‘Mind if I take it back?’ Lisa scratches Sam very slightly as she reached up to grab the figure. Blood wells up on Sam’s hand, in a ruby-red spot on her thumb. Lisa watches her eyes, and Sam gets the strangest feeling she’s looking into the mouth of a— The dragon in Lisa’s eyes smiles. ‘Thanks.’ Her fingernails close over the silver figure and place it over the top of the mirror-puzzle. ‘It’s my birthday.’ Sam sucks the scratch on her hand. ‘This isn’t supposed to happen.’ But Lisa has eyes for no one but herself, mirrored in the scattered pieces of glass that make up a jigsaw on the floor. ‘Ever look into a mirror at night? After I mend it, you can put this in your room and see what animal you are.’ Sam Lamb knows already. She leaves the bedroom, unnoticed, as downstairs Dad logs on to the computer and finds pub/mirrors.com offering ‘Reduced Gothic Mirrors at a Fraction of their Former Price’, over the search he makes for a book. ‘Lisa! That dot com company’s got those mirrors again!’ Dad yells up the stairs as a range of extraordinary mirrors appear when he clicks on them without meaning to. ‘Like that weird mirror you just got!’ His voice washes over Lisa, guarding her broken mirror upstairs, seeing her fragmented face in it. Me and not me. Who am I? For a moment, I can see a reflection of myself as I might be. The girl in the mirror is me. Me, and not me, at the same time. I’m not sure I wanted to know, but I did what I knew I shouldn’t… I can hear Dad downstairs, ordering a mirror. I want to stop him, but I can’t. He will release his inner self. What animal will he be? A pig, a rat, a rabbit? Dad’s voice comes up the stairs. ‘You know, these mirrors aren’t bad – ‘Gothic Mirror in Gilt’ – I think I might – oh, I have clicked on it, what a stupid donkey I am, I think I might have just ordered it…’ Jeremy Strong NEVER TRUST A PARROT (#ulink_a3b138e1-565b-5a37-aa22-83d9a5cf1929) Dear Pet Problem Page, You are my last chance of hope. I pray that you can help me. I have a problem with my parrot. I had better start at the beginning – there is so much that needs explaining… Jamie had never actually met a parrot that could talk before, but this parrot could not only talk but it had a lisp and couldn’t say its ‘r’s properly. ‘I am your fwend,’ it said, and fixed Jamie with a beady eye. Jamie gazed back into the black obsidian-like eye, almost hypnotised. ‘I like you too,’ he replied. The parrot walked up the inside of its cage, the way parrots do, and hung from the roof. It stared at Jamie with its other eye, clicked its tongue, stretched its wings and then said, ‘My name is Nemethith.’ ‘Nemesis,’ repeated Jamie. The parrot began screeching furiously, clattering its wings against the bars of the cage. ‘Nemethith!’ squawked the enraged bird. ‘Nemethith!’ ‘Keep your feathers on,’ muttered Jamie crossly. The parrot lunged forward, grabbing one of Jamie’s fingers in its beak. ‘Ow! Let go, you monster!’ ‘I am your fwend,’ hissed Nemesis through his clenched beak. ‘No you’re not. Let go!’ At last Jamie managed to wrench his hand away from the cage. He examined his finger. There were two purple welts, clear marks of the parrot’s powerful beak. Jamie shook his hand in pain and rubbed the finger. At least there was no blood. He shot an angry glance at the bird. Parrots cannot smile, but Nemesis was doing a pretty good impression. Maybe it was the peculiar shape of the beak. Both the upper and lower mandibles had a single raised point on each side. Strange, thought Jamie. At first I thought it would be fun to have a pet parrot, especially one that could talk. Nemesis is a South American Paradise Parrot. He bit me on the very first day I got him. He bit Mum and Dad too. I suppose I should have started worrying at that point, but how was I to know that horror was just around the corner? If it hadn’t been for that little mirror I might never have known, but I’d better fill in a bit more detail first… The parrot had come from Jamie’s aunt, who had seen him in a pet shop. Aunt Cleo was immediately seduced by the parrot’s fabulous colouring, the black glitter of his eyes and the wonderful way in which he greeted Cleo’s entrance into the shop. ‘Hail to Her Majethty, Empweth of the Fowetht!’ Aunt Cleo bought the parrot on the spot, despite the fact that she was always going away on business and so couldn’t be around to look after it much. She gave it to Jamie’s family to care for instead. Aunt Cleo was like that. She was always buying animals and then giving them to Jamie’s family. So far they had a giant lop-eared rabbit (Cleo: ‘It’s got ears like blankets!’), a chameleon (Cleo: You’ll never have another fly in the house!), a llama they kept in the garden (Cleo: A llama is the best burglar deterrent you can have, in fact it’s a burglar allarma!), and now a parrot. But Nemesis was different. For a start he could speak, and then there were those dark eyes, as dark as the depths of a tropical rain forest by night; a darkness haunted by the soft footfall of the passing jaguar, and the silent slither of the anaconda. There was something of the night in Nemesis, especially the way he skulked in his cage, cracking open sunflower seeds and spitting the shells at Jamie while he slept. Then he’d whisper, ‘I am your fwend.’ Jamie tried to teach Nemesis some new words. In revenge for the bite on his finger Jamie began with, ‘Around the ragged rocks the ragged rascal ran.’ This of course came out as, ‘Awound the wagged wocks,’ which was as far as Nemesis got, before clicking his tongue in disapproval and hanging upside down. Jamie had already learnt that this was usually a warning that the bird was about to have a temper tantrum. Sometimes the parrot seemed more human than bird. Three days after the arrival of Nemesis, Jamie felt his injured finger itching and scratched it. That was when he first noticed the tiny fluff that had gathered round the edge of the bruising. He showed it to his mother. ‘When your skin itches like that, it’s a good sign. It shows that the cut is healing,’ she said. ‘My finger wasn’t cut. It was just sort of – squeezed, very hard,’ Jamie pointed out. ‘By a parrot.’ His mother smiled brightly. ‘I’m sure it’s on the mend,’ she insisted, and clicked her tongue, as if to underline everything. It was not long after Nemesis bit me that other things began to happen. The apple tree in the garden suddenly put on a growing spurt. It was early summer and I put it down to all the rain we’d been having, but then the leaves began to enlarge. They fattened and lengthened and grew darker and denser. Day by day we watched the apple tree grow until it was three times thesize of our other trees. It dwarfed everything around it. Mum and Dad thought it was wonderful, but I thought it was weird, and then Dad actually climbed it until he was sitting amongst the high branches. I was just boggling at this when Mum suddenly whizzed up the tree and joined him. As for Nemesis, he spent all his time staring out through the bars of his cage. He would make little clucking noises and sometimes let out a long, growly sigh. I thought that maybe he was bored… One day Jamie was passing a pet shop and on a sudden impulse he went in. He wondered what little toys he might take home for the parrot to play with. Nemesis must be getting pretty fed up, shut in a cage most of the time. Jamie bought a bell and a mirror. They were really meant for budgerigars but, as the pet shop man said, parrots are just very big budgies really. Nemesis hated the bell. He pulled it right off its little chain and cast it out through the bars of the cage. It rolled away under the sofa, where it stayed. So that was the end of that. As for the mirror, that was where the trouble began. If it hadn’t been for the mirror, Jamie might never have known, never begun to wonder. Jamie was not sure whether to bless or curse the mirror, but there was no doubting its effect. Nemesis did not seem at all bothered by the mirror. What Jamie noticed was this: when Nemesis looked in the mirror he didn’t see a parrot looking back at him. He didn’t see anything at all. Nemesis didn’t have a reflection. At first Jamie assumed that the mirror was no good, and he went storming back to the pet shop. ‘This mirror is defunct,’ he said. ‘It’s not a mirror. It’s a piece of glass.’ But the pet shop man looked in it and saw himself, and when Jamie took the trouble of peering in, he was there too. Jamie, who by this time was not only puzzled but worried, returned home, took the parrot into the bathroom and held him up in front of the big mirror above the wash basin. Jamie was there, holding up his arm, but there was no parrot. Jamie paled. He knew there was only one creature that had no reflection in a mirror, and that was a vampire. As for Nemesis himself, he turned away from the mirror and gazed at Jamie with his eyes that were now like black holes in the fabric of space. ‘I am your fwend,’ he said, quietly. Jamie was faced with the unpleasant observation that he was harbouring a vampire parrot – a vampire parrot with a speech impediment. Then he remembered his finger. It was when I noticed the tiny feathers on my finger that I became seriously concerned. The fluff that had first appeared around my bruise had now turned to feathers. Of course they were very small, but they were also unmistakeable. I couldn’t show Mum and Dad because I have hardly seen them since yesterday. I had to make my own lunch and supper. They seem to spend all their time up in the trees that have taken over our garden. The trees sprang up overnight, a miniature rain forest. Some of them are laden with exotic fruits that are eaten by the troops of monkeys that race along the highest branches, crashing amongst the dense leaves. As for Nemesis, I swear he is now grinning at me. When I went to sleep last night, I dreamed that he was talking to me in a really sweet, kind voice, so smooth and soft. I would wake, sweating, but he was always fast asleep in his cage… Outside the house, monkeys whooped and howled. Great birds sang and burbled amongst the dark branches, and occasionally a glimpse of yellow and black signalled the stealthy passing of the jaguar. At night the parrot’s eyes would snap open and Nemesis would stare across at Jamie as he slept. Then the parrot would begin his night whispers, in a soft, crooning voice. ‘Thoon you will be mine. Together we thall wule the world. Thoon you will be a pawott like your pawenth. There ith no ethcape, for I am Nature’th methenger and it ith time for her to weclaim the world. Humanth have methed it up and now jungle thall cover the earth and all the wagged wocks wunth more and there will be no humanth at all. Ha ha ha ha.’ Jamie saw his parents one more time. They were sitting together on the branch of a tree at the edge of the spreading forest. Their clothes had gone, and their bodies were covered in glowing feathers. Dad cocked his head on one side and gazed at Jamie, as if he were trying to remember who he was. They made their way down from the tree and stepped on to what was left of the lawn, but they wouldn’t come any closer. ‘Mum? Dad?’ Jamie didn’t know what to say. His mother lifted one arm, as if she was inviting Jamie to join them. She clicked her tongue several times. Jamie’s father opened his mouth and cawed. The hair on his head suddenly rose up in a crest and he cawed again. Then they went back into the forest. Jamie returned to the house on his own. He wandered into the kitchen and opened another packet of sunflower seeds. He began cracking them and spitting out the shells. They crunched beneath his feet: thousands of them, in every room. I try not to listen to Nemesis but it is becoming more and more difficult. Part of the problem is that I am now covered from head to foot with feathers. I can no longer wear clothes. Every now and then I get this uncontrollable urge to stand on the arm of the sofa, furiously flapping my arms, wanting to jump. I keep trying to walk up walls and hang from the light fittings. I have tried all the usual vampire remedies but they don’t seem to work on parrots. Nemesis seems to be invincible and every hour I become more like him. What am I to do? The jungle has spread right the way down our street and across the park. I haven’t seen another human for days. Please help. You are my last hope. I cannot write any longer. It is too difficult to grip the pen with my thin claws. I am desperate. I looked in the mirror this morning and I wasn’t there. Who am I? What am I? What is going to happen to me? I am your fwend. I am your fwend. I am… Malorie Blackman WATCHING (#ulink_ebaecd57-f0e9-5cd5-a28b-17381f51f25b) Have you ever wanted something so badly, so completely that it doesn’t just become part of you, you become part of it? Have you ever longed for something so much that you can’t think of anything else, can’t feel for anything else? Everything else just fades away into nothingness. Well, that’s the way it is with me and acting. I mean it. I want to act. I’m no good at anything else because I’ve never really concentrated on anything else. From the time I was seven or eight, whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was always the same. An actress. At first my family thought it was sweet. Now they don’t. I don’t think the woman in the mirror likes it either. But she doesn’t scare me any more. Well, hardly ever. Most of the time she just sits there, staring at me. Sometimes she speaks… but I can’t hear a word she’s saying. Her lips move either very slowly or in a frantic rush, like a face on a TV screen when someone’s messing about with the fast-forward or slow-mo buttons. She talks and talks at me – but I can’t hear a word. I just shake my head at her now, or turn away. I can’t understand what she’s trying to tell me and, to be honest, I don’t think I want to. I stopped trying to listen a long time ago. Sometimes tears trickle down her cheeks. Silent tears. But I don’t mind any more. I’m used to her now. It took a while, I must admit. I mean, the first time I saw her, I screamed blue murder. One moment I was sitting there in front of my dressing table, combing my hair and minding my own business, when an unexpected tangle sent the comb flicking out of my hand. I bent down to pick it up and when I straightened up, she Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/wendy-cooling/mirrors-sparkling-new-stories-from-prize-winning-authors/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.