The Girl in the Mirror (20 page)

S
witching off the main light, Mandy crossed the room by the light of the streetlamp and took off her jeans and jumper. She dumped them on top of her suitcase on the floor and then slid under the duvet, where she curled foetally on her side. The curtains stirred in the evening breeze; the street noise slowly drifted in and then petered out.

When she opened her eyes again it was to the ringing of her phone. Dazed and disorientated from sleep, she sat bolt upright, expecting to be in the armchair in the study with Grandpa’s bed opposite. With a jolt she realized she was in her own room and Grandpa had gone. Reaching out, she fumbled for her bag and took out her phone. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’ her father said as she answered,‘but your mother was worried when you didn’t ring last night.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’ She glanced at the time. It was 6.43 a.m.

‘I told your mother that’s what must have happened – that you were either asleep or out with Adam.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ she apologized again.

‘All right, love, I’ll leave you to it. Just wanted to make sure you were OK. I’m on my way to a breakfast meeting. Give your mum a ring later, will you? You know how she worries.’

‘I will.’

Saying goodbye, she dropped the phone on the bed and flopped back on to the pillows. Far from feeling refreshed after
nearly ten hours sleep, she felt the same debilitating sadness that had engulfed her the evening before. More than sorrow, lethargy or exhaustion, it was a thick, dark mass which weighed so heavily, it took away the desire to do anything and made everything seem totally pointless. Even the basic essentials of washing, dressing or even getting out of bed seemed to require far more effort than she was capable of. And her wretchedness increased as she realized she hadn’t even phoned Gran the previous evening as she’d promised. Mandy lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling, feeling absolutely worthless, and helpless to do anything about it.

Half an hour later she was dying for a wee and she knew she’d have to get up if she wasn’t going to wet the bed. Hauling her feet to the floor, she stood, slightly giddy from spending so long lying down. In only her bra and pants she shivered in the early morning air coming from the open window, padded to the bay and lowered the sash. Crossing to her suitcase on the floor she pulled out her kimono and wrapped it around her, then opened the door to her room. She went along the landing to the communal bathroom, where she used the toilet. The house was quiet; it always was at this time. Most of the occupants were students and they never got up until much later. Returning to her room, she climbed into bed, where she propped herself on the pillows and lay back, very still. She stared into space, her mind empty of everything except the darkness, her body paralysed beneath the black mass.

How easy it was to do nothing and how quickly time passed, Mandy thought as the minutes blurred into hours. Time had no relevance when there were no goals or milestones in her day, it just went on and on. Her phone rang, and when she picked it up from beside her on the bed she saw it was already 11.40 a.m. She
didn’t answer; it was her mother’s mobile and she really didn’t feel like talking right now. Her mother knew she was safe; her father would have phoned her. She also noticed a text from Adam, sent half an hour before –
Hope ur ok. fone when u want 2 meet x.
She didn’t want to phone or meet.

At 3.10 p.m., making a huge effort, Mandy drew herself higher up the pillows and phoned Gran. But the answerphone clicked in and Mandy was shocked to hear Grandpa’s voice:
Sorry we can’t take your call. Please leave a message and we’ll call you back as soon as we return.
Gran must be out and hadn’t thought to change the message yet. She hung up and redialled, just to hear his voice again, and then again. Dear Grandpa – his voice so immediate and alive, he might still be there. Tears stung the back of her eyes. She redialled and, savouring his voice one last time, made hers as light and even as possible. ‘Hi, Gran. It’s Mandy. Just phoning for a chat. I expect you’re next door. Love you.’ Closing the phone she put it beside her on the duvet, then lay back and wept.

At 7 p.m. the light began to fade again outside and Mandy realized with morbid satisfaction that she’d spent the entire day in bed doing nothing. She also realized she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink, and while she wasn’t hungry she was thirsty. She could hardly swallow, her throat was so dry. She pushed herself out of bed, wondering at the mammoth effort it took, and went to the fridge where she tore open the packet of fresh juice Adam had bought. She drank half of it straight from the carton, and then took the carton back into bed. Propping herself on the pillows again, she continued staring into space.

Some time later a knock sounded on the door together with Tina’s voice: ‘Mandy, are you still OK for a drink later?’ Mandy had forgotten Tina’s invitation from the day before, but no, she certainly wasn’t OK for a drink later. She stayed where she was,
very still and quiet. There was silence from the other side of the door. Tina knocked again, and finally went away. With no light on and no television or music playing she’d assumed Mandy had forgotten their arrangement and gone out. Later still Mandy’s phone rang again and when she looked at the caller’s number she saw it was Gran. Making a huge effort to sound normal, she answered,‘Hello Gran, sorry I didn’t phone last night. I fell asleep. How are you?’

‘Not too bad, love. I got your message. I’ve been with my neighbour most of the afternoon. It’s a bit quiet here without Will. Evelyn came over earlier about the funeral arrangements. It’s next Friday. Your dad has the details.’ God, the funeral, Mandy thought, how was she going to cope with the funeral when she couldn’t even get out of bed? ‘So what have you been doing?’ Gran asked. ‘Keeping busy with your painting?’

‘Yes,’ Mandy lied, for it was easier than saying no. Then Gran talked about Grandpa and the little reminders of him that were all over the bungalow and which she was reluctant to put away.

‘His message is still on the answerphone,’ Mandy said.

‘Is it? I’ll have to ask John or Evelyn to change it; I don’t know what you do. Evelyn said she’ll help clear out his clothes and take them to the Oxfam, but there’s no rush, is there?’

‘No, none at all.’

Gran talked for another ten minutes, pleased to have someone to chat to. Mandy was pleased to listen. She found some comfort in the sound of Gran’s voice – a familiar source of warmth in her present cold isolation. Gran finally wound up: ‘Well, dear, come and see me as soon as you’re free.’

‘Yes, of course I will. Love you, Gran.’

‘And you, dear.’

It wasn’t that she wasn’t free, Mandy thought as she once more dropped the phone on to the bed beside her and lay back; she had all the time in the world. But the organization and effort needed to get ready and then catch the train to Gran’s were more than she could contemplate at present. Also, in her current state she was hardly the best person to be visiting and trying to cheer up someone who had just been bereaved. It seemed Gran was faring far better than she was at present; at least she’d been out.

An hour or so later she heard Tina and Nick from the attic flat leave the house, presumably going to the pub together. Mandy was still propped on the pillows; the only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside. The evening ticked past and she stayed where she was, vaguely listening to the comings and goings of the other tenants and their visitors. Some time later when it was completely dark she heard Tina and Nick return and call goodnight to each other before going into their separate flats. Her phone bleeped with a text. She drew it into her line of vision and saw it was 12.05 and the text was from Adam:
I luv and miss you x.

His words, his forgiveness, opened a small crack in the black fog of her depression as she was reminded of what she stood to lose. Yes, she loved and missed him too, yet she couldn’t bear the thought of him being close or touching her; neither could she tell him the reason why. Jimmy’s attack, now remembered, had left her feeling dirty, violated and completely unclean. With a stab of panic she realized that if she didn’t find a way of dealing with it, it would not only finish her relationship with Adam but very likely destroy the rest of her life.

I luv u 2
, she texted,
but I need u 2 b patient. i hav to come to terms with sumthing. x

He texted back immediately:
I understand. Hav all the time u need. hav you tried painting out yr feelings. it might help?

L
arge splodges of black paint intermingled with swirls of grey, as though thunderclouds were gathering across an already dark sky. Mandy stood at the easel in her nightdress, clutching the paintbrush like a dagger, and daubed on more black paint. What the painting was supposed to be she’d no idea – it was certainly no prize-winning Turner. And while she was finding some release in expressing her anger, it wasn’t providing the answers Adam had thought it might. It was more an outlet for her frustration, much like hitting a punch bag, rather than a gateway to her feelings. Or perhaps this
was
how she felt – a swirling mass of black and grey.

So it was hushed up,
Mrs Pryce had exclaimed. Yes, but it wasn’t my decision, Mandy thought. I had no control over the way it was dealt with – shrouded in secrecy and making me a slave to its legacy of silence. No wonder they thought I was odd at university; no wonder I didn’t date. If it had been taken care of and dealt with at the time it would have been nothing more than a nasty memory for me now, instead of being fresh and raw.
Who’s to say he hasn’t done similar to others?
Mrs Pryce had rightly pointed out. ‘Or still is,’ Mandy added out loud, as another daub of black paint hit the canvas. But surely my parents, Evelyn and John must have considered this, she thought, when they made their decision not to report him. Unless there’s something they’re still not telling me? More paint landed on top of that already there, ran down and
dripped off the edge of the canvas. Then she stopped, and her paintbrush hovered in mid-air. Slowly, very slowly, she lowered her hand and, dipping the brush into the water, began cleaning it on the rag. Painting out her feelings wasn’t the answer. She needed answers and she realized she knew where to find them.

An hour later, showered and dressed, Mandy unpacked her suitcase and returned it to the top of the wardrobe. All that remained now were the three small boxes she’d put on the bed for safekeeping, then she could begin her plan. Carefully opening the lid on each of the boxes she took out the three china dogs and set them on the bookshelf with the others. She stepped back and admired them. There was a sense of closure in seeing the collection complete, like putting the last full stop at the end of a very long essay. A full stop she was now hoping to put behind Jimmy’s attack, if it was possible to find him.

Crossing to the small table that doubled as a desk, Mandy opened her laptop and, while it booted, took a writing pad and pen from the chest of drawers. She set the pad and pen on the table and drew her chair beneath her. She was now ready for some hard investigative work, which, thanks to the Internet, she thought, could largely be done at home. However did people manage before www? she wondered as the Windows page filled the screen. Presumably a lot of information was never discovered, and people and situations remained lost for ever? Clicking the mouse to connect to the Internet, the Google home page appeared. Now what? she thought, and her fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard.

What she needed was a website that held people’s contact details, like the telephone directory or electoral register. She typed finding people into Google and a very promising-looking list of
web addresses appeared. Starting with the top URL –
Trace-a-person–
she clicked on the link and read what information the website offered and its scale of charges; then she moved down to the next. The information on individuals these sites claimed to be able to obtain was staggering: medical records, criminal records, credit rating, in addition to the person’s address, telephone number and marital status, which many of the sites seemed to offer for free. For £5 a month subscription, if you knew a person’s mobile number, you could track that mobile and follow the person anywhere in the world! No wonder the public worried about the power of the Internet, she thought. Out of curiosity she entered her own name and date of birth for a free introductory search. A few seconds later she saw her full name and address appear, together with the full names of three of the other tenants living in the house. She learnt that Nick Granger in the top flat had a landline number; she’d assumed all the tenants relied on their mobiles as she did, and was even more surprised to read that Mrs Granger had lived with Nick, suggesting he was now divorced, which he’d never mentioned.

Returning to the Google list, Mandy clicked on the second website listed; it seemed the most comprehensive and also offered a free search. She looked at the two blank boxes where she now had to enter the name of the person she wanted to find and the area in which that person was last known to have resided. She felt slightly light-headed and queasy as her fingers typed in Jimmy Osborne, and then Cambridgeshire, the county where Evelyn and John lived. She’d have to assume Jimmy lived or had lived in the area, which seemed reasonable, otherwise she’d no idea where to start looking. Clicking
Search
, a holding message appeared:
Please wait, searching in progress.
She felt her pulse rise in a little rush of adrenalin as she stared at the screen. The word
Result
appeared
and her mouth went dry.
Result
disappeared, immediately replaced by:
No person listed by that name in the area searched.

‘Drat!’ she said out loud. If he’s not in Cambridgeshire where the hell is he?

Moving the cursor to the button marked
More info
she clicked on it and two more buttons appeared:
Login
or
Join here,
with a list of charges for membership. The minimum was £5.99 and allowed twelve searches. Pushing back her chair, she stood up and fetched her bag from beside the bed, and then returned to the computer. Taking her debit card from her purse she entered her card details and clicked
Continue.
A message appeared stating a confirmatory email with her login details had been sent to her email address. She clicked on her email account, noted her password, and returned to the webpage where she logged in. She now had twelve searches to try and find Jimmy. She knew she had his name right and she now knew he wasn’t living in Cambridgeshire so she decided to work through the other counties, starting with those closest to Cambridgeshire. It crossed her mind it would be a lot simpler to phone Evelyn or John and ask them if they knew Jimmy’s address, but that would spark their curiosity, and they would want to know why. Also, as John had disowned his brother it was unlikely he’d have his current address, particularly as it appeared he’d moved out of the area. She doubted they were sending each other Christmas cards.

She began the wider search with Norfolk, which lay next to Cambridgeshire. Now she’d paid as a ‘member’ she automatically got more information in each search. There were six people in Norfolk listed as J. Osborne: Jack Osborne, Jeremy Osborne, Jessie Osborne, Jodie Osborne, John Osborne (not her uncle – John was a common name), Jonathan Osborne, but no Jimmy. She tried Suffolk; there were twenty J. Osbornes, but no Jimmy. Next she
tried Essex. There were forty J. Osbornes. Surely this must produce a result. But as she moved the cursor down through Jackie, Jacob, James, Jean, Jeffrey, Jennifer, etc. to the bottom of the page, there was no Jimmy. Next she tried Bedfordshire and her heart skipped a beat as Jimmy Osborne appeared on the screen, but his date of birth made him only nineteen.

Encouraged by finding one Jimmy Osborne, she moved on to Hertfordshire. There were fifteen J. Osbornes listed, but no Jimmy. Next was Huntingdonshire where she found two Jimmy Osbornes, but one was eighty and the other thirteen. Spreading out from Cambridgeshire, she tried Northamptonshire: none; then Lincolnshire: three but none the right age. That Jimmy wasn’t a popular name was helping as she could check their ages from the date of birth easily. John was far more popular, as was Jackie – there were dozens of John and Jackie Osbornes. One hour rolled into two; her neck was aching from leaning over her laptop, and although she had a glass of water at her side, she hadn’t eaten and was hungry. Once she’d found Jimmy’s address, she thought, she’d cook herself something nice to eat. Her spirits were quickly rising and she was feeling far more positive. It was only a matter of time before she found him. She was getting adept at scrolling down the names. If necessary she’d search through all eighty-six counties in Britain, although every twelve searches was another £5.99 on her card. Spreading out from Cambridgeshire she continued with Leicestershire, then Buckinghamshire, and then Greater London where there were four Jimmy Osbornes but none the right age.

Two hours later she entered Caithness, the last county at the very tip of Scotland, and clicked
Search
. The holding message appeared:
Please wait, searching in progress.
A couple of seconds, and
Result
appeared, followed by:
No person listed by that name in the area searched.

‘Shit!’ she cried and slammed down the lid on the computer, tears of frustration stinging the back of her eyes. Eighty-six counties, nearly £50 on her debit card and all her efforts had come to nothing! She’d found sixty-two Jimmy Osbornes in all and not one was the right age or even near it. She’d even checked the details of the three who were deceased but they weren’t the right age either. The Jimmy she was looking for was fourteen months older than John, which made him fifty-four.

Moving away from the table, she grabbed her jacket and bag and went out of her bedsit and down the stairs. She needed fresh air. Her legs were stiff, her arms and neck ached, and she felt lower now than when she’d started the search. She’d been so sure she’d be able to find him and confront him; it had given her something to aim for. She’d seen it as a cleansing exorcism that she was sure would set her on the path to recovery; now that hope seemed to have gone – for good. The only explanation she could think of for Jimmy not being listed on any electoral roll or directory, which was what the websites used for searching, was that he’d left the country or had changed his name. And for a moment it flashed through her mind that she could spend the rest of her life scouring the world in an obsessive but fruitless search to find him. For without doubt if someone wanted to disappear they could.

Head down, shoulders slumped, she walked towards the High Street. She needed something to eat but couldn’t be bothered to make anything. She was feeling queasy from staring at the computer screen for nearly four hours and not having eaten. Bastard! she thought as she walked. He’s got away with it again. It’s too late! Why hadn’t they done something at the time? And although she knew the answer and the reason why his crime had gone unreported – to protect her – it didn’t help. Closure now was impossible. He’d escaped.

The supermarket at the end of the High Street was busy at nearly 5 p.m. Mandy picked up a wire basket and headed for the bakery section. She’d have a ready made sandwich; that was easy. There wouldn’t be much choice so late in the day but she wasn’t fussy, anything would do. She took one of the three remaining BLTs from the shelf and dropped it in her basket. Then she moved along the counter to where the cakes and pastries were. Picking up a bag of doughnuts, she dropped that in her basket and headed towards the chiller for some more milk; she’d nearly finished the pint Adam had bought her.

A young lad of about five who was playing up with his mother ran into her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman said. ‘Jamie, apologize now.’ She took her son by the arm and pushed him in front of Mandy. ‘Apologize now,’ she said firmly. ‘Or there’ll be no treat later.’

‘It’s all right, don’t worry,’ Mandy said and edged away. She hated scenes in public.

‘Sorry,’ she heard the boy say from behind. She turned and smiled, and then continued to the milk cabinet.

She took a half-litre carton of semi-skimmed milk from the shelf and placed it in her basket. But instead of moving away from the chiller she remained where she was, staring into the cabinet. She felt her heart start to pound as her thoughts raced. Jamie. The boy had been called Jamie. Wasn’t Jamie a shortened form of James? Hadn’t there’d been a boy in her class at secondary school who’d been called James, but had preferred Jamie and then, when he was older – Jimmy? Yes, she was sure his name had been James but he’d always used Jamie, and then later Jimmy like the actor and singer/songwriter Jimmy Nail – who’d been born James but was known as Jimmy.

Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? Of course people used Jimmy as a name in its own right, but it was also a derivation of
James. Was it possible Jimmy Osborne had been born James Osborne but had always been known as Jimmy? In which case she’d been searching on the wrong name.

‘Excuse me.’ Mandy started and looked at the man on her left. ‘Can I get to the milk, please?’

‘Sorry.’Turning from the chiller, she ran down the aisle and to the checkout.
Please let it be so.