The Mirror World of Melody Black

Contents

Title Page

Also by Gavin Extence

Copyright

Dedication

1. Through the Looking Glass

2. The Tempest

3. Something Different

4. Gonzo

5. Dr Barbara

6. Daddy

7. Laundry

8. Skype

9. Slough

10. Professor Caborn

11. Death in the Afternoon

12. Betrayal

13. The Kindness of Strangers

14. Hurt

15. Sharps

16. A Letter, Undelivered

17. Faking it

18. A Second Letter: The Most Astonishing Thing in the Tate Modern

19. The Mirror People

20. Revelations

21. A Huge Fucked-up Coincidence

22. Out

23. Miranda Frost's Cats

24. Writing

25. Refuge

26. Another Dead Body

27. Two Girls in the Park

Author's Note

Acknowledgements (And Further Reading)

More info about Hodder & Stoughton

www.hodder.co.uk

The Universe Versus Alex Woods

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by

Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Gavin Extence 2015

The right of Gavin Extence to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781444765922

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For ACE and TOE, when you're old enough.

Simon's flat was a mirror of ours. One bedroom, a shower room rather than a bathroom, and a kitchen-lounge-diner that a letting agent – in a couple of weeks' time – would generously describe as open-plan. The central hallway was narrow and windowless, lit by a solitary uplighter which cast concentric pools of light and shadow over unadorned paint.

The lack of decoration was something I noticed straight away, in the several seconds in which I paused on the threshold. Beck and I had gone the other way in our flat. On our main lights we had those tiny imitation-glass chandeliers that you can pick up for ten pounds in any homeware store; and we had prints or photos on every available surface – landscapes and holiday shots – along with half a dozen mirrors of various shapes and sizes, to give the illusion of space. I've always believed that the way a person chooses to embellish his or her surroundings speaks volumes. My décor, for example, would tell you that I have a weakness for kitsch, tend to accumulate clutter, and dream of bigger things.

But what did Simon's flat say about him? On the face of it, nothing at all. It just added to the mystery. Peering into that hallway, there was not a single totem of personality to be seen. Nothing to fill in the poorly drawn impression I had of the man. In all honesty, I'm not even sure you could call what I had an impression. It was probably more fantasy than reality, the sort of half-baked fiction we tell ourselves to flesh out the bit-players in our daily soap opera. As far as facts went, I could have written everything I knew about Simon on a Post-it note. He was forty-something, lived alone, was well groomed, impeccably polite (in an arm's-length sort of way), didn't pronounce his aitches, and had a job that required him to wear a shirt, and sometimes a suit jacket, but not a tie. I'd never been interested enough to find out what that job might be.

I don't know how long I hesitated in the doorway. In my memory, the moment seems to go on and on – an insect caught in amber – but I'm sure that's just an effect of hindsight, of knowing what was to follow. The door to the kitchen-living-dining room was ajar and the television was turned up loud. This, I reasoned, was why he hadn't responded to my knocks. I knocked louder, on the inside of the door, then called his name, but there was still no response. Just the ongoing babble of the television.

Go on or turn back? Curiosity and caution fought a short, bloody battle (more of a bludgeoning, truth be told) and then four and a half steps took me to the half-open interior door, where I stopped mid-stride, left arm aloft and knuckles poised.

Simon was dead. I didn't need to get any closer to satisfy myself of this fact. He was sitting in an armchair on the far side of the room (about eight feet away), his eyes wide and his back preternaturally straight. But really, it was nothing to do with his posture; it wasn't even the glazed, vacant stare as the television continued to flicker in his irises. More than this, it was just a feeling of absence, the certainty that I was the only person in that flat. I was a person, and Simon was a body.

My immediate thought was that I needed a smoke, which seemed to arrive simultaneously with the realizations that I'd left my cigarettes in my shoulder bag and there was a pack of twenty Marlboro on the coffee table. And, after all, why not? Beck hated me smoking in our flat, no matter how far I poked my head out of the window. But it wasn't as if Simon could have any such qualms. This was a completely reasonable response to the situation in which I found myself. I stepped into the room, removed a Marlboro from the pack – there were seven left – and looked around for a lighter. Since there wasn't one by the ashtray, the next logical place to check would be Simon's front trouser pockets. That, however, seemed a step too far. Instead, I lit the cigarette from the gas hob in the kitchen area, taking care to keep my hair away from the naked flame, and then leaned against the counter and started to think.

I'd been in the presence of a body once before, at my grandmother's funeral, but that had been very different in terms of atmosphere. There was a sense of public display, of everyone – me, my mother, the vicar, the organist – playing a part, bound to follow the stage directions of an inflexible script. Here, I was alone with my thoughts, and my predominant feeling was of calm recognition. At the same time, there was something almost exhilarating about the circumstance I found myself in. Of course, smoking always makes me feel more alive – that's the wonderful paradox of smoking – but this was something beyond that. The sensations were clear and vivid, like drinking cold water on a hot day, and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my fingertips. I made a mental note to tell Dr Barbara about these feelings the next time we met. But she was the only person I'd tell. I didn't think my feelings were suitable for anyone else.

Cigarette smoked down to the filter, I extinguished the remnant under the cold tap, rinsed the sink, and then walked resolutely over to Simon's chair. My finger hovered for just a moment before I took the plunge and prodded him in the cheek. His flesh felt inorganic, like rubber or latex, but it wasn't as cold as I'd been expecting. Not that my expectations had been at all realistic. You assume death must feel like ice; what you get, instead, is cooled bathwater. Or that's what you get on a London evening in late spring.

There wasn't a phone book anywhere near the landline, and inevitably I'd left my mobile in my bag, in the same pocket as my cigarettes, but I had a vague recollection that there was a non-emergency police number for situations such as this. Something beginning with a one. Beck would have known in a second – numbers were more his thing than mine – but I still didn't feel like going back to our flat to explain. I thought it was important that I deal with things myself, as though it were a test of my competence as a responsible human being. There'd be time enough for explanations later.

So I picked up the phone and started dialling all the obvious three-digit combinations beginning with a one that I could think of. There really weren't that many, but it took four attempts, nevertheless: 111 was an automated NHS helpline, 100 put me through to the phone company, and 123 turned out to be the talking clock – which I realized I knew, after the fact. By the time I got to 101, I noticed that my fingers were drumming the wall impatiently, telling me that I should have taken the time to light another cigarette before embarking on this trial and error lunacy. Then the speaker clicked and the police operator came on the line.

‘I need to report a dead body,' I told her.
A dead body
: I'd decided this was the most concise way of explaining myself, since the relevant context was already implicit. Or so I thought.

‘A body?' the operator repeated.

‘A dead body,' I confirmed. ‘My neighbour's.'

‘Okay. Can I take your name, please? Then you can talk me through what's happened.'

‘My name's Abby. Abigail Williams.'

‘Abby or Abigail?'

This seemed a strange question.

‘Does it matter? Either; both. Abigail on my birth certificate, Abby if you want to save yourself a diphthong.'

Silence.

‘Okay, Abby. Tell me what happened.'

‘There's not a great deal to tell. I came over to his flat and he's dead. He's cold and stiff.'

‘You're absolutely certain he's dead?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘You've checked for a pulse? I can talk you through it if you need me to.'

I looked across at Simon's taut neck, his slack wrist. They looked equally unappealing. ‘He's cold and stiff,' I repeated. ‘He's obviously been dead for a while.'

‘You're certain?'

‘Yes, of course!' The woman was an imbecile. ‘He's dead. He hasn't had a pulse for many hours.'

‘Okay. I can appreciate this must be distressing. But you're doing really well, Abby. I just need a few more details before I send someone over. You say the deceased is your neighbour?'

‘Yes. He's my neighbour – was my neighbour. He lived across the hall. I came over to borrow a tin of tomatoes. My boyfriend is making pasta sauce. But when I got here he was dead, deceased, as we've established.'

‘Abby, you're talking very quickly' – this was all relative, of course – ‘I need you to slow down a second. What's your neighbour's name?'

‘Simon . . .' I fumbled for a few seconds, trying to picture his post. ‘Simon . . .' The image wouldn't come. ‘I can't remember his full name,' I admitted. ‘I didn't really know him that well.'

‘Do you know his age?'

‘Forty-something. Early forties, I'd say.'

I heard keys clacking down the line. ‘And can you confirm your address, please?'

‘129 Askew Road, W12.'

‘Okay. I'm sending a police car over now. It should be there within ten minutes.'

‘Great. There's an intercom. If they buzz flat 12 I'll let them in.'

‘Thank you, Abby.'

‘No problem.'

‘It's imp—'

I realized there was more in the same instant I jabbed the hang-up button, so I didn't get to hear what
it
was. Important? Imperative? I smoked half of another cigarette, waiting to see if the phone would ring.

It did not.

When I got back to our flat, Beck was still sweating a lonely onion, which had reduced down to a caramel mulch at the bottom of the pan. I set the tomatoes down next to the hob.

‘Simon's dead,' I told him. There wasn't any better way of saying it.