The Faces Behind the Mirror

A secret invention leads to unexpected consequences.

1

George Whitley dabbed on the top-right corner of his mirror and the surface popped out with a soft click. He had hurriedly installed it himself just a few days before, yet he cringed every time the panel opened. What lay behind had the potential to change not only his life, but all the twelve billion people on Earth.

For better or worse, that was yet to be determined.

He stood studying the faces lining the interior, waiting to be chosen. Some were familiar, others he had met only once or twice. Whitley shook his head yet again, amazed by his own invention. If he registered the Skullp he knew that money would follow soon after, but he had plans for these faces, and wanted some indulgences before going public.

But which to use first?

To decide, he pressed the mirror back into place. The first thing he noticed was not his near-luminous green eyes; it was the massive scar which ran like an arc from his left eye down to his right ear. The physical aspect of its existence barely effected him anymore; it was the source that troubled him so much.

He could still see the two of them in his mind's eye sitting there, chatting and laughing, filled with excitement on their way to a thirtieth anniversary they would never attend.

And then the sound of blustering metal leaped through him and he looked away from the sight of himself. Hot tears coiled his lids in an agony of remembrance.

Even after six years, the pain remained. The hurt. Guilt. People said it gets easier with time, but time has a mind of its own and, it seems, enjoys the torment it inflicts.

'George?'

The sound of Helen's voice snapped him back to attention. He dabbed his eyes, wincing at how raw the corners had become, and discreetly locked the door.

'George,' she called from the bottom of the stairs, 'I'm taking the fiesta okay?'

George Whitley inhaled a shuddering breath to steady his tone.

'Alright hun, see you later.'

'Love you,' she called, and the front door shut.

It was only halfway through smoking a roley that he noticed how shaky his hands were. In fact, his entire body buzzed miserably. Had he just had a panic attack? He supposed he had.

During the second roley he returned his focus to the secret panel of faces glaring at him from dark hollow eyes, as if in thoughtful judgement.

2

'Who shat you out this morning?'

'F**k off Niall, I'm not in the mood."

George lay his backpack gently down on the slender table. All around him, in rows of similar tables, people were lost in pitches. You could tell who were failing their targets by the rapidity of their voices. This was a call centre afterall and not, as Peter was often saying, a spa.

'Jesus alright mate,' said Niall feigning offence.

'I take it you had to suck your own c**k last night.'

'You're wasted here,' said George retrieving the day's call-list from the folder on the desk. Niall made a long chortling noise through his nostrils.

'F**k sake,' said George, 'this early?'

'Or late,' Niall said, 'depending on whether you slept or not.'

George went to reply but stopped. They had been through this a hundred and one times and besides, he had more important things on his mind than Niall's coke addiction. Peter, the team-leader, was nowhere to be seen so despite deciding to wait til mid-afternoon, the time was now. He rose and set off across the room.

'But early for you aswell,' Niall called after him making a wanking gesture but George didn't notice.

Once inside the bathroom cubicle he retrieved the device, the Skullp, from his backpack and set it on the side. With short shallow breaths he redressed in the plumber's uniform he'd bought online. Then, steadying his nerves, he placed the device over his head. From his backpack he took another, smaller bag, and secured his belongings inside. The Skullp felt looser than it had before. Images of it falling off his head in the middle of the sales-floor flitted through his mind and sweat began to form on his temple. Now or never.

When he left the cubicle and studied himself in the mirror there was no recollection whatsoever.
Exactly as he had planned.

3

'Excuse me," said the plumber, a man in his mid-forties. Niall turned, brows raised. For a moment there was silence.

'Yes?'

George's heart ran giddy, the lump in his throat dissolving. 'I don't know if I'm in the right building.'

The voice emnating from the Skullp sounded strange thanks to the vocal distorter.

'Well,' said Niall, swiveling in his chair, gargling down a fresh lump, 'where you meant to be fella?'

'Gorman Tech.'

'Next door mate.'

Now that his invention had worked - even his best friend did not recognise him - George became confident. He scratched his 'face.'

'Idiots at head-office,' said the plumber, his face stretching in a grin. The synthetic skin was working well.

'Tell me about it.'

George considered prolonging the conversation, but he was too overjoyed by the success so he just said, 'right thanks buddy,' and headed for the main doors.

And just like that, George Whitley had become a complete stranger.

4

He rushed home in a frenzy, trying out different walks along the way. Just how do plumbers walk? Internally, he patted his own back for not going straight to the patent stage; this was much more fun. Now all he had to do was decide on the next face.

Helen was still at work so he had the house to himself. He cracked open a bottle of three-barrel brandy and sat listening to Brahms. With his gaze out the window on the busy Bury street below, the future played through his head like a brilliant optimistic film in which he portrayed the hero everytime. Even illegal endeavours crossed his mind (bank-robbery, to be precise), but if he committed a crime, only his face would be transformed, not his dna. He did not want to spend time, any time at all, in jail.

When the honeyed liquid evoked the first hearty flames he made his way to the secret panel and examined the faces with renewed excitement. Who would he be tomorrow?

As he imagined the possibilities his mobile rang. It was Niall wondering where he was. When George explained that he had taken the day off to get drunk instead, Niall demanded he join in.

What the hell, George thought, I could do with celebrating with a friend, even if said friend has no idea it's a celebration.

When the faces were all back behind the mirror, George called a taxi and was soon enroute.
He had no idea it would be for the final time.

5

They took three long lines in the space of an hour and George was positively off his head, despite the grim dance music bellowing from the speakers. Niall seemed more out of it than usual; he even had a box of tissues on the arm of the chair complete with caked blood. But this failed to register the slightest alarm in George, something he would and would not regret later on.

However, as he was leaving, George did give him some half-serious advise regarding his friend's drug use, but could tell by Niall's eyes that none of it registered. In fact, they even laughed about it.

It was in the taxi home that George decided to finally tell Helen of his invention. He was looking forward to her astonishment on finding out he had devised such a thing with only a basic degree in particle engineering - and from the less than reputable University of Luna City as well! However, as intoxicated as he was, he thought the best way to break the news was to be by way of a prank.

Helen was in the sitting-room watching tv when he arrived. They had a brief and mild argument about the state he was in and then George said he was going for a shower.

Really, he put on the Skullp, crept downstairs, and left quietly through the backdoor. His plan was to 'arrive' at the house as his friend, and when he was inside he'd remove the device, revealing his identity to a flurry of hysterical laughter. He could not have been more wrong.

He knocked on the door wearing Niall's face. Helen answered in her pyjamas. She looked alarmed.

'What the f**k are you doing?' she said.

In a voice perfectly replicating Niall's, George said, 'that's no way to greet a friend.'

'Don't f**k around babe,' said Helen, 'George is off his head and if you just show up he'll get paranoid.'

Paranoid? Babe!

'What do you-'

Helen grabbed and abruptly kissed him.

'Your skin feels weird,' she said, 'have you changed shaving cream or something?'

Then, remembering the situation, she said, 'not now babe, I'll ring you when he's asleep.'

George was too stunned to speak...as himself...as Niall...as anyone.

'Your'e a crazy b*****d,' she said with a mischievous grin, and quickly closed the door.
George stood in the bright-lit porchway, realization setting in like the cold November raindrops on his mask.

6

There are moments in life when you lose every strand and strain of your being. This can occur through extreme love or extreme rage. George experienced the latter in grandiose perplexity upon realizing that the woman he had adored since he was thirteen was cheating on him with the man he had been best friends with since he was a child.

The journey to Niall's flat was almost a blackout of pure anger, but he did have the mind enough not to get a taxi or bus; for taxis and buses meant witnesses and he did not know how violent the confrontation may become.

Even in the Niall Skullp there'd be dna.

The lights were still on in the flat. George stood on the streetcorner peering through the mist, deciding on whether to knock on the door or kick it in. And then he remembered, to his own astonishment, that he actually had a key. Niall had given him a spare before going on holiday so that he, George, could feed Aleister the Tarantula.

Amazing, George thought, what blind rage makes you forget.

After a final glance up and down, he scurried across the dim-lit city street and quietly let himself in.

The music was still roaring. Good. The encounter could get very loud indeed.
He tipped the sitting room door ajar and looked in. Niall was splayed across the couch, fixed on the doorway. But they were empty, wide.

Dead.

Green and orange froth, mostly dried, was spread across the bottom of his face and lay like a hideous curtain across the top of his worksuit. Fine blood on chin and filtrum.

George's anger turned to concern, then pity...eventually panic.

'N-' he cut himself off; it was futile. His former friend was gone and he knew it. Yet instead of feeling loss, a cunning idea surfaced which both surprised and sickened him.

Within a few seconds of seeing his lifelong friend's dead body, he had figured out a way to use it to his advantage. To make it work in his favourite.
To get helen back.
To move on.

7

He snuck back into his own house. The shower was still running upstairs. After wetting his hair in the sink, he went down to the sitting room and informed Helen that he was going to his foster parent's graves. Alone.

Helen acknowledged the statement with disinterest and George felt a fresh upsurge of resentment.

'I'm going for a few pints afterwards,' he told her.

In the hallway he paused and for reasons unknown to him he said, 'love you Helen.'
Her did not wait for her reply, if there was even to be one.

Ten minutes later Niall knocked on the door.

'You just couldn't wait, could you?' she said with that same mischievous grin that made George want to scream til his heart burst.

'George text me,' he said, 'so I knew it was okay.'

Helen stood aside and let him in.
In the sitting room, he said, 'we have to talk.'

'After,' she said, trying to grope his c**k. He pulled away.

Abruptly, he said, 'f**k it then...it's over Helen.'

Helen took a moment to register the words, her smile quickly diminishing as she realized he was serious. Her demeanor went from sardonic to spiteful in a few seconds.

'What?' she said, eyes narrowing.

'I'm not doing it to George anymore,' he said.

Helen was stunned.

'You're the one who said he deserves everything he gets.'

When she saw George's blank expression she continued.

'For what he did to Anna and Dale.'

Now it was George's turn to be shocked.

'That-that was an accident, he didn't meant to-'

'What the f**k's wrong with you?' said Helen getting annoyed. 'What's come over you?'

What's wrong with me? George thought, and that old rage began to pipe up again.

'I've just realised how much of a c**t you are,' he said plainly.

There was an epic silence. Then: 'you're the f*****g c**t! What am I even doing with you? In fact '-her tongue was almost flailing in her mouth- 'get the f**k away from me!'

Relishing the bewildered hurt in her voice, George smiled.

'You're the worse f**k I've ever had. George can do better, in fact, he has. You know that girl you were always accusing him of being with, well he's been f*****g her for months.'

It wasn't true. George had never even kissed anyone else for the entirety of the relationship but it felt like The Sweetest Lie Ever Told In the History Of The Solar System. And, finally, George left Helen for the last time, with her bottom lip trembling.

8

Between the death of his former friend and Helen's revelations concerning this friends true opinions, George didn't know what to think. He felt dreamy, no...nightmarey. As if waking up was to be the eventual conclusion. But he knew better.

He texted Helen as himself, telling her that Niall had confessed everything, then threw his phone into the nearest bin. After collecting a bottle of whiskey from the off-license, he booked himself into an out of town travel-lodge and sat listening to BBC radio 3, an icy glass forever in his hand. Tomorrow, when Helen was gone to work, he'd go back and get his stuff, the most important of which being the faces behind the mirror. After that, he planned on leaving Manchester, maybe even England, altogether, and for good.

'In that case,' he muttered to himself, 'there's one last thing I have to do.'
A few minutes later, he was on his way.

9

It was 3.08am by the time he reached the graveyard. The rain had subsided and the air was thick with fog. He skulked among the tombs feeling the silence on his body like something solid. A blood moon cast long shadows on the grassy pathways.

When he arrived at the two little headstones on the East of the graveyard he stood for a moment as if he forgot why he was there. Then he remembered everything in torturous clarity and his legs nearly gave way. The memories poured forth with such brutal realism that he could almost hear the ghostly voices breach his mind and echo across the acres of wreaths. Instinctively, he put his hand to his face, to where the scar was, then recalled the Skullp encasing his head. He raised both hands up to remove the device so he could mourn respectfully, as George Whitley, before his journey.

It would not move.

I must be drunker that I realized, he thought, and doubled his efforts.

Nothing happened.

With growing unease, he clutched under his chin, trying to edge his fingers beneath the release clasp, but it would not budge. He began to claw at it but it felt realer than ever. A shooting pain went spiking across his skin. When he looked down at his hands he saw blood.

'What-'

Using all his strength, he finally pulled the face off. Yet something still wasn't right. Again, he clawed.

Another face came off.

Shocked, George dropped it to the frosty grass. The mask was unfamiliar and should not have even been possible in the first place. His heart began to hammer with irregular blasts. A third face came off. Tears began to form...somewhere. A fourth face dropped to the grass, the vacant eyeholes staring up bleakly. A fifth, a sixth...all the while George Whitley became increasingly more terrified. Every face he discarded seemed more and more familiar: a teacher from his primary school, a worker in the care home in which he grew up, the cashier at the local supermarket. Each mask brought more pain, more blood, as if he was tearing the actual flesh from his skull. Hysteria began to set in; all he could do was shake and wince, shudder and cry, as the faces dropped to the cold dark grass.

And as he stood there by the graves, a man once known as George Whitley began to scream.

END

Kealan Coady.