

DOPPELGINGER

Brian Byrne

Copyright Brian Byrne 2012

Published at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.

To Mam

They saved a rose just for you.

CHAPTER ONE

Marty knew something strange was going on as soon as the dirty white van pulled into the driveway of number three, Wycherly Terrace. Nobody had lived in the house for years. His dad said the last family had abandoned it after it became infested with termites. It certainly looked it. The roof was forever on the brink of collapse—Marty could swear it shifted every time a crow landed on it—and the window frames had disintegrated to the point that they were gradually falling off, one by one, taking the window panes down with them.

Dropping his school bag in his front yard, Marty pretended to tie his shoelace. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as a tall woman stepped out of the van and disappeared into the house. She had bleach-blond hair and was wearing the most obnoxious outfit he had ever seen: a brown fur coat with pink polka dots and a tiny leopard print skirt. Below was a pair of bright green tights and below those a pair of heels so high she looked like she might topple over at any second.

As Marty shifted to his other shoe the passenger door opened to reveal a pair of very short, very fat legs. He was sure they had to be a kid's until he saw what was attached to them: an equally short, equally fat man wearing a pinstripe suit and matching boater. The man was smoking a large cigar, but as he waddled his way around to the back of the van he pulled it from his mouth and coughed out a dirty mess of smoke. His face now bright red, he gave the cigar a disdainful glare and popped it back into his mouth again.

Marty stood up. That was it—they were definitely up to something. But there was absolutely no use in standing around and waiting for something unscrupulous to happen. He'd have to cross the street and find out.

Marty always thought it was a bit odd how bad guys always drive white vans; to be more specific, white vans with absolutely no markings on the side. Hadn't they ever watched a bad cop movie? Or read a bad thriller? The criminals were always the ones in the dirty white vans. Why didn't they try a saloon or a 4x4, or maybe even some sort of roomy sports car? Surely one of those would be more inconspicuous.

He reached the end of the driveway. The man was struggling with something in the back of the van. There came a loud heave and then the man turned, carrying a cardboard box so large it hid his entire upper body from view. He swayed back and forth as he walked, slowly guiding the box in the direction of the house.

Taking his chance, Marty darted to the van. It was filled with electronic equipment. There were computer monitors, keyboards and dozens of strange apparatus he'd never seen before. They were stacked in perfect straight lines and right angles from floor to ceiling. He was leaning in to get a closer look when he heard the sound of high heels hitting the front porch.

He stepped back from the van, smiling innocently as the woman trotted towards him. It was surprising how many adults were easily duped by an innocent looking kid. Marty's chubby cheeks, bright red hair and freckles, coupled with this particular brand of smile, made him look about as threatening as a toothpick.

"Who," said the woman, coming to a stop mere inches from him, "are you?" She towered over him, casting him in a dark shadow.

Marty's smile didn't waver. "I'm Marty White. I live across the street. I'm here to welcome you to the neighbourhood." He held out a hand.

The woman frowned a spectacular frown. She somehow managed to narrow her eyes and raise her eyebrows at the same time. Then she grabbed his hand and squeezed. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Doing his very best not to wince, Marty shook his head. "Not yet. School doesn't start for another half hour."

"Even so," said the woman. "You shouldn't be rooting around in other people's property. It's not very...nice." She squeezed harder and his smile faltered.

"I was just wondering if I could help you move in."

"What? No you could not. Now if you don't mind I think you should be leaving."

"Actually, are you new to Violetville? I don't think I've seen you around town before." He heard someone having a coughing fit and then the man appeared at the woman's side. His face was fast approaching the colour of a tomato.

"Who's that?" the man said, dropping the cigar and stamping it out. For the first time Marty noticed his unibrow. It sort of resembled a moustache—albeit a moustache that had somehow crawled up the bridge of his nose and settled at the base of his forehead.

"I'm Marty. I'd like to welcome you to Wycherly Terrace." With some effort he pulled his hand free of the woman's grasp and held it out for the man to shake instead. "And you are?"

The man started to speak but the woman cut across him. "That is none of your business. Now go on, leave!"

Reluctantly Marty nodded, said his goodbyes and headed back across the street. Clearly, this pair wasn't so easily fooled. If he had any hope of finding out what they were up to he was going to have to take a different angle.

*

That evening after school Marty asked his dad for a favour. It wasn't the first time he'd witnessed him positively squeal and he looked on with amusement as his dad bounded up the staircase. Moments later he was handing Marty his binoculars. Marty knew they had to be at least ten years old but they looked brand new. The lenses had been recently polished and a new strap had been attached.

"I knew it!" his dad said, hugging him so hard it forced the air from his lungs. "I always knew you'd come around eventually. You just needed time."

"Um, yes—yes Dad, of course," Marty coughed, pulling himself free. "I've always liked, err, birds. I guess it just took me a really long time to realise it. They're just so, you know, feathery and stuff."

Gabriel White had always loved bird watching, and ever since Marty's mum had left he'd been spending more and more time at it. Every second day now he'd grab his trusty binoculars, fill his backpack with vegan snacks and disappear for the afternoon. A few weeks ago Marty had finally given into his dad's relentless pestering and agreed to go along and see what all the fuss was about. He proceeded to follow his dad up a steep hillside and sit on a rock. His dad spent a full day looking through his binoculars, gesturing for Marty to be quiet (despite the fact he hadn't uttered a word) and excitedly jotting down notes in his little black notebook. By the end of the day Marty was severely sunburned and made a mental note never to partake in bird watching ever again.

"Does Friday work for you?" his dad carried on. "We could go then. Or maybe Thursday. No, you know what, we'll do it tomorrow. Or now? Does now work for you? Surely your homework can wait until later?"

"Actually Dad, if you don't mind, I thought I'd give it a go on my own this time."

For a moment Gabriel just stared at him. Then his mouth dropped open and he looked horribly embarrassed. Marty knew he'd react like this, but he needed those binoculars. More importantly, he needed to be able to use them without his dad asking questions. "We could go together next week," he added, already regretting it.

His dad's expression inverted. "All right then, next week!" He rooted in his back pocket and pulled out the familiar black notebook. He handed it to Marty like it was some sort of priceless artefact. "I recommend you begin with my research on the migratory patterns of barnacle geese—it's really quite fascinating!"

Marty promised to keep the binoculars and notebook in pristine condition before heading for the kitchen. He made himself his favourite: a peanut butter and jam sandwich and a glass of milk. Then he sat in front of the living room window and began his first stakeout.

*

This wasn't Marty's first investigation. Not by any means. Just last week he solved the case of his elderly neighbour Mr. Uncle's missing barbecue. After a rigorous search he found it upturned in the ditch that ran behind every house in Wycherly Terrace. But when he tried to return it to its rightful owner Mr. Uncle's wife was angry. It turned out the barbecue hadn't been stolen at all—Mrs. Uncle had disposed of it because her husband burnt everything he cooked and she was sick of choking down great chunks of ash to keep him happy.

One of the most important lessons Marty had learned from his inquests was that spying isn't nearly as exciting as it looks in the movies. It was three full days before something unscrupulous finally happened over at number three. It was just after seven when he saw it: movement in one of the windows. He adjusted the binoculars, zooming in as far as they would go. In a narrow band of light he saw the same lampshade and patch of mildewed wall he'd been monitoring for what seemed like forever. Only now there was something else. A man—who, he couldn't tell—was standing with his back to the window. He was much taller than the man from earlier. As Marty watched, the man moved to one side and there, standing in his place, was a woman. Marty barely recognised her. Gone were the ridiculous clothes and hairstyle. Now she wore a plain sweatshirt, and her hair, platted into a long ponytail, was blacker than a black hole. She disappeared from view and the man appeared again. Only this time he was facing the window. Marty's eyes doubled in size—what was Mr. Uncle doing in the new neighbours' living room?

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Uncle ran directly into the window, crashed right through it and went sprawling into the front yard. Marty, his jaw in danger of unhinging, watched as he leaped to his feet and sprinted down the driveway. He had never known Mr. Uncle to be so agile. He had never known anyone his age to be so agile. But if he was fast the woman was faster. In a nanosecond she caught up to him and lunged, wrapping her arms around his neck. Mr. Uncle's legs buckled and he brought the woman down with him. Just then the smoker appeared. He was wearing a blue tracksuit. He hauled Mr. Uncle off the ground and dragged him back towards the house.

Marty was busy ogling Mr. Uncle when something obscured his view. He zoomed back out and watched as the woman stood up and dusted off her arms and legs. Then she did something that made him drop the binoculars and leap back from the window: she stared straight at him. The woman stared and stared and, just as he was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to blink, turned on the heel of her sneaker and strode back up the driveway.

Marty was flabbergasted. Whatever he had imagined they were up to, it didn't come within a hundred kilometres of this. Why had they taken Mr. Uncle? What could they possibly want with him? Did his wife have any idea he was missing? He had to figure this out.

He found his dad in the kitchen and proceeded to tell him exactly what he'd seen. To his dad's credit, he didn't speak until he'd heard everything Marty had to say; he was far too busy whimpering.

"Kidnappers!" he roared so loudly that Marty feared for his eardrums. "I bet they've murdered him! I bet they've taken him and murdered him! We need to ring the police!"

Marty knew his dad would overreact, but for once, he decided, this was something worth overreacting about.

It wasn't the first time his dad had phoned the police. Since Marty was born nearly thirteen years ago he'd called the station a grand total of two hundred and forty three times, which, most notably, included two reported cases of a missing child (Marty), seventeen reported burglaries and one reported trampling of the flowers in the front garden. At this point the entire police force knew his name, which was probably why they sent out, not the entire squad, but a single apprehensive officer.

"You were saying there was a m...murder?" said the officer, wiping sweat from his oversized forehead with the sleeve of his oversized jacket.

Marty had to shout over his dad in order to be heard. "Nobody was murdered. At least I don't think so. But somebody has been kidnapped. Mr. Uncle, my neighbour." He leaned in so his dad wouldn't overhear and added, "I swear I'm not exaggerating. Even if my dad does do it quite a bit."

This seemed to both reassure and frighten the officer at the same time. Nevertheless he nodded and asked where Mr. Uncle lived. Marty led the way next door, showing the officer the best way through the Uncle's unwieldy front lawn.

Mrs. Uncle was a lumpy woman who loved to try new things. In her eight or so decades she'd started three businesses, built a car engine from scratch and visited every country in the world except one. She would have been an interesting woman if she didn't like to sleep all the time.

"Hello hello, Marty," Mrs. Uncle yawned upon finally answering the door. "I'm just out of bed. What is it?" When she noticed the police officer she looked only marginally more interested. "Is something wrong?" she said, and yawned again.

"It's Mr. Uncle. He's been—"

But before Marty could finish Mr. Uncle appeared at his wife's side and said, "Did someone call me?"

Marty was dumbfounded. "Mr. Uncle! How did you get back here?!"

"Get back here? Mart, what are you talking about? I've been here all day. I'm learning how to make fajitas. You can have some, if you like."

"But—but I saw you earlier! They kidnapped you!" Even Marty could tell how absurd he sounded.

"Are you okay?" said Mr. Uncle, scrunching up one eye.

"I'm sorry," smiled the police officer. "You know how children can be. He must have been seeing things."

If Marty hadn't already decided this was fruitless he might have stood his ground. "Never mind," he said. "You're right—I suppose I must have made a mistake."

He had turned around and was making his way back home when Mrs. Uncle yawned again. "Oh I'm so very tired. What time is it dear? I really must be getting to bed..."

*

Marty watched from his bedroom window as the police officer waved the Uncles goodbye and returned to his car. As soon as he'd seen Mr. Uncle standing at his front door Marty realised nobody, not his dad or even the police would help him. Something sinister was going on here, and if he was ever going to reach the end of it he would have to do it by himself.

He decided to wait for nightfall to make his move. After pulling on his jacket he made sure the coast was clear and crept downstairs. When he reached the bottom he peered over the banister into the living room. The door was barely ajar but he could hear the sound from the TV; David Attenborough was explaining something about how polar bears tend to their newborn cubs. Slowly, ever so slowly, Marty tiptoed across the hallway, but as he reached the front door David got cut off mid-sentence and his dad's disembodied head poked out of the living room.

"Marty! Where in heaven's name do you think you're off to at this time of night?!"

"Dad, I just—"

"Do you want to get yourself kidnapped? Is that it? Do you want to leave me on my own, after all that's happened to us? Do you want that? Do you want to cause me even more heartache? And after all that malarkey with the police today, too? Do you Marty? Do you? Do you?!"

"All right, Dad, all right! Look, I'll stay in tonight, okay?"

As much as he didn't want to Marty dragged himself back upstairs. It wasn't until he'd returned to his bedroom that David Attenborough got to finish his sentence.

It was two gruelling hours before his dad finally retired to bed. Marty waited an extra fifteen minutes to make sure he wasn't about to get up again (on top of everything else his dad was an insomniac) before successfully slipping outside. Confident nobody else was about to stop him, he bent down and darted across the street.

It was too dark. Marty raised his hand to his face but could barely see it. He rooted in a pocket, pulled out a small torch and turned it on. It wasn't very powerful (he'd bought it with his lunch money from a discount shop) but at least now he wasn't completely blind.

He crept down the driveway, leaning flat against the wall as he went. The house looked different in the dark: bigger and more intimidating. He shivered, suddenly reminded of the time he'd been locked in here. His brutish cousins Jeremy and Jane had stayed at his house for a week while their parents went travelling. They spent the entire time trying to convince him number three was haunted. Marty was only seven but he still knew better than to believe their lies. This must have irritated them, because the afternoon before they left they kicked the football down the driveway and, when Marty went to retrieve it, closed the gates behind him, locking him inside. Marty refused to let them see he was scared but was scared nonetheless, and it surprised him that even though he was now twelve, nearly thirteen, he was still a little nervous as he reached the end of the driveway and crossed the front yard.

His eyes found the broken glass, then the window from which it had fallen. The curtains were fully closed now but behind it he saw a shadow, which moved away as he approached. He heard someone speaking and felt his stomach clench: Mr. Uncle. He waited and, hearing nobody else, reached forward, lifted back the curtain and peered into the living room.

To the left of the flea-bitten sofa on a rocking chair sat Mr. Uncle. His arms and legs were restrained. It was Mr. Uncle all right, but not the Mr. Uncle he knew. His eyes were wide and twitching. The black from his pupils had spilled into the white, giving them an odd, lifeless appearance. His cheeks were sunken and his skin had a horrible grey tinge. Marty could smell stale sweat from where he was standing.

After making sure they were alone Marty put the torch away and hopped onto the window sill. A piece of glass pierced his hand and he winced as he stepped into the room. To one side was the doorway. The corridor beyond was dark but he had no intention of venturing any further. He would rescue Mr. Uncle, bring him home and then, and then... Well, he hadn't really thought about what he'd do after that. But he guessed it would probably involve being chased by the slender woman and her plump sidekick.

Mr. Uncle didn't notice Marty until he was standing right in front of him. He looked up and flinched as if Marty had materialised out of thin air.

"You!" he said. It was an odd sound, one of shock and relief and excitement. It was like he'd been looking for Marty for years and now, finally, he'd found him. But the look in his eyes told Marty he wasn't happy about it. Mr. Uncle started struggling, shaking his arms and kicking his legs. "You! You!"

Marty raised his hands but kept his distance. "Mr. Uncle? It's—it's me! Please stop screaming, they'll hear you!"

"Too late."

Marty turned around and found the odd couple standing in the doorway.

"You really are incessantly irritating, aren't you?" said the woman, her arms folded. "I have a good mind to call the authorities. Did you actually think you could just traipse on in here—"

"Him!" shouted Mr. Uncle. "It's him!"

The woman's face spasmed. Her eyebrows turned upside-down. The edges of her mouth curled upwards and her cheeks wobbled as she attempted to hold them in place. It took Marty several seconds to realise she was smiling.

The fat man looked up at his skinny partner. "Want me to grab him, Aileen?"

Her smile vanished again. She bared her teeth, brought her arm back and clattered the fat man around the head. "Agley! I told you not to give away our names!"

Agley didn't cough but his face turned red anyway. "Sorry Aileen, but you know you did just sort of say my name there as well."

The woman's eyes rolled back so far her pupils disappeared for a second. "Just grab him, okay?"

The man sniggered. It sounded like he was trying to cough up phlegm. "With pleasure."

*

The pair dragged Marty into the depths of the house.

"Let me go!" he yelled. He kicked and shoved and screamed but their grips were made of iron. They yanked him down a cold corridor and up a damp staircase. On the landing they passed a room filled with the same equipment he had seen in the van just hours before, except now all of it was hooked up and making strange beeping noises. But before he could get a proper look they dragged him into a bathroom.

There were bars on the window and the door was reinforced with large metal hinges and locks. It was like a prison cell—if prison cells had floral patterns on the walls and a fancy selection of soaps. The pair dragged him up to the mirror and he saw his own terrified self.

"What do you want with me?! What did you do to Mr. Uncle?!"

"We're giving Over There what it wants," said Agley, groaning when Aileen delivered a swift kick to his shins.

"You're what?!"

"Never mind that," said Aileen loudly. "But there is one thing you do need to know. That man is not your neighbour. It's his reflection. His evil doppelgänger, if you'll forgive the crude terminology."

"His what?!" Marty said, trying to break free despite knowing there was no way he would.

Agley glanced at his watch. "It's time." As if his words had triggered it, the mirror began to dissolve. Marty watched as it rippled, first at the centre but then out to the sides, until finally it was like a tiny sea, the water waving back and forth across it.

"Let me go!" he yelled. "I said let—me—GO!" But the pair were already picking him up off the floor and forcing him into the mirror.

Marty barely had time to scream before his face touched the surface, then his neck, shoulders, torso and legs. It might have looked like water, but it was thicker than custard and absolutely freezing. He started shivering uncontrollably and his head started to hurt. But no sooner was he submerged in it when he fell out the other side and landed on his face on a cold floor.

Doing his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his head he pulled himself to his feet. He was standing in a room identical to the one he'd so abruptly left—well, identical, but backwards. The door was on his right instead of his left and the window was on his left instead of his right. The mirror was just a mirror again and while he pounded on the glass he was soon forced to accept he'd have to find another way home.

CHAPTER THREE

Goose pimples sprouted up on Marty's arms and legs. But it wasn't from the mirror—somehow, his clothes were still perfectly dry. Before the mirror had started dissolving Aileen had told him something. It's his reflection. His evil doppelgänger. Only it wasn't because of that, either. What gave Marty goose pimples was that he believed her. He knew the man tied to the chair couldn't have been Mr. Uncle. He knew it, but he hadn't let himself believe it. Then again, if that wasn't Mr. Uncle, how had he recognised him? How had he known Marty was the person Aileen and Agley were supposed to shove through the mirror?

A fresh shiver grappled with his back. Aileen and Agley moving into number three, Mr. Uncle's impostor and his trip through the mirror—all of it was connected. What had Agley said? We're giving Over There what it wants. Had he meant Marty? If so, what would anyone in this place want with him? Marty needed answers, but he wouldn't find them staring at his own dishevelled self. He needed to get moving.

Marty scrunched up his nose. He'd been so preoccupied he hadn't notice the stench—the horrible, horrible stench—until now. The toilet, from the looks of it, hadn't been flushed in weeks, what appeared to be a concoction of black vomit and blood filled the sink and the floor was sticky with stale urine. Hoping the rest of this place didn't smell so bad, Marty pinched his nose and tiptoed out of the bathroom, his shoes peeling off the floor with every step.

It's a strange sensation walking around a world the exact opposite of the one you're used to. Marty crept through the dark hallway in the direction of the staircase and instead found himself in a broom closet. He frowned—this was going to be a lot more difficult than he'd thought. He tried visualising the house in his head and two wrong turns later made it into the living room. There was nothing in here but a pair of dirty sleeping bags and the remains of a makeshift fire. He wandered into the kitchen which, apart from a single cupboard, was just as barren as the living room, before reluctantly cracking open the front door and peering outside.

Groaning. He heard it as soon as the door opened. He couldn't tell where it was coming from and then realised why: it was coming from everywhere. It was the sound of hundreds if not thousands of people, all groaning and moaning and crying out in agony. But the less attention he gave it the less distinguishable the groans became.

Slowly, he stepped off the front porch and into the front yard. The breath he had been holding in his lungs suddenly rushed out of them. The sky—it was filled with faces. Dozens and dozens of them, with narrow slits for eyes and wide open mouths. It was almost as if the groans were coming from them. But that wasn't right. No; he looked harder and realised they were clouds. Beyond the holes he saw the faint reds and oranges of sunrise, and wondered what time it was.

He started up the driveway—which really was less a driveway than it was a long, dirty stretch of mud—but stopped short when he spotted, on the other side of the street, what can only be described as his house's ugly twin.

Marty's dad, terrified the neighbours would think he was unhygienic, always insisted the house was painted, top-to-bottom and inside-out, at least twice a year. The result was that his otherwise quaint and somewhat charming house always looked brand new. This house, on the other hand, looked like an abandoned shack in the worst part of town. The windows were boarded up, there was graffiti all over the front door and instead of his dad's favourite turquoise paint there was no paint at all. It was clear just from looking at this house that nobody had set foot in there for a long, long time. Marty turned and without a second glance hurried out of backwards Wycherly Terrace.

He noticed more abnormalities on his way into town. First, all plant life was either dead or dying. The rare patches of grass he did see were an odd grey colour, as if they'd wilted away over a long period of time. The trees had no leaves and their branches looked like misshapen arms, all waiting to grab him if he got too close. But perhaps the strangest thing of all were the crows. They were everywhere and, as ridiculous as it sounds, he couldn't shake the feeling they were watching him. They were perched on the branches of the spindly-armed trees, and whenever he looked in their direction they chirped irritably and flew away, as if by noticing them he'd foiled their plan.

As he neared the town centre the incessant groaning faded, but other sounds quickly replaced it: glass breaking; wild laughter; a howling dog. The buildings were as derelict as the ones in the estate.

He saw a woman pushing an empty shopping trolley down the middle of the street and stopped at a corner to watch. The woman was short, and so old her skin had sagged down her face and collected beneath her chin. She sort of looked like Maggie Botch, the owner of Botch's Butchers back in Marty's Violetville, but like Mr. Uncle's reflection her skin had taken on an odd grey tinge. Her mouth was opening and closing and she appeared to be talking to herself.

"Excuse me? Mrs. Botch?" Marty called, stepping off the curb but keeping his distance. The woman ignored him. "Maggie?" he said, but it was no use: she was in some kind of trance, and Marty, worried what might happen if he woke her up, gave up and kept going.

When he turned the next corner he froze solid. There were people. Everywhere. Some staggered around in circles, apparently blind to the people they kept bumping into. Others sat hunched over in doorways; skeletal men, women and children who looked mere moments from death. He dived behind an upturned dustbin but it was pointless: like Maggie Botch they were completely oblivious to his presence.

There were others, too. People who kept to themselves, never looking at anything but their own two feet as they hurried through the town. Their faces were pale and many were a little on the skinny side, but otherwise they looked perfectly normal. He quickly noticed something else about them. They all carried a flower, a single white rose. Some had one pinned to their lapel. Others carried one in their handbags, the blossom poking out between the handles. A few clutched one tightly in their hand, and these people looked to be in more of a hurry than anyone else.

At the end of the next street he came across a large gathering of people. They were surrounding something—what, he couldn't see, even when he stood on the tips of his toes—but from the way they were pushing and shoving he could tell it was something important. A tiny woman with a shock of white hair appeared from the depths of the crowd, red faced but relieved, a crisp white rose held close to her chest. The others looked on hungrily as she hurried passed Marty and out of sight.

"Dat's it lads!" someone shouted from the middle of the struggle. Marty stopped walking. He knew that voice.

"C'mon now," the voice carried on, "Yeh know I've only so many teh go around. Deh rest've yeh will get yers later dis week. Yeh have me word!"

Marty definitely, definitely knew that voice.

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. He saw that they also carried roses—but unlike the crisp white ones he'd seen so far, all of these were wilting. The people, too, looked wilted, almost like their appearance was somehow linked to that of the flower. As they passed him by some of them gave him an odd, searching look, as if he had something they dearly wanted.

When the street finally cleared Marty saw the owner of the familiar voice and felt like he'd swallowed a stone: it was Mr. Blume, his cantankerous old history teacher whom everyone in his class loathed.

A long time ago—a very long time ago—Marty had actually liked history. But from the moment Miss Honey got pregnant and the merciless Mr. Blume arrived, he very quickly began to hate it. Five minutes into his first lesson Mr. Blume had given four pupils, Marty included, ten page essays on the topic of—how could he ever forget it—The Longest Day in History. Marty couldn't remember what he'd actually written, but one thing he always did was never so much as breathe out of turn during one of Mr. Blume's classes ever again.

While the Mr. Blume Marty knew was almost completely bald, this Mr. Blume had a healthy head of brown hair. His eyes weren't as narrow and not nearly as suspecting, and his face had about half its usual number of wrinkles. To top it off, his clothes weren't dark and musky, but green and frilly. Obviously, this Mr. Blume hadn't spent the last forty years scalding children.

Beside Mr. Blume stood a girl. She couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than Marty. She was wearing an outfit not too unlike a school uniform. From the looks of it she'd been wearing it for a while: the sweater was faded and the skirt was frayed. Her hair, too, looked neglected, like she'd only had time to brush one side.

The girl spotted Marty watching her and tilted her head. She said something to Mr. Blume and took a series of long, powerful strides in Marty's direction, stopping just a little too short of him. "Lissa Evans, assistant florist at The White Rose," she announced, throwing out a hand. "Where is it?"

Marty looked at her hand but didn't shake it. "Where's what?"

"Your rose, silly. Where is it?"

"I don't have a rose."

Lissa tilted her head even further. He noticed a large mole on her left cheek. "You what?"

"I don't have one."

"But you must. How else could you look so ordinary?"

He knew what she meant. She wanted to know why he, too, hadn't wilted. But even he didn't have the answer to that.

Lissa sighed and turned around. "Victor? I think there's something wrong with this boy. He claims he doesn't have a rose. That's impossible, isn't it?"

Mr. Blume didn't come any closer; instead he narrowed his eyes and pushed his lips to one side. Marty had seen this face many times before, and he shuddered.

"He's just kiddin' yeh," said Mr. Blume, although he didn't sound so sure. "C'mon now, we'd better get goin'." He picked up a large white basket and propped it on his shoulder.

Lissa didn't move. She looked Marty up, down and up again, then peered over his shoulder, as if he might have been hiding a rose behind his back.

"Look, I don't have one, all right?"

"For flip's sake Lissa, will yeh c'mon!" Mr. Blume called from halfway up the street.

Lissa smirked. "Ginger freak." Her teeth were so white they glowed in the dark, blinding Marty a little. She turned and hurried after her companion.

Marty waited until they'd disappeared around the corner and followed them.

Mr. Blume walked at a brisk pace; quite unlike the slow sauntering his double did through the corridors at school. Marty always kept his distance, peering around corners and taking cover wherever and whenever possible. He wasn't sure he actually needed to—they were too busy talking to turn around—but he'd never gotten the chance to follow someone before. It wouldn't feel right doing it without at least some degree of stealth.

It was on Worran Street that it happened. At home, Worran Street was at the edge of the old side of town—or Old Town, as the locals had so cleverly nicknamed it. The town council had preserved the area because they said it added to the town's character. Evidently, this meant cramming it with as many overpriced souvenir shops, elbow-bumping restaurants and pretentious boutiques as humanly possible.

When Marty leaned around the corner he saw everything he expected: the cobblestones, the buildings that rose dangerously high on both sides, and the steep staircases that led to their basements.

But nothing else.

It was like the darkness had swallowed them up. They couldn't have disappeared into one of the buildings—here, every single shop was boarded up. The steps remained, but wherever they led, he wasn't too eager to find out. Sure, he wasn't afraid of the dark, but there's a big difference between being afraid of the dark and being afraid of what might be hiding in it.

He looked up and down the street. His only lead, if they had even qualified as a lead, had vanished. What was he supposed to do now? He recognised a lot of people here, but it wasn't like he could ask them for help. They were unknowns. He couldn't trust any of them.

As he delved deeper into Old Town, he started to feel like he was delving deeper and deeper into a maze. He'd never been in town this late before, and in the dark the buildings looked taller still. It didn't help that everything was the wrong way around. After what felt like an eternity, or maybe two, he spotted a flickering light in the distance. He didn't care what it meant—he was already rushing towards it.

Three figures were huddled around a blazing piece of metal, rubbing their hands together in an attempt to ward off the cold. It really was freezing. One of the figures, a tall, skinny man, said something to the others—both women, both just as skinny—and they cackled like a pair of witches. Without even hearing what the man had said Marty could tell the laughter was fake. It sounded entirely put on, so much so Marty wondered if the man realised it. If he did he obviously didn't care, because then he said something else and they cackled again.

Marty crept up the street, keeping close to the wall as he went. He caught of glimpse of the man's face and got such a fright he almost cried out. It looked like a skull. It was bald and sunken and the eyes bulged out like they were trying to escape it. It was mesmerising in the worst way possible. Marty hid in the next doorway he found and listened.

"And I killed her!" the man said as if he were telling the punchline of a joke.

"What? Just like that?" asked the slightly skinnier woman—although they were both so skinny it was kind of difficult to tell. "Without even giving her a chance to explain herself?"

The other woman twitched. Marty knew the first woman had said something she shouldn't have, and sure enough the man glared at her.

"I allowed her to beg, if that's what you mean. But explain herself? Please. It was after curfew. As far as I'm concerned, anyone brainless enough to be wandering around after that deserves whatever's coming to them—in her case, me." He raised his hand and in it Marty saw a tabby cat. It was struggling. The man sighed and threw it into the fire.

"No!" Marty cried automatically and all three heads turned at once. The women's faces weren't quite as gaunt as the man's but they were getting there. Marty lay flat against the door but it was too late: they'd heard him.

"Who was that?" The man advanced with surprising grace.

After a short pause Marty stepped out of the shadows. "I did." He was no longer scared. All he could think about was the cat and the horrible fate this horrible man had just given it.

"Oh? And who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. Why did you do that? Why did you do that to a harmless, innocent cat?" He was shaking and it wasn't because of the cold.

The man's eyes somehow managed to bulge even further. "Hold on. Are you saying what I did was wrong?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying! It was innocent, and you killed it! It did nothing, and you threw it into the fire like it was a piece of firewood!"

The man grinned. He had too many teeth. "I know what you are." The women looked utterly disgusted, as if Marty had some terrible disease. "Tell me, little boy—how do you live with yourself?"

Marty didn't know what to say to this so he said nothing. He always had a fondness for animals, cats especially, and wanted to punish this man for what he'd done. He wanted to, but didn't know how. These people might have been frail, but there were three of them, and he didn't know what tricks they had up their narrow, dirty sleeves.

"I think we'll have to teach this little boy a lesson," said the man. "What do you say ladies?" One of his hands disappeared beneath his ragged jacket and when it reappeared it was holding a bloodstained screwdriver.

Marty put one foot behind him.

"Oh? You're not considering running away now, are you?"

Marty didn't answer.

"It's almost"—the man pulled out a pocket watch—"no, it's after curfew. As of fifteen seconds ago, no less. I don't know if that had occurred to you, but regardless, it means you'll have to be punished."

All Marty could do was shake his head. By the time he turned around they were already after him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marty ran as fast as he could but his chasers, the man especially, were relentless. Marty might have had long legs but the man was faster, so the two cancelled each other out. As he weaved through street after street he began to realise that speed alone wasn't enough. If he was going to lose them he needed another tactic.

He passed St. Mary's Church—it looked like a bomb had gone off inside of it—and something suddenly occurred to him. This was Violetville. Sure, it was the wrong way around, not to mention dark and derelict, but it was still Violetville. He'd spent twelve, nearly thirteen years here. He knew this town, and he was willing to bet he knew it just as well as the man on his tail. Feeling a little more hopeful he took a right, went left at a junction and found himself at the back of an old meat factory. Just like at home, large bins lined the streets, and he threw himself into the first one he came across.

No sooner had he landed inside when he heard the man turn onto the street. His footsteps slowed and came to a halt. He swore. Marty tried to make himself as small as possible. It was already dark and if the man did happen to look in here maybe he'd mistake him for a bag of rubbish.

Marty's heart was beating so loudly he barely heard the man's footsteps start up again. The man began whistling, as if this was normal for him, as if this was what he got up to every night. Marty realised the man was walking in his direction and lost the ability to breathe.

The whistling drew closer. Marty closed his eyes. He tried to make himself still but couldn't. What would he do if the man found him? It was no use having long legs when there was nowhere to run.

The footsteps stopped. The man continued whistling, but soon that stopped too. Marty waited for the man to order him outside, or worse, to come in after him. Instead he heard one of the women calling out from far away.

"What the hell were you doing?" the man replied. The woman shouted something else, to which he said, "I don't care if you got tired. You don't stop running until I tell you to. I hope you're pleased with yourself—he escaped!"

The footsteps faded and slowly, ever so slowly, Marty opened his eyes. He could hardly believe his luck. He felt like a wire was uncoiling inside of him, a wire someone had been winding ever since he'd arrived in this place.

But he wasn't foolish enough to think he was safe just yet.

*

Marty might as well have been hiding in a coffin. It smelled like someone had died in here—it felt like it, too. Something was poking into the back of his legs, but it was too wide, too long, too large to be an animal. As much as he didn't want to think it, Marty had a feeling this was one of those places people come to die.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of hours since he'd arrived in this place, but already it felt like days. Had his dad realised he was missing yet? He'd always been a bit jumpy, but ever since Marty's mum moved to America with her new boyfriend he'd been getting more and more sensitive. Now Marty had gone too. What would he do when he found out? He would most definitely call the police, but then what? They wouldn't listen, which meant he would start looking for Marty himself. Marty didn't want to think about what might happen if his search brought him across the road to number three.

Marty did miss his mum, but he never needed to worry about her, mainly because she never really worried about him. When he was ten he wanted to dress as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle for Halloween, and she promised him she'd buy him the costume. But she got so wrapped up in her work—or at least that's what she said—she forgot all about it, and Marty had to make his costume out of cardboard instead. That wasn't even the worst of it. Earlier this year, just before she moved away, Marty got in trouble at school for snooping through a bully's bag after a girl's calculator was stolen. Marty found the calculator in the bag but in the end got the same punishment as the bully who stole it. Marty wanted her to make a formal complaint to the school (teachers never listen to children like they do their parents) but something came up at work and she never did.

When Marty's mum let everything drop, his dad was the one who came running—sometimes literally. Marty needed his dad, and his dad needed him, too.

Suddenly, Marty didn't care why Aileen and Agley had pushed him through the mirror. Sure, he'd found out what happened to Mr. Uncle's barbecue. He'd even discovered what his new neighbours were up to—well, sort of. But unlike the other mysteries he'd solved, this wasn't something he could abandon every night when he felt like watching TV. He'd barely escaped the skeletal-faced man and his henchwomen, and if he didn't get moving soon they might come back for him.

He closed his eyes, something he always did when thinking really hard about something. Slowly, the bathroom at number three pieced itself together in his mind. He saw the mirror, and in it, himself, Aileen and Agley. As the scuffle replayed itself he tried to spot something he might have missed; any clue as to how he could get home again. But it was useless. As is usually the case in these situations, it all happened incredibly fast. His memory of those fervent few seconds was a bit of a blur, and like a dream became blurrier still the harder he thought about them.

Marty kept thinking—not because he thought he'd find something, but because he had to. He rewound his mental tape until he was standing in the living room again. He watched Agley advancing on Aileen's command, himself running for the window, Agley catching him and dragging him back inside. He saw the pair carrying him through the house, pulling him into the bathroom and plonking him in front of the mirror.

Then he saw Agley checking his watch.

His breath caught in his throat. That was it. That was his clue. If Marty's previous investigations had taught him anything, it's that the most important details are usually hiding in just that—the details. Before the mirror had started dissolving, Agley had checked his watch. Like he'd been waiting for it to happen. No, not waiting—expecting. Marty's neighbours had no control over when the mirror dissolved, but they knew when it would. It had happened before—after all, how else could Mr. Uncle's reflection have made it through? And it would happen again. It had to. Marty just needed to make sure he was there when it did.

*

The return trip to Wycherly Terrace took him about twice as long as he would have liked. He didn't encounter anybody else, but his run-in with the skeletal-faced man had left him almost as jumpy as his dad. When he finally made it back he discovered something he hadn't been expecting.

The door of number three. It was open.

Try as he might he couldn't quite remember whether or not he'd left it open on his way out. But he'd wasted too much time already. For all he knew, the mirror was dissolving right this very second. This thought alone fuelled him onwards, and soon he was stepping back—albeit slowly—into the living room. He waited for some sign of another presence within the house, but heard nothing and so headed for the corridor. He felt around for his torch but decided not to use it. If someone was inside, he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. It had taken a while, but his brain was finally beginning to understand this whole backwards thing, and before very long he was climbing the staircase, using the banister as a guide. On the landing he spotted the same room where all the equipment had been and felt a sudden surge of excitement. But it was empty and so, dejected, he carried on towards the bathroom.

Marty tried to imagine what would happen when he went back through the mirror. He was sure about one thing: Aileen and Agley would be waiting for him. Would they be impressed he had survived and start running tests with that strange equipment of theirs? Or would they be mad? And what about his dad? How could Marty even begin to explain where he'd disappeared to? Oh sorry Dad, I was just over at Aileen and Agley's house enjoying a nice cup of tea. Why did it take four hours, you say? Well it was a big cup of tea, Dad. Marty knew plenty of trouble was waiting for him on the other side of the mirror, but he didn't care. He didn't care if Aileen and Agley grabbed him and tried to push him back through again. He didn't care if his dad screamed so loudly he went permanently deaf and had to start wearing a hearing aid. At least he'd be home again. That was all that mattered now.

Marty stopped at the bathroom doorway and for a moment the light dazzled him. Squinting, the room gradually faded into view. He saw the grimy tiles, the putrid toilet, the dirty sink. And on the floor, in the middle of it all, the mirror, broken into hundreds and hundreds of pieces.

A slippery, slimy fistful of disappointment settled in Marty's stomach. It was like being at the front of a marathon but tripping over your shoelace a metre from the finish line. He knew then and there he would never see his parents, the Uncles—hell, even Aileen and Agley—ever again.

"What happened here?" said a familiar voice from behind him, and Marty felt the disappointment in his stomach turn to dread.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mr. Blume looked up from the shards of mirror and smiled. Marty stared—he'd never seen that face make that expression before.

"I didn't frighten yeh, did I?"

"Mr—Mr. Blume!" As soon as Marty said it he realised his mistake. There was no guarantee this man knew anything about his doppelgänger. As it turned out he was right.

"Do I know yeh?"

"I—no! What are you doing here? Were you following me?"

"Nail on deh head," Mr. Blume chuckled, and Marty stared harder still.

"But why?"

"I noticed yeh weren't wearin' one've me roses." He pointed to the one pinned to his jacket. "Well it was Lissa dat spotted it. She doesn't miss a trick, I tell yeh. Anyway, dat got me interest. Den yeh started followin' me. Dat really got me interest. So I said I might as well follow yeh too, yeh know?"

"You saw me? You saw me following you?" Marty couldn't believe it. Not once had they turned around—he was sure of it.

"Lissa did." He chuckled again. It sounded so incredibly odd. "I never told her I'd come after yeh though. It's bad enough I'm outside, let alone her as well. Which reminds me, what're yeh doin' here? Didn't yer parents tell yeh what happens after curfew?"

Something about the way he said the word 'curfew' made Marty feel uneasy. "Why? What happens?" Surely it couldn't be any worse than what had happened to him so far? But before he could find out he heard something infinitely worse than any sound his history teacher could ever make.

He heard the front door slamming shut.

"We've got a visitor." Mr. Blume crossed the hallway, opened the door opposite and turned around. "If yeh fancy gettin' yourself torn asunder feel free teh stay put. Otherwise I'd advise yeh teh follow me."

Marty knew it was a bad idea to follow a strange man into a dark room. But he'd nearly lost his life once tonight. He wanted to wait at least a couple of days before nearly losing it again.

The room was large and cobwebby. On the back wall a window let in a pathetic amount of light. Marty flattened his ear against the door but couldn't hear anything on the other side.

"Are you sure there's someone out there? Maybe it was just a gust of wind."

"I really hope not."

When Marty tried to ask what exactly he meant by this Mr. Blume pressed a finger to his lips. Marty didn't understand. What could be so scary about a gust of wind?

Just then he heard a faint whistling. He looked at Mr. Blume, confused as to why he was making noise just seconds after he'd told him not to. But it wasn't coming from him, and a second later it transformed into an incredible gale, like a small hurricane was racing down the hallway towards them. It was as if the world had read Marty's mind and was now doing its best to prove him wrong.

"Look! Right dare!" said Mr. Blume, pointing at the gap at the bottom of the door.

Marty backed away just as dirty black smoke started billowing underneath the door. Unlike regular smoke it moved with intent, and in a matter of seconds a giant streak of blackness hung in front of the door, twisting and turning and chasing its own tail.

"What is that?!"

"Dat, me friend, is a stranger." Mr. Blume turned around and drove his elbow right through the window. The glass shattered on impact and crashed down below.

"Go on," he said. Marty could barely make out his face, but what he did see was something he'd never, ever seen in his history teacher. Something like...concern.

"Go on, will yeh!" Mr. Blume shouted, and this time Marty obliged. But as he was climbing out of the window something dawned on him.

"Wait a minute. We're on the first floor!"

"Believe me, yeh'll be a lot better off down dare dan yeh will up here."

Marty threw his legs outside, but rather than jumping off right away he grabbed hold of the window frame and swung himself around. As he looked back inside the smoke collapsed in on itself and exploded back out again, finally fading away to reveal a figure, tall and broad and human in every possible way.

Except it had no face.

It wore a black trench coat and bowler, and in between, where its eyes, nose and mouth should have been, was a blank patch of flesh. The thing couldn't see, but it didn't need to: no sooner had it formed when it marched towards Mr. Blume. It raised its arms, and instead of hands Marty saw two tendrils of smoke. They shot from its sleeves like pouncing snakes and Mr. Blume ducked, barely avoiding them.

"Jump, I said!" he yelled as he dodged a second attack. "Even if it gets me it can still come back for you!"

Marty tore his eyes from the scene and stared into the abyss beneath him. He took a deep breath, bent his knees and braced himself for the leap into nothingness.

But he couldn't do it. Aileen said reflections were evil, only the Mr. Blume from home had never let him use the toilet, let alone try to save his life. If anything, he was the evil one. Sure, Marty had known this Mr. Blume for all of five minutes, but he'd already decided he much preferred this one.

"Why aren't"—his teacher's double ducked under the stranger's arm and ran for the door, but the stranger beat him to it—"yeh jumpin'?"

"I can't leave you here! I want to help!"

"Dat's all well and good, but I don't tink yeh can!" The man had a point—the stranger was closing in again.

But as Mr. Blume dodged the creature a third time Marty got an idea. He lowered himself back onto the window sill and dropped into the room, making sure to stamp his feet as hard as he could. It worked: the stranger turned to face him. Mr. Blume took his chance, flinging open the door and backing into the hallway. Marty reached for the window, but as he pulled himself out again the creature changed its mind and went after Mr. Blume instead.

Marty jumped back inside and raced after it.

*

The living room was deserted. The front yard was empty, too. Marty noticed a spec of white in the mud and realised it was Mr. Blume's rose. Covered in goose pimples again he scanned the driveway and there, at the far end, saw the dirty mess of smoke. But whoever it was chasing he couldn't see: Mr. Blume had vanished. Without stopping to think what all of this meant, he grabbed the rose—together with a fistful of mud—and took off down the driveway.

He made it to the end just in time to see the smoke leave Wycherly Terrace. But rather than turning left for town, it turned right. As far as Marty remembered the only thing in this direction was a connection to a main road and a turn-off for the river than ran along this side of town.

As he chased the smoke along the barren road he noticed it appeared to be fighting with itself. While most of it was intent on carrying onwards, part of it, somewhere deep inside, was just as intent on staying put. By the time it took the turn-off it was beginning to slow down, and Marty was catching up.

He noticed something else, too. The groaning, which he'd been doing his best to tune out, had fought its way back into his head. It was getting louder, and as the river came into view he started to make out individual voices.

The smoke finally came to a stop in the middle of a tiny footbridge that arched over the river below. It was convulsing more than ever now. It pulled apart one more time and there, suspended deep within it, was Mr. Blume.

For a single terrifying moment, Marty thought he was dead. His mouth hung open and his skin had taken on that familiar grey tinge. Mr. Blume was staring right at him—no, through him—to some far-flung point in the distance. But he was struggling. Tendrils of smoke were coiling around his neck, arms and legs, but he was fighting against them. And yet the stranger was too powerful. It carried him towards the railing and pitched him over the side until nothing but thin air separated him from the water below.

Marty laughed. He laughed like he did at a cat video on YouTube. He laughed like he did at Cadet Larvell Jones in the Police Academy movies. He laughed like any twelve year old kid would, like he was happy and care-free, like the biggest problem in his life was getting his homework done before school the next day.

The smoke recoiled. The tendrils unravelled and, to his absolute horror, dropped Mr. Blume over the side of the bridge. Before Marty could even begin to react it transformed once again into the faceless figure.

Marty never knew why he didn't run. He wanted to, he dearly wanted to, but couldn't. Some part of his mind kept his feet firmly bolted to the ground as the creature marched back across the bridge. It lifted its arms and Marty saw the tendrils of smoke again.

Suddenly it stopped. It was like an invisible barrier was blocking its path. The stranger lifted a booted foot off the ground and tried to step forwards, but something forced it back again. It waited, and even though it had no facial features Marty could tell it was studying him. A moment passed, then smoke shot from its arms and legs, encompassing the creature as it reverted back to smoke. It blew back across the bridge and was gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Marty was halfway through a sigh of relief when he remembered Mr. Blume. He ran across the bridge and leaned over the railing and finally understood where the groaning was coming from.

He couldn't see any water. The surface, far below, was comprised solely of people, all writhing this way and that, clambering over each other in a never-ending bid to escape. The smell was vile, and while he had never before smelt anything like it, he knew at once it was the smell of death.

His eyes fell on a girl directly below him. She had deep cuts on her face and a large chunk of hair missing. She was crouching on the stomach of an overweight man. Two others restrained his arms and legs as the girl ripped his shirt open and tore into his flesh with her bare hands. She laughed as the man screamed, and then her accomplices joined in. It was only then that Marty recognised her as Alana Adams, one of the teacher's pets at school. She was a teacher's pet, not because she was smart, but because she eavesdropped on the smart kids.

It was the most disgusting thing Marty had ever witnessed. And yet he couldn't look away.

Alana was helping herself to the man's intestines when something obscured Marty view. There, hanging off the side of the bridge, was Mr. Blume. He'd been there the whole time. Somehow, he'd managed to grab hold of the bridge when the stranger dropped him. He looked worse than ever now: more like the people Marty had seen wandering around in circles than the man handing out the roses.

The roses.

Marty pulled the muddy rose from his fingers, reached through the railing and pushed it into Mr. Blume's collar. The effect was instantaneous: the greyness started to leave his face and recognition returned to his eyes.

Marty leaned over the railing again, this time averting his eyes from the scene below. He grabbed Mr. Blume by the wrists and pulled as hard as he could. He knew he wasn't strong enough but he wasn't about to let him fall, so he pushed against the railing and leaned backwards. It took a while, but eventually Mr. Blume was up, over and toppling onto the bridge.

"Nice teh see yeh," he said when he'd properly recovered. This time Marty was happy to see him smile.

*

"What was that?" Marty asked as soon as he could hear himself speak again. He pointed back towards the river, but really he was talking about everything: the stranger, the roses, the people who acted like their brains had been replaced with cabbages.

"Dat," said Mr. Blume, "is deh River Of No Remorse. It's where deh strangers dump yeh if dey catch yeh outside after curfew."

"Why?"

"I don't tink dey need a reason. It's just what dey do."

"Don't they feed them?" Marty was still thinking about the man's entrails and how his classmate's reflection had feasted on them without so much as a second thought.

"Afraid not. And as yeh might've seen for yerself, deh people get so hungry dey end up eatin' each other. It's not a very nice ting teh watch. And even deh ones able teh look after demselves never last too long. Deh river's swarmin' with disease. As a matter a fact, it's a good ting we got movin' so quickly. If yer not careful around dare yeh'll catch deh plague."

They were walking back in the direction of town. Marty didn't ask where they were headed—he had far more pressing questions to ask.

"But if there's no water in it, why do you call it a river?"

"Force've habit. When deh dark came it dried up, outa the blue, just like dat. For a little while it was empty, den a few years ago deh strangers started throwin' people in dare."

"You mean this place used to be normal?"

Mr. Blume gave him that look again. "Where did yeh say yer from again?"

Marty managed to look away before he felt the need to shudder. "I didn't. I'm from out of town."

"Right, and what town would dat be now?"

"A small one. Really small. And it's far away, too, so I doubt you've heard of it. You were saying?"

"I was saying," said Mr. Blume, but he sounded confused.

Sometime around his tenth birthday Marty had perfected his own lying technique. He'd spent a while trying out the other variations on offer—such as only telling white lies or twisting the truth just the right amount—before coming up with his own version. It involved saying something vague, then quickly changing the topic before the liee realised they were being lied to. It was by no means a hard and fast rule; some adults were just too stubborn to be fooled. He was surprised it worked on this Mr. Blume, especially considering it had never worked on his doppelgänger.

"One day, it was normal," Mr. Blume carried on. "Violetville was a nice place teh live. It was deh sort've town where everybody was on good terms with dare neighbours, deh sort've town where nobody'd see anybody else go hungry. Den, nearly thirteen odd years ago, I woke up one Sunday mornin' and deh sun hadn't come up. It was like it'd gotten as far as sunrise, decided it was sick've risin' every mornin' and stayed put.

"In the space've a few days everyone started goin' nuts. Children stopped goin' teh school, dare parents stopped goin' teh work... Everyone just stopped doin' tings. It was so unusual. At first I thought people were just too scared teh leave dare houses on account've it bein' a bit dark, but den I saw what happened deh ones dat did."

Marty didn't need to ask what he meant. He'd seen it for himself just a few minutes ago.

"But what causes it then? What causes people to turn like that?"

"Deh dark. It's sort've like poison. It gets in yer mouth, in yer blood. It gets in yer soul. And as soon as dat happens, well, dat's it really. Yer a goner. Dat's unless deh strangers get yeh first, 've course."

"What about the roses then? Are they the cure?"

Mr. Blume laughed. "If only. Dare deh next best ting. Dey prevent it. As long as yeh keep a fresh rose on yeh, deh dark can't touch yeh. Which reminds me, what's yer secret? How do yeh manage it?"

"Manage it?"

"Teh stay untainted. Without a flower, I mean. I've never seen it done before. It doesn't bode well for business, if yeh get me."

"Yeah, we really should discuss that at some point. So where exactly do you live then?"

*

"You might've wondered where I'd gone teh when yeh were followin' me earlier," said Mr. Blume as they turned onto Worran Street.

Marty didn't say anything. Now that he knew what it was like to be followed he felt a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.

"It's sort've important people don't know where I live. People tend teh get a bit crazy about me roses. A few, such as yerself, know I live on Worran street, but almost nobody knows exactly where."

Marty didn't know what to expect (maybe a trick of the eye or even some sort of elaborate rope and pulley system) but was a bit disappointed when Mr. Blume led him into the basement of a building halfway down the street.

After he undid a dozen or so locks—at least that's what it sounded like; Marty couldn't see much down here—Mr. Blume guided him down even more steps, until finally he was standing in a room so black he might have went blind and wouldn't have had the faintest idea.

He heard Mr. Blume fumble with something and a light exploded into life. Marty's eyes burned. He looked away and, when they had adjusted, back again.

The basement was tiny, and made smaller still by the dozens of cardboard boxes surrounding the perimeter.

"Dis way." Mr. Blume led the way up a spiral staircase. The floor above was just as tiny as the basement. It, too, was overcrowded. One wall was stuffed from floor to ceiling with books, all of which appeared to deal with horticulture. There were so many that another large pile had built up on the floor. There was also a foldout table and two chairs, a lounger; even a miniature kitchen.

"Lissa calls it cramped. I call it comfortable."

"Oh don't be silly, Victor. You know I can't get enough of this pl—"

At that moment Lissa's face popped up from behind the pile of books. Marty stared, a little alarmed at her sudden appearance. Lissa stared back. Slowly, her head tilted to one side.

"I'd like yeh teh meet our new guest, ahh... Sorry, I never thought teh ask yeh yer name."

Marty hesitated, but he couldn't see the point in fake naming them. He was quite literally a world away from home. Was there really any point in trying to hide?

"It's Marty White."

Mr. Blume gave his hand a hearty shake. "Lovely teh meet yeh, Marty White! Yeh must be starvin' after all dat. Will yeh have somethin' teh eat?"

It suddenly occurred to Marty he hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. "That sounds good, thank you."

"Great! Lissa? Can yeh make Marty up a bowl've rice? And maybe some beans?"

Lissa didn't move. She looked appalled, like Mr. Blume had just insulted her.

"Lissa?"

"Victor, I thought we agreed I wouldn't have to do that sort of thing anymore."

"I know, I know. But we've a guest. Can't yeh do it just dis once?"

"He's made it this far. Surely he can cook himself something, too? Or is he injured? I don't see any casts, or crutches, or—"

"Ah will yeh just do it? I've teh keep an eye on deh roses, Lissa. Yeh know dat."

Lissa forced a smile but it didn't have the desired effect: combined with her head tilt, she looked crazy, not happy. "Of course. No problem at all. It can be his welcoming gift."

Marty stared after Mr. Blume as he climbed the staircase; he didn't want to say anything, but he really didn't want to be left alone with this girl.

Lissa made as much noise as possible as she prepared his food. No sooner had she dropped the bowl in front of him when she vanished upstairs, like the food was a bomb and she was evacuating before it went off. Marty looked down at the cold concoction and wondered if she might have put something in it. But he was so hungry he couldn't help giving it a try, and to his relief it wasn't that bad.

Just as he was cornering the last few beans with his fork, Mr. Blume came back downstairs.

"When yer ready will yeh follow me upstairs? I want teh show yeh sometin'."

The staircase spiralled through a bedroom, a bathroom and finally up to the attic.

Marty's mouth opened so wide his dentist might have asked him to do it. "You grow them here?"

It was amazing. Unlike the rest of the house the attic was huge. Mr. Blume had obviously knocked through to the attics of the neighbouring houses. Benches ran from one end of the room to the other and were stacked high with pearly white roses. Above them, hanging high from the rafters, were rows and rows of florescent lights. The walls were lined with pruning shears and other various tools, watering cans, vases and baskets. Lissa stood in a corner, carefully shovelling soil into a large pot.

Marty followed Mr. Blume down to the other end of the room, where more roses were stacked neatly behind thick panes of glass. "Dis is deh fridge," he said with an air of pride. "It's our backup plan in case somethin' happens to deh rest've deh flowers. As long as we keep deh roses at deh right temperature dey can live for weeks."

"How did you discover their power?"

"By complete and utter fluke. I used teh own a florists in town. When deh dark came deh white rose was deh only flower dat didn't give up and die. I'd 've lost deh business if I hadn't realised what it could do."

"But isn't it dangerous handing them out like you do? What if the strangers found out?"

"It's funny yeh should say dat. I tink dey might be catchin' on. A few of me customers've been disappearin' as've late."

"And you still do it?"

"I suppose most people'd rather take dare chances holdin' onta a flower dan lettin' the dark taint dem."

Marty nodded. He couldn't deny he would do the same thing under the circumstances.

*

Following his tour of the attic Mr. Blume showed Marty to the bedroom. There were two beds but they'd been pushed together to create one big one.

"Where does Lissa sleep?"

"She takes deh bed. I sleep on deh floor. But dat's not goin' teh work now. C'mon, give me a hand."

"Won't Lissa mind?" Marty said as he helped pull the beds apart.

"Why would she? Did she say somethin' to yeh?"

"Not exactly."

"She'll come around eventually. Just give it time."

"Uh...Mr. Blume?"

"Victor. What is it?"

"Thanks for letting me stay."

"No worries, lad."

That was the second time tonight Marty had almost told him. He'd almost told him during supper, too. At some point after discovering the mirror lying broken on that bathroom floor, Marty had finally accepted that this was one case he couldn't solve on his own. If he had any chance of seeing his side of the mirror again he was going to have to tell someone what happened. And it couldn't just be anybody. It had to be somebody he could trust. Was that somebody Victor? All right, he was nothing like Marty's history teacher—as far as he could tell, anyway—but Marty was pretty sure he was as capable as anyone of thinking he was totally bonkers. And who was to say Victor would help him, anyway? He'd already asked about why Marty didn't need a rose. He must not have witnessed what happened with the stranger, but chances are it would happen again. Marty was a skilled liar, but lying only gets you so far. Sometimes, honesty is forced upon you whether you like it or not.

If Marty was ever going to get back home again he needed Victor's help. But before he could get it he needed to make sure Victor would actually help him. Until then he wasn't going anywhere.

Marty was in bed by the time Lissa finally retired to the bedroom. He had his back to her, but by her many tuts and sighs he could tell she wasn't too impressed with this new sleeping arrangement. She spent a few minutes loudly flicking through the pages of a book before suddenly snapping it shut.

"I know what you're up to," she said.

Marty didn't say anything.

"You may think you can fool Victor, but your little tricks won't work on me."

Marty still didn't say anything.

"Well? Aren't you going to defend yourself?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ha!" she said, as if he'd inadvertently told her everything. "I know you're not from out of town. I know you weren't wearing a rose when I saw you today. I know you're up to something, and I'm going to find out what it is."

Great, he thought. Just what I need—someone too stubborn to be fooled.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Now, yer free teh look as sad or as angry as yeh like," Victor said as he led the way to the basement. "Just make sure yeh don't look too happy. If dare's one way teh draw attention teh yourself, it's dat."

Marty tried on his best frown but lost it almost immediately. He was exhausted. Every time he'd managed to fall asleep last night he'd had the same dream. He was standing in the bathroom of number three. In front of him, with their back turned, stood a person. The mirror was on the ground before them, and Marty watched helplessly from the doorway as they brought their foot down on it again and again, smashing it to pieces. He begged the person to stop but they never listened. When he tried to see who it was the person kept turning away, around and around until the scene became blurry, and then he was awake again, sweaty and frustrated.

Things hadn't exactly improved that morning. From the moment Marty got up, Lissa watched him. She watched him putting on his clothes and lacing up his shoes. She watched him climbing the stairs to the bathroom. She even watched him closing the bathroom door in her face. It became so unbearable that, when Victor asked over breakfast if he'd like to accompany him on some errands, Marty inhaled his cold porridge and followed him down to the basement. Besides, now that he was held up here (he refused point blank at using the word 'stuck'), he needed to keep his mind occupied. If he sat around all day thinking about his predicament it would most definitely drive him insane. Instead he would keep as busy as possible and be proactive about finding a way home.

Even if he didn't have the first clue where to begin.

Victor was unlocking the basement door when Lissa came bounding down from the living room. "Wait!" she said, pulling on a raincoat. "I want to come with you."

"Yeh do?" Victor said with a frown. "But yeh've always said me errands bore yeh."

She pointed to a large book tucked under her arm. "This is due back today. And really, I was just thinking; what if something bad was to happen to Marty? We need to watch out for him. Both of us."

"Right." Victor still sounded unsure. "Come on den, I guess."

As soon as he turned to leave Lissa's eyes narrowed. I'm watching you, she mouthed, then followed Victor outside.

Town was crowded. If possible, people were in even more of a hurry than they'd been yesterday. Marty noticed more crows perched on drainpipes, and just like last time he could swear their beady eyes followed him as he walked down the street.

"Deh sane ones know it's a bad idea teh spend very long outdoors," Victor explained. "Deh dark is everywhere, but out here is where it's strongest."

As they carried on Marty spotted people he recognised: Mr. Gregorson, who at home managed his dad's favourite whole foods store ("Only natural, organically-grown food is free from human-killing preservatives, pesticides, and heaven knows what else," he would say); Mrs. Quirke, Marty's kid-loving, the-glass-is-so-full-it's-practically-overflowing, somewhat oblivious school principal; and Emily Richardson, one of his fashion-obsessed faux-friends from school. But it was all too easy to forget that while these people looked exactly like the ones he knew, on this side of the mirror at least, they were completely different people. For example, Mr. Gregorson's reflection wasn't a shopkeeper but a shameless thief (Marty saw him snag three women's handbags before promptly running away, laughing as he went); from the way Principal Quirke recoiled at him it was quite clear she didn't love children but loathed them; and Emily Richardson's reflection was dressed in the sort of outfit that would make the other Emily Richardson scream.

They were turning a corner when a small woman came out of nowhere and walked straight into Victor. She splayed backwards onto the ground and looked like she might cry, but when she saw him looking down at her she leaped onto her feet quicker than she'd left them.

"Mr. Blume, sir! How are you! I was thinking about you only a few minutes ago!"

Victor smiled. "Hi Gusta, how're yeh keepin'? Really, dare's no need teh call me 'sir'. Victor is fine."

Marty recognised her, too: it was the red cheeked, white haired woman from yesterday. But unlike the fresh rose she'd been carrying then, the one in her hands now looked like a very small, very useless piece of kindling.

"Okay, Mr. Blume, I mean, Victor, sir. I was just wondering, if it's not too much trouble, if you happen to have any to spare roses. You see I got into a sort of accident last night. It's a funny story, really, if you'd like to hear it."

"Yer grand." Victor opened his jacket. A single extra rose was attached to the inside, which he pulled off and gave to her. It was almost like he knew this was going to happen. "But dat's all I can give yeh until next week, all right? I mean dat, now."

Gusta didn't even thank him: as soon as the rose touched her fingers she snapped it from his hand and disappeared as quickly as she'd come.

"You know, I'm really getting sick of her doing that," said Lissa. "How can one person have that many accidents?"

"She's probably tradin' dem. For food, clothin', dat sort've ting. I really wish she wouldn't, it's not like she could survive very long without one."

"How long do they last?" Marty asked.

"Not very long. The dark affects dem, too. Makes dem wilt faster than normal. I ask people teh keep dares in water when dare home and most people do. But some, like Gusta, are a bit careless. I suppose she knows I'd never let her go without, regardless of how many I've left back at the Rose. I just fear for the day when she doesn't run inteh me like that."

First on the list of errands—according to Lissa at least—was the library. Marty was looking forward to their visit. At home, he spent a couple of hours there every day doing his homework...or so he'd led his dad to believe. Usually, he spent most of his time there either 1) reading about real-life adventurers in the non-fiction section, 2) attempting to decipher the abstract art on the walls (he was disappointed, when he was nine, to learn that scratching your chin while making a series of 'hmmm' noises doesn't really help) or 3) trying, and failing, to actually get his homework done.

But instead of turning for Violetville Town Library, Lissa turned the other way, leading them deeper into Old Town.

"Wait a minute," Marty said, looking behind him. "This isn't right."

"Deh old one was set on fire by some teenagers a few months back," said Victor. "When I saw what was happenin' I rounded up some regulars and we saved what we could. Mind, it took a little while teh convince Bermuda teh relocate. She really doesn't like change."

"Did you say Bermuda? Bermuda Uncle?"

"Right. She's deh head librarian. I take it yeh know her?"

"Uh..." Marty could have sworn he saw Lissa's ears twitch. "No—you know what, I don't think I do."

He had been a little apprehensive about coming to town today, but he didn't get the same weird look he'd gotten the day before. Soon he realised why: everyone was much too busy noticing Victor. Every second person they passed gave him a subtle wink or nod, like they were all part of some secret society.

"This is crazy," said Marty after an alarmingly tall teenager bowed at Victor. "It's like you're a celebrity."

"I suppose I've made a few acquaintances over deh years."

"And all of them rely on you to survive?"

"It sounds a bit odd when yeh say it like dat. I didn't choose dis job, Marty. Teh be honest, I don't tink anyone would."

A couple of minutes later Lissa disappeared into a dusty old pub.

"I thought we were going to a library?"

"Yer looking at it."

Marty didn't need to say anything; the look on his face made Victor smile all by itself. "It does seem a bit strange, I know. But it actually makes good sense. Our alcohol supply didn't last very long after deh sun went down. Yeh know, sometimes I tink dat might be partly teh blame for what's happened since."

The inside was overrun with books. They were stacked everywhere: on tables, counters, even on the floor. Reading lamps were perched alongside the books, lighting a narrow, winding path into the room.

Lissa followed a sign for the returns desk.

"I've bin meanin' teh catch up on me readin'," said Victor, and to Marty's surprise, he picked up a chick lit novel. "How about we meet back here in ten minutes?"

"Sure," said Marty, setting off in search of the non-fiction section. He took a left at a table of cookery books and veered right passed several stacks of adult crime novels. There was a whole section dedicated to teen romance, and a whole other section dedicated to teen romance featuring vampires and/or werewolves.

The people here acted strange, but in an entirely different way to how they did outside. He came across two middle-aged women buried deep in the science section, whispering frantically to one another as they flipped through what looked like a book about the solar system. When they saw him approaching they dropped the book, leaped apart and ignored one another—until he carried on, at which point he heard them begin whispering again.

Next he saw a man dressed entirely in maroon. His jacket was maroon, his pants were maroon; even the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face was maroon. The only things not maroon were his sunglasses, but then those were odd all by themselves: who wears sunglasses in a library? The man saw Marty watching him and turned away, quickly vanishing into the sports section.

Marty was somewhere between stalagmites and stalactites when he heard a buzzing over his head. Looking up he saw a speaker hanging from the ceiling. "Attention visitors," a voice announced. It sounded like Bermuda Uncle might if she'd drank a dozen espressos. "As you should be well aware of by now books in this library are sorted first by section second by sub-section third by sub-sub-section and fourth alphabetically by author."

She paused, took a deep breath and kept going. "A number of days ago a member of staff informed me that some of you are having trouble understanding this system. After intense deliberation I can only conclude your problems surround the alphabet and as such I will now explain how the alphabet works. The first letter of the alphabet is 'A' for example this is a wonderful library. The second letter and my absolute favourite is 'B' as in Head Librarian Bermuda Uncle."

This went on for a while. By the time she reached 'F' Marty finally found the non-fiction section, but before he could pick out a book he noticed a woman walking in his direction, her mouth moving in perfect sync with the voice coming from the speakers. She was dressed in a pale blue suit and her hair was pulled back so tightly it might very well have been glued to her head. Her eyes were bright red, as if she'd just finished crying her eyes out.

"Let me see," she said, coming to an abrupt stop and looking Marty up and down. "Greek and Roman mythology with an unabridged passion for nineteenth century literature." She winked. Marty stared.

Just then Victor appeared at Marty's side. "Ah, dare yeh are. Bermuda, dis here is Marty, me new guest."

"Wonderful," she replied, and proceeded to burst into tears. Victor put a hand on her shoulder but she shook it off. "I'm sorry I'm sorry. I've been a tad demented over the past few days. You see it's my Bernie. He's vanished. Disappeared. Evaporated. They're saying the strangers took him."

"Ah Bermuda, I'm so sorry." Victor's hand was now hovering over her back.

"Things were horrible enough what with moving into this place. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be organised when you don't even have shelves? How my staff function is beyond me. Since Bernie's gone I think I'm going insane Victor I really think I'm going insane."

"Is dare any way I can help? Don't tell me yer still sleepin' here."

"I appreciate the offer Victor I do but it's fine. I have a business to run. A cramped disorganised slightly charred business but a business nonetheless."

"Right, if yer sure, I suppose. But if dare's anythin' I can do please let me know."

Marty watched Bermuda disappear between two stacks of encyclopedias.

"C'mon, we'd better go. Lissa is waitin' for us." Victor turned left, frowned, then right. "Hold on. Do yeh know which way we came in again?"

*

Lissa was standing by the exit with her arms folded. "What happened? Did you get lost or something?" she said, leading the way outside.

Marty stopped. He couldn't leave Bermuda like that. Out of anyone, she deserved to know the truth.

"Victor?" He grabbed the first book he saw. "I need to put this back. Can you wait here? I'll only be a minute."

"Grand, take yer time."

Marty dashed back through the library. He found Bermuda in the teen romance featuring vampires and/or werewolves section.

"Excuse me, Bermuda?"

Her cheeks were still wet from the tears. "Yes dear?"

"There's just something I wanted to tell you. Your husband is safe. He's not in the river. I'm not sure where he is, but he's okay."

Bermuda sniffled. "How can you know?"

"Uh, it's just this feeling I have. A strong feeling. You'll see Bernie again, I know you will."

"You're very kind even if I don't have much time for such notions. I hope you're right that's all I'll say. Now go along I think your friend is getting impatient."

"My friend?"

"Behind you. It's Lissa isn't it?"

"Yes ma'am. But we're not friends. I don't make friends with liars."

He turned around. Lissa was standing there with her arms folded. Beside her, Victor was frowning.

Marty could almost feel the honesty being squeezed out of him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

For a moment Marty considered lying again. But he knew it was a bad idea: the longer he lied to them, the harder it would be when he eventually came clean. He waited until they were back in the Rose, asked them to sit at the kitchen table and proceeded to tell them everything: about Aileen and Agley, about Mr. Uncle's (except not really Mr. Uncle's) kidnapping, about the investigation which had led to his unexpected trip from that world to this one. As he talked, Lissa's expression kept changing, from suspicion to surprise to shock. Victor's, on the other hand, hadn't changed much since they'd left the library.

"You're lying again," Lissa said as soon as he'd finished. "Victor, I think there's something seriously wrong with him."

"I believe him."

Marty stared. He couldn't decide if Victor had actually spoken or his mind had made it up.

"You what?" said Lissa slowly.

"I said I believe him. I knew he isn't from dis world." This time, Marty saw his lips move. He said it. He actually said it.

Lissa stood up. "You knew?!"

"Of course I did. Marty, dis may come as a bit've a shock to yeh, but yer not deh first person teh come through dat mirror. Last year, a couple've girls arrived here. But dey weren't like you. Dey were weak, couldn't handle deh dark at all. Dey wilted and died, much quicker dan anybody else. Somethin' about dis place just didn't agree with dem. I would've told yeh sooner, only when I did it last time it didn't exactly help the situation. For some reason dey were sure I was out teh get dem."

"I can't believe you knew," Lissa said. "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"What does it matter?"

"We gave him shelter, food and safety, and all along he was what—some sort of alien?!"

"Lissa, since when do we need a reason teh help people? Out've anyone I tink you can understand dat."

All of a sudden Lissa's face went bright red. It was like her rebuttal had gotten stuck halfway up her throat. Her eyes bulged and for a few seconds she looked like she might explode. Then she turned around and stomped her way upstairs.

"Did I miss something?" said Marty once she'd gone.

Victor looked back at him. "I'm not sure I'm deh right person teh answer dat."

*

Over lunch, Marty told Victor more about his world. He figured the more Victor knew, the more likely he'd be able to do something to help him. Either way, he enjoyed talking about his side of the mirror again. He'd only been here for a day but it was nice to know he hadn't completely forgotten what home looked like.

Afterwards they went upstairs to the attic. Victor had to gather some roses for a delivery that afternoon; some people, like the elderly and disabled, weren't able to come to town to collect theirs. As he used his clippers to pick the freshest, largest roses, Marty went back over what had happened after he'd first landed in that bathroom. When he got to the part about the skeletal-faced man, Victor stopped him.

"Not Richard Mortimus?"

"You know him?"

"And his twin sisters, Carol and Gertrude."

"They're twins?!" Now that he thought about it, they did look equally ugly.

"Dey were good, too, till old Mortimus corrupted dem. Dey used teh run a bakery over in New Town. Was lovely. Dey even kept it up for a while after deh dark came."

"What happened to them?"

"Mortimus did. He's bin homeless for years, see. Carol and Gertrude did dare very best to help him, feed him, clothe him. But he robbed dem blind every chance he got. One day dey decided enough was enough and kicked him out. Dat was a big ting for dem to do—dare not the most courageous people in the world. But when deh dark came, tings turned nasty. Mortimus decided teh get his own back. He had deh place ransacked, left dem with nothin'. In deh end, he was all dey had left."

"What did he do to them?"

"You might've seen dey weren't wearin' roses."

Marty shook his head. He supposed he must have been a little too preoccupied by that bloody screwdriver to notice.

"Well, here's deh ting: he's tainted. His sisters, too."

Marty was confused. "But they can't have. Sure, they were nuts, but they were still in control of themselves."

"Mortimus did what most people'd never do. He didn't just let deh dark in—he welcomed it. Made his sisters do it, too. See, deh reason deh dark turns most people insane is because dey fight it. Dat's why dare lyin' on deh side've deh road, or wanderin' around in circles. Dare mind is so busy fightin' off deh dark it isn't able for anythin' else. But Mortimus, he treated it like an old friend. And yeh saw for yerself what dat did. If yeh ask me, yeh'd be better off in deh river." Victor brought the rose close to his face, inhaled deeply, shook his head and flung it into a compost bin.

"So how do you know him then?"

"He's tried teh ruin me business, too. Steal me baskets, break in here, dat sort've ting. Only he's never managed teh do it on his own—he's too weak. He might've control of his mind, but his body is wiltin' just like anybody else's. I heard he's bin tryin' teh make friends with the strangers, be dare ally or sometin'. But dat'll never work. Dey'd never work with a human. Dey hate us, probably more dan we hate dem."

Marty told Victor about his decision to wait by the mirror until it opened again, only to discover someone had broken it. "At first I thought it might have been Mortimus, but then I thought, why? What reason would he have to break it, you know?"

"I doubt even Morty'd want dat sort've bad luck. Honestly, I'd be shocked if he knew anythin' about yer side."

"Then who else could have done it? The strangers?"

"Not likely. I've never heard've deh strangers goin' after one person like dat. It's just not somethin' dey do."

"It's almost like... It's like now that I'm here, somebody doesn't want me going home again."

Victor looked up from the basket, which by now was almost filled with flowers. "Is it really dat important who broke it? Even if yeh did find out who did it, it's not like dey could help yeh put it back together again."

"But what else am I supposed to do? That mirror was my only way home."

"I don't know what teh tell yeh, Marty," Victor said, pulling a second basket towards him.

*

Marty watched a snowflake land on his shoulder. He looked into the sky and was startled to see that the faces had changed. No longer were they frozen in perpetual grimaces of agony. Right now they looked shocked, their eyes and mouths open in perfect circles.

"Are yeh sure yeh won't let us carry one've the baskets?" Victor called ahead, to where Lissa was half walking, half running down an increasingly steep hill.

"Quite sure!" Lissa yelled back. "Besides, this is our—our last recipient."

Ever since her and Victor's argument she had been on her best behaviour. She hadn't said a word to Marty all afternoon. And it had been a long afternoon. They had—well, Lissa had—delivered flowers to a total of forty seven houses. Or was it fifty seven? Marty wasn't sure; he'd lost count a couple of dozen houses ago.

By now he was straggling. Sure, he was tired, but there was more to it than that. He was keeping his distance, not from Lissa, but from Victor. He'd been so surprised at Victor's reaction, so relieved that he hadn't taken it badly. But really, what did it matter when he couldn't even do anything to help him? Marty had been convinced that if he just came clean to Victor, he'd be that much closer to getting home again. But Victor had made no effort at all, and now Marty was right back to where he'd been the moment that stupid mirror sealed itself. There was no use avoiding it any longer: he was stuck. At the very least, it felt nice having someone to blame.

The snow fell heavier the farther he went; by the time he reached the bottom, he was wading through two or three feet of it. Their last house, as far as he could tell, was actually an apartment complex. A central stairwell zigzagged its way passed three balconies, all of which were covered in more snow. It made everything seem brighter, even in the dark. He spotted Lissa and Victor halfway up the stairwell and followed them all the way to the topmost level.

"What about the people in the other apartments?" he said once he'd caught up.

"Deh others were abandoned years ago," Victor said. "It's bin snowin' here on and off ever since deh dark came. Deh Depression, dey call it. The Pink family are one've deh few who stayed—I hear even deh strangers don't come down here."

But when they reached the Pink's it became clear something was wrong. Lissa, as usual, reached the door first. She rapped her knuckles smartly on the door, which proceeded to creak, tip inwards and land on the floor with a deafening crash.

The apartment was in ruins. There were large dents in the walls and pieces of plasterboard littered the carpet. A small sofa, the only piece of furniture left in the room, was turned on its side, like someone had been hiding behind it. The light bulb hung low from the ceiling, as if someone had tried swinging from it and failed.

"They're gone," said Lissa, still standing in the doorway.

"Maybe not." Marty pointed at a door on one side of the room. Since his encounter with the stranger he'd made a point of checking the gaps under doors for peculiar activity. Here there was a narrow band of bright light.

Marty was disappointed to find it was nearly as cold in here as it was outside. He and Victor had almost reached the door when he realised Lissa wasn't behind him. He looked back to see her standing outside, too busy scowling at the fallen door to notice the snow piling up on her head and shoulders. But there was something else, something hidden beneath the scowl, and if Marty didn't know better he might have been sadness.

Victor kicked the door and it opened into a small bathroom.

Curled up in a bathtub, holding what looked like the leg of a chair in her hand, was a little girl. She screamed, scampered to her feet and slipped down in to the tub again. She had bushy blond hair that hung low over her eyes and was wearing faded red pyjamas. A wilting rose was poking out of one of her sleeves. She couldn't have been older than eight or nine.

"Stay back!" she warned, swinging the wooden leg back and forth. Her voice was a little deeper than Marty expected, and he realised it wasn't a girl after all.

"Sam, it's grand. It's Victor. Victor Blume."

This seemed to disarm him. The boy lowered his weapon and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Mr. Blume?"

"Yeh Sam, it's me. Where're yer grandparents?"

"The strangers. They took them and—and—" The rest was lost in a series of whimpers.

Victor, without speaking, crossed the bathroom and put his arm around the boy. Marty opened his mouth with the intention of consoling him but nothing came out. How do you comfort someone who has just lost their family? It's one of those things you could never possibly understand until it happens to you. But as Sam started to cry, Marty realised something: he had lost his parents. Maybe not in the same way, but they were still gone. They were on the other side of a mirror, a broken mirror, and there was no guarantee he'd ever see them again. But unlike Sam, who was clearly upset, Marty didn't know how he felt. Thinking about them now made him feel, not sad, but empty, like some part of him was missing; a part of him he hadn't even realised existed until this very moment. But he didn't like how it made him feel, and so did his best to push the thoughts away.

The decision to bring Sam back was unanimous. Even Lissa, to Marty's surprise, didn't kick up a fuss. She was quiet for most of the return journey and when Victor asked her to cook dinner that night she barely objected. Sam didn't say much, and it was only after he had eaten three whole bowls of rice that he began answering Victor's questions.

"They came last night," he said slowly. "I was asleep. They burst in through the front door and I woke up. Grandad said they were robbers. He said for me and Gran to stay in our room then he went out to check. We heard something outside and Gran made me get under my bed. I thought Grandad was fighting somebody. I thought he'd win. He's a boxer. I thought he'd beat them up. But then he started shouting. I wanted to go out and help him but Gran told me not to move. She said I'd be safe under the bed."

The boy took a deep breath. As his lungs emptied again he picked up his fork and started poking at the stray pieces of rice still left in his bowl.

"What happened then, Sam?" Marty said quietly.

"After a while Grandad stopped shouting. I thought that meant he won. I thought he got rid of them. But then he came back into our room and the strangers were with him. I only saw his feet but I knew he was different. They did something to him. I was so scared, but I remembered what Gran said. I didn't move. Gran started screaming, but then she stopped just like Grandad did. Grandad told her that they were going to take them somewhere. He said—"

"Yer grandad told her?" Victor asked far too loudly, his eyes wide. "Are yeh sure about dat Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Then he came over to my bed. I don't know how he knew I was under there, but he did. He bent down and pulled me out from under it. And that's when—"

When he stopped this time he looked at Marty, then quickly back at his bowl again.

"What's deh matter Sam? Go on, yeh can tell us."

Sam's cheeks reddened, like he was scared he'd get a scalding if he dared carry on.

"It's okay, Sam," Marty said quietly. "Really."

But the boy wouldn't speak. As a matter of fact, he said absolutely nothing for the rest of the night.

"I don't get it," Marty said after Victor had taken Sam upstairs to bed. "Why would the strangers take his grandparents, but leave him behind?"

Victor was washing his tools. "It's a strange one all right. It's not like a stranger teh take pity. Dey wouldn't've left Sam without good reason. I just can't tink what dat reason could be." He glanced back at the table, to where Marty was still sitting, and frowned. "Dat's funny. Did yeh see me pruning knife?"

*

Marty knew he wouldn't sleep that night. When Victor finally headed to bed he went upstairs to the attic. He had never much cared for flowers but now that he knew about their special abilities he couldn't help but be fascinated by them.

Lissa was standing by the refrigerator watering some seedlings.

"You were quiet today," Marty noted.

"I swear," she said with an air of superiority, "this place is becoming more and more like an orphanage every day. First you, now this little kid. What's next, the entire cast of Annie?"

Marty was outraged. "So what should we have done then? Left him there? Waited for somebody else to come along and save him? There's a reason nobody else does this job, Lissa. It's dangerous."

Lissa wasn't looking in Marty's direction but he still saw her rolling her eyes. "All I know is that if I was running this place, things would be different. For one thing, I wouldn't have saved you. Or that kid, for that matter."

"Well then I suppose it's lucky you're not."

"Maybe not yet, but someday. Someday I'll own this place, and then things will change."

"Oh? Victor said he'd leave the business to you?"

Lissa emptied the watering can and hung it back on the wall. Finally she looked at him. "Not in so many words. But who else is he going to leave it to? His family is dead. And you don't know the first thing about floristry."

Lissa's eyes travelled over Marty's shoulder. "Who said you could come up here?"

Marty turned around and saw Sam. Well, half of him—the other half was hidden by the doorway. The eye he could see was red. He'd been crying again.

"Sam?" he said. "What are you doing up? It's late. Maybe you should try and get some sleep."

Sam didn't nod. He didn't even move.

"Sam? Are you all right? Go to—"

"I'm real sorry I have to do this," he said, stepping into the room. Marty's eyes dropped to his other hand, and in it he saw a pruning tool—the same one, he guessed, that Victor had missed earlier. The boy must have snuck up here after Victor had taken him to bed.

"Go back to bed, Sam," he said, raising his voice. "Right now."

He'd barely finished when the boy raised the knife over his head and ran at him. Marty backed into Lissa who in turn backed into the fridge. He jumped aside just as Sam lunged and the knife grazed Lissa instead.

"Arrghh!" she screeched. "My leg! The little prick took a piece out of my leg!"

"He barely got you!" Marty shouted as he tried to grab Sam's arm. But the kid was too fast; he retreated then brought the knife around again, cutting the air and almost cutting Marty, too.

"Stop it, Sam! Stop it right now!" Marty yelled, nearly tripping over a bag of soil Lissa had left on the ground. He saw fear in the boy's eyes, but more than that, determination. He was going to hurt Marty and he didn't care what it took.

Sam lunged again and Marty leaped away, this time avoiding the soil. Flower pots came crashing to the ground.

"He's breaking things!" Lissa said, clutching her leg as she somehow managed to shuffle away. "Do you have any idea how hard those pots are to find?!"

"That's all you're worried about?!" Marty snapped back.

"He's eight, Marty! Eight!" She was now standing several feet behind them. "You're being overcome by an eight year old!"

"I don't see you doing anything to help!" Marty couldn't deny Sam was much younger than him, but the boy was fast. Obviously his grandad had taught him some combat.

This time, Marty made the first move. He jumped forwards and drove his foot into the boy's stomach; Sam waited until the last possible second and retreated, moved back in and tore the knife across Marty's chest.

Marty let out a low, guttural groan: it was like his entire torso had caught fire. He felt suddenly weak and stumbled backwards into the bench. More pots came crashing down but Lissa didn't say a word: even she could tell this was serious.

Sam lunged again but this time Marty was ready. His vision blurry, he snapped up a flower pot and flung it directly at his attacker's head. There was a loud thump!, the eight year old dropped the bloody knife and toppled backwards onto the floor. Marty took his chance and jumped on him. He grabbed the knife and flung it across the room.

"What's all dis commotion about?" Victor said, appearing in the doorway wearing a pair of striped green pyjamas. As he took in the scene his eyes gradually doubled in size. "Marty, what are yeh doing?! Get off dat boy!"

"He attacked me!" Marty said, but Victor was already hauling him off the floor. He groaned and his eyes watered even more.

"What?" said Victor, looking from Marty to Lissa to the boy.

Beneath them, Sam was stirring.

"I told you!" Marty yelled at the increasingly blurry figure before him. He wiped his sleeve across both eyes but his vision got only marginally better. "He attacked me!"

Sam was slowly dragging himself to his feet.

Victor stopped, ogling Marty's chest. "What did he—how did—"

"He stole your pruning knife." All of a sudden Sam was upright and sprinting out of the room.

"Lissa, stop him!" Marty shouted, but Lissa recoiled, letting the boy slip past.

Realising his mistake, Victor bolted after him. Marty followed, clutching his chest as he stumbled out of the room.

When he finally made it to the basement all he could see was a tall, greeny blur, and next to it, a greyish hole where the door had been opened.

"Tell me why yeh did it," Marty heard Victor saying, but it sounded too far away.

"I can't," Sam's voice echoed back, and Marty realised the boy was standing between Victor and the wall.

"They told me if I did they'd—they'd—"

"Who? Who're yeh talking about?"

Marty felt like his torso was about to split in two, like the upper half of his body was about to tear backwards and his guts were going to spill down the staircase into the basement below.

"Please," a distant, distant Victor said. "Just tell me."

"The—the strangers," said Sam, and it sounded like he was standing at the other end of the world's longest tunnel. "They made Grandad—they made him say—"

"C'mon Sam, yeh can do it."

"They said they'd kill him and Gran unless I killed Marty White."

"I torld you," Marty called as the world started turning black. "I torld you..."

And then it did.

CHAPTER NINE

    Marty tried to swallow but couldn't. His mouth had become the Sahara Desert.  "Wa'er," he groaned. "Wa'er." He opened his eyes a notch and was blinded by bright light. Was he dead? He narrowed them to slits and waited until they adjusted.  "Hold on a minute," Victor said, and this time it was much too loud.  "Arghh! Speak lower!" Marty groaned again, bringing his hand to his forehead. It was slick with sweat—as, he realised, was the rest of his body. "Why is it so warm in here?!"  Something blocked out the light. "Yeh just fainted, dat's all," Victor said.  Marty felt something sharp prod at his chest and sat bolt upright. "What are you doing?!"  He was sitting on the floor of the basement. Victor was kneeling before him, a needle and thread in his hand. A first aid kit lay open on the concrete floor.  "I'm just about teh start stitchin' yeh up. Sam did a right number on yeh." "Where is he?!" Marty tried getting to his feet but his torso was still red hot with pain. "Hold on, would yeh. He's gone." "He's what?! We need to go after him!" "Dare's no point now. Yeh've been out for half an hour." "Half an hour?! Why didn't you go after him then?!" "And leave yeh here teh bleed teh death, is it?" "But you heard what he said. We need to find out more."

Victor shook his head. "Yer not well."

"Uh, haven't you figured it out yet? The strangers want me dead. They can't do it themselves, so now they're getting other people to do it for them. Sam screwed up but you can bet they're blackmailing someone else as we speak."

"It is a tinker, I'll give yeh dat." Victor brought the needle towards his chest again but Marty scooched away. His clothes were soaked so badly he could feel the warm wetness on his chest and legs. But all of a sudden he forgot about the fire still crackling away on his torso.

"Victor, what happened to you? Earlier on today when I asked you for help, you said you couldn't do anything for me. And now you're doing the exact same thing again. Why won't you help me?"

Victor started packing up the first aid kit. "I'm not sure what yer gettin' at."

Marty watched him intently as he quickly got to his feet. "That's funny, because I'm not sure what you're getting at, either."

Victor opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

"Something's not right here," Marty said. "You're hiding something from me, aren't you?"

Victor started shaking his head.

"Don't lie. I can tell."

Finally the man sighed. "Don't yeh see Marty? Deh dark can't touch yeh. Deh strangers—dey run from yeh. Run from yeh! And now dis." He shook his head. "Dare's somethin' in yeh, Marty. Somethin' dat wasn't in dose girls dat came here before. Yer special, and deh strangers are scared've it."

Marty was perplexed. "I'm special? You almost say it like it's a good thing, having people trying to kill you."

"Ah, but it is. It's an unbelievable ting."

"What is it then? Why is it the dark doesn't affect me? Why is it the strangers run from me? Why is all of this happening to me?"

"I—I don't know. Not yet anyway. I wanted teh keep yeh here, teh keep yeh safe till I figured out why."

All of a sudden Marty was on his feet again. He wanted to cry out in agony at the throbbing ache radiating from the middle of his body. He wanted to flop back onto the floor, to curl up in a little ball and beg somebody, anybody, to take away the pain. But his brain was still too busy.

"That's the reason, isn't it. That's why you took me back here. And that's why you followed me to Wycherly Terrace, too. Because I didn't have a rose." Marty couldn't believe it—had he really thought this man was any better than his history teacher?

"But Marty, for all we know yeh could bring an end teh this! Yeh could bring happiness back! Just imagine it!"

"Imagine what?! Imagine staying here for how long—weeks, months, years, waiting around until you figure out a way to use me? And then, once you do, stay here for a few more years until I manage to fix your world for you?!"

"Hopefully it won't take as long as—"

Marty felt like his head had been replaced with a balloon. It was too much information, all at once, and it made him dizzy. Victor's behaviour, he realised, made perfect sense. "You did it, didn't you. It wasn't Richard Mortimus, it wasn't the strangers. You broke the mirror."

Slowly Victor nodded, and when he spoke again his voice was deeper, rougher. "I had teh, Marty. Yeh don't understand what's in bin like, all dese years. It's horrible, Marty, just horrible. I had teh do it. If not for me den for everybody else here."

"You had to? What's that supposed to mean? You say you want me to be safe, but I've been unsafe ever since I got here! I could be at home right now, but because of you, I'm stuck here. Because of you I'm never going to see my family again!" Suddenly Marty wished he had stolen the pruning knife.

"But don't yeh want teh help? Don't yeh want teh give us hope? It's been so long, Marty."

Victor gave him that strange longing look he'd gotten the day he arrived here. He shook off a shudder and stepped forwards. "Get out of my way. I'm leaving."

"What? But where will yeh go? Yeh don't know anybody else here. Yeh'll perish."

"I'd be better off back in that rubbish bin than I am here."

For a few seconds Victor stared at him. He was clearly full of regret—for what, Marty didn't know. Maybe he wished he'd told him sooner. Or hadn't told him at all. But Marty didn't care. Finally he stepped aside. "I'm sorry yeh feel dat way Marty, I really am."

Marty stormed outside, but he'd barely set foot on the staircase when he heard someone coughing. Slowly he raised his head and there, standing at the other end, were Richard Mortimus and his twin sisters, Carol and Gertrude.

"This, ladies, is what's known as killing two birds with one stone," he said, flashing Marty his set of overlong, overcrowded teeth.

CHAPTER TEN

Marty never even got the chance to turn around: one second, the man's leg was swinging towards him; the next, his nose exploded in pain and he flew backwards into the basement, landing hard on the floor and rolling across the room. Mortimus rushed inside, hauled him to his feet and slammed him into the back wall. From here Marty noticed a thick helping of dandruff on his shoulders.

"So it seems we didn't lose him. My apologies, Gertrude; perhaps you didn't deserve that beating after all." Marty caught a whiff of the man's breath and felt bile leap up his throat. It was like Mortimus had swallowed something so disgusting his stomach acids were unable to digest it.

Carol and Gertrude hurried into the basement. Carol was struggling with a large canister; liquid sloshed around inside with every step she took. Gertrude slammed the door shut behind her. Sure enough, her face was no longer white, but varying shades of black, blue and purple.

Victor was standing flat against the opposite wall. Had they seen him? His eyes were darting back and forth between their captors and the door as if he were planning on making a run for it. If this had been earlier today Marty would have laughed at the idea. But now he knew the truth: Victor, just like everyone else in this world, was capable of absolutely anything. Well, except being trusted.

"Gertrude, get the girl. And you, Carol, you know what to do."

As Gertrude made her way upstairs Carol carried the canister into a corner of the room. She pulled off the cap and began emptying a clear liquid over the boxes along the perimeter. For a single ridiculous moment Marty thought she was attempting to water them. Then he smelled something so strong it somehow blocked out the stench of Mortimus's breath: petrol.

Carol was shaking the last of it over the staircase when Gertrude reappeared, dragging Lissa behind her. Lissa wasn't fighting the woman but from the looks of it she already had: there was a large tear on the front of her uniform and her cheeks were shiny with fresh tears.

"Why are you doing this?" Marty said as Gertrude yanked Lissa into the basement.

Mortimus grinned. His teeth looked more like toothpicks. "We have orders."

" _Orders?_ From who?"

Mortimus didn't answer, but clenched his teeth and became oddly still. He was scared, and a moment later Marty realised why: a loud breeze had started up on the street above and was making its way down here. It got louder and louder and then, as soon as it had started, stopped again. There was a crash and the door swung around, hitting the wall and knocking the top hinge loose. Where the door had been stood two strangers. They took a single step forwards and stopped, their booted feet hovering mid-step. Mortimus frowned. He looked back at Marty and a knowing smile appeared on his face.

"It's you, isn't it? It's you they're afraid of. You see, girls? I _told_ you I was right about this little terror. I told you he was...what do you call it?"

Gertrude and Carol looked absolutely terrified. Slowly they shrugged, flinching like they thought their brother would come over and hit them.

"What do you think I am?" Marty asked.

Richard planted a hand around his neck, cutting off much of his air supply and all of his ability to speak.

"You mean to say you still haven't realised it? You're really _that_ naïve?"

Marty blinked. He couldn't do much else.

"You're... _good_. That's it. _That's_ what you are. I must say, I haven't seen something like you in a long, long time. While it would have been lovely for the strangers to take you, it's perfectly fine: you can watch them take your one and only saviour in your stead."

And with that, like they'd been listening, the strangers turned to face Victor. Before he could even attempt an escape their familiar tendrils shot out, ravelling around his arms and legs, and despite everything Victor had done Marty found himself trying to plead. But all he could do was watch as even more tendrils encircled his head, muting his cries for help. The strangers lifted him off his feet and then marched back out of the basement, Victor floating along in front of them.

"That man has been a bane of mine for some time," Mortimus spat. "His tainting was long overdue. As for his flowers... Carol?"

The bony twin retrieved a match from the innards of her ragged jacket and leaned close to the wall. She swiped the match across it, there was a loud flaring noise and a flame burst into life. Marty stared: it felt like months since he'd seen something of that colour, let alone felt its warmth. Carol stepped back and flung it into one of the boxes, where it immediately quadrupled in size.

"As for you," Mortimus carried on, facing Marty again, "I _could_ cut you, but where's the fun in that? I'd rather have you burn along with those flowers. It's a tad poetic, when you think about it: the very last traces of goodness in this world, all going down together in flames."

In a matter of seconds the fire raced around the perimeter of the basement.

"Come along Carol, Gertrude." Mortimus threw his head forward, connecting with Marty's nose for a second time. Marty had nowhere to go but down. He saw spots, and by the time his vision finally cleared the trio were legging it out of the basement, the fire licking their feet as they hurried out the door, slamming it shut behind them.

Very gently Marty felt his nose. It was broken; it had to be. Warm blood was running from it, down over his lips and chin and dripping all over his clothes. Coupled with the deep gash on his chest he was quite sure he was losing dangerous amounts of blood.

"Marty? Are you there?" Lissa was on her feet, wandering around the room.

"Get down!" he yelled. "There's clean air down here!"

Except there wasn't, really. Marty knew all about fire drills; Principal Quirke made the entire school perform one every single month. One of the most important parts of the drill was learning to stay close to the ground. That's where all the clean air was, according to the local firemen. But unlike his classroom the basement had no windows, and so the smoke had nowhere to go but down.

"I can't die!" Lissa coughed, now on her knees like Marty. "And certainly not in a fire—it's a total cliché!"

Marty crawled in the direction of the door but it was already hidden behind a rapidly growing wall of flames. He looked back at the staircase, but it was so engulfed he couldn't even see it. Forget what he'd been thinking earlier; _this_ was what being stuck really felt like.

"Stay low!" he yelled. The heat was unbearable. He lay flat on the floor and the cool concrete brought him some comfort.

"This is the end for us, isn't it," Lissa cried from just a few feet away. "This is how we're going to die."

Marty said nothing. He didn't want to believe her, but deep down he was starting to think she might be right.

"Look, there's something I need to say, all right?" she said. For the first time, Marty couldn't hear the slightest trace of contempt in her voice. "I know I've not been the nicest to you since you got here, but there's a reason. You see, I—"

Just then there was a huge crash from above. It sounded like the entire building was caving in on itself, one floor at a time.

"What?!" Marty shouted back. "I can't hear you!"

"I said I lost—"

There was a second crash—only this one sounded different. Closer. Lissa was right. This really was the end.

"I still can't hear you!" The smoke was too thick; he couldn't see anything now.

"I SAID I LOST MY—"

The lights went out. Something soft landed on Marty, guarding him from the heat, and he felt cooler. Something grasped his back and he heard a faint groan as the ground disappeared. He was being carried, across the room and up a set of stairs, and then the ground was beneath him again. Whatever was covering him suddenly wasn't anymore, and there, frowning down at him, narrowing her eyes and raising her eyebrows at the same time, was... no, it couldn't be. He was unconscious. He had to be. That was the only possible explanation for who he was looking at right now.

"Aileen?" he coughed, but the woman was already whipping the blanket over her head and darting back inside the burning building.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"What are you... But you can't... What about..." Marty wondered if the dark had affected him after all; it would certainly explain why he felt like his brain had been replaced with a vegetable.

"The mirror...how are you here?" he managed eventually.

"You really thought that was the only way in and out?" Aileen performed another spectacular frown. This time, one eye narrowed and the other opened wide. "It really is a good job I decided to come for you. You're not ready for this _at all_."

Lissa moaned, but stopped halfway through when she noticed the black haired woman leaning over her. "Who the hell are you?"

Aileen didn't respond; instead she reached into her back pocket, retrieved a large syringe, pulled off the protective cap and stuck it straight into Lissa's neck. Lissa screamed and kicked but Aileen's vice-like grip kept her firmly in place.

"What are you doing?!" Marty shouted. "Leave her alone!"

"Oh calm down. I'm saving her life."

Marty tried pulling Aileen away but couldn't. As the milky liquid emptied into Lissa's neck her struggling gradually came to a stop. She grew quiet. By the time Aileen was finished she'd stopped moving entirely, and her eyes, while they remained open, stared blankly at the sky.

Marty jumped to his feet. There was still a great deal of smoke in his lungs and he started coughing. "Really? _Cough!_ She seemed perfectly— _cough!_ —fine before you jammed that— _cough!_ —syringe into her— _cough!_ —neck."

Aileen pocketed the syringe. "I thought I told you to relax? She'll be all right in a few short minutes. Now come along, you and I need to get going."

"Where?"

"Home."

"Home?!"

"Yes, _home_. Were you thinking of staying _there_?" She pointed down the street to the Rose, or rather, where it used to be. In Marty's confusion he'd totally forgotten about the fire, which by now had turned Victor and Lissa's home into a gigantic blaze. At this point the roses must have been completely destroyed. Now how would the people here survive?

"You really have no idea what's going on, do you?"

Marty was outraged. "Hey, give me a break, all right?! I nearly died tonight!"

"Again. You nearly died _again_. I was going to give you another chance, but with _your_ track record you probably wouldn't have lasted any longer. Agley wanted to start betting on how long it would take—"

"Wait a minute," Marty interrupted but Aileen kept talking.

"—you to croak but I refused. One of us has to be the responsible one. I swear, sometimes I think—"

"Aileen, wait a—"

"—he isn't cut out for this job. I'm the one who does all the work and—"

"Hang on!" Marty yelled, and Aileen finally stopped rambling. "How did you know I nearly died already?"

She looked at him like the answer should have been obvious. "Eh, we've been _spying_ on you?"

Marty stared back. "I don't see any cameras."

"Ha! We're a _little_ bit more advanced than that."

"Well, what then?"

Right at that moment, as if on cue, a crow dropped from a nearby drainpipe, fluttered across the street and landed softly on Aileen's shoulder. Looking closely, Marty noticed its eyes were actually tiny cameras. A tiny wire was sticking out of its neck, like an antenna.

Marty was so shocked he was almost thrown off balance. "That is not a—is that a _remote control crow_?!"

"Excuse you! It is _not_ a toy. It's a fully-fledged, state of the art robot. Agley designed it. Somehow," she scowled.

Marty couldn't decide which was more unbelievable: the crow or the fact that the tomato-faced man had made it.

"But why? Why were you watching me?"

"You hardly expected us not to, did you? Do you have any idea about the lengths we went to _find_ you? We've been looking for you for thirteen years. We weren't even sure it was you when we found you. That's why we had to push you through the mirror. We had to see."

"You had to _see_?! And if you were wrong about me, what then?" Marty suddenly remembered those two girls. He shuddered.

"Of course, we were only chasing the reflections," said Aileen, completely ignoring the question. "They were the ones who were actually looking for you, but for various reasons it was in our best interest to get there first."

"But why? Why were they looking for me?" As soon as Marty asked it the answer came to him. "Let me guess—they wanted to kill me."

Aileen nodded so nonchalantly she might have been agreeing to a cup of tea. "We're still not sure who has been putting them up to it. But we do know why. Clearly, they're worried about your ability. They want to put a stop to you before you stop them."

Marty closed his eyes and thought back to the moments before the fire. What had Richard Mortimus said? _We have orders_. He opened them again. "Someone told Mortimus to burn the place down. What if it was the same person who set the reflections on me?"

She nodded. "It's perfectly possible."

"But these abilities. What are they, really? I know the dark doesn't affect me, the strangers can't get close to me. But what else? And why me?"

"At this point we've narrowed it down to some sort of power."

"What, like a superpower?" It sounded so ridiculous Marty found himself smiling. He hadn't smiled in a long time. It hurt.

"Maybe. It'll be a lot more impressive once we discover the full extent of it. That's something we've yet to do, but we _did_ only find you a couple of days ago. This is why I need to bring you home. Once we fully understand how your powers work we can teach you how to properly use them."

On the ground, Lissa started groaning again.

"Come along now, quickly. It's better if she doesn't see us leaving."

Marty couldn't believe his ticket home had come so quickly. If this had happened before the fire, he'd probably be hopping up and down, absolutely hysterical at the prospect of finally getting out of this place. But while his beaten body still wanted to get the hell out of here, his brain had other ideas.

"I'm not going."

Aileen flinched. " _What_ did you say?"

"Look, the strangers took Victor tonight. If I go back with you, what'll happen to him? I'm the only one who knows or cares. I'm the only one who might be able to save him."

"Seriously?" Aileen stepped forwards. "That man lied to you, and still you want to save his life? Wow, you really are an idiot."

Marty didn't move. "He was right, though. He thought I could do something to help this place. Maybe I can." It was only now, saying it out loud, that he actually understood why Victor had done what he'd done. He just wished he'd told him sooner—maybe then they wouldn't be in this mess.

Aileen stepped closer. "But you're not ready to do that yet."

Still, Marty didn't move. "But by the time I'm ready, Victor might be dead."

"That's a chance I'm willing to take."

"Well I'm not. Lissa? Come on, we need to go."

"Wha?" she mumbled.

"You're coming with me. Right _now_." Aileen tried to grab Marty's arm but he batted her hand away.

"No, I'm not. Lissa?"

Slowly, Lissa sat up. "What happened? Victor? The flowers, they're..." Her eyes opened wide. "I'm outside. Why am I outside? And my neck, it's—" She spotted Aileen again and leaped to her feet. "What did you do to me?!"

" _Do_ to you? Thanks to _me_ you won't be needing those roses anymore."

Marty looked at Lissa. "This woman is really bad news. We need to go." To his surprise she nodded; then again, the woman _had_ just stabbed her in the neck.

But Aileen wouldn't listen. "Don't you understand? If you die, this entire side of the mirror dies with you. That is a mistake I simply _refuse_ to let you make."

"Look Aileen," Marty said, his voice raised. "I've survived two near misses in the last two days. I think I can make it through a couple more."

The woman tried to grab him again but before she could Lissa stepped between them and planted her fist directly into her neck. Aileen stumbled sideways, her eyes wide in shock. "How—how dare you, you little... _I saved your life!_ "

"Oh, that's not for saving me. That's for the needle. It hurt like hell." She turned around and without a second look behind her strolled up the street. "Come on Marty," she said. "Let's go."

"That was...excellent," Marty said when he caught up to her.

"Yeah, well, she deserved it," Lissa said coldly, but he was sure he saw traces of a smirk.

As they were turning the corner Marty took one last look at Aileen. She was standing in the same spot with her hand over her neck. She looked mesmerised, so much so that she didn't seem to notice the sparks flying off the buildings in her direction. Marty had a feeling nobody, not even Agley, had stood up to her before, and wondered what she'd do when she finally came to.

*

"He's not here," Marty was finally forced to admit. They'd spent the best part of an hour walking up and down the river bank staring into the writhing bodies below. "I don't get it. Where else could they have taken him?"

"If they'd thrown him down there he'd still be alive," Lissa said. "He's resourceful like that."

As they made their way back into town Marty felt like he was splitting in two all over again. On the one hand he was relieved that Victor hadn't ended up in that disgusting pit of death. But it also meant he was still out there. Marty didn't know which was more unbearable: not knowing where Victor was or knowing he might be able to save him if he did.

Lissa, who was walking a little ahead of him as usual, stopped dead. " _That's_ weird. Do you hear that?"

"I do, actually," Marty answered.

They'd almost made it back into town but for some reason the groaning hadn't faded out like it usually did.

He looked back in the direction of the river. "It did look fuller than last time. Maybe the strangers have been catching more people lately."

Lissa half nodded, half shook her head. "Maybe, only it sounds sort of...different. It sounds like they're _roaring_ , not groaning."

For several long seconds they just stood there listening. Marty was about to recommend they move on when a woman appeared at the opposite end of the street.

"You!" she screeched.

"Maggie Botch," Marty whispered. If it wasn't for the trolley he might not have recognised her: it was barely a couple of days since he'd first seen her but she was a lot thinner and her skin was grey as ash.

"Mrs. Botch?" he called out a little warily. "What are you doing?"

"It's you!" she screeched again, pushing the trolley towards them. "You're the one he wants."

Behind them he heard another yell; this time, it was none other than Bermuda Uncle. Like everyone else lately she was staring at him like she wanted him to die.

"Come on!" Marty yelled, running for an alleyway halfway down the street. He'd nearly reached it when a plump man with a shiny bald head stepped out of it: Mr. Gregorson. Had the entire town turned against him?

"He's pulling out all the stops," said the shop manager's reflection. "It's about time, I think."

All around, the roaring was getting louder. In his mind's eye Marty saw all of them cornering him and eating him alive.

"Are you still sure you can survive almost dying again?!" Lissa said.

"Of course!" He tried sounding brave but only half succeeded. "This way!" He ran directly into Mrs. Botch, grabbing the end of her trolley and shoving it back into her. She toppled off her feet and they bolted around her and turned onto the next street. There were people here, too: appearing around corners, out of open doors; even jumping down from windows.

"We need a safe house," Marty gasped. "Somewhere we can hide for a while."

Lissa looked at him. "I might know of a place. This way."

They ran through New Town then along Queen Street, the wide road that parted it from Old Town. Gradually more and more people started chasing them. They were weak, which meant they were slow, but there were lots of them, and before very long Marty and Lissa had a large mob on their tail. It was like there'd been a zombie apocalypse and they were the very last ones left uninfected. It didn't matter that they were immune to the disease; they could still be torn to pieces like that man in the river.

They ran up a steep hill, crawled under a fence and found themselves in the back garden of a huge white mansion. As they were running around to the front Marty realised where Lissa had led him.

"Mount Rich? _Really?_ "

Aptly so, Mount Rich was one of the most well-off parts of town. The houses here were grossly oversized, with dozens of large windows with shutters that were never actually used and massive front doors made of solid oak. The only people who could afford to live here were rich men who were never at home and their gold-digging, twenty-something, soon-to-be-divorcee wives.

Lissa had brought him to the biggest one on the street. If he remembered right this was the town mayor's house back at home. Lissa fished inside a post box with a large number six on the front, retrieved a key, led the way inside and hit the lights.

A gigantic chandelier hung from the ceiling and was reflected in a vast marble floor. There was a seating area to either side, and at the back of the room, through a set of double doors, a gigantic stone staircase. The place had an air of abandonment: everything was covered in a hefty layer of dust and cobwebs. But that didn't make it look any less brilliant.

"Are you sure we'll be safe here?" Marty said, his mouth gaping.

"See for yourself." Lissa pointed through the window into the street outside. Marty went closer and was startled to see a large gathering of people at the bottom of the hill. Like the strangers, an invisible barrier was keeping them from going any further.

"They'll never go anywhere the strangers have already been," Lissa explained. "No matter how tainted they become, they'll always be scared of them."

"This is unbelievable!" Marty felt like jumping up and down. He would have, too, if all the running hadn't reopened his wound. "How did you know about this place? And about the key?"

Lissa didn't answer. He turned around to see where she'd gone and saw her sitting in one of the seating areas staring at her feet. There it was again: the same sad expression she'd had earlier that day at Sam's.

"Lissa?"

"Hmm?" She looked like she was lost in some sort of trance. For a full minute he watched her, unsure of what else he should say. He was wondering if it might be a good idea to sit down next to her when she picked herself up and walked towards the staircase, dragging her feet as she went.

*

Marty never slept so soundly. After Lissa left him he had explored the rest of the house. Downstairs he found the kitchen, two whole sitting rooms, a bathroom and a study. He couldn't believe how extravagant everything was. He wondered if the version on his side of the mirror looked so amazing. Then there was the first floor: six bedrooms, each at least three times the size of his one at home. Seeing bed after bed made him incredibly sleepy so he'd fallen into the next one he came across.

Marty turned on the bedside lamp and took his first proper look at the bedroom. He'd taken his much needed sleep in a huge four poster bed with the softest sheets imaginable. The wall across from him was lined with dozens of rolls of cotton in an assortment of colours and patterns, and in the middle of the room a sewing machine had half sewed a pair of jeans together.

His stomach rumbled, but for the first time he was looking forward to having something to eat. It made sense that a house this fancy would be bursting with equally fancy food. He just hoped at least some of it hadn't gone off.

Marty sat up slowly, flinching as he waited for the burning sensation to flare up on his chest. But it never did. Frowning, he looked down. The cut was gone. Thinking perhaps his t-shirt was hiding it he pulled it up. In the spot where the giant gash had been was a faint scar. He looked like the victim of a cat attack, not a stabbing. Confused, he raised his hand to his nose and prodded it, but it didn't budge.

Was this one of the abilities Aileen had talked about? How come it was only working now? Marty had gotten hurt a fair few times over the past few months (mostly as a result of climbing in or out of increasingly precarious hiding places) but his body had never healed itself so fast. He understood the advantage of being immune to the dark and the strangers, but this was the first time he could actually _do_ something. It felt good. _Really_ good.

Lissa was sitting at the kitchen table.

"Look at this!" Marty announced as he walked towards her with his shirt lifted. "I can heal myself. _Heal_ myself! How cool is that?!"

Marty didn't know what sort of reaction he expected but he did expect a reaction. Lissa didn't even blink. She was staring at the wall and looked as depressed as ever.

"Uh, do you want to talk or something?" Marty said. It felt odd being civil with her. Lissa said nothing so he shrugged and headed for the fridge. He opened it and his stomach growled: it was empty. Panicking a little, he opened the cupboard next to it, but that was barren too. One by one he opened each of the cupboards, feeling more and more nauseous until finally he had to hold onto the thick marble counter to remain upright.

Marty never had to worry about food. His dad did the shopping every Saturday morning like clockwork. And while the food at the Rose wasn't exactly fine dining it seemed to satisfy his stomach. It was only now, with his body weak and no food in sight, that the prospect of having to go without it presented itself. And it scared him.

"Lissa," he said, carefully letting go of his support, "Do you know where Victor used to get his food?" He waited but she didn't respond. "Lissa? Come on, this is important."

"They're gone," she said finally.

"What? Who's gone?" She ignored him again. "Look, I'm going to find some food. You can stay here, all right?"

He walked to the front of the house and peered through the window. From the looks of it most of the crowd had dispersed since he'd gone to bed. A few stragglers remained; they were staring unblinkingly at the house and despite the darkness Marty had a feeling they could see him. He remembered what Lissa had said and felt a little happier. They couldn't come any closer. The only way they could get him was if he left Mount Rich, and he had absolutely no intention of doing that.

Marty played it safe, using the back door and hopping the fence into the neighbour's back garden. Even though this house looked as abandoned as everywhere else he still felt bad for breaking into it, and wanted to create as little damage as possible. He tried the door but it was locked, so he was forced to use harsher measures: a collection of jagged rocks he found at the far end of the garden. As he chucked them through the patio door he felt like he was going a step too far, to a place he'd never be able to come back from. But he needed to do this. If not he'd starve, and Lissa, Victor and everyone else here would perish along with him.

Marty stepped inside and started gagging. The entire kitchen reeked with the combined stench of several dairy products. Sure enough, the fridge door was wide open, and the food inside didn't so much resemble food as it did giant chunks of mould. He pinched his nose and hurriedly opened each of the cupboards, but they were just as barren as the ones in number six. There was a similar situation in the next house. Marty didn't even need to break into the one after that: looking inside, he saw that every single cupboard door had been opened and their contents cleared out. As he went from house to house he kept telling his rumbling stomach he'd find something in the next one. But he didn't, and very quickly his hope of finding anything remotely edible began to diminish. By the time he reached the end of the street all he wanted to do was go back to sleep.

Hunger, Marty soon realised, is without a doubt the worst feeling in the world. It's not just the empty feeling in your stomach. That's probably the easiest thing to deal with. What's really tough is the weakness, the tiredness, the inability to think about anything but food.

The following day didn't fare much better. Marty's stomach had given up growling, obviously coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn't be feeding it. Having searched the entirety of Mount Rich, his only choice now was to venture further, but there was an obvious problem with that idea. After scouring one of the bedrooms he found a hoodie and tried using it as a disguise, but by the time he'd made it halfway down the hill a large mob had somehow built up at the bottom again. He tried running left and right, back and forth across the neighbouring yards, but every time they followed him. And it wasn't like he could outrun them. Not anymore anyway.

On the way back inside he saw himself in one of the windows and jumped backwards, his heart tight in his chest. Despite all his sleep he looked like he hadn't slept at all. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his skin was paler than ever. If he didn't know better he'd have thought he was becoming tainted. Then again, maybe he was. He didn't understand the extent of his abilities yet. Maybe it just happened more slowly for him? Maybe in a few days he'd wake up on the side of the road, or start walking around in circles doing all he could to keep the dark away?

Lissa was no help at all. Every time he tried talking to her she either ignored him or said something along the lines of what she'd said earlier. The hunger didn't seem to be affecting her as much, but she wasn't the one wasting her energy looking for food.

He spent the entire third day in bed. But he couldn't sleep. He was tired, but restless, and by that evening had become so sick of lying down he went outside and started walking up and down the street again and again. It was getting to the point where he was considering walking down the hill and letting the reflections have him: at least then he wouldn't have to feel so terrible anymore.

He was turning at the bottom of the street for what must have been the thousandth time when he saw him. A man, dressed in maroon clothes, was standing a little ways up Mount Rich, just beyond the barrier everyone else was stuck behind. Marty couldn't begin to understand why he'd followed him. They had crossed paths what felt like a very long time ago, but their meeting was so insignificant he had almost entirely forgotten about it. The best idea he could come up with was that he was working for Richard Mortimus, but even that idea had its flaws. Why would Mortimus employ someone to spy for him? Hadn't he proven, just a little while ago, that he wasn't the insidious type? Mortimus was much stronger than Marty. If he wanted him dead so badly he'd storm up here and kill him. But he hadn't. Which meant one of two things: either Richard Mortimus had changed his tactics, or the man in maroon wasn't working for Richard Mortimus after all.

Marty didn't know what to do. Should he approach him? Should he go back inside? He barely had the energy to do either. But just then the man made the decision for him, turning away and vanishing into the growing crowd of reflections.

When Marty returned to the house he found Lissa sitting at the foot of the staircase.

"Look," he said, "I know you're not talking to me, but I just saw the strangest—"

"This is your fault," she interrupted, looking him in the eyes for the first time in days.

"What? What is?"

Lissa stood up. "If you hadn't come back with Victor that time none of this would have happened. I'd still be living in The White Rose and he'd still be there. The roses would be there. And everyone in Violetville wouldn't be about to become tainted."

Marty felt something exploding deep inside of him. "That's funny. I seem to remember you being more interested in running Victor's business than helping the people in this town."

"At least I didn't ruin their lives! Victor is set to begin his rounds tomorrow. _Tomorrow_. What's everyone going to do when he doesn't show up? Their flowers will wilt and they'll all become tainted. And thanks to that horrible woman I'll be the only person who doesn't. Everyone else will go insane, and I'll be left here to deal with you, the very person who started all of this!"

"Didn't you hear what Aileen said?! I could be the person who saves us all! Me! I could save you!"

"The keyword being 'could'. Did you honestly believe what she said?!"

"I can heal things. I saw it with my own eyes. See?!" He lifted his t-shirt again.

"The only thing you can heal is _you_. You think you're some sort of hero but the only person you can help is yourself. What good is that?"

"I'm still trying to figure this out! I need more time!"

"More time? Tell that to the people who start going crazy in the next few days. Or to the ones who have already gone crazy. Aileen was right. You're not ready for this in the slightest."

Marty realised he was shaking. But he couldn't think of anything else to say. Lissa was right—he wasn't ready for the things Aileen or Victor had talked about. He wouldn't be for a long time.

He spent that night staring at the top of the four poster bed. He'd become so preoccupied with his own hunger he'd completely forgotten about Victor and everyone else. They didn't know it yet, but they were relying on him. He was the only one who could save their lives and he didn't have the first clue how to do it. Lissa was right about that, too—he was no hero. He was a regular twelve year old with a strange power, good for nobody but himself.

Later that night his door creaked open. He watched as Lissa strolled into the room, pulled the chair out from the sewing machine and sat down, facing him.

"You asked me how I know about this place," she said. Marty sat up. "I wasn't planning on telling you, but I used to live here. One night, nearly two months ago now, the strangers came for my family, just as they did Sam's grandparents. We heard them at the door. Mum told me to hide in the basement while they dealt with them. I know I shouldn't have, but I did what she said. I was a coward, like I've always been. I locked myself down there, and listened while the strangers took them. They gave their lives for me. If Victor hadn't come I'd probably still be here, starving to death."

Lissa turned and looked at the sewing machine, and down at the pair of half-sewn jeans. "Mum was making these when they came. She was a seamstress. She loved making outfits for me."

She stood up, pushed the chair in and strolled back out of the room, leaving Marty more awake than ever.

*

The next morning Marty went straight to Lissa's bedroom. "I never thanked you for bringing me here," he said, and she rolled over in bed to look at him. "Who knows where we'd have ended up if it wasn't for you? It must have been hard for you to come back here."

She propped herself up on one arm. "Maybe I shouldn't have said all of those things to you yesterday, even if they are sort of true. I mean, when it comes down to it I suppose you're not _that_ bad."

Marty felt his cheeks stretching. Smiling seemed so foreign now. "I'm no Aileen. I'm definitely no Richard Mortimus."

Lissa shuddered. "He was disgusting. That face. And all that dandruff. Ugh."

"Yeah, hopefully once we find Victor we'll be able to get back at him some—"

Marty's mouth opened wide then closed again, like a fish. "Hold on. Mortimus is bald. How could a bald person have dandruff on their shoulders?"

Lissa's opened too, but didn't close again.

"It wasn't dandruff," Marty said, and it came out a whisper. "It was... _snow_."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Lissa moaned, falling back into bed. "Not the Depression?"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Marty wasn't too excited at the prospect of wading through all of that snow again, but the dread he felt was partly offset when he remembered Sam's apartment. What were the chances his parents had left food behind? He highly doubted the strangers would have let them pack it up as they were leaving.

"This is all well and good," Lissa pointed out as they walked side-by-side downstairs. "But how are we going to get passed all of those people?"

By this point the sewing machine was branded into Marty's brain. "Can I see some of the outfits your mother made? I think there might be something we could... _fashion_."

*

" _This_ is your idea? I look ridiculous!"

If it weren't for Lissa's face Marty might have thought he had walked in on a stranger getting changed—albeit a shorter, considerably more stubborn one.

"Would you wait a minute? I'm not finished yet." Marty had never been in a walk-in wardrobe before. It looked like a miniature clothes shop. There were all manner of outfits in here. Some items, like the dresses and suits, were the sort you'd see anywhere else. But there were plenty of outfits that wouldn't have looked out of place in a costume shop.

"Here, put this on," Marty said, throwing her a black top hat. "Oh, and these," he added, bringing her over a pair of stilettos.

Lissa tilted her head. "Do you want me to snap my ankles?"

"The strangers are six feet tall. We have to make this look convincing."

She plopped down on a puff and started putting them on. "I still don't see why I have to be the one who dresses up. Can't you do it? It _is_ your idea."

"Because I'm the one they want. When they see you, the stranger, dragging me along beside you, they'll keep their distance."

"I hope you're right," she said, shaking her head. "Will you help me? I've never walked in anything like these before."

Marty walked her over to the full-length mirror. The trench coat had a different design and the top hat was the wrong shape, but compared to Lissa's slightly sweaty face these were minor inaccuracies.

"I look even _more_ ridiculous now!" she screeched. "They may be tainted but they're not stupid. They'll figure out what we're up to the second we step outside!"

"I'm still not finished." Marty pulled a pair of tights off the mannequin in the corner. "Try these on."

"Why? You can't even see my feet underneath this thing."

"Not on your _legs_. On your head. It'll disguise your face and you'll still be able to see."

"What?! No way!"

"Do you want to save Victor or not?" Marty's guilt trip worked; she snapped the tights out of his hands, removed the top hat and pulled them down over her head. Marty looked at her in the mirror. It didn't hide her face quite as much as he would have liked, but he hoped that for once the dark would work to his advantage.

*

"Remember," Marty said with his hand on the door knob. "If you feel like you're about to fall, lean on me. You'll be holding onto me anyway so it shouldn't look too obvious."

"All right," Lissa called from an entire foot overhead. "Let's just get there as fast as we can."

Marty took a moment to settle himself. He hadn't realised it until right this instant, but he was terrified. Now that he really thought about it, this _was_ a ridiculous idea. It was something that might work in an old B movie, not in real life. And what would happen when it didn't? They had no backup plan; no way out if the whole idea backfired. They had one chance, and if they failed, they wouldn't just be ending their own lives, but ironically, the lives of the very people who would kill them.

Lissa sighed. "Will you hurry up? My feet are aching already. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Marty grabbed the handle a little tighter. If the reflections were going to kill him tonight he wasn't going to make it easy for them. He stood back, pulled the door open and threw himself into the front yard.

"Please!" he screamed, backing up along the ground as Lissa teetered after him out the door. "I don't want to die!" He pulled himself upright, fake-stumbled and landed on the ground again, giving Lissa time to catch up. When she'd almost reached him he scrambled to his feet, screaming as he sprinted down the hill. Halfway down he pretended to trip and landed hard on the ground again. He took a peek at the reflections at the bottom. It was working: they became suddenly alarmed, their eyes wide with fear as they backed away.

"Get up!" Lissa hissed as she came close.

Marty stood up again, moving backwards but still giving her time to grab him. She swayed a little, but caught hold of his arm just as she was about to tip off her feet. He pretended to struggle as they walked together to the foot of the hill.

By now the reflections had largely dispersed, but they didn't look as frightened as they had just a few moments ago. Now they were frowning, like they already knew something was up.

"Quicker!" he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I can't go any quicker!" Lissa snapped back.

Nearby, a tall man who'd backed onto the footpath started whispering to the couple next to him. As he talked they became suspicious, their eyes narrowing.

Marty felt Lissa swaying again. "Lean on me!" he said between fake whimpers.

"If I lean on you any more it won't look right!"

All around them people were beginning to mutter. It wouldn't be much longer until they figured out they were being fooled.

"We need th mve fstr!" Marty said, with his mouth shut like a ventriloquist's.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Lissa replied loudly, becoming careless. "If I move quicker I'll fall. Do you want me to fall?!"

"No, bt if we dn't thy'll—"

"Fraud!" somebody yelled. It was Emily Richardson. "That's no stranger!"

"I'm going to—" Lissa squealed, tipping backwards. Marty threw out his arm in a bid to catch her but she was already sprawling onto the ground.

"Help!" she screamed as the reflections formed a ring around them. Marty bent down and pulled her out from under the jacket.

"Pick me up!" She kicked out, stabbing him in the ankle with her stiletto.

Marty yelped and just like that he got an idea. "Get on my back!"

Even Lissa understood this was no time for an argument. She clambered onto him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. She was much heavier than she looked; now he was the one who was swaying.

"When I tell you to, let your legs go, okay?" She was slipping, so he pulled her up a little.

"All right," Lissa screeched into his ear, making him flinch. "I really do hope you know what you're doing."

He didn't, really. But when did he ever? He rotated, trying to spot a weak link in the mob. There must have been more than a hundred people here, but after nearly a full revolution he found it: a group of five kids, probably the same age as him, had linked their hands together like they were playing a game of Red Rover.

Marty clapped his hands around Lissa's and ran towards them, turning his body to the side as he came near. " _Now!_ " he yelled, and immediately felt himself being thrown off balance. He swung around, and on the second spin Lissa's monstrous shoes hit three of them hard in the face, knocking them backwards and breaking the chain. Somehow Marty managed to remain upright, keeping Lissa on his back as he stumbled over the reflections and started running down the street.

"I can't believe that worked," Lissa said, laughing wildly as she wrapped her legs back around his waist.

The reflections took after them, but even with Lissa on his back Marty managed to keep his lead. He didn't know where this sudden surge of energy had come from, but something about the reappearance of the man in maroon made him hungry; not for food, but for answers. It made him feel like he was getting closer, not just to finding Victor, but to whoever had spent thirteen years sending reflections through mirrors for no other reason than to kill him. The person who'd blackmailed Sam, and when that didn't work, given Mortimus orders to burn Victor's house down. The person who had the ability to make an entire world do as he pleased but didn't have the courage to face Marty.

Marty's legs suddenly felt heavy. He realised he was attempting to run through two feet of snow. They'd made it. They'd actually made it. He looked back up the hill and saw that their chasers were slowing, too. Gradually they were giving up and turning back.

"Great job," said Lissa, patting him on the back. "Now can we go inside? My feet are killing me."

*

Marty opened a cupboard at random and went weak at the knees. He was right: Sam's grandparents had left food behind. Lots of it, too. There were huge bags of wheat, porridge and rice, enough to keep them going for at least a couple of months.

At the stove Lissa let out a little cheer. "We have power! Now we'll actually be able to _eat_ the porridge instead of just gagging on it!"

Marty opened up another cupboard and thought he might topple over entirely. Tall jars of jam in every possible flavour, and beside them, an assortment of peanut butters: smooth, chunky, organic, whole grain. "Forget the porridge," he said, pulling out jars at random. " _This_ is all I'm eating." He took a fistful of chunky peanut butter, jammed it into some blueberry jam and proceeded to stuff himself silly.

It was amazing how good a single meal made him feel. As soon as he swallowed the first sticky mouthful Marty felt reenergised, like he could take on the reflections all over again. Lissa also seemed to be in a much better mood, immediately agreeing that, once they finished eating, they would pull on some extra layers of clothes and start looking for Victor.

*

Outside an icy wind had started up, but Marty was wearing so many clothes it felt more like a tepid breeze.

The Depression consisted of a block of apartments and, next to it, two rows of houses. They circled the apartments first but found nothing. The houses, too, looked abandoned.

"I thought you said they took Victor here?" Lissa said, her teeth chattering in spite of her multiple sweaters.

"I don't know. Maybe they're not outside."

That's when it happened again: there, on the other side of the street, he spotted the man in maroon. The man turned around and vanished between two houses, but this time Marty was ready.

"Go back to the apartment," he shouted, already bolting across the street. "I'll be back soon!"

"Where are you going?!" Lissa screamed.

"No idea!" Marty slipped between the same two houses but when he got to the back garden it was deserted. There were three walls here, all of which led to neighbouring gardens. There was no telling which one the man had chosen, so Marty picked the back one on a whim, using an old dog kennel to help himself over it. This one was abandoned too so he ran out onto the street. At the far end he spotted the man's coat billowing behind him as he disappeared around the corner, back towards the block of apartments. Marty broke into a sprint. It was hard running in the snow, and he had to lift his legs high with every step he took, but at last he came to the corner. For a moment he thought the man had vanished and felt a strange concoction of disappointment, and oddly, relief. Then he saw him— _half_ of him—smack dab in the middle of the street, quickly disappearing into the ground. Confused, Marty picked up the pace. When he finally got there he saw a grate. He leaned in for a better look and shivered. It was dark down there, so dark he couldn't even see where it went. What if there was a big drop? What if someone—or _something_ —was waiting for him at the bottom? He was scared, but curious. Did this man know where Victor had disappeared to? Was he about to lead him to someone who did? Either way it was too big a lead to throw away, no matter how much he'd rather stay above ground.

Bending down, Marty slipped his fingers through the gaps and pulled, but nothing happened. He took a deep breath and tried again. Still nothing. After a quick scan he found a latch on the right hand side. He undid it and this time the grate came up easily. He sat down, hung his legs over the edge and, before he could rethink this somewhat hasty decision, pushed off and fell silently into the darkness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The ground came quicker than he thought it would. His feet hit first, immediately going from under him as he sprawled onto his back. Feeling slightly stunned, it took him a few seconds to finally sit upright. This was a new breed of darkness. Blinder than a visually impaired bat he felt around underneath him and found something cold and slippery— _ice_. Then he noticed the smell. It was like a dozen Richard Mortimuses were breathing heavily into his face. What made it worse was the heat: despite the ice it was incredibly humid and he was already feeling dehydrated. He stripped down to a single t-shirt and trousers and felt a bit more comfortable. Standing up he spread his arms wide and found smooth concrete on either side, arching around him to form a tunnel. When he looked straight up he saw the hole he'd fallen from, a tiny white square in a starless black sky. He frowned. If the heat wasn't from his surroundings, where _was_ it coming from?

Swallowing the bile that had been creeping up his throat Marty felt around for his torch. He'd stowed it four sweaters deep, but eventually he found it, turned it on and—nothing happened. No wonder it had cost so little. More out of habit than anything else he put it back in his pocket and, with no other reason to delay, set off.

After a few minutes the tunnel veered left, right and then left again, like the slithering of a snake. Marty felt the ground descending as the tunnel continued turning this way and that, leading him deeper and deeper underground.

His ears had just popped when something finally broke the impenetrable blackness. At first he was sure he was seeing things, but no matter how long he waited, no matter how many times he tried to blink it away, it refused to fade.

It was a star—or at least it looked like one. It was the same size and shape only much less bright, as if the dark were nulling some of its power. Marty waited a beat and then did what any person with very little options would do: he ran towards it. Suddenly, he knew this was it. He knew that for all his questions, he would find the answers, all of them, in the middle of this star. He didn't know how or why he knew—he just did.

It was getting warmer now, like the star itself was the source of the heat. It grew bigger, and soon it stopped looking like a star and became a circle of light. Marty ran faster, not stopping even when he thought he was about to slip on the ice, until the circle grew so big he saw what lay beyond it.

He slowed and crept towards the edge. He was standing, not on the cusp of a star, but a vast cavern. The walls were littered with the openings of hundreds of tunnels like this one. Below, the floor sloped inwards to what could only be described as a massive gaping hole. And above it, suspended high in the air by coiling tendrils of dirty black smoke, was a man dressed in a pair of striped green pyjamas.

In that moment Marty forgot everything. He forgot he was standing at the heart of a sewer system, where the only way out was down. He forgot he was several feet underground, where nobody—not even Lissa—would know if things went astray. He forgot that from this point onwards, there was no backing out. He leaped out of the tunnel, dropping several feet onto the ground below. But instead of tumbling he threw himself forwards and rolled. It worked: the pain in his legs was minimal and in seconds he was on his feet again, running towards the centre of the cavern.

"Victor!" he croaked. His throat was like a desert again; it sounded like he hadn't uttered a word in days. He called Victor's name again and the smoke parted, and for a split second he got a good look at his face. Victor was staring down at him but his eyes, like last time, were devoid of any recognition. His mouth was shivering, opening and closing so rapidly he could only be speaking gibberish. Unlike last time, however, his skin wasn't grey. Not even a little bit.

"Happy birthday."

Marty's entire body hardened. He recognised that voice from a single syllable, never mind an entire sentence. He looked for the source, and there, at the far side of the cavern, stood the man in maroon. Only this time his disguises were gone.

If seeing his history teacher's doppelgänger for the first time was disconcerting, seeing his dad's had to be the most perplexing thing he had ever witnessed—magical mirrors and shape-shifting kidnappers included. So many emotions were running through his head (and indeed, his face) that he couldn't decide which one to settle on. Part of him was relieved to see his dad again. It made him think, for the first time since he'd arrived here, that he wasn't so far from home. But the rest of him knew better. The rest of him knew that now, more than ever, looks were deceiving. He couldn't let himself be fooled, even if he could recall this man's face from some of his earliest memories.

Marty opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. What could he say?

His dad's reflection smirked. Marty had never seen his dad smirk before—smile, yes, but never with the malicious intent he was witnessing right now. The hairs on his neck tried to stand but couldn't—they, like Marty, were paralysed with sheer bewilderment.

"It's funny. You _look_ like him, yet you evoke absolutely none of his beauty. You _sound_ like him, yet you have none of his charm. You are just a boy. It's miraculous you made it this far, but you did have protection. You had _him_." The man's eyes didn't waver but Marty knew who he was talking about. "But no matter—he has been fixed, and now you are finally on your own. You will face him by yourself and yourself only."

The man in maroon disappeared into the tunnel behind him and for a moment Marty was alone. Then, without warning, the temperature skyrocketed. Marty went from uncomfortably warm to miserably hot so quickly it was nauseating. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, underarms and back. The air became thinner and more difficult to breathe. Marty fanned himself with his hands but it was no use. His breathing fast and shallow he stumbled backwards, away from Victor and towards the tunnel he'd leaped out of just seconds before.

"It's time you faced Master Black," Marty heard his dad's voice announce, and a moment later he reappeared. Beside him, from the depths of the same tunnel, Marty saw the outline of someone else. Wiping sweat from his eyes he watched as they stepped into the cavern.

And just like that Marty was staring at himself.

*

For a long time Marty's reflection just watched him. Marty stood flat against the wall. The hairs on his neck had found their feet and now stood bolt upright. Sweat poured from his every orifice but he didn't wipe it away. He couldn't. He was transfixed. Forget what he thought about his dad's doppelgänger— _this_ was the most perplexing thing he'd ever experienced. There was no contest.

This was how Marty would look when he died. That was the best—no, the _only_ way he could describe what he was looking at. It was Marty's living, breathing corpse. His skin was the colour of concrete, his cheeks so far sunken it looked like holes had been gouged in them. And his eyes: he had none. On the other hand, his hair was bright orange, just like Marty's.

The reflection frowned, but not in anger or even disgust. It was something else, something so impossible Marty wouldn't let himself believe it. His doppelgänger opened his mouth, and slowly, smoke began to billow from it. Dirty black smoke, like a stranger was living deep inside of him. Like everything that is bad and wrong and evil emanated from his very person. And suddenly Marty understood. It was _him_. He was the one who had brought darkness—and indeed, the dark—to Violetville. He was the one who created the strangers, the River of No Remorse. He was the reason Victor Blume, and thousands before him, had lost themselves.

"Come." He spat out the word with the smoke. The moment Marty's reflection spoke Victor shuddered. The smoke parted again, this time letting go of him completely, and he plummeted into the gaping hole and out of sight.

Finally, Marty found his voice. He screamed.

Marty ran, not after Victor, but after his doppelgänger. But he'd only taken a few steps when white hotness exploded inside of him, forcing him to his knees. He cried out and as he did the heat started to fade again. That's when he realised: the heat wasn't coming from his surroundings. It was coming from him. Something down here had set it off. No, not something; Master Black. Marty's doppelgänger was dangerous; that much was obvious. The sudden explosion of heat proved how dangerous he could be.

Marty tried standing up, but before he was fully upright his dad's reflection grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt and shoved him backwards. His legs were weak and he stumbled, grunting as he toppled foot over head towards the centre of the cavern, towards the gaping hole which had just devoured his friend. The ground vanished and the hole ate his legs but he threw out his arms and caught hold of the edge. He saw a foot, pain ruptured his face and the hole swallowed the rest of him.

*

He broke my nose.

The fall had knocked him out. Or maybe it was the kick to the face; he couldn't tell. Either way he found himself in utter darkness again. He didn't know how far he'd fallen, but the curve of the stone underneath him told him it hadn't been a straight drop to the bottom. His nose had a pulse of its own and when he licked his lips he tasted blood. Dully he wondered how long he'd have to wait before it healed itself again.

He got to his feet, testing his weight on each limb to make sure nothing else was broken. Apart from a few grazes and a slight headache he was unharmed. Maybe the heat had protected him during the fall, too. But what about Victor? He didn't have any special healing powers.

After a quick inspection of his surroundings Marty found a single path onwards. He called out Victor's name, but he was worried that even if Victor _could_ hear him there was a good chance he wouldn't be able to call back. But he refused to think about that right now. He refused to think about anything beyond finding his friend. His voice bounced back at him and for some reason made him feel uneasy. He started walking, calling out at intervals, and after a while the echoes began to change. They no longer bounced back; instead they travelled onwards, far ahead into what must have been a long tunnel.

His feet collided with something hard and he heard it roll away. It sounded hollow, not at all like a rock should sound. But what else could it be? When he collided with another one he bent down and picked it up. It was round like a rock, but there were holes. Two circular ones side-by-side, an odd triangular one, and finally a wide and gaping one, almost like a mouth.

Marty gagged. He threw it from his hands and it bounced away, echoing horribly as it went. It was a skull. He was no expert, but it felt human. What if there was no way out? What if he was trapped down here, doomed to starve all over again?

"Marty?"

He jumped. He jumped like a victim in a bad horror movie jumps when they find a masked serial killer in their closet.

"I'm over here."

Marty couldn't see anything but still his eyes widened. "Victor?"

"Yeah, it's me. Happy birthday, by the way. I'd no idea."

"What? Oh, thanks, I'd sort of forgotten to be honest—wait, you're okay?!"

"Sure I'm doin' all right I suppose."

"You're doing all right? What do you mean you're doing all right?! You were tainted!" Marty sounded upset but he could already feel himself deflating. His relief was a physical thing.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps and then Victor was standing next to him. "I'll let yeh in on a little secret. I faked it." He started walking away again.

Marty could hear the pride in his voice. It reminded him of the time he first showed him the roses. "You faked it," he repeated blankly, following the sound of his companion's footsteps.

"After deh stranger nearly threw me intuh deh river I realised I needed teh be more careful. Especially with you around. So I started stuffin' me undershirt with roses as a sort've backup plan."

Marty inflated again, this time with anger. "I thought you were tainted! I thought you were gone!"

"C'mon, Marty. What other choice did I have?"

"You could have at least given me some sign you were all right. I don't know, like a wink or something."

Victor laughed. "A wink? Marty, do yeh've any idea how powerful dat boy is? If he knew I was havin' him on he'd 've killed me on the spot."

"I guess. You could have told me about all of this sooner, by the way."

"I know. But yeh have teh see it from my point've view. I didn't believe it first. I didn't want teh. For yer sake, I mean. And besides, I had no idea how yeh'd react. I thought it'd be like deh girls all over again—and it sort've was, in the end."

"You mean you couldn't trust me."

"Okay, I suppose yeh could say dat."

"I didn't trust you either."

"Well, no matter. I was always of the mindset dat if somethin' is supposed teh happen, it'll happen. Seein' yer double didn't surprise me as much as it should've. It was like deh last piece've deh puzzle. As soon as I saw him everytin' slid neatly inteh place. Yer deh one who's supposed to put an end teh him, I know it now."

Marty knew it too, but that didn't stop his stomach lurching at Victor's words. "How, though? How am I supposed to stop _him_? Just think of all the things he's done." Suddenly he was breathless. He'd known it for days but only now did the idea of actually having to save this place feel real. The thought alone was so unbelievable that sheer terror was the only thing keeping him from laughing out loud. His doppelgänger had brought darkness to an entire world. He'd killed the sun—or at least put it somewhere its rays went unseen. And what had Marty done? Given Lissa a piggyback? Narrowly avoided burning to death in a house fire? His train of thought went off the rails. Victor didn't know. He didn't know his home was gone.

"I saw how he affected yeh."

Marty shook his head before realising Victor wouldn't be able to see it. "It was unbearable. I think the heat was trying to keep me from getting too close. It was trying to protect me."

"Maybe," Victor said. "Or maybe gettin' close is deh very ting yeh need teh do."

At this, Marty was stumped. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't yeh notice? Marty, I've spent deh past I don't know how long bein' tortured by dat boy. He wanted teh know tings. At first he asked about random tings, like how I discovered deh roses, or how I managed teh keep a step ahead of deh strangers for so long. But den he started askin' about you. And once he did he didn't stop."

"He tortured you?" Marty couldn't recall seeing a single mark on him back in the cavern.

"It wasn't dat type've torture. Anyway, I tink deh only reason he didn't kill me is because he knew I'd lead yeh to him."

"And after all that he didn't even attack me. He didn't even try."

"Tink about it, Marty. Yer his reflection. How is it he can destroy thousands've lives but not yers? How is it he turned away and left yeh here without even makin' sure yeh were dead? He'd never trust his dad with anytin', definitely not sometin' as important as dis."

"But then why did he leave?"

"I heard him talkin' about yeh. He's known yeh existed for a very long time. He sent deh reflections into yer world because he didn't want teh have teh deal with yeh himself. He's scared of yeh, Marty."

That did it: Marty laughed out loud. "You're joking."

"I'm not jokin' in deh slightest. I don't tink yeh were the only one who felt pain up dare. He's just better at hidin' it."

"So what are you saying? I just need to get close to him and hope he faints first?!"

Victor nodded. "Until yeh learn what else yeh can do."

*

The ground was just beginning to slope upwards when Marty heard it: voices. At first he thought it was just the sound of his own echoes as he told Victor everything that had happened since Mortimus visited—leaving out, of course, the part where his henchwoman burned the Rose to the ground. He wanted to tell him, but how could he? He couldn't help thinking he was to blame for it.

Then the voices became groans and he realised it was something else entirely.

"What is that?" he asked, coming to a stop.

Victor's footsteps stopped, too. "It sounds like—but no. It can't be."

Victor picked up the pace. Marty was going to ask him to slow down when, up ahead, he saw something. It looked like an opening to the cave. An exit. A way out. That's when he spotted them: bodies.

The exit wasn't an exit, but an entrance.

To the River Of No Remorse.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The tunnel opened at one side of the river. Marty followed Victor towards the edge but stopped just short of it. The stench was worse than ever now.

"Is someone there?" a voice called.

Marty blocked his nose and leaned over for a better look. It was a long drop, maybe ten or fifteen feet. There, standing next to a pile of mismatched body parts, was Alana Adams. There were several others, too. Some were just beginning to sit up. Others were wiping their eyes. It was like they were waking up from a really long sleep.

"Get back!" Marty hissed at Victor, but it was too late: she'd spotted them.

"Victor? Is that you?!" Alana came closer, stumbling across dozens of corpses as she went. The others noticed, too, and before very long everyone was calling out to him.

"What's going on?"

"Why are we down here?!"

"Look! There are dead people everywhere!"

They started panicking, running back and forth. Some of them tried climbing the wall but they didn't get very far.

"Everyone!" Victor said. "If yeh'll stop for just a minute I'll fill yeh in on what's bin goin' on!"

One by one, the captives stopped trying to escape and looked back up at the tunnel. As Victor began explaining what happened, Marty realised something. All these people had reverted to their past selves; they had become untainted again. Come to think of it, that wasn't the only thing that had changed. It was still dark out, but it felt warmer now. Sure, that might have been down to his new powers, but there was something else, too: while the faces in the clouds were still there, they were beginning to disperse, to morph into something unintelligible. Into regular clouds. Slowly, the dark was leaving this place.

_Hold on a minute_ , Marty thought. If the dark was leaving, it must be going somewhere else. Which meant his doppelgänger must be going somewhere else.

"Master Black is leaving," he said. "He's leaving this world and going into mine."

Victor broke off mid-sentence and turned around. "What makes yeh tink dat?"

"All along I've been wondering why he wanted to kill me. It wasn't just because he's scared of me. There's more to it than that. He wants to corrupt my world, but he doesn't want to do it while I'm there. He thinks I'm a threat."

Victor's entire face went flaccid. All of a sudden he looked just as ragged as his doppelgänger. "Yeh need teh go after him."

"But we're trapped!"

"Am, excuse me?"

Marty leaned back over the edge. Sure enough, Alana had been eavesdropping.

"I think I know how you might be able to get out of here. We'd like to help, if you want."

*

"I'll lower yeh down as far as I can. Deh bodies should break yer fall."

Marty locked hands with Victor and lowered himself over the edge. When he was hanging flat against the wall Victor got down onto his stomach, lowering him farther still.

"Okay, whenever yer ready!" From here Victor looked like nothing but a disembodied head and pair of arms.

Marty pushed out from the wall and let go; air rushed passed him and he hit the surface, stumbling but remaining on his feet. Victor was right—he barely felt the impact at all. Marty watched his companion copy him and together they set to work.

With the help of the prisoners they carefully lifted the bodies, placing them on the ground next to the wall. There were at least a dozen people helping out; soon they'd built a makeshift staircase all the way up to the railing. Marty tried to offset the sick feeling in his stomach by thinking about all the extra bodies that would pile up if he didn't stop his doppelgänger, but still felt pretty awful as he crawled to the top.

*

Running.

Marty was exhausted but he couldn't slow down. They'd come out of the river on the wrong side of town which meant he was farther from home than ever.

"Hang on!" Victor gasped as they raced over a footbridge. "Sure yeh can't use deh mirror! It's broken!"

Marty wasn't listening. He was entranced. It was hours until curfew ended, but for the first time ever, Over There was alive. The streets were suddenly crowded. As he weaved in and out of the cheering crowds, he saw a familiar face: Maggie Botch. She was hugging a heavy set man whom Marty recognised as her husband. Like the people in the river she'd reverted to her old self, as if a switch had suddenly been flicked. Maggie didn't see him as he raced past, and he was glad. He couldn't share their happiness. Because the end of their darkness meant the beginning of his.

They were cutting through Queen Street when Marty spotted Richard Mortimus. He was sitting at a street corner frowning at the sky. He looked crumpled, no longer the charismatic man who took evil in his stride. Carol and Gertrude were nowhere to be seen; as Marty gave the man a wide berth he secretly hoped they'd abandoned him for good.

The most unsettling thing was the ease at which everything was reverting. If this world could recover so easily what did that say for his own? Would his side have become dark and derelict by the time he got there? Marty had always believed that if he did ever make it home again, he'd be leaving this world safely behind. The possibility that part of this world could follow him through—or worse, beat him to it—was nearly too painful to think about.

His legs positively screaming he finally turned onto Wycherly Terrace. He slowed to a walk. His legs wanted him to stop, to sit down, to never take him anywhere again, and under different circumstances they might have forced him to. But tonight they knew better. Tonight they knew there was no option but to keep going.

"Marty, have yeh forgotten what happened teh deh mirror?" Victor said between wheezes.

"Of course not," Marty replied.

"Den where're yeh"—Victor took a lungful of air—"where're yeh goin'?"

Marty walked up the driveway of number one: his own house, but backwards. He door, as he expected, was open. He stepped across the threshold and shivered. It was colder in here. The floorboards were mouldy and in places completely devoured by termites. This house was every bit as disparaged as the one across the street, but there was something eerie about this one, something that one lacked. It wasn't so much a presence, but a memory of one. A long time ago, someone powerful had lived here. Someone like Master Black.

As Marty crossed the hall Victor followed him inside. He didn't speak; he, too, could feel the imprint of something terrible.

Making his way up the staircase Marty remembered how he'd felt that night he found the broken mirror. The disappointment had landed in his stomach like a solid _thing_ , and from that point onwards it had weighed him down, crushing any hopes he had of going home. This time, though, the prospect of going home didn't excite him. As he pushed open the bathroom door his torso contracted, and in his stomach he felt dread all over again.

"It's—it's—"

"It's what?" Victor coughed, falling to his knees.

"It's...open."

The mirror was hanging on the wall, its surface quivering slightly.

Victor tried to stand up, changed his mind and sat back down. "Den go on. Quick, before it closes."

Suddenly Marty forgot all about the mirror. "What? You mean you're not coming?"

"I'm afraid not."

"You're staying here? But I need your help!"

"Yeh don't. Marty, I'm old. I can't fight him. Yer deh only one who can."

Marty looked back at the mirror. This was it. Now or never.

He turned around again. "I've to tell you something."

"Yeah?"

"It's sort of hard to say," he said, and his eyes forced themselves to look at the ground.

"Harder den what's happened so far tonight?" Victor replied, finally finding his feet.

"I don't know, it's just..." Marty sighed. "I'll just say it. Right after the strangers took you, Mortimus, he—he burned the place down."

Victor sighed. "I know."

Marty's frown would have given Aileen's a run for its money. "You know?"

"Dat's another ting about yer double. He tends teh boast quite a bit. He told me all about how he bribed Mortimus intuh burnin' it down. Promised him he'd make him his partner or sometin'. Lyin' his head off, obviously."

Marty's face slowly returned to normal. "So you're okay with it then?"

"Are yeh jokin'? Of course I'm not okay with it."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I should've done something to stop him, it's just—"

"I'm okay with _you_ , lad. Mortimus is deh one I'm not okay with."

Marty's stomach suddenly felt a lot lighter. "So you're not mad with me then?"

"Of course not. Now go on, would yeh? While yeh still have some chance of beatin' him."

"You really think I can beat him?"

"Didn't I tell yeh I did?"

"But what if—"

"Marty, go."

"All right, but how about—"

"Leave."

"Okay, but can I just—"

"Now."

"Fine! I'm going!" He pulled himself onto the sink. "What if I don't see you again?"

"Yeh will."

"But if the mirror closes—"

"Den we'll find another way. Yeh tink dis is the first time I've lost me business? Right, so I mightn't 've lost quite as much of it before, but I'll find a way teh start over again. Look." One hand disappeared into his pyjamas, and when it reappeared it was grasping a sizeable bunch of roses. "If yeh want somethin' hard enough, yeh'll find a way teh make it happen. No matter how many bumps yeh hit along the way—or in my case, house fires. We'll see each other again lad, I can promise yeh that."

"All right then." Marty was convinced. "Oh, I almost forgot. If you're looking for Lissa, she's staying in Sam's apartment."

"What? How did yeh—"

"Long story."

"But when—"

"See you!"

Marty inhaled until his lungs started to hurt, gave Victor a final wave and jumped straight into the mirror.

_Hell,_ he thought as everything went blurry. _Maybe that place isn't so bad._

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Marty's bathroom started to materialise in front of him. He pushed his arms through the cold custardy substance, felt around for the sink and pulled the rest of his body after him.

Daylight. He threw his hands in front of his face, batting away the sudden brightness. He froze and, giggling at his own stupidity, lowered them again.

"Dad?" he called out as he walked into the landing. There was no answer. "Dad? Hello?"

Hoping his dad had found somewhere safe to hide Marty made for the staircase, but as he passed his bedroom he noticed the door was open wide. This wasn't unusual: every morning his dad opened his window and door for fear Marty would have to breathe slightly stale air the following night in bed. What _was_ unusual was his wardrobe. It was lying on its side just beyond the doorway, barricading the way inside.

Marty pushed hard but the wardrobe wouldn't move. There was a gap between it and the ceiling but he couldn't see over it. He leaned in and flattened his ear against the peeling veneer but couldn't hear anything inside.

"Dad?" There was a sudden gust of wind and he froze, half expecting a stranger to engulf him. But it didn't, and a second later he started feeling stupid again. What was this, a suspense movie? This was _his_ house and he refused to feel afraid in it. Standing back, he faced the barrier with his shoulder and shoved hard. The wardrobe tipped forwards; it nearly came back again but Marty gave it a second push and it crashed to the ground, sending vibrations across the floor and up through his feet.

Straight away he thought of the Pink's apartment. Like the wardrobe, the bed was on its side and shoved against the wall. His locker's contents were all across the floor. And behind them, where the window used to be, the entire wall was missing. The edges were laced with short sharp cuts, like whoever had been in here had broken their way out with a hatchet.

Just then Marty noticed someone out on the street. Mr. Uncle was kneeling on the ground, his hands clutching his chest.

Something was about to happen. Marty could feel it.

"Bernie!" he shouted, but at that moment black smoke buffeted through the air, dropping close to the ground and launching him off his feet. Wherever he landed, Marty never saw.

It was like pulling a trigger. Marty staggered backwards as a fire flared inside of him, stronger and sharper and more painful than ever before. That's when he saw Master Black. He walked towards Bernie, stood over him and smiled.

"No!" Marty groaned; it hurt to talk let alone scream. He stumbled back off the wardrobe and dragged himself out of the bedroom as white hot razorblades lacerated his organs.

Gripping the banister he hobbled downstairs, somehow managing to make it all the way outside.

Someone screamed. At the other side of Wycherly Terrace, Gabriel White was running out of number three.

"MARTY! YOU'RE—" He slowed, his eyes moving back and forth between Marty and Master Black. "M—Marty? What's going on?"

"Dad!" Marty yelled across the street. "Go back inside!"

Master Black looked up from Mr. Uncle and started to laugh. It was a brittle, ratting noise, one that made goose pimples ripple across Marty's neck and back. Master Black turned and faced Marty's dead, who was too dumbfounded to do anything but stand there and wait for what was about to happen.

Hammers of black smoke shot from the boy's mouth, hitting Gabriel White in the head and flinging him backwards. He hit the wall of number three, there was a loud crack and he crumpled to the ground.

Marty knew his dad was dead, because right that second a part of him died, too.

"It's a shame," said Master Black, turning back to face Marty. For the first time Marty noticed how much older he sounded. His voice matched his appearance. "A long time ago part of me thought we could've been friends. That we could've worked together and did something great. But then I realised I don't need you. I'm powerful enough on my own. Besides, I can't have weaker versions of myself walking around. It's not good for my reputation."

A new wave of heat washed up inside Marty. "Who says I'm the weaker one?"

Marty wasn't sure what happened next. One moment black tendrils were shooting towards him like knives; a moment later his hands were in front of him, white light blinded him and the smoke dispersed. He stared down at his hands, astonished they were still intact. So that was it: _light_. That was his power. His double, he noticed, had realised it too.

"No matter," said Master Black. "I have _other_ powers. Ones you'll never have." He opened his mouth and smoke spilled from it, this time coiling and coiling around him until he was completely hidden beneath a tiny black tornado. But it was growing, moving around him in wider circles up towards the sky.

And then the world shook.

In a matter of seconds a storm crashed down on Wycherly Terrace. Leaves shivered. Trees vibrated. The wind screamed as it rushed through open windows and doors. Hailstones fell, and all of a sudden the heat was too much again, forcing Marty back into the house. Whatever Master Black had done to Over There, Marty knew he was doing the same thing right now. Grey clouds covered blue skies; the sun was eclipsed and a vast shadow fell over the estate, plunging it into darkness.

Marty closed his eyes, remembering what Victor had told him. He had to get nearer, but the heat was too much; if he tried he'd collapse long before he ever reached his doppelgänger. If only he didn't have to use his feet. If only there was another way...

The realisation struck him so hard it stung. He took the stairs three at a time and went back to his bedroom. Taking a final glance at Wycherly Terrace he noticed, with a jolt, that the man in maroon was standing at the other side of the estate, his scarf blowing wildly behind him as he looked on with pride. Marty stared at him, and didn't stop until the tornado grew so big it blocked his view.

Retreating to the landing, Marty took a deep breath and braced himself. He bolted back across his bedroom, and even as the heat seared him, like his whole body was being pressed against a flaming hot stove, like his hair was alight, like his eyeballs were running down his cheeks, he didn't stop. His feet left the floor and he soared towards his doppelgänger, and light exploded, not just inside of him, but outside, too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Marty?"

"Aileen?" Marty couldn't decide which was more alarming: her look of concern or his relief that she was still alive.

"Where is he?" Marty sat up. He looked around but all he saw was Agley, standing at the edge of his driveway staring at a scorched patch of earth in front of him.

"He's gone," Agley said. "There was all this light, and then he just...vanished."

Marty didn't wait for the relief to hit him. He knew it would never come. Not now. Not like this.

"And everyone else?" he barely managed, already knowing the answer.

Aileen shook her head. "Sorry, Marty."

"No!" someone yelled. The man in maroon came running but before he got too close Aileen spun around to face him. He slowed; even he could tell she wasn't to be messed with.

"Agley?" she said, but her sidekick was already coming up behind him, and together they wrestled the man to the ground.

*

It's funny how people's attitudes change following a death. All of a sudden the Violetville police force was doing everything it could to help. The fatalities of Gabriel White and Bernie Uncle had been caused by a freak tornado—at least that's what they scribbled down in their little notebooks.

They tried to bring Marty down to the station but he refused to go. For once being his father's son had its advantages.

Unsurprisingly, Bermuda Uncle had slept through the entire thing, only finding out what happened when one of the policemen kicked in her living room window, went into her bedroom and roused her. After becoming more hysterical than she had for the past several decades combined she agreed to let Marty stay with her until the police contacted his mum. Then she'd promptly gone back to bed.

*

Marty almost didn't go to the funeral. He didn't think he could handle all those people thinking his dad and next door neighbour had died by accident. But the day before the funeral his mother finally arrived home and forced him to go.

When he arrived at the church that morning he spotted Aileen and Agley. Both were dressed for the occasion in depressing black outfits. After making sure his mother was preoccupied with one of the local mourners Marty walked over to them.

"Our condolences," Aileen said, and she actually sounded sincere. Agley was puffing on a cigar. He exhaled, nodding at the same time.

"What did you do with the man in maroon?" Marty refused to refer to him as his dad's double. He didn't deserve the comparison.

"Tied up," Agley said, taking another puff. "He's been threatening to kill us ever since we did but he'll start saying something worthwhile soon enough."

Aileen leaned in a little. "Marty, I think we both know he didn't just disappear. We both know he's still out there somewhere. Don't we?"

Marty had driven himself demented thinking about this over the past few days, so much so that he grimaced at her mention of it.

"Good. Then it's settled. Agley and I want you to join us. We want you to work with us to defeat him."

"But why? Why are you doing this? Why do you care?"

For a few seconds Aileen didn't speak. She appeared to be deliberating on whether or not to come clean.

Marty sighed. "Listen, if this is ever going to work we need to learn to trust each other. From the start."

Aileen's pupils vanished momentarily. "Oh all right then. _Fine_. If you really must know, we promised our father we'd protect this world from Over There. He's the one who first discovered it."

Marty couldn't believe it. "You mean you're—"

"Yes, we're siblings."

"Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing, I just didn't expect that."

"He was a scientist. When Agley and I were teenagers he tried to go through the mirror himself, but he didn't survive. Before he went he made us promise we'd put a stop to the reflections if he didn't come back. So here we are."

The woman straightened up. "Are you in, then?"

Marty knew she was going to ask him this. He knew what his answer would be, too. There was nothing left for him in Wycherly Terrace. His mum had already managed to pawn him off on Mrs. Uncle, and it wasn't like she'd ever notice if he went missing for long stretches of time.

"Maybe," he said.

"Maybe?"

"I have a couple of conditions. Can you get the mirror working again?" It had sealed soon after Master Black's disappearance.

Agley stubbed out his cigar on the church wall. "No, but I might have another way back if that's what you're looking for."

Aileen blinked. " _Back?_ Why would you want to go _back?_ "

"That's my other condition," Marty explained. "I'll work with you, but only if you agree to take a couple of other people on board, too."

"Oh? And who might they be?"

"I'll give you a hint. One of them punched you in the neck. The other one doesn't think very much of you, either."

Aileen's face contorted. Her eyes became tiny slits and her eyebrows sprung halfway up her forehead. She peeled her lips back so far Marty saw her gums. This, he decided, had to be her most spectacular frown ever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Byrne was checking himself out in the mirror one day when he got the idea for Doppelginger. But he promises he's not narcissistic. All right, maybe he is. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

When Brian is not inhaling good children's books (and chocolate) you'll probably find him hunched over his laptop attempting to write one of his very own.

Brian hails from a small town in Ireland where it hails a lot. His life mission is to write the sort of books that make people miss their train stops.

Visit Brian's website: http://www.BrianByrneBooks.com

Follow Brian on Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/_BrianByrne

