Mirror Man by Jacques Kat (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕

backwards to start my quest again. I tuned out the thumping of excitement in my ears and focused on the task ahead.

I didn’t get too close to my possible saviour, but I was near enough to smell the Imperial Leather soap he used, and I knew his clothes were freshly laundered, as the scent gently lingered behind him. Luckily for me, I was also wearing jeans, so I tucked my hands in my pockets and leaned to the left to mimic the innocent stranger who had the potential to turn my life around.

I followed at a steady pace, and if The Texan stopped, so did I. If he bent down to pick up someone’s dropped coin, I copied the action, all the while keeping a carefully trained eye on as many reflective surfaces as I could to ensure I could duplicate every move, action, and facial expression.

The shadowing was going well. He had no clue I was following him. He didn’t even spot my reflection when he peered into the Aquarius record shop window to examine the new Queen record. I wondered what crossed his mind as he stared at the cover for a moment longer than necessary; perhaps he wanted to buy it, but didn’t have enough money.

We were nearly into the housing estate when I was distracted by another man. He didn’t look dissimilar from The Texan, except this man wore a donkey jacket with NCB (National Coal Board) embossed on the back, indicating he worked down the local coal mine. Though I had to wonder what he was doing in town; he was far away from the picket line at Hatfield Colliery.

The man walked with purpose in his stride, and I nicknamed him “The Coalman” as I followed. An obvious name, I know. I couldn’t smell much from him other than muck and coal. He didn’t smell clean like The Texan; it was like his whole body had been engrained with the smell of his job.

Everybody around here supported the miners. When the strikes started, I’d asked my grandad what a picket line meant after seeing it on the news. He explained that they were striking to prevent pit closures.

‘Being a miner is a brotherhood,’ he informed me. ‘They follow the “one out, all out” rule. They gather in front of the gates to the mine, and if anyone passes, they’re called scabs or blacklegs.’

Grandad could provide no explanation for the first name. I imagined the second one was because they still went to work and therefore got dirty from the coal.

I pursued The Coalman all the way to the jobcentre, where he hovered outside and paced the pavement. He looked at a couple of men stood smoking outside before changing his mind and heading back towards the housing estate with his head bent low and the collar on his jacket pulled up high, as though to cover the shame of even contemplating seeking a new job. I knew what he’d considered doing; I didn’t need to guess, and I barely knew a thing, as my mum liked to remind me—unless it was about watches. I knew everything about watches.

Grandad once said it can’t be nice to struggle to feed your family, as the strikes showed no sign of letting up. Though if anyone should come knocking, he would make sure they had a hot meal and a good, strong mug of tea.

I turned into the estate for my second visit of the day when a police siren forced me to clasp my hands over my ears as the piercing noise shot around my brain like a pinball. I stopped and released my ears, swiftly glancing at the man I’d been following. He peered over his shoulder as the police officer got out of his car and approached the kerb.

The Coalman stared at the police officer, spat on the floor, then carried on. The police and the coalmen hadn’t been the best of friends lately; you only had to pick up a paper to read of the clashes between them.

My stomach felt as though it had sunk to my knees, however, and that’s where I focused my eyes as the police officer stood in front of me. My body tensed. I knew I was in for a terrible talking to. I’d always tried my best to be discreet and avoid the wrath of PC Williams, but not today, it seems.

‘What are you doing, John? How many times am I going to have to drive you home and fill your grandad’s heart full of grief?’ asked the constable. He tapped his foot as he waited for my reply. I didn’t always answer straight away; I needed time to form the answers in my head, or they sometimes came out jumbled—especially if I was nervous or anxious.

‘John-Michael it is,’ I mumbled. Crap! I nearly had it right.

I hated it when others shortened my name. The only people I allowed that honour were my sister Tina, Grandad, our gardener Fred, and Mum (though she rarely did). They didn’t shorten it to John, though. Instead, they called me JC.

‘What did you say, boy?’

‘Officer… Nothing… I wasn’t doing anything,’ I said. My eyes drifted to my shoes, then to PC Williams’s; his shoes hadn’t been polished this morning. I could see spots of mud begging to be rubbed off.

I lifted my head a little and inspected the officer’s uniform from the neck down for a reflective surface to look into, then sighed with disappointment. I was usually always deflated when I encountered PC Williams. He didn’t take care of his uniform like I thought he should. If I were a policeman, I’d have my uniform looking pristine. PC Williams could do with a few cleaning tips, as his buttons weren’t shiny. To me, they looked smeary, like they’d been rubbed with margarine or lard.

‘Don’t be so cheeky, lad. If I didn’t know your grandfather so well, you’d be getting a clip around your ear and a size eleven up your arse. I’ll