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

Suspicious, I walked through the door, and the bell rang.

Mr Phillips was missing from his usual spot.

I paused and took a step back; some items were out of place. Nothing missing, just off by a few centimetres. And drawers in some of the bureaus and sideboards hung open, like someone had been searching for something and not had the patience to shut them properly.

‘Mr Phillips?’ I called.

No reply.

I knew where every antique belonged in the shop. I had it all memorised. Any time a piece sold, I would remove it from the picture stored in my head. I wondered if Mr Phillips had lost something, or if The Suit had stolen something.

“Mr Phillips!” I shouted again.

Nothing.

I checked the till. Mr Phillips had taught me how to use it, though I’d only used it twice. The till still had money in it, so it was unlikely The Suit had robbed the place, and nothing appeared to be missing—except for Mr Phillips.

I hurried around the shop, straightening everything, and shutting the drawers, then walked through the passage, passing the locked door to the flat upstairs, to the kitchen and the back office. But he wasn’t there.

I frowned. He had to be somewhere; he would never leave the shop unattended. I checked the back door, but it was locked from the inside.

A distant, muffled shuffle.

My head snapped up and rotated on my neck. The sound had come from the room where I worked.

I went straight there and stood in the doorway, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. Then a tuft of white hair drew my attention. I approached it and found Mr Phillips sat on the floor behind a wooden tea chest. His head hung almost on his chest, his usually slicked-down hair was out of place, and his shirt was dishevelled, like someone had grabbed him by it and twisted it in their hands.

‘Mr Phillips?’ I whispered.

Silence.

‘Mr Phillips?’ I said a bit louder, wondering if he was asleep, or worse.

But his head shot up. ‘Who is it?!’

I averted my gaze quickly when his eyes found me. ‘It’s me, Mr Phillips. John-Michael.’

‘John-Michael?’

‘Yes, is everything alright? What happened?’

‘Oh, John-Michael. Help me up, will you? I won’t look you in the face,’ he said.

‘Sure, okay.’ I said, even though I was clueless as to what had happened and why I had found him huddled in the corner. I felt uncomfortable touching him. I might have worked with him for eight years, but he wasn’t family (and sometimes touching them could be a challenge).

I grabbed a duster and draped it over my hand, then helped Mr Phillips up and guided him to my chair. At least then I could see him in the mirrors.

I watched as he straightened his shirt and smoothed down his hair. I gave him a minute before I probed him again. His face looked pale and clammy. I couldn’t decide whether to phone for a doctor or the police. He looked dazed, like he had seen a ghost. What could The Suit have possibly said to him?

So, I left him sitting and put the kettle on. I knew he kept a bottle of whiskey in the back of the cupboard, so I poured out a good measure (I knew it was good for shock), then I made two cups of sweet tea and brought them back on a round tray advertising Darley’s Brewery. Mr Phillips hadn’t moved from the position I’d left him in.

I set down the tray and handed him the whiskey first. He swallowed it down in one gulp, coughed and spluttered, then gave the glass back to me. I didn’t know if he wanted a refill, as he didn’t say anything, so I went and topped it up, anyway. He took the refilled glass from me but only took a sip this time and smacked his lips.

‘Thanks,’ he said, sounding a bit more like himself. ‘I needed that, lad.’

‘What happened?’ I finally asked.

‘Hand me that cup of tea,’ he said, indicating with his head.

Realising Mr Phillips probably wasn’t going to move from my seat anytime soon, I pulled over an old chair in need of upholstering so I could sit. I shuffled uncomfortably in the seat as a spring jabbed me in the backside, then I handed him his tea, which he took with a slightly trembling hand.

‘If anything happens… to me,’ he started to say, then cleared his throat. ‘If something should happen to me,’ he said again, ‘I want you to know they are in the large safe. Don’t let anyone get their hands on them. The key to the small safe is in the back of my pocket watch. All my important documents are in that safe; you’ll be needing them. And the key to the bigger safe is in a small box in there too. You’ll know how to get the key out, won’t you, John-Michael?’

‘Of course, Mr Phillips. But what’s going to happen to you? And what’s in the safe?’ I asked him.

He turned his head slightly, and his forehead crinkled. ‘Ay? Oh, nothing, lad. I think he’s gone now.’

‘Who’s gone?’ I asked. He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The colour started to come back to his cheeks after a few sips of the sweet tea.

‘We best get on, lad.’ He got up and walked towards the door before turning to say, ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be able to keep the shop running. You’re a good lad, John-Michael.’

I was left to gawp at the back of his head, wondering what could have possibly happened to leave him in such a state. And what on earth was he keeping in the safe? Perhaps I needed to find out for myself.

*

I kept an eye on Mr Phillips for the rest of the day in between doing my work. I noticed he jumped every time the doorbell rang—which thankfully wasn’t often. I was desperate to find out what had taken place that morning, especially