Looking for Jake and Other Stories

though that would be wrong. It is as if London has been blotted, and I walk in the paper.

I wander through Islington—it gets tedious to always give it its mirror name—and along the railway lines toward Kensal Rise. The sun rises behind me, on the wrong side of the sky. I suppose I have come home.

This place is more like London than London now: there are no changes here, no imago exudations, no signs of the war. It is like London was. There are no fires. There is only the grey, silent city, abandoned, on the wrong side of the mirror. A vacant likeness. Very often, my feet make the only sound.

The imagos, all giddy with freedom, are gone, through the open doors, for revenge and emancipation’s sake. The fauna of mirrors have gone. There are no birds here: there never were, only little shards of imago-matter made to copy them. No rats. No urban foxes, no insects. But strangely, the city is not quite empty.

I am not the first here. Others have made their way through. I have caught glimpses, at the edges of streets, or climbing in the reflected trees. Only a very few, here and there: men and women, gone feral in ragged wool and fur, running through the streets, but not as if they are streets. I do not know if they are rebel imagos, or escaped humans. Some vampires must hate being meatbound too much to live with their siblings, and any human would find this place a sanctuary now.

These are my fellow citizens. They are frightened—I am too, I think—but we are all safe here. There is nothing here that wants to kill us. I am not a danger any more. We can walk these empty, mirrored streets, retracing favourite routes in looking-glass script, as if unwinding our memories. We can get on with being alone.

The glass of the mirror ruptured, tearing apart my face, when the patchogue burst out of the tain, but I was very quick. I met it, my own snarling face. I wasn’t subdued or driven out of my mind by it. I had never trusted that image anyway. That was why it found me where it did, in the toilet of a hospital, near my ward of melancholics and hysterics.

We rolled and choked each other in the debris of its passing. We struggled below the urinal, smashing open the doors of empty cubicles. Though we—they, I mean, the vampires—are strong and hard to kill, I managed it, with long edged bludgeons of mirrored glass. I stabbed and sawed, scoring my fingers, and felt my muscles tremble with the effort, but after long minutes I lay in blood more its than mine, and my doppelganger’s head was taken off, and it was dead, and I was exhilarated and terrified. But without reflection.

Afterward, I tried to tell. But I came out all wet with blood and the patients, my old cohorts, screamed murder, and then they saw that I’d nothing in the tain, and they screamed that I’d become a monster.

They called me vampire. My friends. They stared at me all bloody, at the emptiness in the glass, with terror so frantic I ran.

I’ve lived a long time. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s our imagos that kill us. Even trapped in mimicry, maybe their hatred reached past the glass and slowly throttled us, after our scores of years and ten. Only I killed mine, so I kept not dying. I’ve lived a long time, alone. For years, and years, not knowing what I was, more afraid of all of you than I’d ever been before, and resenting you more, a tide of it, bitter and growing, and alone.

This is my first time beyond the mirror, but I know all the imago histories by heart. I have had them told to me. Whispered through cold glass. All the stories of old Venice. I’d have loved to have been there. All the stories of the Yellow Emperor. I’ve mopped floors and disinfected stalls for years, in all manner of places, so I could work close to my siblings in the mirrors, and whisper to them when you weren’t about, when the shop closed or the train arrived. It’s perversely safe in those places. No one noticed me to notice I had no image.

There are strategies, to not being seen being unseen, to having no reflection. A way of moving, little dances of avoidance. They’re hard to learn, and a master recognises another. When I saw her, the woman in the station, I made her my new sister instantly, as I watched her bobbing elegantly away from glazed walls and windows. I sat her down in the cafe and made her teach me what she was, what I would be. For a very long time she’d say nothing. When finally she realised that I wouldn’t betray her, when she saw the tremor in me, the excitement, this making sense, this community, she told me enough—what I needed to know.

I went turncoat without regret. I was sick of you all. That night I uncovered the mirror in my lodgings, pressed up close to its empty face, and whispered into its glass, what would you have me do?

I’ve been a spy for a long time. Living days in your toilets, nights sleeping with my ear to the glass, hearing stories. They must—I don’t believe that they could not—have known what I was, that I wasn’t as other vampires. But they rewarded me when they came through, letting me live as one of their crippled scouts. I’ve seen them, the imagos, killing every human they see, and they have always left me. I lived among them. They saved me. From the man they wouldn’t touch, whom I touched. Showed myself up.

And now I have turned away, and run, and hidden from them.

After long years of feeling nothing, I find that I feel shame. And I swear that I don’t know for whom: I don’t know which of my betrayals makes me ashamed. Am I a bad man, or a bad imago? Which is it that hurts me?

I find a comfort in this nearly empty city. Now that the illusion, the silly little game I played (myself as monster) is over, I find a comfort being simply alone.

There’s nothing unique about me now. On the other side, no person has a reflection now. But if I went back to be as them, that would make me prey. I don’t find myself frightened by that—more indifferent.

I’m disposed to stay here, in this city where I can be alone.

I wonder who he was, that man my siblings, the imagos, wouldn’t touch. I wonder why they wouldn’t, and what he’ll do.

I like it in this nearly empty London. The air’s cool. There is food—tins and bottles in all the deserted stores, their wares printed in mirror-writing.

I’ve taken to climbing towers, and looking out—when light’s waxing and waning—looking out over the inverted horizon, tracking the river, that curves the wrong way, and the skyscrapers, on the wrong side of the city. It’s calming. The city all unlit and coursed through with wind, like a natural formation. Glass bows fractionally, in window frames, in the bluster. From up high, I sometimes see the other citizens, the escapees from all the chaos on the other side. I recognise some of them: we pass each other once or twice a day, at opposite ends of the street, and I know they recognise me.

We don’t smile, our eyes don’t meet, but we know each other. We are quite safe here: we don’t fear each other.

Sometimes I stare into puddles (I’m careful not to tread on them), try to see through the obscurity. I wonder what is happening in London Prime.

One of the refugees to my quiet city does the same. I’ve seen him, standing over the water, hands on hips, squatting and watching. A man bearded through lack of care, wrapped in what was once an expensive coat. I’ve watched him, and seen him see me, but we haven’t yet spoken. We stand at opposite ends of the street, staring intermittently each into his own water, and it is as if we are in the same room, about to meet.

The sun is going down over my quiet London, over in the east.

This is a surrender, Sholl thought. That’s how this should be told.

Refraction is the change in direction of a wave—like light—when it passes into a new substance. There was nothing we could do, thought Sholl. We had nothing. We have to change direction.

The Fish of the Mirror listened to him.

We surrender, Sholl told it again. That had always been his intention.

Is that it? Is that the plan?

Sholl did not know whose voice it was he gave the words to. The question was stark.

What would you have me do? he thought.

He did not tell himself that he had not lied to the soldiers, that he had promised them nothing about his plan: he had told them nothing, but he knew that he had lied.

The Fish of the Mirror turned and came closer, expanding, unlight passing through it. It listened without comment. It granted him audience, and heard his petition.

I won’t let us be destroyed, he thought. We can do this.