Extract from chapter 8 of Mirror Image by Beth Murray. Out from Cosmic Egg June 27^th.

 Jack read from the journal, not realising that he was reading aloud.

Maggie stood by the door, unobserved by her husband, her face growing paler as she listened to the words he spoke, tears making their tracks down her cheeks.

“That man. I’m beginning to wonder what the point is. For each evil person I get rid of, there seems to be loads more to take their place. And yet, I know I could not stop: if I don’t stop them, who will?

“My hands are shaking again as I think about what he tried to do.

For once I didn’t have to see his reflection, didn’t have to see his true image to know he was evil – his actions told me that.

“I’m confused. I’m scared that I am losing my mind, but deep down I know I’m not. I almost wish I was insane, then this responsibility wouldn’t be mine: I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. Although, I must admit that I am getting some satisfaction from it.

“It’s that that worries me. If I enjoy it (which I’m starting to), doesn’t that make me as bad – if not worse – than the people I kill. But I saw my own reflection and it didn’t change.

“‘It’s been four hours, I’ve had two showers, but I can still feel him on me, still smell him. Every time my eyes close, I can feel his hands touching me, and I want to scream.”

Maggie watched Jack turn the page before continuing.

“I think I’ll take a holiday, go abroad somewhere, just relax. I know I can’t escape seeing people, but if I just don’t look, then maybe I’ll be okay.”

Slowly, Jack closed the book, one hand holding it down on the desk as if to trap everything inside. His other hand rubbed at his eyes.

Silently, Maggie walked into the office, white nightgown flowing over her feet. “Jack?”

He whirled around, and the first thing she saw was the look of pure fright on his face. Then she gently caressed his cheek, holding her finger out for him to see. “You’ve been crying.”

Jack smiled sadly. “So have you.”

Maggie wiped at her own face, surprised when her hand came away wet. The silence started to become uncomfortable, so she asked the question that she really needed answering right then. “Was she attacked?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. The way Freeman was found was just the way she described it. But, to be honest, it scares me.”

Maggie nodded, her own sad smile forming. “You mean, if that’s true then how much else is?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

She nodded, gently kissed his cheek, and walked back to the door. Before she left, she turned again to her husband, her eyes locked onto his. “Do you believe it?”

“I’m beginning to,” he said, without hesitation.

The door closed, and he heard Maggie’s footsteps as she went to bed. He looked at the journal on the desk. “Yeah,” he said to no one. “I think I’m really beginning to.”

 

Two hours later, the darkness outside beginning to lighten, Jack closed the book. He rubbed his eyes, weariness washing over him. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and felt himself beginning to drift away. Images instantly started to crowd into his mind, images of the people that Sarah had killed. Instead of seeing their physically mutilated forms as he had for years, the evidence photos having long been ingrained on his memory, he saw them how Sarah must have seen them, monsters in the guises of people.

Jack jerked awake, heart beating painfully loud in his chest. The colour outside his window was a lot brighter, and he knew that he’d slept for at least an hour in his chair.

The photographs from the file were scattered over the desk, and his eyes moved over them, as they had so many times before. He didn’t really need them, he knew every part of them, but he kept them out

He knew every single person that Sarah had killed, all ten of them.

He’d seen their dead, mutilated bodies, had spoken to their families, and, as a mark of respect, had attended most of their funerals. Jack knew that he had been a bit obsessive and, if his desk was anything to go by and if he was honest with himself, he knew that he still was. But he just wanted to finish this case completely, and that included reading the journal to its end.

“Jack. Sarah’s here.”

Jack turned and could only stare at his wife, the name burning in his brain and his gut.

She saw the look of shock on his face, because she shook her head and sighed. When she spoke, she sounded annoyed and angry. “Sarah. Our daughter.”

Jack had recovered from the name, but the venom in his wife’s voice hit him hard, like a punch in the stomach. He watched as Maggie turned away from him and walked out. It was then that he realised just how drained she looked, how tired. He tidied the photos away and put them in the top drawer of his desk.

Blog Comment by Author

 Mirror Image, although the first to be published, is the second (of five, so far) novel that I have written. This story was more of a gradual happening rather than a ‘Eureka!’ moment, but the initial spark was my reaction to something I saw on the news. Although I can’t remember the specific news story, it concerned someone being betrayed by a friend that they trusted, and I remember thinking that life would be so much easier, less painful, if we could see everyone’s true face instead of the face they present to the world. As the story started to grow, I became more interested in how a person would possibly be able to cope with seeing the faces of evil, how it would change them, and what they would ultimately do with the ability to see what others couldn’t.

And so, Sarah Fletcher was born, and I forced on her the ability to see the true evil in those around her, those who would cause pain for their own pleasure and act on their own bigotry and spite. She was created to confront those things and to respond. Jack Daniels, the police officer who chased her down, was initially created to make her confront her own actions but as the story began to grow he became more connected to her. It is rare for me to know exactly how the stories I write will end, and Mirror Image was no exception. Despite knowing that Sarah was going to die (the first scene in the book makes that totally clear) I had no idea at that point why, of what would transpire in her life to lead her to that place. Her story played out only as I wrote the words onto paper, translating the world that I was looking into.

I’ve read interviews with other writers where they’ve spoken about their processes for writing. I don’t have any: I don’t have a specific way of writing or of making detailed diagrams or plans – the only time I’ve ever tried to plan a story out in detail was for a part of my coursework for my English GCSE, and although I was very happy with the end result (and the A+ I got for it!), it bore no resemblance to the story I had planned out. So, I don’t plan. There’s no special place I sit in order to write – I am as comfortable writing on my sofa as I am sat at my desk in my office, or out in the garden sitting on a picnic blanket. And I switch between writing with pen on paper and using my laptop.

As far as classification of the genre that I write, that’s not easy to specify. Mirror Image, I tend to classify as a horror – Sarah’s experiences and the deaths she causes definitely seem horrific to me! My other stories include dark fantasy, horror, general fiction, and I’ve even finished a couple of children’s stories. For me, the classification of a story isn’t that important – it’s simply a sign-post for readers to be guided to where their passion lies. All that matters to me is the story, not the words used to describe it.

I get inspiration for stories from, literally, everywhere! As with Mirror Image, they can develop after seeing an item on the news; I can be sitting in my garden, doing the vacuuming, going for a walk or cooking dinner, and ideas will just pop into my head for no apparent reason. Quite a few of them, though, come from me actually living them in my dreams. I’ll wake up with the room dark, sweating and my heart pounding and terrified, and immediately think ‘that’s a great idea!’ Notes get jotted down and I generally go straight back to sleep without a second thought. Those are the ones that are the most scary for me, both while writing them and reading them afterwards. They make me relive horrific experiences, and there is nothing more terrifying than that.

All of that aside, the main thing to know about me is that I love writing! It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do, the thing that I was born to do, and I have a passion for it greater than anything else. I’ve been writing since I was a child, and I’m still going, still finding stories to tell – and I don’t see a time when I’ll stop.

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