Graham Masterton - Mirror

'All right, I'm sorry.' Martin smiled. 'I guess I wasn't treating you quite like a big movie star.'

'I am a big movie star,' Boofuls said petulantly.

'You were a big movie star,' Martin reminded him.

Boofuls didn't bother to reply to that; but by the look on his face Martin could tell just how contemptuous he felt about it. Martin knew plenty of grown-up movie stars, and their total egotism never came as any surprise. It was as much a part of the job they did as a steady hand is to a carpenter. But it was a shock to meet such consummate vanity in a child of eight - even a child of eight who had walked into his life in wildly unnatural circumstances. Somehow Martin had always liked to believe that prepubescent children had a natural cynicism, a gift for self-squelching, which made such vanity impossible.

Not this kid, however. As far as Martin could tell, Boofuls had no interest in anybody but himself. Martin could already begin to understand why he had won such rapid and rapturous success — what star quality it was that Jacob Levitz had seen in him that first day he had auditioned for Whistlin' Dixie. A good movie star is interested in nothing but what other people think about him; and a brilliant movie star is obsessed by what other people think about him.

Martin said, 'We're going to have to think about what we're going to do with you. You can't suddenly appear out of nowhere at all and expect to continue living your life as if nothing had happened. If you're going to stay this side of the mirror, you're going to need education, social security . .. And how are you going to get those? Your birth certificate shows you were born in 1931 and yet you're only eight years old.'

Boofuls stared at him. 'All I want is new clothes. Then we can start making the picture.'

'What's so important about this damned picture?'

But Boofuls wouldn't answer. He sat on Martin's chair swinging his legs and doodling: clouds as high as clifftops and strange seductive smiles.

Just then, there was a knock at Martin's apartment door. Boofuls glanced up, and there was a look of cold curiosity in his eyes, but Martin said, 'Stay here, okay? I don't want anybody finding out that you're here yet.' He went to answer the door. It was Mr Capelli, in a blue Jack Nicklaus T-shirt and blue-and-white-checkered seersucker golfing pants. He had dark damson-colored circles under his eyes, and he was a little out of breath from climbing the stairs. 'Hey, Martin, I didn't wake you?' 'No, I was up already. Come on in.'

'I called the police about ten minutes ago,' said Mr Capelli. 'They told me no news.'

Martin closed the door. 'How's Mrs Capelli taking it?' 'Terrible, how do you think? I had to give her Tranxene last night.'

'You want some coffee?' Martin asked him. 'Sure, why not?'

'Have you eaten anything? I've got a couple of raspberry Danishes in the freezer.'

Mr Capelli gave him an odd look. 'Is something wrong?' 'Wrong?' said Martin in feigned surprise. 'What do you mean wrong?'

'You're fussing,' said Mr Capelli. 'I don't know, you're all flibberty.'

Martin shrugged. 'I'm a little tired, that's all. I didn't sleep too good, worrying about Emilio.'

He ushered Mr Capelli into the kitchen, glancing quickly toward the sitting room to make sure that Boofuls hadn't decided to make an appearance. Mr Capelli said, 'I called Father Lucas, too. He's coming around at nine o'clock.'

Martin spooned Folger's Mountain Blend into the percolator. 'Oh, yes, Father Lucas. I'd forgotten about him.'

'I don't know how serious he took it,' Mr Capelli replied, dragging out one of Martin's kitchen stools and perching his wide backside on it. 'When I told him we were having trouble with a mirror, you know, the way it nearly sucked in Emilio and all that stuff - well, he sounded a little distracted. You know what I mean by distracted? Like he was thinking about his breakfast instead, or maybe what he was going to preach in church next week.'

'Sure,' said Martin. 'I know what you mean by distracted.' 'He's a good priest, though,' Mr Capelli remarked. 'Kind of old-fashioned, you know, traditional. But I like him. He baptized Emilio; he buried my daughter.'

The water in the percolator began to jump and pop. Martin took down two ceramic mugs and set them on the table. As he did so, Boofuls appeared in the open doorway, behind Mr Capelli's back. The look on his face was unreadable. Martin couldn't tell if he was angry or bored or amused. His eyes flared in tiny pinpricks of blue light, as if they could cut through steel.

'Some of these young priests, they seem to take a pleasure in challenging the old ways. You know what I mean by challenging? They say, why shouldn't a priest marry? Why shouldn't people use a contraceptive? What's so special about the Latin mass?'

Mr Capelli looked up at Martin's face.

'Hey,' he said. 'What's wrong? You look like you just remembered it was your mother's birthday yesterday.'

Slowly, frowning, Mr Capelli twisted around on his stool so that he was facing the door. He saw Boofuls standing there, silent and small, with that eerie expression on his face that wasn't smiling and wasn't scowling and wasn't anything at all but triumph, sheer, cold triumph.

Mr Capelli was silent for one long second, and then he shouted out ' Yah!' in terror, and jumped off from his stool, which toppled noisily over backward onto the kitchen floor. He stood with his back pressed against the cupboards, both hands raised, too shocked and frightened even to cross himself. When he managed to shout out a few desperate guttural words, his Italian accent was so dense that Martin could scarcely understand what he was saying.

'Whosa dis? Whosa dis boy? Donta tellmi. Martin donta tellmi!'

Boofuls remained silent: still triumphant, but placid. Mr Capelli edged away from him, right around to the far side of the kitchen, and stood staring at him in horror.

Martin said, 'It's Boofuls. He came out of the mirror.'

'He came out of the mirror, he tells me. Holy God and All His Angels. Ho Lee God!'

Martin laid a hand on Mr Capelli's shoulder. 'I was hoping he wouldn't come in. I didn't want to frighten you.'

'He didn't want to frighten me!' Mr Capelli repeated.

Boofuls came gliding forward into the kitchen. He held out his hand. 'You mustn't be frightened,' he told Mr Capelli. 'There's nothing to be frightened of at all.'

Mr Capelli crossed himself five times in succession, his hand flurrying wildly. 'You're a dead person! You stay back!'

Boofuls smiled gently. 'Do I look dead?' he asked.

Mr Capelli was shaking. 'Don't you touch me, you stay back. You're a dead person.'

But Martin came forward and laid his hand on Mr Capelli's shoulder and said, 'Mr Capelli, he should be dead, by rights. But he isn't. You can see that he isn't. And I don't think that he's going to do anything to hurt us.'

'Nothing to hurt us, eh? So where's Emilio? Emilio went into the mirror, and this boy came out, is that it?'

Martin was about to explain that, yes, there was a chance that Emilio might have gone into the mirror, but that Boofuls was certainly going to help to get him back. But Boofuls forestalled him by saying in that piping voice of his, 'You're quite right, sir. Emilio is in the mirror. He went to play with some of my chums.'

This was more than Mr Capelli could take. His face turned ashy blue, and Martin had to drag over a chair for him so that he could sit down. He sat with his hand pressed over his heart, breathing deeply. Boofuls stood beside him, still smiling.

'Emilio's quite safe, sir,' he told Mr Capelli.

'Safe?' said Mr Capelli harshly, in between breaths. 'Who cares about safe? I want him back.'