Graham Masterton - Mirror

'He's a very bright young boy,' said Martin.

Father Lucas looked at him challengingly for a moment; and Martin looked back at him and steadily held his eye but gave nothing away.

'You're asking me to help you, yet you won't tell me the whole story,' Father Lucas told him. He turned around to Mr Capelli. 'Isn't that so, Mr Capelli?'

Mr Capelli looked embarrassed. But Martin said, 'Father -let's just say that we're hedging our bets a little. We're not quite sure what we're up against yet; and it could be dangerous if we go storming in with bells, books, and candles, trying to exorcise something that may not even need exorcising; or may not even respond to being exorcised.'

He paused for a moment, and then he said, 'We're not trying to be obstructive, Father. It's just that we're very worried about Emilio. One wrong step and we may never see him again; not whole, anyway; and not the way he was before. We need your help very badly. If there's anything you can find out about mirrors and worlds beyond mirrors - well, we're looking for anything, anything at all. But Emilio is at serious risk; and if we lose him forever simply because we weren't careful enough .. . well, I don't think our souls are going to rest, either.'

Father Lucas frowned. 'What do you mean by that? Your souls aren't going to rest, either'} Who else has a soul that isn't at rest?'

Martin was almost tempted to tell him; but then he shook his head and said, 'Please, Father. Let's just take one step at a time.'

Father Lucas stood up and brushed crumbs from his coat. 'I really have to go now,' he said. 'But - all right - I'll accept your word that you can't tell me everything about the mirror. After all, Emilio's safety should be our first concern.'

He reached across the table and picked up the black-tissue package. 'Let me take these, however. I have a friend at St Patrick's who may be able to throw some light on these, and may even be able to tell us what the other safe-deposit box contains, before we risk opening it.'

Martin took hold of Father Lucas' hand and grasped it firmly. 'Thank you for having faith in all this,' he told him.

Father Lucas gave him a wry smile. 'I am regularly required to believe in the impossible, Mr Williams. It's not so hard for me to believe in the outrageous.'

Out on the landing, Father Lucas said good-bye to Mr and Mrs Capelli and thanked Mrs Capelli for her coffee and her cake. He was just about to go down the stairs when Boofuls appeared at the doorway of Martin's apartment. He stood there silently, staring down at Father Lucas with undisguised contempt.

'Good-bye, Lejeune,' Father Lucas called out, trying to be cheerful.

'Good-bye, Father,' Boofuls replied.

There was a moment of awkward silence. 'Well, then,' said Father Lucas, 'I must be off.'

'Father Lucas!' said Boofuls in a clear voice.

'What is it, my boy?'

Boofuls smiled at him. Then he said, 'Take care of your teeth, Father Lucas.'

Father Lucas laughed. 'Don't you worry, my boy. I brush them three times a day!'

Boofuls laughed, too; and then turned and disappeared back into Martin's apartment.

Martin looked serious. 'Take care of your teeth?' he said. 'What on earth did he mean by that?'

Father Lucas grasped Martin's arm. 'You just take care of yourself, Mr Williams. I'll call you if I find out anything about these relics. You work at home, don't you?'

Martin nodded. He stood at the head of the stairs watching Father Lucas go.

'I don't like this,' said Mr Capelli, rubbing his chin. 'I don't like this at all.'

Martin clapped him on the shoulder, and then slowly went back upstairs to see what Boofuls was doing.

CHAPTER NINE

The following morning was dull and humid; one of those overcast Hollywood days when all the buildings look tawdry and unreal, like a low-budget movie set. They drove up to Morris Nathan's house shortly after eleven o'clock. Morris had told Martin on the phone that he was too busy that morning to see anybody, but Martin had persisted. In the end, Morris had agreed to wedge him in between Joe Will-more and Henry Winkler. 'But four minutes only —four — no more.'

Because the day was so gray, there was nobody in the pool. Alison's inflatable sunbed circled around on its own, speckled with flies. Martin could see Alison herself in the sun-room, wearing a white silk caftan. Her manicurist was sitting at her feet like a religious supplicant, painting her toenails the color of 1956 Cadillacs. Alison waved as Martin and Boofuls walked across the patio to the front door.

Inside, Morris was saying good-bye to Joe Willmore. There was a strong smell of cigar smoke around. 'Come on in, Martin,' said Morris as Joe Willmore nodded to Martin, winked at Boofuls, and left. Martin followed Morris into his huge oak-paneled office with its sage-green shag-pile carpet and its framed photographs of Morris arm in arm with everybody who was anybody, from Frank Sinatra to Ronald Reagan.

'It's one of those days, you know?' said Morris. 'Thatfonfer David Santini has been arguing about the percentages on Robot Killer III; and don't ask me what Fox is trying to pull over Headhunters?

'What is Fox trying to pull over HeadhuntersT Martin inquired.

'I said don't ask,' said Morris. 'Believe me, if I told you, you wouldn't want to know.'

Martin laid a hand on Boofuls' shoulder. Boofuls had stayed quiet all this time, looking around. Today, he looked very much like any other small boy: Martin had taken him out yesterday afternoon and bought him shirts and T-shirts, shorts and jeans. He had stuck his hair down with gel, too, so that he didn't look quite so girly and ringleted.

Boofuls was still pale; and there was still something about him that wasn't quite ordinary; but at least he wasn't quite so obviously quaint.

'This is Lejeune,' said Martin. To avoid complications, they had decided to stick to the name that Boofuls had given to Father Lucas.

'Oh, yeah?' said Morris, leafing through a red-jacketed screenplay on his desk. 'Pleased to meet you, Lejeune. Don't tell me you're unlucky enough to have this letz for an uncle?'

'We're not related,' Martin explained. 'Lejeune here is my choice to play Boofuls.'

Morris slowly raised his eyes and stared first at Boofuls and then at Martin.

'Martin,' he said, 'I can spare you four minutes to talk about anything except Boofuls.'

'Will you listen for just one minute?' said Martin. 'I've decided to shelve my original idea. Instead, I want to put together a remake of Boofuls' last movie — the movie he never finished.'

Morris lowered his eyes toward the screenplay again. 'Martin,' he said with exaggerated patience, 'how long are you going to keep on mulshing me about Boofuls? Can't you take some advice? It's a loser. It's a dead duck. It's deader than a dead duck.'

But now Boofuls took one step forward and said in a high-pitched voice. 'No, sir. It's not dead at all.'

Morris looked at Martin in displeased surprise. 'Who's the mazik? he wanted to know. Mazik was Yiddish for a mischievous little devil. It was less insulting than mamzer, the way Morris said it, but not very much less insulting.

Boofuls lisped, 'The picture was called Sweet Chariot. Maybe you don't remember it.'

'Remember it?' Morris protested. 'Of course I remember it. And if I hadn't remembered it, this uncle of yours would have reminded me, in any case, as if he wouldn't.'

'He's not my uncle,' Boofuls corrected him. 'He's my script editor, that's all.'

Morris couldn't believe this. 'He is your script editor?'

Boofuls nodded. 'We're going to make this picture, Mr Nathan, and you're going to help us.'