Attica (11 page)

‘Must be in their genes,’ muttered Alex to himself, dismissing the laws of science and reason in this otherworld. ‘Next time they do it, I’ll undo this strap and make a dash for it.’

But it wasn’t long enough, five seconds, for him to get a head start. Especially all togged up in the clobber they’d dressed him in. They always managed to run him down. And when they did they poked him around, making his eyes water. Then they showed him a pair of barber’s scissors and pointed to his hair. They snipped the air in a taunting way with the scissors, making Alex quite aware what they intended to do.

‘You’ll be sorry if
you do,’ he snarled at them after the third time. ‘I’ll knock your blocks off when I get help.’

But help, it seemed, was a long way away.

CHAPTER 7

On the Mountain of Shadows

Now Chloe was all alone. Alex
was nowhere to be seen and her calls for him had gone unanswered. Jordy was somewhere out on or beyond the Jagged Mountain. It was as if the attic had a plan from the start, to divide the three children, to separate them, and then to deal with them in its own manner.

‘Alex?’ Chloe yelled, desperate for an answer. ‘Alex, where are you?’

A mocking draught blew down from Jagged Mountain.

Alex and Jordy: both lost somewhere. Chloe wondered whether this was retribution for her tricking the bat. The bat had thought it was getting a map and all it got was a list of books.

‘Those stupid boys,’ growled Chloe, clenching her fists in frustration. ‘How do they manage to get lost?’

Yet, even as she said the words, Chloe realised that in fact neither of them might be lost. They could have been abducted by someone. Or some thing. Still, at least
she
hadn’t been kidnapped. It was now up to her to find her brothers. If they were lost, she would find them. If they had been taken, she would free them.

She decided to start from
where she last saw Alex and roam outwards in ever increasing circles until she came upon a clue. That seemed the most sensible plan, though she realised it might take some time.

‘What is it?’ asks the bat.

Looks like they’ve captured one of the visitors
.

‘Which one?’

Who knows, you’ve seen one young person, you’ve seen them all
.

‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’

Why should I do anything? They tricked me with that piece of paper they gave you. All it had on it was words. I know what a map looks like. It’s got squiggly lines and arrows and things. It shows you where to go. This isn’t a map at all
.

The board-comber waves Chloe’s book list under the nose of the bat hanging from his ear.

‘So, you don’t like people, but you don’t like mannequins either. They always chase you away with brooms and mops. You could help the boy escape. You know you could.’

I’m still angry with the visitors
.

‘It wasn’t that one who gave you the list.’

I suppose not. It was the one with long hair
.

The board-comber crawls closer to the mannequins’ village, the chin of his ceramic Venetian carnival mask scraping on the floorboards. Alex is wilting like a flower without water. Flowers, like humans, are remembered things which the board-comber has not seen for decades. The board-comber wonders if he should feel sorry for the boy. One thing is certain, young people were good at rooting out treasure, and where there’s treasure there’s trade. The board-comber is ever desperate to increase his collection of Inuit carvings: his heart beats faster at the thought of a new one.

‘You’ve been seen!’

How would you know – you’re blind
…

But the bat is right. A lone mannequin suddenly
appears from the side of the attic. It bears down on the bundle of dirty clothes which is the board-comber and begins beating him with a broom. The board-comber yells, climbs to his feet. Heavy in his rags and tatters, and with his bag of soapstone carvings, he runs. The mannequin chases him, whacking him with the broom, raising clouds of dust from his clothes.

Each
thwack
with the weapon brings a yell of anguish from the board-comber, who does not so much feel pain as indignation at the treatment.

Stop, stop
, it cries.

But the mannequin seems to be enjoying the chase. It doesn’t relent until they are almost out of sight of the village. Then suddenly it freezes for five seconds, allowing the board-comber to get out of reach. On coming back to life the dummy swivels its head back-to-front. There’s a sense of apprehension about it now. It realises it is far out on its own. The board-comber recognises its indecision. He whirls back and lashes out with his hat, striking the dummy’s bare chest. He then wrenches the broom out of his foe’s stiff hands.

Weaponless, the mannequin begins running awkwardly backwards towards its home. Its body still faces the board-comber, but its head is turned the other way. Halfway home it freezes in motion again, almost toppling on its back. When it comes to, it spins round in order to run properly, at the same time as its head does a half-revolution. Once more everything is the right way round and in the right place.

Deciding not to follow, the board-comber remains where he is, gathering breath.

‘You could have chased it back,’ says the bat. ‘You could have belted it one when it froze the second time.’

I don’t really like violence
.

‘Well, that’s admirable. But the hunted could have
become the hunter – the pursued the pursuer – the chased the chaser …’

I think I get the idea
.

‘They think they own the attic, those dummies, that’s for sure.’

The attic has free right of roaming
.

‘Yet they capture people and degrade them.’

We must set the boy loose. If we don’t they’ll cut off his hair. You know what they’re like
.

‘Good for you. How?’

I know where there are lures
.

‘Lures? What, you mean like trout-fishing flies?’

Yes. Mannequins can’t resist them
.

‘Why would they want trout flies?’

Not flies. Something else
.

‘What? What could a mannequin possibly want?’

You’ll see
.

Chloe felt like falling down and weeping. To her credit she didn’t. She stayed on her feet and kept searching. Being a castaway in Attica, a strange land with strange creatures in it, was not so terrible when she had company. However, she discovered that it was quite a different place when she was alone. With no one to talk to, no one to comfort and exchange ideas with, the attic became a place of horror. Every little creak made her whirl in panic. All her thoughts turned in cycles, haunting her every moment with doubts and concerns. The solitude was unbearable and all those experiences she had read about, of lonely shipwrecked mariners in the days of sailing ships, meant more to her now that she was going through the same thing.

‘I must keep my head,’ she kept telling herself. ‘I mustn’t let things get out of perspective.’

But even the sound of her own
voice, now that she was alone, frightened her.

When night came it was even worse. She found a cardboard box and curled up inside it, hoping that by blocking out the attic she would be safe from anything out there. She slept fitfully, waking at every tiny noise. In the night even ordinary things seem threatening. By the time morning came she was ragged with grey thoughts and lack of rest.

Nevertheless, she continued to do her ever-widening search. At one point she found Nelson trailing along behind her. Never a lean cat in the past, Nelson now looked sleek and dangerous. She picked him up and stroked him until he struggled to be let down. He stayed with her for a while, accompanying her on her search, then drifted off into some shadows. Chloe did not mind him deserting her. Cats were like that. She knew he’d find her again, when he was ready for company.

He lays his lures on the boards not far from the village and waits.

‘You think that’ll bring ’em out?’

Just you watch
.

A mannequin is tired of taunting the human and leaves to wander just outside the village. Once outside, however, the shop-window dummy halts in its tracks. It lifts its head and arches itself towards an area which looks like a patch of coloured grasses. What is that out there? Could it be …? Yes, it could very well be. Well then, should it go and fetch them in itself, or should it rouse the other mannequins to accompany it?

The patch is quite a way out from the village.

The mannequin decides it needs company to venture so far from safety in numbers. It goes back
and brings the attention of the other dummies to that peculiar patch out on the boards. Soon the mannequins are streaming out of the village, all eager to claim one of the treasures.

I knew the wigs would bring them
.

‘Well, you were right: here they come.’

They can’t resist wigs. You should see them primping and parading themselves in front of a mirror, once they have a wig on their head. Hair. They crave a hairpiece to make themselves look more attractive. I’ve never met a mannequin yet that didn’t want to cover its baldness
.

‘Let’s get to the boy before they realise the village is empty.’

But the board-comber does not need to worry. The mannequins are delighted with the wigs. They have forgotten about their captive. They put on the hairpieces and dance around in that jerky fashion, swinging long golden curls, black straight locks, blue tight curls, even green plaits with blue ribbons. They point to each other and rock from side to side, as if passing approval on their companions. What a delightful thing, to find these wigs scattered just outside their village. Everyone is happy.

When they return to the village, however, they become enraged.

Their human captive has gone. A pile of clothes attests to the fact that he has either melted or run away. Since there is no pool of liquid the mannequins conclude that he has indeed absconded. Still, they have the wigs. They have become beautiful. They are now wonderful.

They begin to dance again, freezing every so often for that peculiar five seconds, then springing back into motion once more.

Alex wanted someone to thank, for setting him free, but there was nothing in sight but a pile of stinking old clothes. Perhaps the owner had shed them in flight? Had there
been anyone at all? Who knew what strangenesses this Attica would produce next? After a while he convinced himself that he alone had been responsible for his liberty. Something had drawn the mannequins out of their village, but he – Alex – had managed to escape while they had been thus preoccupied. That’s all there was to it.

He felt relieved to be shot of the mannequins of course, but he also felt rather light-headed and triumphant. It was frightening to be a prisoner, but it was exhilarating to escape and put one over on your enemies. It was exciting to be travelling through an unknown, unexplored land. Out there in the real world everywhere had been discovered and seen by someone. In here there were surprises to be had, new discoveries.

Alex sat down and took off his backpack.

Someone joined him, sliding up to his side.

‘Hello, Nelson! What have you got there?’

His three-cornered cat had arrived with a dead bird. A pigeon. It must have been roosting in the eaves. Even with three legs Nelson was good at killing things: lightning-fast once he had crept up to his victims. There was nothing wrong with his back legs, which launched him into his leap. Now that the pigeon was a dead weight, he was having trouble dragging it along. He deposited it at Alex’s feet and looked up, obviously pleased with himself.

‘Oh dear, Nelson. Mum wouldn’t like it.’

But the bird was quite plump. Alex studied the carcass with new eyes. The eyes of Alex the explorer and adventurer. It had a good layer of meat on it. He suddenly remembered his cooking stove. Hunger clawed at his belly. He’d never plucked a pigeon before, but he did so now, under the approving eye of a lopsided ginger tom. It took him a while but he managed to get rid of most of the
feathers. He decided the last few bits of fluff would burn off.

‘Got to do something with the innards, I think.’

With his newly found penknife he cut the bird open and scraped out all the messy bits. Then he lit the camping stove and roasted the pigeon over the flames on a spit fashioned from a metal tent peg. The cooked item was not what you would call cuisine, but it was edible, despite the burnt bits. Alex was very pleased with himself. He gave some to the waiting Nelson, then ate the rest himself, only later feeling guilty for not saving some for the others.

‘Chloe wouldn’t like it anyway,’ he told Nelson. ‘She’d go ape if she knew.’

He decided not to tell her.

Alex stroked his cat’s head and fondled his ears. Nelson purred like the engine of a very expensive car. At last one of his gifts had been accepted. ‘You’re a three-legged ginger wonder. The king of cats. The lion of Attica.’ His purring increased.

Alex felt like a conqueror of the elements and the landscape. He was Doctor Livingstone, he was Sherpa Tensing, he was Gautama Buddha. In his small frame was the ability to traverse the unknown and even perhaps become rich in the process, for there was treasure here. If not diamonds or gold, then postage stamps and old coins.

He moved on, back towards the place where he had left Chloe and, miracle of miracles, found the treasure he was seeking. It was wrapped in an oily rag and left just where he would come across it. Surely someone had put it there for him? Not the shop dummies, that was certain. Someone else. Someone wishing to make friends, perhaps? Somehow he knew before he peeled away the oily rag, that there was an object of great beauty and desire beneath. He sensed
it. He
smelled
it.

It was not coins or stamps, but a model steam engine. He had always dreamed of owning one – a Mamod or a Wilesco – and here it was, green, red and black, with a brass wheel that gleamed as if it had just been polished. But these were very expensive toys. He’d been promised one at some time, but what with the expense of moving house Dipa and Ben had been honest with him in saying they didn’t know when they could deliver.