The Gallery of Forgotten Dreams

by E. A. Owell

  Eliza followed suit, even though she didn't do it as fast as the Head Fixer. Her hands were trembling, but she methodically went from one drawer to another.

  They started from different corners of the room and soon they met at the fireplace opposite the window. Without saying a word to each other, they understood they hadn't found any keys.

  ‘I've got it.’

  Mr Wood stood holding a key in his left hand, his right hand still propping the cabinet, which now had its drawers pulled out.

  ‘Great,’ breathed Mr Breakleg, taking the key.

  ‘What do we do n—’

  Eliza hadn't finished her question when they heard sounds. It was some sort of scraping, like that of a knife against bricks or stones. The sounds were coming our of the fireplace.

  ‘Quick!’ barked Mr Breakleg, and he begain pushing the dining table away from the toppled cabinet blocking the door.

  Eliza and Mr Wood tugged at the cabinet, which was bulky and heavy. The scraping sounds in the chimney grew louder and fiercer, as if something large strove to push itself down into the fireplace.

  Eliza doubled her efforts, surprised she had any strength left in her at all. The cabinet seemed to have caught on something on the floor.

  ‘It won't move further,’ she gasped, her palms slippery with sweat. The malicious scraping was almost in the fireplace.

  She heard a thud and turned around to see Mr Breakleg upturning the table to block the fireplace. He rushed to the door and pulled away the corner on the floor carpet, which had wrinkled up. All three of them pulled the cabinet. Mr Wood opened the door ajar.

  ‘Eliza, hurry!’

  Eliza squeezed through the gap, which was too narrow for the two men. She pressed against the door from the other side, helping to move the cabinet. At this very moment, there was a loud bang, as if something big and heavy had been flung across the room and hit the wall. This was followed by a blood-curling, ferocious hissing.

  ‘Eliza, open the front door,’ Mr Wood tossed the key to her. ‘Hurry!’

  She looked at him for a second and then sprinted for the doors in the entrance hall. She shuddered to think what was happening in the room behind her. She could only hear loud screams, hissing and heavy thuds.

  She was at the door, trying to fit the key into the keyhole, but her quivering hands would not let her do it.

  ‘Eliza, hurry!’ bellowed Mr Breakleg and Mr Wood, as they ran in her direction.

  She dropped the key, panic rising up and drowning her mind in a hot wave of chaos. She picked the key up, and at that moment someone's bloodied hand snatched it out of her hands. There was mad scratching and violent hissing to their right, and Mr Wood crying out ‘Open it!!’

  Eliza shut her eyes and tensed, awaiting the awful end, and...

  Nothing happened. The deadly stroke she’d been expecting had never come. She only heard two people panting.

  She dared to open one eye a crack. Straight away she had to shut it again, blinded by the sunlight.

  ‘It’s all right, Eliza, looks like we’re safe,’ Mr Wood’s voice said in her ear.

  She felt she was being put down on the ground.

  Warm breeze caressed her cheeks. She opened her eyes again, shading them with her hand. It was bizarre seeing the sun, given it was night outside the house when they were inside.

  The bright light stopped hurting her eyes that much and Eliza could finally see that they were near the porch of the house, surrounded by a beautiful garden. Colourful butterflies were flying among the delicate flowers. The difference was particularly striking compared to the nightmare locked within the house.

  Mr Wood and Mr Breakleg stood nearby, both still breathing heavily, their foreheads glistening with sweat. Mr Breakleg’s sleeve was ripped and there were deep bloody gashes along his arm.

  ‘Mr Breakleg, you’re hurt!’ exclaimed Eliza.

  ‘It’s OK, I don’t feel pain in dreams,’ he replied and seemed to be genuine about it, although his wounds looked horrible. Then he looked somewhere behind Eliza’s back and called, ‘Mrs Cornish!’

  Eliza turned around and saw the old lady’s figure not far away. Mrs Cornish did not turn to them. They moved closer.

  ‘Mrs Cornish!’ called Mr Wood this time.

  They received no answer again. When they approached the old lady, they realised she wasn’t alone.

  In front of her stood a man with hollow cheeks, deep-set dark eyes, and a peculiarly crooked nose.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Hello, David,’ said Mr Breakleg.

  The man looked at the Head Fixer with defiance.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said in the voice of a ferocious, cornered wild animal.

  ‘We’ve come to talk,’ replied the Head Fixer.

  ‘About what? Who are you?’

  ‘I think you know perfectly well who we are, as well as we know who you are. And I think you know why we are here.’

  David Brand looked at Mr Breakleg, then at Mrs Cornish, then back at Mr Breakleg. He didn’t say a word.

  ‘David, where is your grandfather? Where is Jeremy Brand?’ asked the Head Fixer.

  ‘Why do you care?’ answered David and threw a glance of disgust at Mrs Cornish.

  ‘Because this nightmare must stop. It can’t go on. People are suffering.’

  ‘David,’ Mrs Cornish said quietly. ‘Please, help us end it.’

  ‘Why would I? He suffered too when you rejected him. That didn’t seem to bother you much,’ David spat the words out.

  ‘I couldn’t accept his work, David. And you have seen why. It’s downright scary,’ Mrs Cornish tried to defend herself.

  ‘Scary? So what? It’s beautiful. Truly beautiful. But you didn’t care. Scary, you say. Isn’t life scary? People should be able to face anything, good and bad. All you do is lull them into a false sense of security.’

  ‘We bring them peace, rest. Sleep is the time when people can do whatever they wish for. If they had a bad day, they can enjoy their time in a dream and get enough courage and inspiration to deal with their life when awake. If their life is great as it is, they still can enjoy new wonderful emotions in their sleep.’

  ‘And who cares about art, right? Definitely not the Chief Curator of the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams, eh?’ sneered David Brand.

  ‘The Chief Curator did what had to be done,’ said Mr Breakleg sternly. ‘Tell us how come your grandfather’s nightmare keeps haunting people after his death?’

  ‘So you know he’s dead,’ said David, his voice laced with spite. ‘What, you can’t figure out why the nightmare is still alive? Should think harder, I suppose, Mister Fixer.’

  Mr Breakleg’s nostrils flared, his eyes hardened. Mrs Cornish took him gently by the elbow trying to help him contain himself.

  ‘David, please help us get rid of the nightmare. It’s doing no good to anyone, only harm. You must know how the nightmare stays alive, even though its author is gone,’ she said with certain strength in her voice.

  ‘Who said its author is gone?’ a devilish smile crossed David's face.

  For a moment, everyone seemed confused. Eliza most certainly was, and while she tried to comprehend what all this meant, Mrs Cornish broke the silence.

  ‘It is you,’ she said slowly, looking David directly in the eye. ‘You are the author. Not Jeremy. You paint the nightmare.’

  Eliza, Mr Wood and Mr Breakleg looked at Mrs Cornish in astonishment.

  ‘But… the style is so very much Jeremy’s. Every detail, every stroke. How do you do this?’ asked the old lady, and there seemed to be no other emotion to her question apart from curiosity mingled with admiration.

  David stood there looking smug, almost triumphant.

  ‘You are also pretty arrogant, aren’t you? It hasn’t crossed your mind even once that the descendants of someone as talented as my granddad could also be as or perhaps even more skilful. It did take me a while to l
earn his style but I’ve worked diligently and I’ve perfected it. To such an extent that even you couldn’t tell the difference.’

  ‘So you’ve been painting the nightmare. You’ve stolen the canvases, too,’ said Mr Breakleg. ‘How did you get into the Gallery?’

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ snapped David.

  ‘This is exactly my business. You’ve been terrorising the people of this town with the nightmare, you’ve broken into the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams and you’ve stolen the canvases. As the Head Fixer of the Fixing Department, I command you to stop the illicit activity, admit to what you’ve committed, and we might be able to settle it in the least harmful way for everybody.’

  David laughed a derisive laughter. ‘Least harmful way? Harm has already been done. Long time ago. And no one seemed to be bothered about it. But suddenly everyone is now.’ Then he looked at Mrs Cornish. ‘Do you know what you did to my granddad?’

  Mrs Cornish did not reply.

  ‘You made him doubt himself as an artist. All the time. There was never a picture after the one he’d sent you that he didn’t doubt. Not one was good enough. Not one would have received your approval, he thought. Because his best work had been rejected. He never painted with much inspiration ever again. He became unsure of his stroke, his vision. He became an artistic cripple. He could’ve been brilliant. He was brilliant. But you took it away from him. You did this to him.’

  Eliza gulped nervously. This whole scene was incredibly surreal and out of place. She felt this discord of the horrible things and accusations being uttered and the serene atmosphere of this beautiful garden they were in the middle of.

  She looked at Mr Wood – he was looking at David Brand with the same expression he had when they had brought Phil in for questioning last year. He pitied David but did not justify his actions.

  ‘I didn’t wish him ill, David,’ said Mrs Cornish. ‘Your grandfather was a very gifted artist, it’s true. And I never said he wasn’t. I never told him he was bad. On the contrary, I told him to continue his work. But his painting wasn’t fit for the Gallery and there was nothing I could do. I never meant for him to doubt his talent and skill.’

  Mrs Cornish spoke gently but without repentance. Eliza realised the old lady did not feel guilty. Perhaps, because she wasn’t. She most certainly felt sorry about how things turned out for Jeremy Brand and now his grandson, for she had a kind heart, but she had not done anything bad to the man. Either of them. All she had done was her job. She had even tried to soften the blow that she'd happened to have been obliged to deal. She did not destroy Jeremy Brand’s life.

  ‘I suppose we both wish things had turned out differently. But they didn’t,’ said David. ‘People will see Jeremy Brand’s art, and so will you.’

  ‘You little–’

  Mr Breakleg didn’t finish the sentence, as a loud noise tore the air around them.

  ‘What is this?’ shouted Mr Wood over the noise.

  The ground was shaking violently under their feet. The bright sun started flickering like a malfunctioning lightbulb. The dark house behind them trembled. Everyone was looking around, seeking the cause of the mayhem, including David Brand.

  ‘Oh no!’ gasped Eliza, ‘I think it’s my–’

  She jerked upright on her bed to the beeping of her alarm clock. She turned it off and the room rang with silence.

  ‘It’s my alarm,’ she said to her empty room.

  Chapter 18

  Eliza could barely think straight that day. She woke up from the dream but somehow in her head she was still there, reliving it again and again.

  Mainly she was wondering what had happened to the others? What had happened to David Brand? Had they caught him? Had he escaped? She was so deep in thought she didn’t notice how she'd finished her breakfast.

  ‘Did you like it?’

  Eliza snapped back to reality and realised her mum was talking to her.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ she said.

  ‘The breakfast, was it all right? Your favourite cherry jam and you said nothing. Quite unusual.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s good, it’s great, thanks.’

  ‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Mrs Reid and looked at her daughter attentively.

  ‘No, no, I’m fine.’

  ‘Ok. Well, then it's time to get ready. You don’t want to miss the play.’

  ‘Play? What play?’ asked Eliza.

  ‘Honey, are you sure everything’s fine with you?’ Eliza’s mum sounded suspicious. ‘You are going to the theatre today with the class, to see a play, remember?’

  Eliza suppressed a strong desire to slap herself on the forehead. Theatre! Play! It had completely slipped out of Eliza’s head.

  ‘Oh, of course! Of course, I remember. Still a little bit sleepy,’ she mumbled in a way which she hoped was at least a tiny bit convincing.

  ‘You’d better wake up then and get dressed,’ said her mum, starting to clear the table. It seemed like her suspicions had not been raised too much.

  Eliza sneaked into her room, got dressed and was out of the house. She hadn’t noticed how she arrived at school. All the way there, she had been thinking about the dream she had shared with Mr Wood, Mrs Cornish and Mr Breakleg. She dreaded to think back to the nightmarish beginning of it. The escape from the black creature was so narrow she could still feel the sticky terror of it.

  Her thoughts, however, were interrupted by Emily and Nathan who she met at school. Conversation with them took her mind off the last night’s events for a while, replacing heavy thoughts with the issues of classes and football and what not.

  Eliza was actually glad to go to the theatre. Firstly, a day when you didn’t have classes was always a good day. Secondly, she kind of enjoyed theatre. Not that she was a frequent theatre goer, but when she did go she usually had a good time. And so far she hadn’t seen a bad play. Naturally, some were better than others, but she could not call any one of them ‘bad’. So the day promised to be pleasant.

  Eliza, Emily and Nathan sat next to each other in the middle section of the theatre, slightly to the left, with a great view of the stage. There was a merry chatter of many children’s voices in the room. Maybe, a little too loud for a place like this. But, finally, the lights dimmed, the talking died down and the attention of the audience was directed to the stage.

  Eliza liked the atmosphere of theatre. You were and weren’t alone at the same time. And then there was this story unfolding right in front of you, live. And, unlike cinema, it was as if there were no invisible wall between the audience and the stage.

  It was as if you were spying on someone and they had no idea you were there. Sometimes it made Eliza uncomfortable. At moments like this, she had to remind herself that those were actors and it wasn’t for real. She was one of those people who easily got carried away by the story.

  And so it was this time. Eliza didn’t notice how she had got sucked into this fraction of a made-up reality that was presenting itself on stage.

  She liked the story and the characters. Somehow, they even looked familiar. This old lady could easily be your grumpy neighbour in real life. This police officer was exactly like the ones you meet in the street. The hairdresser could be the one working across the street. And the chimney sweep…

  For some reason, he caught Eliza’s attention straight away. He looked even more familiar than the rest of the characters. She couldn’t quite put a finger on why it was so, but she followed the story closely, anyway.

  Her face was becoming more and more thoughtful as she watched the play. This chimney sweep was something more than a character. Eliza thought she had seen the face before but it was hard to tell because of the heavy make-up on the actor.

  She looked more closely at the eyes, the mouth, the nose… The nose! Eliza gasped loudly, but luckily so did half of the room. And while the audience reacted to an unexpected twist in the story, Eliza’s was the gasp of sudden recognition.

 
None other than David Brand was on stage! The chimney sweep! Eliza recognised the peculiarly crooked nose. And then the dark deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks also fit in the image.

  She didn't know what to do. She wanted to let somebody know that it was David Brand, the man who had been terrorising people in their dreams, and that something should be done about him. But then she thought there was no one from the Fixing Department or from the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams around. Her classmates and teachers would think she was saying nonsense.

  Eliza had to sit till the end of the play, which thankfully wasn’t that long, and not make her presence known to the culprit. Now that she had recognised him, she had this haunting feeling that he was about to spot her. She had slid as low in her chair as she physically could without falling to the floor.

  When the play was over, Eliza was the first to leave the room. She made up an excuse to skip a football game with Nathan and Emily and a couple of other kids after theatre. Instead, she rushed straight to ‘Gregory’s Books’, since the Cornish Gallery was closed.

  It was late afternoon and the bookshop was not yet populated by customers. Mr Wood was there at the counter, making some calculations and putting something down in a big notebook. When Eliza ran into the shop, he looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Good day to you, Eliza. What’s happened?’

  She told him about the theatre, all the while gasping for breath after the run to the shop.

  ‘And there is something else,’ she said after a brief pause. ‘I think I know how David Brand's been getting into the Gallery all this time.’

  Mr Wood looked at her with even more surprise.

  ‘He’s an actor, so he uses make-up and costumes. He dressed as different people and came to the Cornish Gallery and stood in front of one and the same painting, that ugly one, every time when the gallery was about to close.

  ‘There was always someone near that picture in the late hours. It’s the painting through which you and I came into the Gallery the first time. I think he waited till everyone was gone and quickly got inside before he could be caught by the security.’