Attica

by Kilworth, Garry

  ‘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.

  ‘Next birthday – or maybe the one after …’

  And this one was no ordinary traction engine. This was a showman’s engine. They were the best, the most expensive of all the steam engines.

  ‘A showman’s traction engine!’ He breathed the words. ‘If only I had some methylated spirit for fuel. I’ve got the matches. I can get the water from one of the tanks. A bit of rag or maybe even some cotton wool somewhere. I bet I could get it up to pressure in no time …’

  ‘There you are! There you are. Oh, thank goodness you’re safe!’

  Alex quickly stuffed the engine into his backpack and stood up to greet his sister.

  Chloe had found him. She came stumbling out of one of the dark corners of the attic and grabbed him for a hug. Her face was moist with tears. Alex struggled, uncomfortable with this show of affection.

  ‘Steady on, sis,’ he said quietly. ‘Someone will see you.’

  ‘I don’t care. I missed you.’

  ‘Well, I do. I’ve – I’ve got my reputation to think of.’

  Chloe laughed, despite her tears. ‘Oh, what? Your reputation as a hard man? Now, where have you been?’ She looked at him and suspicion came into her eyes. ‘You didn’t hide on purpose, did you?’

  ‘I was captured by shop dummies,’ he answered indignantly. ‘I was in danger of my life.’

  ‘Shop dummies?’ Chloe laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No.’ And she could see he was deadly serious. ‘Anything can happen here. We have to watch our backs.’ He looked behind him, but all that was there was that old pile of clothes. ‘You never know who’s sneaking up on you – or rather, what.’

  ‘Stop it Alex, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you. I know this place now. You just have to keep alert.’

  She looked exasperated. ‘I didn’t mean you’re frightening me with the place, I mean you. You’re going bonkers.’

  Alex was hurt and defensive. ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Well, stop talking funny then.’

  Alex realised he had to keep his new self hidden a little while longer. All right, he had been a scientist and engineer in his last life. In this one he was an explorer and he was going to enjoy being one. Chloe hadn’t yet made the leap from her old world into this one. He damn well had and it felt good. In his last life he had been the quiet one, the thinker, the slow one. Jordy had been the quick, flash, sporty one. Chloe had been the clever one, the book reader – and the pretty one. They got more attention than him, there. But things can change.

  ‘Alex, are you dreaming again?’

  ‘Me? No, course not.’ He hefted his pack onto his back.

  ‘And what’s in there?’

  ‘Stuff I found. Compasses. Binoculars.’

  ‘You found that? Oh, well done, Alex,’ cried Chloe, her tone changing instantly. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Oh, over there.’ He waved vaguely. ‘You can get all sorts of stuff here, if you look out for it. Now, are we going to climb that old hill, or what? We need to find the map, don’t we?’

  Chloe looked towards the Jagged Mountain. ‘We need to find Jordy,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Alex. ‘And him.’

  They began to walk towards the mountain.

  Chloe said, ‘So tell me what happened with the shop dummies.’

  Alex explained how he had wandered out and been captured by the mannequins, recounting the humiliation he’d been put through, but how he kept his chin up and had escaped when the chance came.

  ‘You did that all by yourself?’

  A tinge of guilt went through Alex.

  ‘Well, I thought …’ he looked back at a pile of old clothes, receding into the back of the attic now. ‘Yeah – yeah, all by myself. Oh my …’ Alex suddenly pointed to something. ‘Oh Lord, look at that.’

  ‘What, that toy?’

  ‘Toy? It’s a model,’ cried Alex. ‘A Mamod. Look.’ He picked up the model traction steam engine painted green and red, with shiny wheels and lots of parts. It was truly a marvellous piece of engineering. ‘A traction engine,’ he said reverently. ‘You’ve no idea what these cost back in the real world. And here’s another one.’

  ‘Another one,’ echoed Chloe a little impatiently.

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Alex, as if she were going to take it from him.

  Chloe said quietly, ‘You sound about two years old, Alex. We can’t carry things like that. It’s too heavy.’

  ‘Oh yes we can,’ said the feverish Alex.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘I’m keeping it,’ he said, putting it in his backpack. ‘It’s mine and I’m keeping it.’

  Chloe did not have the energy to argue.

  They reached the bottom of the Jagged Mountain at noon and began climbing, up along rusty rifle ridge and skirting the chasm of bayonets. It was tough going, especially over the boulders of helmet slope, which had them slipping and sliding. They learned not to grasp on to things suddenly, for there were sharp swords and daggers everywhere. The snouts of howitzers and field guns were waiting to trap an unwary foot and the fins of rockets could slice open a knee just as effectively as a razor. They climbed well, keeping to hanging valleys and chimneys, which offered good handholds and gentler slopes, keeping clear of sheer drops down on to sharp shells. Deep dips full of bullets were waiting to suck under any climber who tried to cross them, for they were as unstable as quickmire.

  The higher they climbed the colder it became, until th
ey had to be careful that their hands did not stick to freezing metal. Colder, and more gloomy. Here the air was as still as death. There was the sense – they both felt it – of something watching and waiting. Something ugly and malicious, holding back for the right moment in which to attack.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Chloe, shivering with the cold and perhaps for some other reason too. ‘Can you give me your hand?’

  Alex reached out and grasped his sister’s wrist, pulling her up on to the shelf of small black bomb cases.

  ‘Yep, I’m OK,’ he replied, his breath coming out as steam. ‘Flippin’ cold, sis. I’ll be glad when we start to go down.’

  There were snow patches on some piles of weapons.

  ‘Nearly at the top, I think. Every time we go over a ridge, there seems to be another one waiting, but the peak can’t be far now.’

  ‘I hope you’re right …’

  At that moment Katerfelto launched its attack. It came sweeping down from above as a dark flapping sheet with ragged edges. There were holes for its mouth and eyes, and its claws were stretched out before it. It screamed as the wind screams, high and shrill. The suddenness of his coming, the speed at which he swept upon them, terrified the children. They turned to run as this giant shapeless fiend rushed down at them. Chloe fell and went skidding down a slope of bombs, her jeans snagging on the fins. Alex kept his feet but his eyes were wide with terror as he jumped from tank barrel to turret, from submarine conning tower to aircraft wing. Katerfelto chased him, herded him back to where his sister was nursing a bruised arm.

  ‘Look out, Alex,’ she screamed. ‘It’s just behind you.’

  Katerfelto whirled around them. Now it was in its favourite form, that of a charlatan dressed in a long black gown with a black square cap. It swirled in ever-decreasing circles. The cap flew off and away somewhere and its hair became a spreading net. It flew wild about its head and they saw they would soon be caught in the folds of this flailing trap. Alex dropped down beside his sister, wanting to comfort her, but having to battle with a heart that raced in his chest. What was he to do? Where was all his ingenuity now that deadly danger stared them in the face?