by E. A. Owell
Eliza went to the Cornish Gallery on Saturday in the hope to see how Mrs Cornish was doing. It was a bright frosty day that promised to be good.
Eliza enjoyed her journey to the gallery despite the cold and walked her upbeat walk. Just when she thought she'd be glad to get warm, the gallery sprang into view. Eliza quickened her pace but when she came closer she noticed a sign on the door. ‘Temporarily closed for renovation,’ it read.
Eliza looked through the glass doors inside but couldn’t see anybody. The place seemed deserted. She tried the door – it was locked. She wondered since when and for how long the gallery was closed and, having no other choice, left. She did not have a good feeling about it.
Chapter 13
Mr Breakleg and two Fixers were in a car driving along the grey road through a dreary winter landscape. It was dark outside and little could be seen.
Mr Breakleg’s eyelids felt very heavy. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and closed his eyes. They had been driving for an hour. There was another hour to go till they arrived at the spot.
They were going to the place where Jeremy Brand, the vengeful painter, resided. They set off straight from the office after Mrs Cornish had reported the name of the artist.
Yet again, Mr Breakleg had been deprived of his sleep. It was beginning to have its toll on him – his focus wasn’t as good and he did not appreciate it. More than that, in his position of the Head Fixer it was downright unsafe. The responsibility was far too great.
Presently, he found himself in a dark room of an unknown house. He was alone. It was dark outside. The sole source of light was the bright moon that shone through the only window in the room. Mr Breakleg peered into the window – there was nothing to be seen but somehow he could not take his eyes off it.
Then something came into view. It was taking up more and more space of the window frame – a tall dark shape outlined against the moonlight. Mr Breakleg saw a pair of red glowing eyes staring directly at him. He felt a sense of dread creeping up his spine.
The black shape slowly pushed the window open, and panic flared in the Head Fixer’s mind. He had never been that scared. What's worse, he was unarmed. He should run. He knew that but his feet were rooted to the spot. Meanwhile, the dark shape steadily crossed the windowsill and was coming closer and closer, stretching out its hideous arm.
Suddenly, Mr Breakleg forgot altogether that he was a grown man, the Head Fixer of the Fixing Department of the Council of Human Affairs. All he wanted to do was to escape from this inexplicable menace that was about to grab him by the throat with its inhuman long-fingered hand. In the last desperate attempt Mr Breakleg tried to jump from the black shape’s way and…
His leg jerked and he woke up.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked the Fixer who was driving.
The other one gave him a confused look.
‘I’m fine. Just dozed off a bit,’ he said, wiping his forehead covered in sweat.
No one said anything.
‘How long have we got to go?’ he asked the driver.
‘Another half an hour, sir, and we’ll be there.’
‘Good.’ Mr Breakleg fell silent but did not go back to sleep.
What was the meaning of what had just happened? He had seen the nightmare that haunted the citizens of his town. But his canvas was kept in Mrs Cornish’s study, so how could this be? Perhaps, he’d been concentrating too much on it lately. Must be it. However, uneasiness did not go away. He didn’t shut his eyes again until they arrived at their destination.
They parked outside a two-storied old-looking cottage. It stood a little way away from the other buildings in the village, as if it required some special privacy for itself.
It was beginning to get lighter – first timid attempts of the daylight to make its way through a grey veil that covered the sky. It promised to be one of those days that are either extremely sunny and bright or tediously dull and bleak, but you can never tell which one it is by the dawn. The latter was a more probable option in this case, it seemed.
Mr Breakleg got out of the car and, followed closely by the two Fixers, approached the door of the cottage. He knocked. There was no reply and Mr Breakleg knocked again. It was too early for people to be up so he had to be insistent. At length, they heard somebody shuffling towards the door from the inside of the house.
‘Who’s there?’ they heard a man’s husky voice.
‘We are here to speak with Mr Brand,’ replied Mr Breakleg groggily.
There was a momentary silence and then the door opened a crack. They could see an old man’s sleepy face looking at them suspiciously through the gap.
‘What do you need from Mr Brand?’ the man asked.
‘We need to talk about his… paintings,’ said Mr Breakleg.
‘Paintings?’
‘Yes, the ones he used to draw. And we have reasons to assume he still does.’
At this point, Mr Breakleg expected the old man to slam the door and was prepared to act, just like the Fixers that accompanied him, but it was unnecessary.
‘Ah, yes, I think I remember something like that about Mr Brand. He is a painter, yes, that’s right.’
‘Excuse me, but… aren’t you Mr Brand?’ asked Mr Breakleg.
‘No, my name’s Mr Mack. I bought this house from the Brands about three years ago.’
‘Who did you buy it from?’
‘Why, from Mr Brand.’
‘Jeremy Brand?’
‘No, David Brand.’
Mr Breakleg already had a nasty feeling about this story and it wasn’t getting any better.
‘Do you know where we could find Mr Brand?’
‘Well, I don’t know, really. When I was buying the house, he said he was moving back to his hometown. He said his grandfather grew up there, too. He inherited the house after his granddad had passed away or something like that.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mr Mack. Sorry to have disturbed you.’
Mr Breakleg turned away and walked back to the car.
‘Drive as fast as you can. Seems like we’ve made a mistake,’ said Mr Breakleg, his heart heavy with a strange premonition.
When Mr Breakleg returned to the Fixing Department, it was broad daylight. He had had a two-hour nap in the car, which hadn’t made him feel fresh but at least given him some energy to go on, because they still had a lot to deal with.
When he entered his office, he saw Mrs Cornish sitting in the same spot she had sat several hours ago.
‘Mrs Cornish? What’s happened?’
The old lady looked as pale as a blank canvas.
‘Have you found him?’ she asked straight away.
‘No. Not exactly. What’s wrong?’
‘They’re gone,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘All of them.’
‘Who’s gone? What's gone?’
‘The canvases.’
‘Which canvases?’
‘My canvas. Your canvas. And all the other canvases from my office.’
Mr Breakleg slowly lowered himself into his chair.
‘So that’s why I saw the dream,’ said the Head Fixer.
‘You too?’ said Mrs Cornish. ‘Last night, after I’d left your office, I went straight to my study and found it was unlocked, although I always lock it when I leave. And then I discovered what was missing.’ She looked at him with eyes full of fear. ‘But where is Jeremy?’
‘Seems like our Mr Brand has been dead for at least three years now.’
Mrs Cornish looked at him blankly. ‘Dead? But the dream—’
‘Jeremy Brand’s house was inherited by his grandson, David Brand, who, presumably, has sold the house and moved back to his grandfather’s hometown after his death.’
‘But then who’s painting the nightmare? It must be Jeremy – it’s done in his style, the way he had painted it all those years ago. It’s not a version of his picture, it is his picture. Besides, the painting has be
en kept all these years in the Gallery. No one’s seen it apart from me and my husband.’
‘We’ll have to have a chat with David Brand before we know anything for sure. Just when I thought it was almost over…’ Mr Breakleg tiredly rubbed his eyes.
‘What about the stolen canvases?’ asked Mrs Cornish.
‘Something tells me we’ll find them once we find Mr Brand. You should wear your No-Dreamer.’
‘I’ve given it to Eliza.’
‘Ah, yes. Poor thing. She was so scared.’
‘She needs it more than I do. I’ll be fine.’
Mr Breakleg looked closely at Mrs Cornish. ‘We’ll do our best to get it over with as fast as we can.’
‘I know you will, Stephen, I know you will,’ said Mrs Cornish and even managed a weak smile.
‘You should go and get some rest,’ said the Head Fixer.
‘How can I?’ The Chief Curator didn’t really expect an answer.
She got up and quietly left the office. Her last question was no dramatisation, for now even sleep did not promise any respite.
Chapter 14
It was another day at school and it was going to be another day at the Library of Broken Promises, where Eliza was headed once her classes were over. She still did not know what had happened to the Cornish Gallery and the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams. Mr Wood did not say a word about it even when asked directly. He simply said he himself was unaware of the latest goings-on.
After all, it was the business of the Gallery and the Fixing Department, and it had been difficult lately to catch either Mrs Cornish or Mr Breakleg to try to get something out of them. Eliza knew Mr Wood was as curious a person as she was, so she could imagine how eager he was to know more about all this and how disappointed he was that he couldn’t. So perhaps he really did not know anything.
Eliza entered the bookshop, which had no customers at the time. The only person in the shop, apart from herself, was Mr Wood who was sitting at the counter, reading a newspaper, his head resting on his hand.
‘Hello, Mr Wood,’ said Eliza as she approached the counter.
‘Oh hello, Eliza! Good to see you,’ he replied. When he looked at her, she could see that his eyes were bloodshot.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I suppose. Although I could do with a little bit more sleep,’ he said and smiled, but by now Eliza knew different kinds of Mr Wood’s smiles. They were an intrinsic part of him and all of them were different, and not all of them stood for something good and cheerful. Just like this one. This smile Mr Wood had on now was just a way to conceal distress or worry. He noticed how attentive her look was.
‘You can see right through people, can’t you?’ Mr Wood chuckled. ‘Looks like we all are in the same boat now.’
Eliza felt an unpleasant prickle of a horrible guess.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Let’s go to the Library,’ suggested Mr Wood.
Eliza followed the shopkeeper into the Library of Broken Promises. They sat themselves, as usual, at the desk where Eliza would collect reports from the Revisers, which she was beginning to consider as much hers as it was Mr Wood’s.
‘Like I said, we are all in the same boat now,’ repeated Mr Wood, but seeing a slightly lost expression on Eliza’s face, continued. ‘You see, the Heads of the Council of Human Affairs’ bodies have had a certain extra protection to their dream canvases. Their canvases weren’t displayed in the Gallery of Forgotten Dreams with all the others. They were kept in Mrs Cornish’s office. However, the state of things is different now.’
Eliza gasped. ‘They’ve been stolen?!’
‘I’m afraid so. That’s why I’ve been having recently more encounters with our red-eyed friend than I would like to,’ said Mr Wood, trying to make it sound light and jokey but his face gave away fear.
‘What about Mrs Cornish? And Mr Breakleg?’
‘Yet again, we are all in the same boat, Eliza.’
She was shocked. What was to be done now when even people like Mr Breakleg were not safe? There was literally nowhere to run.
A feeling of utter vulnerability unpleasantly took hold of Eliza, as if she were in an open field, as if they all were, and there was no shelter from the advancing storm.
Somehow she lived with the thought that adults could always take care of things if anything ever went astray, but this time this last resort had fallen, too. Eliza didn’t know what one did if everything had failed, because in her mind it was never supposed to be this way. Ever. And yet here they were, helpless and frightened, without any protection left. Except for one.
‘Mr Wood, I’d like you to take this.’ Eliza handed her No-Dreamer to Mr Wood.
He smiled a very warm smile. ‘Thank you very much, dear Eliza, but I can’t take it, for you need it, too. Besides, it won’t solve our problem. So I’d rather you kept it.’
‘We could take it in turns,’ she insisted.
‘It’s very generous of you, but I still think you should keep it. It was given to you, and you need it,’ said Mr Wood kindly but in a manner that clearly stated there was no way to make him change his mind.
Eliza sighed and put the No-Dreamer back in her bag. It was a shame she couldn’t help, but at the same time she felt some relief that she got to keep this useful object.
She immediately thought that this feeling must be a sign of cowardice but did not dwell much on it because her attention, as well as Mr Wood’s, was caught by a paper plane soaring through the air towards them. It landed on the desk, and Mr Wood unfolded it.
‘I’m being summoned to the Fixing Department. Mr Breakleg would like to see me,’ he said after a moment.
‘May I–’ Eliza began timidly but was interrupted.
‘I think you should come with me. The No-Dreamer should come up at some point, and you might help us with the issue. You’ve done it before,’ he winked at Eliza.
She couldn’t believe her luck. ‘When do we have to go?’ she asked, trying to conceal her excitement but failing quite miserably.
‘We are expected in an hour, so you will have time to sort out some reports before then, while I attend to the shop. See you in an hour.’
Eliza nodded decisively, took off her coat and occupied the seat at the desk vacated by Mr Wood who had gone back to the bookshop.
But Eliza could hardly concentrate. Her mind was at work trying to guess what they would discuss with Mr Breakleg and what news there was about the haunting nightmare. In such a state, dealing with a single report took her ages.
The time seemed to have slowed down, stretching like a chewing gum, seconds sluggishly transforming into minutes. Every now and then Eliza would look at her watch and then, disappointed, return to the reports. Finally, an eternity later, Mr Wood walked into the Library again.
‘Well, the shop is closed early today. It’s time to go.’
Eliza put aside the last finished report and they went along the main aisle deep into the Library. Several minutes later, they reached Mr Breakleg’s office.
When they entered, Eliza saw Mr Breakleg sitting at his desk and Mrs Cornish sitting across from him. But there were other people, too, that Eliza did not know.
There was a man in slim glasses and a brown jumper with a symbol on it – an hourglass. There also was a woman dressed in a black robe with a little white shovel sewn on it. She looked, perhaps, Eliza’s mum’s age, with a stern face, but strangely sympathetic eyes. Mr Breakleg looked at Eliza in slight surprise, then at Mr Wood.
‘I thought Miss Reid could give us some assistance, remembering her help to the Library last year and her being one of the first victims of the situation. Besides, we thought this should be presented and decided what to do with, anyway,’ said Mr Wood and then addressed Eliza. ‘Could you please present us the No-Dreamer?’
Eliza did as was asked and placed the magic neckerchief on the desk.
‘Yes, it’s actually
good you’ve brought it,’ said Mr Breakleg, who did not seem to mind Eliza’s presence anymore.
‘So what is it that you’ve called us here for?’ asked Mr Wood.
Mr Breakleg sighed deeply. ‘As some of you already know, we have made an attempt to seize the notorious Mr Brand and bring him in for questioning. Our initial information brought us to the North, however it turned out to be a misleading path. We needn’t have left the town to find the culprit, but there’s no use talking about that now. We searched Mr Brand’s place this afternoon but it was abandoned. So is Brand Jr’s flat. No sign of the stolen canvases or the painter himself.’
As Mr Breakleg was breaking this news to everyone present, he made a stout effort to sound as businesslike, and even indifferent, as he could manage. The only thing that stopped everyone from breaking out in panic was his, the Head Fixer’s, calm and composure. Several pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly.
‘We continue our investigation and as soon as we’ve got any results, we will let you know.’
‘Do you know what he looks like?’ asked the lady in black in a confident but gentle voice. Eliza couldn’t decide if she was intimidated by the woman or would trust her with her sorrows and cares in hope to receive support and consolation.
‘Yes, thanks to the Archive of Fading Memories,’ Mr Breakleg gave a little nod to the man in the brown jumper with an hourglass, ‘we know what David Brand looks like.’
Having said that, Mr Breakleg lifted a photograph with one hand so that everyone could see. A face of a man stared at the roomful of people from the picture. It was one of those faces whose age it was difficult to tell: he could be nineteen as easily as thirty two. Eliza thought he would make a good actor with a face like that.
It was a dark-haired man with deep-set dark eyes, hollow cheeks and a slightly crooked nose.
‘This is David Brand, the grandson of Jeremy Brand, the author of the nightmare. That’s who we’re looking for at the moment,’ said Mr Breakleg, a shade of guilt in his voice, perhaps for still only looking for the culprit. ‘While this man is at large, we have to seek other ways to protect ourselves. Mrs Cornish, are there more of these things in your possession?’ Mr Breakleg picked up the No-Dreamer from the desk.
