Restoration

by Guy Adams

  "And the attic is where?" asked Alan, but the woman was far too distracted to hear him and so they walked on.

  They needn't have worried, the entrance to the attic was unavoidable – and the only way forward, solving any issues they had over whether to trust the painting's instruction. A set of steps led from the centre of the corridor to a large hatchway in the roof and the party settled down on the carpet to eat something before continuing.

  "Haunted attic," said Penelope, "just what I need. No doubt we'll be besieged by giant spiders or vampire bats the moment we're in the eaves."

  "I can live with spiders," said Maggie, working her way through an unappetising Tuna wrap, "but bats terrify me."

  "Frankly it all terrifies me," Alan admitted. "Creeping through the dark is not the ideal way forward."

  "You get used to it," said Jonah, never one to miss an opportunity.

  "At least we have lights now," said Hawkins, pulling out his torch. "If we stick together and move as fast as we can then it may not be long before we arrive at this third hatchway."

  "Only one way to find out," said Barnabas. "I don't know about the rest of you but I'd rather just get on with it. The sooner we're in then the sooner we might be climbing back down again."

  On Alan's back, Sophie stirred, muttering "With the help of my friends," and "three is good," before settling back into unconsciousness once more. This was becoming a more regular occurrence and Alan had stopped his "panicking parent" routine. He simply cocked his ear to listen to her steady breathing and that regular whisper of "build not break", reassuring himself that she was fine – as "fine" as usual that was – and then carried on eating.

  "I agree there's no point in holding off," said Penelope, "as soon as we've finished eating we'll climb up there. Whatever's beyond the hatchway no doubt it'll be as horrid as everything we've faced before. But we've managed so far."

  "And we'll manage now," agreed Alan, dumping what was left of a BLT back into its box. "If only because I can't bear another of these lousy sandwiches."

  There was a murmur of good humoured agreement to that and the party began to dump their rubbish and replace their packs.

  "You look like you need this more than I do," said Ryan to Dyckman's portrait of a blind beggar that hung next to him. He poked the crust of a cheese and ham sandwich at the man, giving a slight yelp as a wizened, oily hand emerged from the canvas and took it gratefully. "Avoid the canyon," the blind man said, chewing on the crust that seemed as large as a French baguette with the shift of perspective, "not that I'm supposed to tell you that."

  "What canyon?" Ryan asked, but the old woman at the rear of the painting, stepping out of the church door with a prayer book clutched in her hand, dashed forward and started kicking the beggar. "Shut up about that," she squealed. The beggar's child grabbed a pizza-sized sheet of processed ham and ran beyond the frame where she could chew on it in private. "Sorry,' said Ryan, "didn't mean to get you in trouble."

  The beggar shrugged. "I'm a beggar, you get used to a beating every now and then."

  One by one they marched up the stairs towards the attic hatchway, Penelope leading as always, Alan a couple of steps behind her.

  "An attic with a canyon in it," Alan said, "this could be interesting."

  "Isn't it always?" she replied, pushing open the hatch.

  2.

  Sophie supposed she was dreaming. She was sat on a bench looking out to sea, an ice-cream in her hand. She did not eat ice-cream but noticed that it was spaghettiflavoured so had a cautious lick. After all she was Very Hungry. It tasted good. The cornet was like toast done on setting number four so that tasted good as well. She recognised the sea. She had been here before. It was a place called Brighton. Brighton didn't know how beaches worked and it made her cross. Brighton had put stones leading into the water not sand. This was wrong. You could not build castles out of rocks. They fell over. But at least rocks did not cling to you when you walked on them so maybe they were not such a bad idea after all.

  The sea was not an angry sea so that pleased her. It was grey. The sea was always grey, whatever it said in pictures. Pictures were lies, she thought. Pictures were what people made when they didn't think the real thing was right and wanted to change it. She could understand that. But changing things in pictures – making the sea blue and the sky clear and the people happy – did not make it real. So pictures were a waste of time. It would be better to make the real thing blue and clear and happy. Why people did not spend their time doing these things confused her. She tried her best after all, making things tidy and Right. If everyone worked as hard as she did then the world would be a much better place and she could get on with the fun things like eating spaghetti and counting all the Right things.

  "Sometimes we just have to do our best to clean up after others," said the seagull perched on the bench behind her. Seagulls did not talk but she had got used to things doing what they weren't supposed to by now. She found it did not make her as angry as it had before. "There are people who make a mess and the rest of us who tidy up after them."

  Sophie decided this was so true that she didn't mind who was telling it to her. Besides, she recognised the gull's voice. It was the voice of the House and whatever it looked like when it talked didn't matter. It could like lots of things she thought. Most often, the man the others thought of as the Grumpy Controller but she knew him as someone else entirely.

  "Why do you speak with that voice?" she asked it.

  "I stole it from inside your head," it answered. "Do you want me to give it back?"

  Sophie thought about this. She liked that the House could talk to her. It made things easier.

  "No," she replied, "you can keep it for now."

  "Thanks," squawked the gull. "Do you know what's going to happen?"

  Sophie thought she might. And, though she knew the others wouldn't like it, it made sense to her so she had decided it would be Good.

  "Yes," she said, "build not break."

  "Exactly," replied the gull, "build not break. It's the only way. We need to put Him back inside."

  "Yes," Sophie agreed. She remembered Him. He had not been a HE but an IT. IT had been pretending to be a HE but she had seen IT for what IT was. IT had touched her. IT had made her part of the House. She did not mind this now as much as she had. The House had become a friend and, whatever voice it used, she did not mind being part of it. In fact it let her be one of The Rest Who Tidy Up After Them and that was who she was so that was Good. But she did not want IT to touch her again.

  "IT won't," the gull said, though she had not spoken Out Loud. "We will touch IT. And IT will know what it is like to be touched in a way that feels bad."

  Sophie liked this. IT had thought IT was the biggest thing in the World. IT had thought IT was unstoppable. This was Wrong and Sophie liked making things that were Wrong Right.

  "Don't get too confident," the gull said, "there's plenty that could go wrong… sorry… Wrong yet. Your friends may not even get to the library."

  "Alan will look after them. He is good at looking after things."

  The gull scoffed at that, ruffling its feathers and looking away to where a pair of fat ladies struggled to erect deckchairs on the shingle beach. Their dresses were as garish as the deck-chairs. "Alan is a pain, I've had no end of trouble with the older one. He nearly ruined everything."

  "I do not know the older one." Sophie said. "But if he is an Alan then he is Good. All Alans are Good."

  "If you say so."

  The fat ladies had managed to get seated and were now staring at the water wondering why they had gone to all that effort just to look at a grey sea. After a moment one of them wondered if a cup of sweet tea might help and reached into her bag for a flask.

  "I should go," said the gull. "The older Alan is about to go to New York and he's got an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he gets there. He may need help."

  "Alan sometimes needs help," Sophie agreed, thinking about the time she h
ad helped him into the bathroom at the House. When he had been all tired and broken.

  "Damn right he does," the gull agreed, taking to the air and flying away over the sea, dropping a dollop of guano square into the neck of the fat lady's open flask. Sophie thought the gull was Very Naughty. So did the fat ladies, shouting at the fleeing bird even while it squawked its pleasure and disappeared towards the horizon.

  3.

  Penelope looked out across the wide-open sky, taking in what was left of the warmth of a dusk sun. "Some attic," she said as Alan climbed up behind her. They were stood atop a plateau in what looked like the Grand Canyon. To their left were a couple of cartoon-perfect cacti and a stack of tea chests. Alan walked over to the chests.

  "Plenty of storage space, certainly," he said, peering into one of them. It was filled with photos of dead people, the sort of grainy shots you saw in cop movies, people sprawled on floors and roadsides, marker tape and arrows pointing to blood splatter. He dumped the photos back in the chest.

  "I guess we're safe from spiders then?" Hawkins said, coming up behind them followed by his wife and Ryan.

  "Maybe," Alan agreed, "let's just hope there's no scorpions."

  "Scorpions?" asked Jonah, bringing up the rear with Barnabas. "Where have you led us now?" He sniffed and held his face up into the sunset. "Feels like the open air."

  "You can just see the roof joists," said Hawkins, pointing directly above them. "Like the bathroom, it's big but still enclosed."

  "Well," said Maggie, "it makes a refreshing change after all those corridors, anyway."

  "Just avoid the canyon," said Ryan, remembering the beggar's advice. He looked over the edge, "you can't even see the bottom."

  "We're okay for now," Penelope said, "this high ground carries on as far as you can see."

  "Yes," agreed Hawkins, "and something tells me the hatchways won't be as close together as we hoped."

  "Well," said Barnabas, "just as well we all fancied a nice walk isn't it?"

  "Is it just me or has he cheered up?" Hawkins asked his wife. "He hasn't told us we're all going to die for ages."

  Barnabas grinned at him. "We'll be dead within the hour, Cap'n, just didn't see the point in stating the obvious."

  "Was that a joke?" Hawkins asked, open-mouthed. "What's got into the miserable sod?"

  They set off along the plateau, the dust kicking up around their feet as they walked. Every now and then they would pass more storage chests or cardboard boxes. To begin with, Ryan couldn't help poking around in them, finding one filled with baby clothes, another offering a selection of gas masks. "How about one of these each then, eh?" he asked, pulling one on his head. "In case Barnabas gets wind during the night."

  "Cheeky bastard," Barnabas replied, finding a little of his old grit, "this from a kid that once tried to impress us by farting Rule Britannia."

  "Gentlemen," said Hawkins, "do try to remember that there are ladies present."

  Penelope laughed at that. Ryan gave her a small, apologetic bow. "Forgive me madam," he said, "but it was bloody impressive, whatever the old bastard says."

  "I'm sure," she replied, "but I'm happy to take your word for it."

  Ryan threw the gas mask back in the box. "Just as well," he said, "I don't think I could manage a single fanfare right now. Maggie's stew was a vital part of the process."

  "There's nothing wrong with my stew!" she said, waving a finger at him in mock-admonishment.

  "Didn't say there was," Ryan replied, "best arse ammunition I've ever known."

  "Will you please change the subject?" shouted Hawkins. "No bloody breeding these days," he muttered, "that's the problem."

  "Sorry dad," Ryan joked, looking in another box. He darted back in shock as a flock of crows burst from the opened flaps and took to the sky. "Right," he said to himself, "I'll open no more boxes."

  "Probably best," Alan agreed, "next time it might be coyotes."

  They soon realised that the sun, which had hung low in the sky ever since they had arrived was beginning to drop further.

  "We'd do well to make camp," said Alan, "who knows what night might bring out here?"

  "Agreed," said Hawkins. "We should get a fire built and arrange shifts for a watch."

  "I'll go first," offered Jonah.

  "It's alright for you," said Ryan, "it's not all bad news being blind is it?"

  "Oh no," agreed Jonah sarcastically, "those extra couple of hours sleep more than make up for it. I'd recommend anyone losing their sight really, I've never looked back."

  They stopped by the skeletal hand of a dead tree, figuring the branches would make for decent firewood. Ryan and Alan offered to strip it, Alan only too happy to get Sophie off his back and stretch his aching muscles.

  "He fancies her don't he?" said Ryan as they began to snap branches.

  "Who?" asked Alan.

  "Barnabas," Ryan replied, "that's why he's all cheered up, he's all doe-eyed over Penelope."

  "You think so?" said Alan, smiling at the thought.

  "I know so," said Ryan, "look at him!"

  They glanced over towards the camp where Barnabas was trying to offer Penelope help setting out her bedroll. "She'll bite his head off," said Alan, "she doesn't take kindly to men trying to help her."

  Penelope smiled at the old sailor and stood back as he brushed the ground clear of any small stones that might get in the way of her comfort.

  "Maybe it's just you she doesn't like helping her, mate," said Ryan with a chuckle.

  "Maybe," Alan replied, returning to his wood gathering and trying not to take it personally.

  They soon got a good sized fire going, the wood lit as easily as newspaper but burned as slowly as peat. It seemed for once that things in the House were on their side. Maybe it was the part of the house that wanted them to succeed – the rational part of it according to the lustful yokel they'd talked to before entering the ballroom – or maybe it was just luck. Either way they had a fire to warm them and Maggie prepared one of her allegedly gas-provoking stews rather than put up with another meal of pre-packaged sandwiches.

  Once the sun had gone the attic became completely dark. With no moon or stars to shed any light their fire was the only source of illumination. It was disorientating, thought Alan, lying down on his bedroll and looking away from the fire. With no definition, nothing to fix on, they could almost be floating, a single ball of orange light bobbing in an infinite sea of darkness.

  "What are you thinking about?" asked Penelope, noticing his horrified expression.

  "Just the lack of light," he replied, rubbing his face and shedding the illusion of floating from his eyes. "The feeling of being so small in the middle of something so huge."

  "Well," she said, "we're always that. Here or back in the real world. Have you never looked up at the stars and realised how tiny you are?"

  He nodded. "What I wouldn't give to see some stars right now," he said, "I didn't realise how much I missed them until just then. Wherever we go, however big or small, we're always locked away in this box of a House. I'd give anything to feel the sensation of openness again, to know that above me there's nothing but space."

  "I know what you mean," she agreed. "It's only been… what? Less than a week since I've been here? Still it feels like the real world is something so distant, so…" she struggled for the words to define it, "…historical," she said in the end, "something you know was real but can't quite relate to anymore. Something that happened to someone else."

  "You think we'll ever get out?" he asked her.

  "Well, we know you must do at some point," she said, "you left here and came back. That's the thing I've been holding onto."

  Alan thought back to his conversation with Ashe and wondered whether he should share what he knew about the old man's future, the world he came from. In the end he decided not to, whatever Penelope had said about trust she had hope right now and he was damned if he was going to be the one to take that away from her. Maybe they'd be lucky and
the future would be different, certainly Ashe hoped so.

  "We all need to hold onto something," he agreed. "We'd never get more than a few feet in this place otherwise."

  "What keeps you going?" she asked.

  "Sophie," he admitted, "and the fact that I might not be the complete screw-up I thought. Before I came here I was directionless, whatever horrors the place has thrown at me it's given me a purpose as well. That's something."

  "I suppose it is," she smiled, "most people just get a good job and get married. You have to go into an alternate reality and face death every day, you're a hard man to motivate, Alan."