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.’