The Cracks
Part Seven
Part Seven
Gary landed with a thump onto the floor of a long, dimly lit hallway. A dark-blue carpet, which took some of the sting out of his fall, ran along the middle section of the passage and was flanked on both sides by a heavily polished dark wooden surface. The walls were covered in a floral, yet minimalist wallpaper, and punctuated with paintings in heavy gilded frames, all of which were lighten from above by brass spotlights.
Gary pulled himself up into the sitting position and made a quick assessment of the damage he had sustained in the fall. Luckily, he was only a little winded and after taking a moment to recapture some of his wits, he pulled himself back up to his feet. Compared to the mountaintop the corridor was warm and sheltered with a faint yet persistent smell of polish or some other cleaning agent. He looked back up at the hole he had smashed through high in the wall, a few centimetres from the ceiling. The dawn light was bursting though, casting a golden light on a section of the floor near his feet. At the top the wallpaper rippled in the breeze, the only air and natural light flooding into an otherwise lifeless chamber.
In one direction, ten metres or so from where he stood, the hallway seemed to open up into a stairwell, which judging by the direction of the handrail, seemed only to go down. In the other direction the corridor continued for a similar distance, and then turned a sharp right before disappearing from view. With, into the stairwell, down and out of the building his only other option, it was Gary's surmisal that the turning up ahead was the reasonable path to take in search for a doorway.
Carefully he made his way along the hallway, stopping to look at the paintings, which were all made with thick impressionist brushstrokes and depicted landscapes that could easily pass for Schottia. For the first time since he left the top of the mountain Gary felt doubts creeping in. What had before been a cast iron certainty was now slipping a little as we wondered if he had gotten it all wrong. This was only going to work if his theory was accurate, if he had made a miscalculation then the consequences didn't bare thinking about. He crept up to the edge of the turning now, placing a hand against the cool wallpaper. His heart was pounding like a hammer against his ribcage, so loud that he could hear the echo reverberating around in his ear canal. He had been on autopilot up until now, Gary hadn't realised just how much this meant to him - what was at stake.
There was no telling what he had to face, and in a weird way, the last thing he was expecting was a door. Stood facing him just a meter or so after the corner was a solid oak door. Nothing else. There were no options, it was enter or leave the building through some other route. It was the kind of door that commanded respect, dark, heavy, with a shiny brass knob, and a number fifty-seven in the centre. Above the numbers was small frame made from the same brass, containing a piece of white card, which read: Helen H. Author.
Somehow knocking didn't seem appropriate, what would he say, how did he know anyone was even there to hear him. Instead he laid his hand on the smooth brass doorknob, feeling the weight for a second before gently giving it a turn. Much to his surprise the door opened. Very smoothly, and slowly, Gary forced it open, and he was immediately hit by a sweet pleasant smell, followed by music playing quietly, and the ambient sounds of life, but there was also some noisy clunking hum of a noise. Possibly some machine, the crashing, clashing noise of industry; what to Gary's best guess sounded like a 19th century loom. Further and further he opened the door, and more of a wallpaper patterned with light green palm leaves came into view as he edged forwards into the unknown.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, but in comparison to the hallway he had just vacated, it seemed positively bright. The walls were high and topped with white cornicing. Immediately facing him was a tall window partially obscured by a heavy dark-green velour curtain, which draped down to the ground, and was only pulled half way across. The window, like a mirror, reflected back the image of the room itself, but Gary could make out enough to tell that it was still pitch dark outside. In the centre of the room hung a large crystal chandelier, out of place in the setting, directly beneath which was a desk, there sat a young woman. Everything about the scene before him jarred in some way. The time of day outside, the position of the window within the architecture of the building, nothing seemed like it fitted.
Whether she hadn't noticed Gary's intrusion, or whether she chose to ignore him, he had now way of telling, as she didn't look up. It was at this point that he located the source of the noise he had previously heard. He realised that what he had mistaken for some piece of heavy machinery was actually the young woman hammering away at some sort of typewriter. She had obviously been professionally trained, evidenced by the speed at which she hammered at the keys. Despite all this, her exterior remained calm, and wholly unflustered. She stared at the paper in front of her with look of relaxed concentration on her face; her shoulders and slender arms didn't seem stress from the obvious effort.
Gary wondered if he should clear his throat. If he should excuse himself, or if he should move in some way that might catch her eye. Maybe he had made a mistake, or maybe she just couldn't see him. Although she seemed real enough there was something deeply wrong with this situation, and Gary felt a sensation of unease bubble up inside him. He was frozen to the spot, and not for the first time in his life - or that evening for that matter - he was lost for words. Thankfully, the young woman put him out of his misery.
'I'll be with you in a second.' She continued to type for a few seconds more them looked up at him and smiled innocently. 'I was just writing the part where you take a seat.'
The most surprising part for Gary was the fact that he wasn't in anyway surprised. It felt almost like he was stepping up to be interviewed as he sat himself down on the simple wooden chair at the front of the desk and watched her continue to type. If he had to put an age on her he would have gone for late teens, although he wouldn't have been surprised if he had been five years wrong either way. Her hair was chestnut-brown and parted to one side flowing down just below her shoulders. She was very fine-built, and her cream and grey striped blouse hung loosely about her torso, the vertical stripes only emphasising the slenderness of her frame.
It was an agonising wait, while Gary sat, almost pinned to his seat as she finished the page she was on before removing the sheet of paper from the typewriter. 'I would normally ask if you wanted to read what I had written, but in this instance I hardly think it necessary.' She got up in a quick direct movement and placed her work in a grey filling cabinet before returning to her desk and calmly sitting back down opposite him. 'You've been causing me more than a spot of bother.' She said mirthfully, like the way you would talk to a child. 'Do you have any idea how many times you've made me have to start again. Anyone would think I had nothing better to do.' She smiled out of the side of her mouth.
Gary made to speak - he didn't know what, but he was going to say something. Before he could she cut him off getting to her feet and walking over to the far wall. 'Don't think I don't know why you are here.' She said, but it was almost to herself. 'Nor should you think it's going to achieve anything.' She turned back to him, narrowing her eyes in a way he didn't like. In spite of her youth, and apparent energy her eyes looked tired, and the skin under them was dark, like that of someone who hadn't really slept. 'What are you going to do? Put and end to this?' She snapped, but then instantly softened again, as if realising her error.
'This is brilliant, just brilliant.' She started pacing the room quickly now, almost muttering to herself but loud enough for Gary to hear. 'The boy who finished his own story. Helen, dear, you really know how to write 'em. Helen Helen Helen Helen Hel...'
She slapped her hand hard against the wall before turning quickly on the spot. 'Drink? What are you drinking?' She marched back towards the desk and tugged open one of the drawers. 'Whisky, port, brandy... why am I even asking you...' She shook her head in disbelief looking to the ceiling in despair, before crouching down like she was about to scream. 'I just wrote it on that FUCKING SHEET OF PAPER! Whisky it is.'
Gary had a heavy crystal glass thrust into his hand, and waited while the woman calling herself Helen, poured the amber liquid at least half way up. Even by his standards it was a big measure. The irony was that despite his intentions, he felt even less in control of the situation that he had done back in Handon, a place that already seemed like a distant memory. The most frightening part was, that the person who was calling the shots here, seemed even less in control than he did.
'Now then.' She said pouring herself an equally large glass, and perching carefully on the edge of the desk. 'We are going to finish these, and have a chat about what you intend to do.'
