I frown. ‘Not the mares?’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘The mares originate from there. We don’t know why they left and it’s true that they do cause some nightmares but nothing like those that come from the Badlands offer.’ There’s an odd note of fear in his voice. ‘Anyway, the fringes of the Badlands began to encroach on the town boundaries and they say that all manner of monsters were let loose. There were,’ he pauses, ‘quite a few casualties.’
I can’t repress a shudder. ‘That’s awful.’
Bron nods. ‘Anyway, good old moustache man here, Albert Hall, found a way to beat them back.’
‘Albert Hall?’ I start to snigger.
‘I know.’ Bron grins again.
‘Did he really have wings?’
‘I think they’re the artist’s interpretation.’ He shrugs. ‘You can never really be sure with this place though.’ His smile softens and he takes my hand, smoothing the skin. ‘I’m really sorry the Mayor did that to you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say quietly.
A shadow passes overhead, drawing my attention away from Bron and up to the sky. The sun, which never seems to do anything other than shine over the town, is obscured. There’s a crack of thunder so loud I jump half out of my skin and squeeze Bron’s hand so tightly that he winces.
‘Something’s going to change,’ he whispers in sudden awe.
‘Change?’ My eyes widen. ‘Ashley said that sometimes subtle differences took place.’
‘And when they happen, there’s always–’ He’s interrupted by a streak of lightning. ‘Lightning,’ he finishes.
I glance around. The Mayor himself exits from the building behind, his face as thunderous as the sky. ‘What changed?’ I ask, realising that I’m as excited by this new development as everyone else.
Bron’s face is white. He’s staring at Albert Hall’s statue in shock. I follow his gaze then take a step backwards. Whoever Albert Hall really was, he’s no longer the focal point of the Dreamlands square. He’s been replaced by another man, slightly older but far more familiar. I gasp. I’d know that face anywhere.
It’s the same man who died in my hallway last week.
***
Right after breakfast, I call Sergeant Rawlins. She seems exasperated to hear from me and makes a sarky remark about whether I’m going to ask her more about her belongings. She doesn’t seem to have made any progress in identifying the old man. There’s a growing ball of frustration in my stomach. I’m still, however, on a quest for answers so I move on to my mother. I know there’s more that she’s not telling me.
‘I need you to come round,’ I tell her, without preamble.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I just need to speak to you.’ It’s unfair of me to not allay her fears immediately, but I need her to visit.
‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ she promises.
When she finally arrives, I’m ready and waiting. I unbolt the door, ignore her anxious expression and usher her inside.
‘Tell me about the dreams I had when I was a child.’
She’s obviously confused. ‘What? That’s what this is about? Zoe, I thought something was wrong! I rushed over and...’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, although I’m not really, ‘but I think it might be important. You avoided talking about them before...’ I hold up a palm to forestall her protests, ‘...you know you did. Please, Mum, just tell me the truth.’
She sighs and sits down heavily on the sofa. ‘You have to understand, Zoe, it was a terrible time for us. Your dad and I were divorcing, every night you were screaming the house down ... the bloody neighbours complained constantly...’ Her voice trails away and her eyes take on the distant, unfocused look of someone lost in memory.
I gently prod her out of her reverie. ‘When did they start?’
‘Bonfire Night. When you were four.’
‘That’s very specific,’ I say, slightly taken aback.
She shrugs. ‘We’d been down to the park to watch the fireworks. Your dad told me not to take you. He’d said you’d be too scared.’ She looks at me pointedly. ‘You were always such a nervous child. Anyway, I thought the noise might have scared you and that’s why you had a nightmare. Several nightmares, in fact.’
‘About this birdman?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, that came later. You were crying about the dark. It was too dark and the horsey scared you.’
‘Horsey?’
‘Your word, not mine.’
I swallow hard. ‘Did I describe the horse?’
Her mouth tightens. ‘You drew some pictures. They weren’t pretty. Your teacher at school called me because she was concerned, wanted me to stop you from riding.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘As if I could have afforded riding lessons back then! Of course, that was nothing compared to what she said when you...’
‘When I what?’
‘When you told her that if she wanted to stop being punched by her husband, she had to leave him. That it made her beautiful white dress with the silver bow all messy when it was covered in blood.’