Other Alice (4 page)

‘Why do you do it?’ I asked, my voice softer now. ‘Why do you keep writing? I mean, you’re brilliant at it. Your stories are the best ever.’ I hesitated. ‘But
sometimes, when you get like this, it just makes you so sad.’

She swallowed noisily. ‘But when it goes well I feel like I’m on top of the world.’

I had no reply to that, because I knew it was true. So I said the only thing I could think of to try to distract her.

‘Tell me about your dad.’

She sniffed. ‘You’ve heard it a hundred times.’

‘Tell me again.’

She paused and took a few deep breaths. When she spoke again, her voice was steady and clear. I felt the usual thrill as she said the next words, so familiar that I knew them by heart.

‘He was a traveller, a water gypsy. A group of them stopped on the canal on the day of the summer fete, mooring their narrowboats near the bridge. Mum was there with some of her friends,
looking around. Most of the stalls were selling cakes and pot plants, but the travellers were selling things, too. Little wooden carvings, paintings, caged birds with feathers that had been dyed in
exotic colours.

‘She didn’t notice him exactly; it was more that she saw
him
noticing her. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t unpleasant to look at, either. She found that the longer
she looked, the more she liked. His nose was a little too long, and his lips too thin, but it was his eyes that captured her. They were such a pale shade of grey they were almost silver, like moons
under the thick black clouds that were his eyebrows.

‘He didn’t say anything at first. Just crooked his finger and beckoned her closer. “I’ve got something for you,” he said and opened a wooden box. Inside, it was
packed with scrolls of paper, each one tied with ribbon.

‘“What are they?” she asked.

‘“Stories.” He pulled one out. “And this one I wrote for you.”

‘She felt her cheeks reddening, and heard the whispers and giggles of her friends behind her. “I suppose you want paying for it?” she said. She thought about putting it back in
the box, but curiosity wouldn’t allow it.

‘He shrugged. “Have to eat, don’t I?”

‘“How much?”

‘“Tell you what.” He picked a blade of grass and chewed it with bright, almost perfect teeth. Almost perfect but for the bottom row where the front four stood at angles to
spell out a ‘W’.

‘
W
for words, she thought
. W for writer . . . water gypsy, wandering.

‘“Read it,” he continued, “then pay me what you think it’s worth.”

‘So she took it and stood away from her friends to read it. Before she even reached the end, his words had worked a spell on her and she was already falling in love with him.

‘
W for weakness, W for wishing . . .

‘And so love was the price she paid for it. A high price, because he loved his stories more than he loved her. Four years later, he was gone. And she found that W was for weeping, and
wretched, and woe, too. But, even though he’d left her, he hadn’t left her alone.

‘Their baby was called Alice. It was an easy choice, because that had been the name of the girl in his story.’

Alice paused as she often did at this part of the tale. Sometimes it was clear she didn’t want to go on, but she always did in the end. ‘Alice grew up barely remembering or knowing
her father, but with his love of stories and the same gift for telling them. As she grew, so did her curiosity. One day she decided to look through her mother’s things and she found something
which led her to him. So she went.

‘He seemed happy to see her. They spent a day together, talking and learning about each other. They caught fish in the river and ate them for supper, and they told each other stories. When
the day ended and she had to leave, they made plans and promises. But they, too, were stories – for when she returned next he was gone.’

Alice went quiet then. The story was finished, but every time she told it I wondered what she had left unsaid, what she had held back.

I remembered the day that Alice had gone looking for her father. It had felt like an adventure at first, like one of Alice’s stories. The two of us whispering as I
kept watch on the landing and Alice filled her small suitcase: clothes, a packed lunch, a book, notepad and pencil, and her best story – tied with a silver ribbon – for him.

I was only small, but old enough to recognise the panic in Mum’s voice, and know something was really wrong, when she discovered that Alice hadn’t arrived at school that day.
I’d finally cracked when Mum started to cry. As soon as I’d given up Alice’s secret, I was left with a neighbour while Mum went looking for her. It was late when she returned with
a red-faced Alice. Both of them wore the silvery streaks of dried tears on their cheeks.

We were sent to bed straight after supper that evening. It was early, and I was too upset to sleep, but Mum had said we weren’t allowed to talk. Alice was at the desk, looking at a
well-thumbed book of fairy tales. The page was open on Sleeping Beauty. Her finger rested lightly on the spindle in the picture.

We jumped when the door opened and Mum looked in. Neither of us had heard her come up the stairs.

‘Don’t you think you two are in enough trouble already?’ she snapped. ‘Lights off, books away and no talking.’

‘Mum?’ Alice said in a small voice.

‘What is it?’ Mum’s voice was brisk. She’d calmed down now, but was still cross enough to be scary.

‘Do you believe in curses?’ Alice asked.

The room was very quiet. Then Mum’s voice sliced through the silence.

‘No.’ She walked over to Alice and took the book out of her hands, closing it. ‘And neither will you, if you’ve any sense.’ She put the book down and placed her
hand on Alice’s cheek. ‘I can guess exactly what your father’s been saying to you. Filling your head with stupid ideas.’

‘But what if—’ Alice began.

‘It’s rubbish,’ Mum cut in. ‘I should know, because he told me the same rubbish, too, once.’

Alice said nothing, but she turned her face away from Mum’s hand.

‘I know he’s your dad, Alice,’ Mum said, sighing. ‘And I know you want to get to know him. I won’t stand in your way – but I will say what I think, even
if you don’t want to hear it. Be careful of who you believe and what you believe in. Belief can be good, but it can also be dangerous. If a person thinks they’re cursed, then they
are.’

When Mum had gone back downstairs, I couldn’t help but pester Alice in loud whispers to tell me more about the mysterious curse. But Alice refused to say, and to this day she’d
kept that particular part of the story to herself.

‘Alice?’ I said now, using my toes to prod her elbow. ‘Do you believe in curses?’

‘If a person thinks they’re cursed, then they are,’ she said, repeating Mum’s words.

‘Do you think you’re cursed?’ I asked.

‘Go to sleep, Midge. It’s too late to be talking about this. It’ll only give you nightmares.’

‘Alice?’

‘Mmm?’

‘The answer to the riddle . . . is it a pencil?’

‘Yes, well done. Now go to sleep.’

I closed my eyes, happy I’d scored one victory at least. As for the curse, I made up my mind to ask her again in the morning.

Only I never got the chance, because, when morning came, Alice was gone.

W
HEN I CAME DOWNSTAIRS INTO
the kitchen the next morning, I found the house empty. There was no sign of Alice or Mum, but
someone had pulled out the rainy-day boxes from the cupboard under the stairs and left them on the kitchen table. Alice loved them – they contained all sorts of craft materials to keep us
busy when the weather was too wet for us to go outside.

There was a note stuck to the fridge under a magnet. I took it off and read it.

Alice and Midge
, it said,
I won’t be long. Don’t eat breakfast – pancakes when I get back! Love, Mum. PS Got the rainy-day boxes out to make Likenesses for the
Summoning.

Pancakes! Now, in the light of day and with pancakes on the horizon, last night’s talk of curses with Alice seemed no more than a bad dream. I called her name, wondering if she could be
upstairs in the shower, but there was no answer and none of the usual gurgling of pipes when someone was in the bathroom.

I’d woken alone in Alice’s bed which wasn’t unusual – if I slept up there, she’d often get up without waking me; she was as quiet as a mouse. But what was strange
was that the room was freezing cold. The heaters hadn’t been switched on, which was normally the first thing Alice did.

I poured a glass of orange juice and sat down. Something warm and furry slithered past my ankles under the table, and then a dark shape slunk away through the kitchen door. ‘Morning,
Twitch,’ I called after it, peering into the nearest box as I drank my orange juice in one go. Inside was a jumble of wool and fabric scraps. A black paw shot out of the tangled contents to
swipe playfully at my hand.

‘Ouch!’ I pulled my fingers back. A bead of blood swelled on my thumb. The box on the table rustled, and then a mischievous black face popped out of it with ribbon looped over one
ear.

‘Oh, no,’ I muttered.
This
was Twitch.

I went into the living room and had a quick look around. We’d had problems before, with other cats coming in through the cat flap and stealing Twitch’s food, but there was no sign of
any intruder now. Perhaps it had sneaked out again. I went back into the kitchen and was about to sit down when I heard a distinctive
bleep
, and something buzzed next to the toaster.

Alice’s phone.

It had been left to charge, but, typical of Alice, she had forgotten to switch on the plug. The
bleep
was the warning tone for low battery. I went over to it and turned on the
power.

I frowned. Alice never left her phone behind – but she hadn’t been in bed, either. Or had she? Suddenly, I doubted myself. Could she have been still asleep under the covers when I
got up and I just hadn’t noticed? It would explain the heaters not being on. I decided to go and check.

I took the stairs two at a time, then scrambled up the ladder into the attic. I hadn’t been mistaken. The covers were thrown back as I’d left them, and Alice’s single bed
definitely had no Alice in it. It wasn’t empty, though.

‘How did you get up here?’ I said, puzzled. ‘You were in the kitchen a minute ago.’

Twitch blinked at me from within the folds of the rumpled bedclothes, then deliberately turned her back on me and started to lick her sleek, black coat. I turned away, ready to go back down the
ladder, but noticed something.

The skylight in the roof was open, just a crack.

‘No wonder it’s so cold in here.’ I climbed on the bed and pulled it closed, then looked round the room and back to Twitch. Something glinted within the cat’s fur: a
golden pendant on a deep purple velvet collar. Twitch didn’t have a collar as posh as that; hers was green and tatty.

‘Wait,’ I said, stepping towards the cat. ‘You’re not Twitch, are you?’

The cat stopped licking itself and leaped on to Alice’s desk, sprawling across her notebooks. It regarded me lazily as I approached.

‘Who are you then?’ I said. ‘We’d better get you out before Mum gets back.’ I kept my voice soft so as not to scare it, but the cat seemed at home. I reached out
and gently ran my hand along its back. It purred and lifted its tail. Up close, I could see that there were small differences between this cat and ours. Its coat was longer and sleeker than
Twitch’s, its tail less bushy and, where Twitch’s eyes were a very feline shade of green, this cat’s were golden.

I scratched its neck, my fingers finding the small, jewelled pendant on the collar. I turned it over, looking for an address or a phone number on the other side. There was none, although three
letters were engraved in the surface.

T. E. A.

I frowned.
T. E .A.
?

‘Come on,’ I said, sighing. I moved my hand under the cat’s chest to try to lift it up. The cat rolled on to its back and swatted me away playfully. The undersides of its paws
were black, too, and its nose. Twitch’s were pink. This was the blackest cat ever.

‘You really are beautiful,’ I said, stroking it again. ‘But you can’t stay here.’ I had a quick look round the attic, sniffing. A tomcat had got in once and peed
upstairs, but I couldn’t smell any evidence of that. ‘At least you haven’t done anything.’

‘
Done
anything?’ the cat enquired. ‘Do you take me for a common alley cat? I know the difference between inside and outside, you know!’

I staggered backwards in shock, colliding with Alice’s bedframe.

‘Huh?’ I whispered.

I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head and opened my eyes again. The cat was still there.

‘Did you just . . . what did you say?’

‘I said I do know the difference between inside and outside.’ The cat stared at me for a long moment, then licked its paw and started to wash its face. I dropped to my hands and
knees, peering under the bed, in the wardrobe, then down the hatch to see if there was someone on the landing. There was no sign of anyone, no Alice. No one that could be playing a trick on me.