Other Alice (18 page)

w
HEN I FINISHED, I TUCKED
the crumpled paper in my pocket and sat in silence. In the kitchen, I could hear Piper and
Tabitha talking in low voices, and the occasional clink as Gypsy fixed the lock.

So this was what Alice had been writing last night, before she disappeared. I remembered her panicked words . . .

. . . . thought maybe if I was the one to bring them here, I could still control them somehow. And then I changed my mind . . . or tried to.

Alice had made it happen, but she hadn’t meant it to. It was just her mind’s way of wandering, trying to figure out solutions to the story’s problems. Instead, when she’d
thrown the page at the fire and missed, she’d created a bigger one, not only by leaving the story unfinished but by taking it in a new direction. The crumpled page in my pocket was just
another piece of a puzzle that only seemed to be growing, and there was still more I had to figure out. I crept upstairs into my parents’ room again, poking about under the bed. It was a
couple of minutes before I found what I was looking for, hidden under odd socks and dust balls.

A small wooden box, just like Alice had described.

Somewhere within it was the answer to finding her father. I took it downstairs, its contents rattling as though trying to escape. I wasn’t sure I could keep doing this alone, or how much
longer I could hide the truth from Gypsy and Piper. As soon as Piper took us to the other part of the story that he’d stolen, Gypsy would want to read it – and if it mentioned either of
them the game would be up.

I pushed the thought away and skulked into the kitchen like a dog that had stolen a biscuit.

Piper looked up. ‘Did it work? Did you speak to Alice?’

I nodded. My mouth was dry all of a sudden.

‘Where is she?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I looked down at my hands. There were specks of black dust on them. I thought of the smudges on Alice’s face. Not bruises after all. Coal dust.

Gypsy put down the screwdriver she was holding and came towards me, jotting words down.

What did she tell you? Do you know how to find her, or what’s going on?

I shook my head. ‘I . . . I messed it up. I asked a question without really meaning to. But she gave me a clue. We have to find her father. She thinks he can help
us.’

‘Your father?’ Piper asked. ‘Don’t you know where he is?’

‘Alice has a different father to me,’ I explained. ‘He’s a Romany traveller, a writer like her. She hardly knows him.’

What does her father have to do with any of this?
Gypsy wrote.

‘Alice has a belief about her stories,’ I said. ‘That every story she starts has to be finished. I thought it was a superstition, but now I wonder if she
was . . .
afraid
not to.’

‘Afraid?’ Tabitha asked. ‘Why?’

‘Alice thinks she’s cursed,’ I said. ‘All I know is that it’s something to do with her father, but she never told me what. But now . . .’ I
hesitated, remembering how obsessive Alice was about this. It wasn’t normal, or healthy. ‘I think maybe that is the curse, that Alice believes something terrible will happen if she
doesn’t finish a story.’

‘Then why didn’t she just finish it?’ Piper asked.

‘That’s my point,’ I told him. ‘She couldn’t. She was stuck and had been for weeks.’

Gypsy pushed her notepad towards me.

You were upstairs for a long time. Is that all Alice told you?

I nodded, unable to speak at first. Guilt lodged in my throat like coal dust. I coughed and stared at the box in my hands. ‘I was a long time, because I was searching for this.’

‘What’s inside?’ Tabitha asked, prowling along the table.

‘I haven’t looked yet. Alice told me to find it. Whatever it has inside will lead us to her father.’

I set the box down on the table. It was made of dark brown wood, beautifully varnished and carved into two halves to look like a book. I hadn’t noticed this at first, for the carvings were
subtle and it was so well made that the joins were difficult to see. It looked valuable, not something you’d see every day.

‘Nice,’ said Piper. ‘Handmade by the looks of it. Probably worth a bit.’

‘Probably, so keep your paws off.’ I glared at him and lifted the lid. A couple of photographs floated to the floor. I picked them up. They were of Mum, when she was younger, with a
baby Alice and a man who had silver-grey eyes. Alice’s father.

There were other things loose at the bottom. A postcard. An ornate ring set with a pale stone. Two tiny bands with writing on. I read them, finding my name and date of birth on one and
Alice’s on the other. They were the little bands that go on a baby’s wrist in hospital when they’re born, to stop them getting mixed up with other babies.

There were two things left in the box. A long, thin tube of paper tied with silver ribbon and something squarish wrapped in a dark blue cloth. I took the cloth object out and unwrapped it. On
the other side, the cloth was dotted with tiny silver stars. Inside it was a deck of cards, held together by a thin silver ribbon, but they were not ordinary playing cards, or like any others
I’d seen before. They were beautifully painted with curious little pictures. The first was of a girl with a sad expression, wearing patched clothes, sweeping out a fireplace. The second
showed twelve dancing girls, each wearing a little crown. I felt like I’d stumbled on some kind of secret. I’d never seen Mum with these or heard her talk about them, but I was sure
I’d seen this silvery-starred fabric before. Only in Alice’s room, not Mum’s.

‘What are these?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Tarot cards?’ I’d never seen any tarot cards before, but Alice had written a story about some once, so I knew they were
supposed to be quite mystical and used to look into the future.

‘Close,’ said Piper. ‘They’re fortune cards.’

‘Isn’t that the same sort of thing?’ I asked.

‘Similar,’ said Piper. ‘With the Tarot, there are loads of different packs, but they’ve always got the same or very similar cards, like the Moon, or the Fool. Fortune
cards are different, ’cos no two packs are the same. They’re made for the owner alone.’ He leaned in. ‘See, these are hand-painted. It’s a sign of how special they are
to whoever they belong to.’

‘But Mum’s never mentioned anything like this,’ I said. ‘They
can’t
belong to her. She doesn’t read her horoscope and she gets annoyed when Alice
talks about curses or superstitious stuff. She says it’s all rubbish.’

Piper shrugged. ‘Maybe she does now, but perhaps there was a time when she didn’t.’

I thought of Mum’s life before she had me. Her life with Alice’s father, a life of stories and superstition and living wild; about as far as you could get from how she was now. She
never spoke about it. It seemed that Alice, and the contents of this box, were the only things from that part of her life that were left.

I thumbed through the cards. At first, I couldn’t make any sense of them. They were odd images, like pieces from different puzzles that would never fit together, and yet there was
something familiar about them. A swan, a tower, a mirror. A black cat, a pumpkin. A strange little house made of sweets . . .

‘They’re all things from stories,’ I said. ‘It’s the gingerbread cottage from
Hansel and Gretel
. And look.’ I went back to the sweeping girl.
‘This must be Cinderella.’

‘Cinder-
what
-a?’ Piper looked dubious. ‘We call her Ashputtel.’

‘How can these be used to tell fortunes?’ I asked.

‘Easy,’ said Piper. ‘You just have to look at what they mean. Everyone knows these stories.’ He reddened. ‘Even people who can’t read. Take this one.’
He picked up the Ashputtel card. ‘I’d say it means there’s gonna be hard work ahead. Unfair treatment perhaps. And the gingerbread cottage . . . something or
someone that appears good and sweet at first, but turns out to be a trap. Something too good to be true.’

Or perhaps somewhere that wasn’t safe. I glanced at the back door, uneasy. It was fixed now, but it had been broken through as easily as if it were made of gingerbread.

‘Our mum used to love stories,’ I said quietly. ‘That’s why Alice loves them. Lots of the books in Alice’s room were Mum’s. All the fairy tales and fables and
myths.’

I couldn’t imagine Mum ever reading those sorts of stories now. There were no books in her room, and downstairs the shelves held only practical ones: a few biographies, nature books, an
encyclopaedia and a dictionary: the kind of books Mum published at work. She had stopped reading anything that was ‘made up’ when Alice’s father had left. She said that real life
was enough of a story and there were too many lies in the world already.

I wrapped the cards up in the cloth again. I’d look through them properly later.

The final thing in the box was the rolled paper. I could see traces of writing on the other side, but they were too faint to read. I already knew what it was. Alice had told me about the story
many times.

‘What’s that?’ Tabitha asked, her tail curling into the box and touching the paper.

‘A story,’ I answered. ‘Alice’s father gave it to our mother when they first met.’ I wondered when Mum had last read it. The ribbon around it was knotted tightly,
but I could still make out a name inked on to it faintly: Ramone Silver.
His
name. I left it where it was. I felt sure Alice would have read it; she wouldn’t have been able to help
herself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what it said, or that we had any right to look. I put everything back in the box and closed it.

‘We should leave now,’ I said. I was used to Dad being away, but without Alice and Mum – and even Twitch – the house didn’t feel like home.

Gypsy packed away the tools and closed the back door, locking it and then giving it a good rattle. It stayed closed.

‘Thanks,’ I said gratefully.

She nodded.
Get your things together
, she wrote.
We’ll go to my boat
.

I went upstairs and grabbed a few bits: my toothbrush, some money from my money box and pyjamas. I switched off the lights and took my keys from the hook by the front door, locking it after me
once everyone was outside. Stepping out into the cool night air, we stood as quiet as church mice on the garden path. It was way past midnight. The streets were silent and empty.

Something slithered past my ankles. I bit back a yell, almost tripping, and looked down. Tabitha blinked up at me, her golden eyes luminous in the yellow street light. ‘Are you trying to
kill me?’ I hissed. ‘What are you doing out here?’

She jumped on to the wall, arching her back in a stretch. ‘Coming with you, of course.’

‘I don’t remember anyone inviting you,’ Piper said rudely.

‘Perhaps she
should
come,’ I said. ‘Once whoever took Twitch realises they got the wrong cat, they could be back for her.’

‘Good point,’ said Piper. ‘She might come in useful to bargain with.’

‘That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,’ said Tabitha, a little tartly. ‘It’s not much fun being in an empty house, you know.’

‘Oh, I can imagine,’ I said. ‘Nobody to wait on you.’

‘Precisely,’ said the cat. ‘It’s not like I can make my own tea, is it?’

‘Perhaps you should learn,’ Piper muttered, skirting close to the wall, like he was used to staying in the shadows.

‘I’ve tried.’ Tabitha jumped lightly down from the wall and wound herself round his ankles in a way that suggested she was being deliberately annoying. ‘Tea bags and
claws don’t mix.’

‘Proper little madam, aren’t you?’ said Piper. ‘Never was one for cats. I always preferred dogs. At least they’ll do as their master tells them.’

‘Dogs have masters,’ I said, remembering something Alice had said once. ‘Cats have servants.’

‘I’m no ordinary cat, though,’ said Tabitha. ‘There is a way you could become my master if you’re up to a challenge.’

‘Why would you want a master?’ I asked.

‘I don’t,’ she replied. ‘But rules are rules. I didn’t make them.’

No
, I thought.
Alice did
.

‘Why would anyone want to be your master?’ Piper asked. ‘What’s in it for them? Apart from the pleasure of your company?’

‘Don’t get lippy,’ Tabitha replied. ‘I can be pretty useful as it happens.’

‘How?’ he scoffed. ‘Even when you are awake you just sit there guzzling tea.’

‘I’ve certain talents,’ she said. ‘I can be eyes and ears when people least expect it.’

‘A spy, you mean?’ I asked.

‘If you like,’ she replied. ‘Plus, I make an excellent party trick, or the voice of a fake ghost at a seance. No one ever suspects the cat.’

‘Fake ghosts are in such short supply,’ Piper said sarcastically. ‘That would come in useful next time I hold a seance.’ He rolled his eyes.

‘And then there are the nine lives, of course,’ she purred, ignoring him. ‘Those are always in high demand.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I thought everyone knew that cats have nine lives?’ she said.