Other Alice (34 page)

‘It’s done,’ she whispered. ‘No more claws!’

A split second later, a sleek, black cat hurled itself at Alice, hissing and scratching, and spewing out venomous words.

A swipe of Alice’s arm sent the cat rolling away from her, unsteady on its four unfamiliar legs. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ it yowled. ‘You haven’t seen the last
of me!’

‘Perhaps not.’ Alice’s voice was soft. ‘But you can’t hurt anyone again.’ She turned to Gypsy and took her hand. ‘I owe you a voice. And I’ll make
sure you get it, I promise. Your happy ending will come, Gypsy. I just got a little lost on the way.’

‘Alice?’ Ramone had dragged himself to her side. ‘Alice, I’m sorry. All this is my fault . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’ Her voice was gentle as she met his eyes. ‘It’s done.’

I clung to her, marvelling at how strong she felt. How tall she stood.

Like Gypsy.

My boat
, Gypsy mouthed suddenly, looking down.

Water was pooling round our feet. The floor was buckling and fading before my eyes. Fading to white, with dark lines looping in a familiar scrawl. Alice’s handwriting.

And it wasn’t just the boat. Piper and Gypsy and even Tabitha were fading, their skin thinning and paling . . . just like paper.

‘You’re going back,’ I said gently. ‘Back into the story.’ I took Gypsy’s hand. It crumpled in mine. I placed it in Piper’s and he pulled her into his
arms.

‘Don’t be scared,’ he told her, even though his own eyes were afraid. ‘The story don’t end when you close its pages . . . right?’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘You’ll still be real somewhere.’ And I cried then, because I would miss them, both of them . . . and even Tabitha. Even though they
would go on, not just in the story but in my heart.

‘We need to get off the boat,’ Ramone said. ‘We don’t have much time; it’s going fast now.’ He tugged Alice’s sleeve, but she hesitated.

‘I’ll never forget you,’ she told Gypsy. She reached out, touching Gypsy’s face. ‘Goodbye.’ She gazed through watery eyes at Piper. ‘You, too. Look
after her.’ She sniffed and lowered her eyes. ‘I mean, I know you will . . .’

Water gushed into my shoes as the floor of the boat gave way.

‘Go, now,’ Ramone urged, pushing Alice and me to the steps. ‘There’s no time!’

We crawled through the collapsing boat, the smell of canal water seeping up into our clothes, our hair, weighing us down.

‘Swim!’ Alice gasped, tearing a chunk from a sunken wall and pushing me through it. I emerged, spluttering, joined seconds later by Ramone and Alice. Together the three of us swam
clear of the mass of paper and words that was
Elsewhere
, and dragged ourselves out of the stinking water.

As it slipped beneath the surface, something that might have once been a black cat skittered down the towpath ahead, but by the time my eyes caught up with it I saw that it was nothing more than
a scrunch of faded paper carried by the breeze.

We stood there, shivering, until the water was still. Fortune cards dotted the surface like water lilies, arranging themselves into some new story.

But it wasn’t ours.

‘Once upon a time, there was a girl called Alice,’ she said quietly, breaking the silence. ‘She told stories, like her father. But she never really knew him, even though she
longed to know that he loved her, and for a happy ending.’ She stopped, her voice breaking. ‘I came to find you, Dad. Please don’t tell me to go away again.’

‘I won’t, Alice,’ Ramone murmured, his eyes glistening. ‘You’ll have your happy ending this time. You’ll see. We’ll write it together.’ He pulled
her close and kissed her on the forehead. ‘This is only the first chapter.’

E
VERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY
a story is begun. Some of these stories are published and sold in bookshops all over the world,
and some may never be finished, instead gathering dust at the bottom of drawers or under beds, forgotten.

What is a story? It might be a memory, of an event or a person. Perhaps a relative we never met, who exists only in photographs and the memories of those who knew them. It could be a fairy tale,
like the ones you and I have both known for ever; the stories that everybody knows of witches and of gingerbread cottages, and fingers pricked on the spindles of spinning
wheels . . . warnings to stay on the right path. Or it could be a sister weaving her own tales to tell to a lonely younger brother.

Sometimes true and sometimes made up.

Sometimes a little bit of both.

It’s often said there are two sides to every story. The version you hear depends on who is telling it. What they remember, or what they choose to leave out.

What they want you to believe.

If Alice had told this tale her way, it would still be about what happened when she was unable to finish one of her stories and went missing, and how I found her, only with certain differences.
In Alice’s version, perhaps, the statue of the stag really would have five legs, or maybe the old derelict mansion would have been a castle, surrounded by a forest of brambles.

This is not Alice’s story, though. It’s mine, so I have told it the way only I can.

As for Alice and me, we went on to have many more adventures, and Alice wrote many more stories. She still does and they’re better now than ever. Sometimes she finishes them and sometimes
not. It doesn’t matter now, because the curse is broken. Maybe one day you’ll read them, or perhaps you have already, although you might not know it, because she uses a different name
for her books. A secret name that only her family knows.

I will end this tale by saying that stories, like gossip, or curses, have the power to harm. As our mother taught us:
Be careful what you believe in. If you
believe you are cursed, then you are
.

But stories have the power to heal, too. If you believe in luck, and that you will succeed – whatever monsters come your way – then you can. As Alice once wrote: the problem with
monsters is that those of our own making are the most terrifying of all.

Yet, if we created them, we also have the power to overcome them.

It would not have been physically possible to write this story without the generosity of my family. I’m grateful to my mum, sisters Theresa and Janet, and Nicola for
helping out and looking after Jack in order to give me time to write.

My wonderful agent, Julia, to whom this book is dedicated: you pepped me up and calmed me down as required during moments of gloom, missed deadlines, and worries that this,
too, could end up as a tale unfinished. You always have the right words – a magic all your own.

I’m indebted to my editor, Rachel Mann, whose wisdom made this story work even when I feared I might well end up as mad as Alice. It takes great skill to balance knowing when to heighten
the tension and when less is more, and you have it in bags.

Thanks also to my copy editor Jane Tait, whose careful attention caught many errors and added a layer of sparkle.

Last but not least, thanks to the lovely Cat Healy who named Gypsy’s boat with a word that is very much hers:
Elsewhere.

© Charlie Hopkinson 2008

Michelle Harrison is a full time author who lives in Essex. Her first novel,
The Thirteen Treasures
, won the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize and is published
in sixteen countries including the UK. It was followed by
The Thirteen Curses
and
The Thirteen Secrets
. Michelle has since written
Unrest
, a ghost story for older readers
and
One Wish
, a prequel to the
Thirteen Treasures
books.
The Other Alice
is her sixth novel.

Michelle’s path to becoming a writer was inspired by stories told by her sisters as she was growing up, one of which was so vivid it prompted her to dig in the garden looking for evidence
of a dead fairy. (She didn’t find anything.) Since becoming a published author she still does strange things like asking people to shut her in the boots of their cars – all in the name
of research, of course – like Alice.

Michelle has a son called Jack and two black cats. She suspects one of them is a mischief, but hasn’t caught her drinking tea . . . yet.

For more information visit Michelle’s website:
www.michelleharrisonbooks.com
or find her on Twitter:
@MHarrison13

The Thirteen Treasures

The Thirteen Curses

The Thirteen Secrets

One Wish

For older readers

Unrest

THE THIRTEEN TREASURES