The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (19 page)

‘I only hope she remembers to fetch some money.'

The boat passes. Coughs black smoke from the red and black funnel. A woman appears on deck. She's carrying a baby in her arms. She has a short, fair ponytail tied back with an elastic band. She smiles, showing off a gap between her two front teeth. Girlish. Like her mouth has stayed twelve years old. She waves with one hand. Turns the baby towards us. It reminds me.

‘Remember you said you had something to show me? Something to do with that old photo. A surprise.'

‘The one with your funny h-hat on? Well, half on.'

‘I think I look really cute.'

‘Mmm, you did, what h-happened?'

‘Shut your face. Well? When you going to show me?'

He looks thoughtful. ‘It's your birthday s-soon, isn't it?'

‘Couple of weeks. It's on a Saturday.'

‘Good, that'll be a g-good time. I'll show it to you then. Make it into a little bit of a birthday p-present. I think it might help to explain what's going on.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘You'll h-have to wait and see.'

‘This present.'

‘Mmmm.'

‘Give me a clue.'

‘Ask Sherlock Holmes. See if he can f-figure it out.'

‘Spoilsport.'

I start scuffing the toes of my shoes on the ground – I
do that sometimes when I'm thinking – and I start to see little pictures in my head, of the times we've been together, the things Reggie has said. Funny how things that seem so stupid one day can startto make sense the next. I don't want to admit he's right, even to myself, but there's something in me that wants to believe him. I mean, what if there really is something called mind-touching and I can do it. It would be like making all the stories I've thought about come true.

‘Oh well, if you're right about this mind-touching, the next few weeks could be . . . interesting.'

‘It'll be that, all right. Just remember; we have to be on our guard. Together.'

I look at Reggie and know I want to be an Indian. I want to believe him. I want my mind to fly like a bird in the bright blue sky. I want to ride my imagination like a wild bucking bronco. What's wrong with a bit of magic?

‘Hey, look. The sun's comin' out.'

I
get myself ready for school. Have a quick wash. Spread some jam on a crust. I haven't seen Bert for days now, only a humped shape under blankets in the bedroom sometimes when I come home. There's a knock at the door.

‘It's only m-me.'

‘Hold on a minute.'

I open the door. Catch sight of myself in the mirror. Look a wreck. Reggie walks in. Sits on the table.

‘You look t-terrible.'

‘Thanks. I was just thinking how nice I looked.'

‘Yes, that's what I meant to s-say.'

‘Creep.'

‘Granddad said if you want to, you can c-come and have your d-dinner with us tonight.'

‘Double creep.'

‘No, he d-did. Honest.'

‘Thanks. But I'll have to check Bert's not home. You comin' to school, then?'

‘Not today. There's s-something I've got to do.'

‘You can't just keep bunking off whenever you feel like it.'

‘Why not?'

‘'Cos you can't. You've got to go to school.'

‘Why?'

‘To learn things.'

‘W-why?'

‘I don't know. Stop asking stupid questions. So you can get a good job. Anyway, what d'you want?'

‘I've just been over to Watney Street, there's a fair there. Fancy c-coming tonight?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Come on, we both n-need cheering up. We can just forget about things for a while.'

‘Well . . .'

‘Go on, it'll be good.'

Part of me wants to go and part doesn't. He smiles, a wide smile like a tin of beans opening. I get my coat.

‘I've gotta go. I'll be late for school.'

‘We can go on the dodgems if you want.'

I can't help smiling. Sometimes talking to Reggie is like talking to a little boy. Other times it's not.

‘All right.'

‘I'll knock f-for you.'

‘Best not. I'll meet you in the passage about six.'

‘Cor, is that the t-time?

‘What about it?'

‘Just thinking, you'd better hurry up or you'll be l-late.'

‘Cheeky beggar.'

The day seems to linger. The hands of the clock in class
drag themselves round. I suppose the more I think about it, the more I'm looking forward to the fair. It seems ages since I've just done something ordinary. For the fun of it. Not thinking about anything else. That's the thing about a fair, there's so much going on you just lose yourself for a while.

When the bell finally goes I rush home. I start to clean up. Sweep the back yard. Seems to take ages. I do some work on the play. It's getting nearer and nearer. Trouble is, I'm getting stuck. Maybe it's all this stuff that's going on around me. I just can't seem to think of a good ending.

Then I get hungry. I spread some jam on a thick crust, and wolf it down. I look at the clock, go out into the passage. I'm just going to go up for Reggie when he comes down the stairs. He's got a grin on his face.

‘Good, you're on t-time for once. Ready?'

‘For anything.'

‘Come on, then. Let's go.'

Outside, the twilight sky plots dusky seas. A lighthouse moon warns galleon clouds. Shipwrecks ahoy. We turn into Sidney Street and walk down towards Commercial Road to the fair. Caravans and lorries, tents and stalls, machinery and people. Mayhem. Noise. Fun. The lights glare, edging out the growing darkness. Coloured bulbs garland tents, merging into a warm haze of colour. Sounds ripple, music rolls like waves. We stop to take it all in. Listen to the magic.

‘What's that noise?'

‘It's the merry-go-round. I think its proper name is a carousel.'

Reggie thinks for a while. ‘Merry-go-round is better.'

‘Yeah.'

The sound drifts towards us. Draws us like a magnet. Stallholders call. Men and women laugh. Children shout. Bright lights scald the darkness, sandpapering our eyes. ‘You got any money?'

He digs in his pocket. ‘Not a l-lot.' Pulls out some coins. ‘What about you?'

‘One and six. Share?'

He nods. We walk into another world. Dodgems and merry-go-rounds, helter-skelters and ghost trains. Technicolour toys waiting to be captured on hoopla stalls. Goldfish in plastic bags, longing for new homes.

‘Want s-some chestnuts?'

‘Yeah!'

In the far corner a tin drum glows red as blood, shooting sparks into the black night. An old man hunches, warming his hands – part of the darkness, torn out of the shadows. The smell draws us on. On top of the drum, roasting chestnuts sigh in the heat. Reggie hands over a threepenny bit. The man squints at it, coughs loudly and scoops crackling nuts into a brown paper bag. We walk away examining our supper. Crispy, golden brown nuts.

My mouth waters. Reggie hands the bag to me. I take one and bite into the hot, sweet, salty flesh. It burns my tongue deliciously.

‘Nice?'

‘Great.'

Impatient, we toss the hot nuts from hand to hand like jugglers. Tumbling through crowds, twigs in a current.

‘Look, dodgems over there.' Reggie gets squashed between women pushing prams overloaded with babies, men laughing, kids shouting.

‘Where?'

He nods his head in the direction of the dodgems. ‘Over there.'

We have to barge our way through. I get pushed, trip and land on a pram. A woman looks daggers at me. Reggie smirks.

‘What you doing, playing pram dodgems?'

‘Very funny. Just you wait.'

Eventually we disentangle ourselves from the crowd like threads from a jumper.

The man looking after the dodgems has long greasy hair. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a tattoo of a dragon on his arm. Reggie counts out some money and gets into a bright-red car. He has that cheeky look in his eyes and that little smile playing around the corners of his mouth that makes his lips twitch. He pushes at his glasses. ‘You s-sure you want to do this? It can get a bit rough.'

‘Don't you worry about me, this is war.'

We spend the next few minutes racing around. Trying to bash each other. Getting bashed. The watching faces are a blur. The noise of people laughing, yelling, and bumping
dodgems blocks out everything else. Suddenly the cars slow and come to a halt. I can hear the music again. I get out and sit on the side. My legs feel wobbly. I do up my shoelace. Reggie gets out of his. Sits by me. I feel a hand on my back.

‘Gotcha! Surrender or die.'

We both turn at once. The face is hidden by a black balaclava. Only the eyes show.

‘Wish you'd stop doing that, Norman.'

He's chewing a bar of nougat. ‘I could've slit both your throats.'

‘Yeah, that nougat looks really dangerous.'

He pulls out a long knife. Black handle, floppy silver blade. Sharp as rubber. ‘Liberated this off a German officer.'

‘Put it away, Norm, before you rub yourself out.'

He drags the balaclava off his head. It rakes through his hair like a plough through fields. Underneath his face is red. His eyes shine.

‘How long have you two been here?'

‘Not l-long.'

‘What you been on?'

‘Couple of things. W-what about you?'

‘Coconut shy.'

‘Win?'

‘No. I hit loads of them but they never came off the stands. I reckon they're glued on.' He chews on the nougat, pulling it out in long, tacky strands.

‘You should watch out, Norman. That'll take your teeth out. You won't get into the army without teeth.'

‘Wanna bit?'

We both shake our heads.

‘I'm gonna go and win a goldfish. I ain't never had a pet.'

‘What about your goats, Norman?'

‘They ain't pets, my dad keeps them for their milk and that. Anyway, goats are stupid. Goldfish are clever.'

‘Wh-what makes you think that, Norman?'

‘That's obvious, mate, they can swim, can't they? Gotta go. See you later. And don't forget: take no pensioners.'

‘Prisoners, Norm.'

‘Yeah, them neither.' He sneaks off into the shadows. The nougat bar becomes a pistol. He massacres the crowd. Then a stray bullet spins him to the ground. He dies in agony. Again.

‘That's twice he's been killed this week.'

‘M-maybe his mum will knit him a medal.'

The crowds grow. Two rivers flowing from different directions. A torrent of people that meets in a narrow path between the coconut shies and the slot machines, then spills over. A monster flood. Full of people, all shapes, all sizes. Sticky with candy floss. Pink-mouthed, strawberry-iced. Beery-breathed. Swirling. Twisting. Not quite here. Not quite there. Not quite anywhere. Ladies in bright floral dresses. Kids red-eyed. I lose sight of Reggie. More lights glimmer in the darkness. More stalls spring up,
opening their welcoming arms. Shadows spill into light. Light into shadows.

‘Alice? W-where are you?'

A man steps forward from behind a stall. Shouts out a challenge to the crowd.

‘Come on, test your strength. Make the bell ring. Show your sweetheart what a man you are.'

‘I'm here, where are you?'

An old woman knocks into me. Nut-brown. Red scarf tied around her head. ‘Lucky heather. 'Ere you are, sweetheart. Penny a bunch. Genuine lucky gypsy heather.'

And another, ‘Read your fortune, handsome?'

‘Penny a bunch, lucky heather.'

‘Over h-here.'

‘I can't see you.'

Plastic ducks bob on water jets. Sitting targets. Air rifles crack. Ducks stop bobbing. Float upside down. Dead as ducks.

Disembodied voices. Arguments and laughter. Singing out of tune.

Wish I had stilts. Ah, now I see him. ‘Reggie.'

He hears me. Smiles. Waves. Then I think I hear another voice. It whispers in the wind. Calls my name. Sounds like my stepdad. I shake my head. Must be the excitement.

I look around again for Reggie. The crowd seems to fill my eyes. My head swims. I feel sick. Faces press in around me, blocking out my space. In my face. Pushing. Shoving.
It's like there are just too many of them. Like they can't be real. I call out, ‘Reggie.' I see him for an instant then, like a monster whale, the huge crowd opens its mouth and swallows him whole. Spits out his voice. ‘A…l…i…c…e.'

I have to get out. Find a bit of space. I move away from the bright lights and into the darkness. The wind is suddenly colder. The warmth that you get from being close to so many other people has gone. I take some deep breaths. A cloud bites off a piece of the moon, spits it out as smoky white light. I keep walking. Probably best to get away, just in case he really is in the crowd.