The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (23 page)

Then I hear it. A scuttling black crow of a whisper. That familiar voice carrying on the wind. And the wind becomes his voice. Wrapping around me. It's like he's here. In the shadows. In the air. Playing games with me. A cat with a mouse. I edge away. Look up. Up and out through the roof. As I do a cloud rolls away, moonlight leaks cold,
grey. Bits of the roof collapse and tumble down in clouds of wood, bricks and rubble and I remember his promise. ‘A birthday surprise, just for you.' His words seep in through broken window panes, rattle against the frames. Something to teach me a lesson.

I'm frightened. I want to hide, to run away, to get out of this nightmare.

Somewhere a long way off, a dog barks. A simple bark in the night. Sounds like Flash. The thought comforts me and at the same time I get that feeling again. Like someone or something is there. A feather touching my face. I start to think and as I start to think I start to move. Step out of the shadows. My hair is in rats' tails and I can feel the blood hot and sticky on my leg, but somehow I feel stronger now. Something takes over inside me. An idea. A way to beat the fear. It's almost as if the storm is in me now. For the first time in my life I don't feel scared. I suddenly know what to do. I go across to the metal sheets stacked against the opposite wall. The metal that reflected back my face. I've got an idea.

I start to pile up the sheets. As I collect them I remember lots of things that have happened since Reggie came to live upstairs. The beatings, the worry about Mum and the baby, finding out I'm adopted, Flash being killed, all the things I've been trying to sort out. All those things that seemed to be pushing me down. Scaring me. But now I realize something. That I've got stronger because of them and I know that running away isn't the answer. I keep piling
up the metal plates. I pile the metal higher and higher. It's a simple idea. It might work or it might not. But I have to try. Electricity is attracted to metal and I'm going to see if I can draw the energy to this one point, these metal plates, short-circuit it, burn out its power. Destroy it, and everything that's in it. All those bad memories. All that fear. I have to believe I can do it. I have to believe in myself.

The storm is all around me now. A roaring, tumbling mountain of energy. I can feel the electricity in the air. I'm ready. Now is the time. I hold my breath.

The air stills. The night stops breathing. The only sound is the slow drip of water. The fires burn soundlessly around me. I've done as much as I can. I stand, look up at the night. Wait.

In that moment of stillness I'm sure I see him. Clear as day. Dark as night. His face. Those grey eyes. Then I blink and he's gone and the lightning hits. A thick, crooked spark of pure white energy. On target. The force hits the pile of metal like a runaway train. I can feel its power. It hits and rebounds in a fury of light. The building trembles. Shudders. More bricks start to rain down. Bits of wood crash to the floor. What's left of the glass cracks and crumbles. The energy meets and mushrooms up, up and out through the roof in a cloud of fury. Red and yellow flames sheer off, the sky catches light.

Then comes the noise. A deafening roar, like the fire has burned a hole for the sound to pour into, to fill up. Angry.
Hard. A split second, then the full force of the blast hits me. I'm thrown back across the floor, into the wall, hitting my head on the cardboard boxes stacked there. They fall around me spilling their contents – hundreds of metal boxes scatter across the floor.

S
lowly, all the sounds fade. Murmur into silence. I'm lying on the floor. I try to move, but can't. Everything is calm. I ache. My head hurts and my leg is wet with blood. My dress is in tatters. But it's so quiet now. So peaceful.

Through the holes in the roof the moon slants in. Something on the floor in front of me catches the light. Slowly, I reach out. Pick up it up. It's a biscuit tin. That's the last thing I see as the walls of the old factory groan and stumble for the last time.

Who'd have thought it? I smile to myself calmly. Wood splinters and crackles all around. Bricks groan and topple and crash down. The roof creaks, leans at a strange angle, then tips slates down in a rain of dust. But amidst all this chaos, all I can think about is the little tin box I'm holding. Exactly like mine, except this one is brand new. They must have been made here. That's what the metal sheets were for. They made the biscuit tins here. And they were what I used to beat the memories, the fear, to beat the
storm. I start to laugh. Laugh and cry at the same time. Tears roll down my cheeks.

I try to move again. Can't. But I don't care. My eyes are fixed, held by the picture on the tin because now, for the first time, I can see it clearly in fresh, bright colours. I'm looking at the little girl with the red hair. She does look just like me. She's in a field, sitting on a swing. The sky is so blue. The leaves on the trees so green. And for the first time I can see what it is that's on the floor close to the swing. It's like a tunic, the sort that soldiers wear. It's lying there like someone's just left it for a moment. But that's not all. There's something on top of it. I strain my eyes to see it. Can't make it out. It's so fine. So light. Barely a mark on the tin. A speckled trace of light. Looks just like a feather.

T
he sun is golden syrup. It pours itself over my face, spreads itself on my closed eyelids. I try to open them. They move slightly, then butterfly open. I look around. Where am I? Close them again. Open them. Still don't know where I am. But there's a nice familiar smell. Soap and lavender. I'm not worried.

I try to sit up. Everything aches. Especially my head. That feels like it might belong to someone else. I put my hand to it. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a bit of something white hanging down. It's a bandage. I sink back down into the warm, comfortable bed. A door slowly opens.

‘Alice?'

I peer through squinty eyelids. A face creased into a worried frown looks round the door.

‘Emma? What you doing here?'

‘I live here, dear. I thought I could hear you stirring.'

I try to sit up again. She comes further into the room. ‘You be careful now. Here, let me get your pillows.'

‘What happened? How did I get here?'

‘Just rest. You've had a lucky escape, my girl.'

Slowly, my muddled head clears. I remember. Words tumble.

‘It was terrible, Emma. There was this awful storm. I got lost. I went into an old factory. The storm came in and there was thunder and lightning everywhere and the whole building shook. But the storm kept coming, and I knew it was more than a storm. It was like it was after me. Looking for me.' A single tear curves down my cheek. I wipe it away. ‘Everything burst into flames and I had to hide under this conveyor belt. Then I had this idea. and I stacked up the metal and . . .' The words gush out. I can't believe I'm rabbiting on like this. But deep down I know what I'm saying will only ever make sense to two people. Me and Reggie.

Mrs Gilbey moves across the room. Plumps up the pillows. Then sits on the bed and puts a cool hand on my forehead. ‘All right. All right. You can tell me all about that later. You need to rest now. No talking. You've got a temperature and a lot of bumps and bruises.' Her worried frown deepens.

I try once more. ‘I've done it, Emma. Don't you see? I've done it. I've beaten it. No one is ever going to frighten me again. I have to tell Reggie.'

She gets up. Goes over to a small bedside table. Carefully pours something from a tall bottle into a glass. Then she comes back to the bed.

‘You must calm down, young lady. You're a very lucky girl.' She looks at me. ‘It was just a storm. The firemen got
you out just in time. Such nice young men. One of them told me another couple of minutes and the whole building would have collapsed, with you in it. Two direct lightning strikes, he said. Worst electrical storm any of them had ever seen. And there were old chemicals in the factory. Apparently, they used to use them to colour the lids of biscuit tins. Dangerous stuff. Caught fire straight away.'

She offers me the glass. I realize how thirsty I am. Gulp at it.

‘Slowly, take your time. He said the whole place was lit up like a Christmas tree.'

I realize we're telling two different stories. Two different stories to describe the same thing. I'm talking about the way I've faced my fears. She's talking about something ordinary – a bit of bad weather and some dangerous chemicals.

Questions start to dart through my mind.

‘How long have I been here? How's Mum? And where's Reggie?'

‘So many questions! Three days, your mum's fine, and I've no idea where Reggie is. But I'm sure he'll turn up when he's ready.' She pauses. ‘I spoke to your mum – let her know what happened and that you were all right. She said to tell you the baby is due any day now . . .' her words trail off.

‘What is it? Something's wrong with Mum, isn't it?'

‘No. There's nothing wrong with your mother. There is something you have to know, though. She said I should tell you.'

There's a look in her eyes. Like she's worried.

‘This is probably the wrong time, but I don't suppose there will ever be a right one. Anyway, you have to know sooner or later, and you're a brave girl, you've proved that . . .'

She takes my hand. ‘It's your stepdad. It was the night of the storm. He was out in it. Mr Higginbottom saw him. Said he was wandering about in the rain, soaking wet. Mr Higginbottom shouted to him to find some shelter but your stepdad said he was looking for you. He had to find you. Seems there was this terrible crash, fit to wake the dead and then, according to Norman's dad, the biggest bolt of lightning he'd ever seen shook the whole street. He said it was just like the sky was exploding. He ducked into a doorway and next time he looked out your stepdad was gone. Like he was never there at all. Gave Mr Higginbottom quite a turn, I think.'

She takes a deep breath. ‘Your stepdad hasn't been seen since. The firemen and the police have been looking for him but there's no sign of him anywhere. It was up by those old factories, quite close to where you were found. Seems the fire spread to all of them. There's not much left. They're all gutted.'

She looks at me, waits for me to say something. I stare at the floor. Mrs Gilbey pats my hand. Her voice goes quiet,

‘I know things haven't been so good between you. I suppose he just couldn't accept that you were growing up,
changing. Some people react to that in the only way they know: by hitting out, by being violent.'

She looks at me.

‘I'm not excusing the things he did, Alice, don't think that for one minute. I'm just trying to explain how it might have been.'

She takes my hand. Her hand feels warm. She reaches for the hanky that she keeps up her sleeve. Dabs at her eye. Sniffs.

‘There, I've probably said all the wrong things. Stupid old woman that I am.'

I smile. Give her hand a squeeze

‘You'll never be that, Emma.'

‘Yes, well.'

‘You all right?'

‘Of course I am, dear. I'm just trying to find the right words. The right words for you.'

She looks around like the words she's looking for are floating in the air. Invisible. Waiting to be plucked.

‘You know, often the things we hate most are the things we fear most. But the funny thing is, Alice . . .' She puts her hanky back up her sleeve. Her eyes glisten. ‘. . . sometimes what we're really afraid of is what's inside us. It's not out there at all but buried away deep inside, out of sight. It's just easier to put the blame for the way we feel on what is outside. Maybe what we're all so frightened of is just being frightened.'