The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (9 page)

‘Hello, Norm.'

He smiles. ‘Wotcha, Al.'

‘What you doing?'

‘Swinging.'

‘I can see that. I mean, what you doing here on your own?'

‘Nothing, just thinking.'

‘You've got all blood on your knee, Norm.'

‘Yeah, I know.'

‘How d'you do it?'

‘I fell off the swing. I'm always doing that.'

His arms are cradled around the metal chains that hold the seat, so that he's more rocking on the seat than he is swinging. I'm about to ease myself on to the one next to him.

‘Hold on.'

He reaches across and wipes the seat with the sleeve of his jacket.

I get on. Start to swing slowly.

‘So, what you thinking about?'

‘I saw you and Reggie coming into the park and I was thinking I wished I was you.'

‘Don't think you'd fit into my dresses.'

‘No, I mean I wish I was clever like you.'

‘I'm not clever, Norm.'

You are.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

He thinks for a while. Starts to swing slowly.

‘Well, when you make things up all the teachers and everybody say nice things about you; what a good imagination you've got, and that. When I do it they just shout at me and tell me off.'

I'm still rocking. The thing with Norman is that it sometimes takes a while to work out where he's going. Sherlock would do it by subtle questioning. Craftily deducing what was going on in Norman's head by logic.

‘How d'you mean?'

As he's swinging he lets one foot trail in the dirt, scuffing the toes of his shoes. Good job my mum isn't here.

‘Like the other day in class. You made up a story and got a prize. But when I made one up I got told it was a lie and a venial sin and sent to Sister and had to miss play.'

First piece of evidence. I have to be careful how I handle this. Mustn't disturb the scene of the crime. Leave my prints all over Norman's feelings.

‘Was your story the one you told Mr O'Cain? About your dad being a secret service agent working for MI5?'

He scuffs some more.

‘Yeah. That was it.'

‘Thing is, your dad's a milkman, Norm, and he delivers milk to Watney Street, which is where Mr O'Cain lives.'

‘So?'

‘So, Mr O'Cain knows he's a milkman, not a secret service agent.'

Norman pushes off, keeps pace with me.

‘Maybe my dad's undercover and he's really going round tracking down escaped German prisoners of war and poisoning them with milk.'

I start to swing higher. Lean backwards. Lean forwards. Backwards. Forwards.

‘Never thought of that, Norm.'

The wind wakes up. Who's for a joy-ride? Buzzes around my ears. Faster, Alice. Faster. Forwards and back. Higher and higher. I lose my stomach. Find it. Norman starts to work up too. But we're not together. He's up. I'm down. I call across as we pass, ‘Tell you one thing.'

He calls back; I can tell by the way his voice wavers that he's losing his stomach too.

‘What's that?'

‘It's a good story.'

He smiles.

‘Thanks, Al.'

‘Better than some of mine.'

‘Al?'

‘What?'

‘D'you reckon if we went too high we'd go right around
the top bar and get wrapped up in the chains?'

‘Dunno. Want to try?'

‘No, I get sick if I go too high.'

‘What if you have to parachute out of an aeroplane when you join the army?'

‘I'd just pull me balaclava up so I couldn't see.'

‘Fair enough. Look, I've got to go now, Norm. Reggie'll be waiting for me.'

‘Here, Al?'

‘What?'

I'm starting to slow down. It feels nice. Not leaning back or forward. Just sitting. The wind slows to a lullaby.

‘D'you reckon Mr O'Cain might be an escaped German prisoner of war?'

Norman's still swinging too. We're in tandem now.

‘Don't think many Germans would be called Mr O'Cain, Norm.'

‘Why?'

‘It's Irish.'

‘Is that why he talks funny?'

‘It's called an accent, Norm.'

My swing stops. Norman stops his by scuffing his shoes in the dirt. I get off. I get the feeling he doesn't want me to go.

‘Want a quick game of picksmeup and dropsy?'

We used to play picksmeup when we were little kids. I haven't played it for years.

‘Long as it's quick.'

I go over to the old roundabout and start pushing. It's big and heavy but once it gets going it soon picks up speed. Norman looks for a small stick. Old lolly sticks are best. He joins me. Helps push.

‘Ready?'

‘Few more pushes; let's get it going really fast.'

The roundabout comes to life, whizzes round, blurring the world against the background of the trees.

‘Go.'

We both jump on. Me on one side, Norman on the other. Crouch into a sitting position on the running board. It's not easy to hear, what with the wind whistling and the roundabout creaking. Norman calls out, ‘Dropsy.'

Somewhere out of my sight, he drops the stick on to the ground. Next he jumps off and runs around clinging on to the roundabout and pushing as if his life depended on it, while counting to ten. As the roundabout spins around at breakneck speed I have to spot where the stick is, lean out and pick it up before he gets to ten. You have to be really careful. If you lose your grip you can get shot off and end up with a sore backside.

He's pushing fast. I look for the stick, see it near some leaves, but before I can get my fingers to it I flash past. The roundabout whizzes. Five-six-seven. I've spun back to where the stick is. I reach out. Eight-nine. Grab it. Shout out, ‘Picksmeup. One-nil lead.'

Norman jumps on the running board. Crouches. I drop the stick.

‘Dropsy.'

I jump off. Start pushing as hard as I can and start counting.

‘Here, Al.'

‘What?'

‘Know what you were saying?'

‘About what?'

He gets the stick too quickly. ‘Picksmeup-dropsy.'

He jumps off. I jump on.

‘My story.'

‘Hold on, not so fast. What about it?'

‘You said it was a good story. Mr O'Cain said it was a bunch of lies.'

I see the stick, pick it up.

‘Picksmeup. Ouch.'

‘You all right?'

‘Scraped me fingers. Dropsy. So what about it?'

I jump off. He jumps on.

‘Thing is, you're clever so you know the difference. But how do I know if I'm just telling lies or making up a good story? You sure you dropped the stick, I can't see . . . hold on . . . picksmeup!'

‘Good question, Norm. My stepdad doesn't think I know the difference either.'

Norman stands up on the running board. Sits on the top bit of the roundabout, stick in hand.

‘So what's a good answer?'

The roundabout slows.

‘Think you have to work that out for yourself, Norm.'

‘Al?'

‘Yeah?'

‘I feel a bit sick.'

‘Yeah, know what you mean.'

‘'Ere, Al?'

‘Yes, Norm?'

‘D'you think I could ever write a play like what you do?'

‘'Course you could; it's easy.'

‘How easy?'

I look back at the swings moving gently in the breeze. Look at the blood drying on his knee.

‘Easy as falling off a swing, Norm.'

He pulls his balaclava down under his chin and smiles.

R
eggie's sitting on the end of the little wooden jetty by the boating pond. Flash is looking at his reflection in the water. Tries to dip his paws in.

‘You t-took your time.'

‘I was talking to Norman.'

On the jetty, red-faced men fish. They tie worms to hooks, talking about all the big fish they caught last week when there was no one there to see them. I look around for Charlie. He's painting an old, upturned rowing boat. He smiles when he sees us. He's a walking plant – flowerpot boots, a grizzled beard of white prickles. We help him to look after his customers sometimes: take money, help them into the boats.

‘Charlie s-said he wasn't very busy; we can take one out for a while.'

‘Bags you row.'

‘I b-bags you row.'

‘I said it first.'

‘I said it s-second.'

Charlie looks up. ‘Leave Flash here, I'll look after him. Looks like he's in need of a bowl of water.'

Flash doesn't seem to like that idea; tries to get into the boat. Charlie goes to grab him. Flash ducks between his legs. Reggie calls him, makes him sit. Flash doesn't look too pleased about that either. I think he fancied doing a bit of rowing himself.

We step into the boat. I take one oar, Reggie takes the other. We work well together and soon get halfway across the lake, heading for Swan Island. The sky is clear and blue. We stop rowing and rest. It's great out here, like being miles away from everybody. The people on the jetty have shrunk to doll size.

We drift around the other side of Swan Island. I sit back. Overhead, birds swoop, darting their black, cut-out shapes against the sun. The air is calm, tranquil. I trail my fingers through the water – cool and dark and deep. The sun is hot on my head. I close my eyes, lift my face up. Once, people used to worship the sun. I can see why. I decide I'm just going to think of nice things. Thatched cottages, the chocolates I'm going to get for Mum, and let my mind drift off. The boat is a cradle. It's so peaceful here. The light on the water. The sound of the birds. I feel the world rocking me to sleep.

Something changes. I open my eyes. The sun is fading. Clouds have appeared from nowhere. They're bubbling in the sky. Simmering. The little boat jerks. The clouds boil. The sky is changing colour. The surface of the water rises and falls. I sit up and look around, wondering what's going on. Everything seems restless, disturbed, like some sea
monster is trying to surface below us. I look up at the sun again. It seems to be shrinking, collapsing into itself. The light deserts the sky. A strange yellow mist rises up.

I look at Reggie. He's staring out at the water, looking puzzled.

‘What's going on?'

He shrugs. ‘D-don't know. It's scary though.'

Rain starts falling. Heavy, dense rain. The little boat's a toy now: feather light, getting thrown around. It pitches and tosses. It's getting darker. It's the middle of the day, but I can only just see Reggie.

I hear my voice. It sounds frightened. ‘Come on, we'd better get back.'

I put my oar into the water, pull on it hard. He doesn't move. ‘Come
on
, Reggie!'

The rain's heavier now. It's like someone has turned the sky upside down, and all the rain up there has come down at once. It drives into our faces. My clothes are soaked already. I wonder if we can make it to Swan Island. Get some shelter there. Reggie's still staring back towards the jetty, water running from his hair.

‘Reggie, will you start rowing? I can't do it all by—'

Then I see what he's looking at. It's like a punch in the face from your best friend. Unexpected. Coming towards us from the jetty, a roll of water is moving across the surface of the lake. Heading in our direction. High as a bus. Tumbling, somersaulting water.

‘What is that?'

The rain has soaked both of us. It's streaming from Reggie's hair and running down his face. He squints to see.

‘I d-don't know for sure, but . . .' He puts his hand to his forehead to keep the rain from his eyes. ‘It looks like a t-tidal wave.'

‘A what?'

The wall of water gets higher with every second. Roaring like a waterfall. Rolling like a train. Sucking up water. Getting bigger. Wider. Faster. It fills the horizon. Hisses milk-white foam.

‘It's w-what you g-get in the s-sea.'

‘But this is a lake.'

‘I kn-know.'

‘If that hits us, the boat's gonna be crushed into match-wood!'

I can't believe that two minutes ago we were sitting in the sun. Now we can't even see Swan Island. We can't see anything. We can hear, though. Hear the roar of the wave as it thunders towards us like an earthquake, pushing before it a wall of deafening, ear-splitting sound. The boat is uncontrollable, doing its best to shake us out.

‘Start rowing!' I scream, as loudly as I can. ‘We've gotta get away!'

Reggie picks up his oar. We try to row in time. The water is as heavy as lead. We're rowing through concrete.

‘It's c-coming in.'

I look down. The bottom of the boat is filling with water. ‘We're gonna sink! Pull harder.'

My hands are already sore. Skin rubbing off on the rough oars.

‘Keep together!'

‘I'm d-doing my best.'