The Other Alice

by Michelle Harrison

  The chapter ended there. I put the pages down, my skin crawling. If Gypsy was here, and Tabitha, then Ramblebrook and Dorothy Grimes could be, too. A man obsessed with unfinished stories and a bloodthirsty girl who had killed, and wanted to keep on killing.

  I skimmed the chapter again. From what I’d read before, about Ramblebrook, and the evil story that had made it into the museum, I knew it had to be this one of Dorothy’s. If she was here, then her aim must be to get her story back.

  What lengths would she go to, and how far was Ramblebrook prepared to go to keep it?

  Suddenly, I was beginning to see how much trouble Alice’s story had unleashed; how much danger she could be in if the characters of the story got to her.

  And how much danger it had put me in, too.

  8

  Melody

  IF TOWN HAD BEEN BUSY in the afternoon, It was rammed on Saturday evening. The air was cold, but thick with smokiness and chestnuts and roasting corn. Mum and I clutched warm, fragrant, spiced apple juice, our fingers sticky from accidental spills as people bumped into us.

  ‘Stay close,’ Mum kept saying, glancing back at me as I followed her through the crowd. I was busy thinking about Alice’s story and looking into the face of every passing stranger, expecting to see Ramblebrook or Dorothy Grimes, which was stupid as I had no idea what they looked like. If Alice had described them, then it was lost with whatever character notes she had, or perhaps in an earlier part of the story. Sometimes she barely mentioned a character’s appearance at all. When I asked her why she did this, she said it was for two reasons. Sometimes she preferred to let the reader build up their own picture. Other times she never really even knew herself, seeing only a vague image like in a dream.

  Despite this, I felt sure I’d recognise Ramblebrook. I’d imagined a weasel of a man with a long nose and sweaty hands that dampened the pages of the stories he had collected and stolen. Dorothy was harder to picture. In my mind, I couldn’t see much more than a tangle of greasy hair and mad eyes staring out from behind it, but that was enough. I didn’t want to imagine the rest.

  We moved closer to the centre of the square. Behind a safety barrier, the huge bonfire towered above people’s heads, a mountain of dry wood waiting to be lit. This wouldn’t happen until eight o’clock and, until then, people were queuing up to place their Likenesses on the bonfire. Through gaps in the crowd I caught glimpses of the dolls already in place and there were hundreds: some the size of a regular doll and others not much more than finger puppets.

  When I finally reached the front of the queue, Mum waited at the barrier while I slipped through. I strayed further round than I needed to, to be sure I was out of Mum’s sight. Once I’d gone far enough, I took the two little figures out of my bag: the decoy Peter Pan, which I threw on carelessly, and then the real one, the one of Alice. I cleared a few twigs aside, making a little hollow, and pushed the Likeness inside, before arranging the twigs back in place.

  I glanced back to where Mum was waiting, feeling only slightly guilty for what I was about to do. I felt a surge of adrenalin as I slipped through the hordes of people and further from her, in the opposite direction. Gradually, the crowd thinned out and it became easier to move. Within a couple of minutes, I stood clear. There was little chance of Mum finding me unless I wanted to be found. I just hoped she wouldn’t worry too much – she knew that I could find my way round the town and wouldn’t get properly lost. Besides, ever since I could remember, we’d had a meeting point if we became separated: the clock tower in front of the town hall.

  I scuttled into Cutpurse Way, in the direction of the bookshop, praying Gypsy was still there as she’d said she would be.

  Was she still looking for the story, or had she given up? Why was she looking for it in the first place? And who had told her about it? So many questions. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that one question often wasn’t enough. Questions led to more questions. I was starting to get worried. If the Summoning did work, I didn’t think one question would be nearly enough to find Alice.

  Chapters had three floors and was full of little nooks and crannies which were perfect for accidentally-on-purpose getting lost in when you wanted an extra few minutes to browse. Not so perfect when you were the one who was looking for someone. After searching the uppermost floor with all the second-hand books and finding no sign of Gypsy, I frantically hunted round the bottom two floors with no more luck. She wasn’t there.

  My face grew hot. I felt let down and stupid. Mum had always warned me against trusting gypsies after her own experience with Alice’s dad. It was starting to look as though she’d been right.

  But she promised, a little voice whispered in my head. This Gypsy had to be different, didn’t she? She was Alice’s after all. The way Alice would want gypsies to be: wise travellers with just a bit of magic about them. even though Gypsy had promised she’d be there and wasn’t.

  So where was she? There was one other place I could look – her boat. Could I make it there and back again in time for the Summoning? If I ran as fast as I could, maybe there was time. It wouldn’t take a minute to see if she was there. Getting her to help me was a different matter. I couldn’t make her do anything if she didn’t want to.

  Unless I gave her something she wanted in return.

  I started to run, my feet pounding over the cobbles. Would it really be so bad to share the story – or what I had left of it – with Gypsy? There was no mention of her within those few pages, and it would give her a reason to trust me. To stay close to me. She didn’t need to know she was part of it, not yet.

  But how did she even know about it at all?

  I needed to find that out. There were a lot of things I needed to find out and, the more I thought about it all, the bigger the headache it was giving me.

  I ducked into a nearby alleyway, one I noticed every time we passed it, because of its name: Mad Alice Lane. It was definitely an alleyway and not a lane, but it cut through to more shops on the other side. every time I’d passed it with Alice, she did something kooky, whether it was quoting lines from Through the Looking-Glass or cackling like a demon. Then she would shout, ‘I’m Alice and I’m mad!’ so that it would echo off the walls.

  My throat ached suddenly. Alice, where are you?

  I came to the other end of the alley. It was busy here, too, with people crowding round someone playing a flute. I went to move past, then stopped. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the melody caught my attention.

  I knew that tune. It was Alice’s tune, the one she’d been humming all day yesterday, like it was stuck in her head.

  I moved towards the sound. It was more tuneful than Alice’s humming had been, with little bits added in here and there, but it was definitely the same melody. I still couldn’t see the player, but people were throwing coins and I could hear soft clinks as they landed on cloth.

  I followed the sound, squeezing past people, treading on toes, but no one seemed to take much notice as I wove my way to the front.

  When I saw who was playing the flute, my fingers curled into the palms of my hands, making fists in my coat pockets. It was him. The boy who’d bumped into me earlier. The one who had stolen Alice’s story.

  I looked at him more closely. I could see now that he reminded me of someone: a boy Alice had liked for a long time, but whose name I couldn’t remember. He had the same tanned skin and shiny hair, cut short at the sides, but with a long fringe that fell across his eyes. He was not that boy, but he was playing Alice’s melody.

  I waited as he drew out the final few notes of the tune, then bowed. There was a gaping silence. Then, slowly, as though they were dazed, people began to clap. I didn’t join in. There was something a little eerie about their expressions, something a little too glassy about their eyes that I didn’t like, and a feeling about the whole thing that bothered me.

  I was on the verge of working it out when I noticed a figure a short distance away who, like me, was motionl
ess. She stood with her arms folded, watching the musician through narrowed eyes.

  I’d found Gypsy Spindle after all.

  9

  Piper

  WHEN IT BECAME CLEAR THAT the boy didn’t intend to play anything more, people began drifting away. All except Gypsy and me. We watched as he slid the flute into a slim leather case, then knelt and began scooping the money up. He had the same expression on his face that I’d noticed before: a slight smirk that twisted his lips. I could feel my temper rising and, before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped forward and brought my foot down on a cluster of coins just as the boy was reaching for them.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He looked up, annoyed.

  ‘’Scuse you.’ He waved his hand as if to shoo me away. ‘That’s mine.’

  I didn’t move. ‘It’s annoying, isn’t it?’ I said loudly. ‘When someone takes something that doesn’t belong to them.’ I held out my hand expectantly.

  He shook his head, his silky hair sweeping into his eyes. He brushed it away and stared back at me. I searched his face for any sign that he recognised me, but there was none. His eyes were dark brown, like bitter chocolate.

  ‘Sorry. No idea what you’re on about.’ He lowered his gaze and moved to a different patch of coins. ‘I earned this money fair and square.’

  ‘I don’t care about your money. I’m talking about the notebook you stole from me earlier!’

  There was the slightest of pauses before he shrugged. ‘Still no clue what you’re on about. You got the wrong—’

  ‘I know it was you.’ I crouched in front of him. ‘You bumped into me this afternoon, but it wasn’t an accident. You stole a notebook from my rucksack and I want it back. Right now.’

  The boy’s chin jutted out defiantly. ‘Never stole nothing.’ He motioned to the money on the ground. ‘No need to – I make my own money.’

  Gypsy kicked a coin from where she stood. It skittered towards him, then rolled in neat little circles at his feet. The boy spun round, noticing her for the first time. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  ‘Well, well. The one and only Gypsy Spindle.’ He got to his feet. ‘Last person I was expecting to see here.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ I asked, unable to help myself. I realised then that this had to be the street performer mentioned in Alice’s character notes. I wished again that I’d paid more attention to those names, for once again I couldn’t recall it. I glanced from the boy to Gypsy, fearful now as well as angry. Had he read it? Did he know?

  Gypsy moved closer. She seemed to look even more like Alice than I remembered. She nodded and scowled.

  ‘Now, now,’ said the boy. ‘No need for that.’

  Gypsy wrote something in her notebook but the boy made no attempt to look at it. Annoyed, I read it aloud to him.

  ‘Piper, whatever you took just give it back, will you?’

  ‘What makes you think I took anything?’

  Gypsy folded her arms, staring at him.

  Piper threw his belongings over his shoulder. ‘Fine.’ He glanced at me. ‘I haven’t got it any more. I got rid of it, all right?’

  There was something about the way he said it that made me believe him – but that still didn’t explain why he’d taken it. Was he a thief and by unlucky chance I’d been picked as a victim? Or did he know what the notebook contained?

  ‘No. Not all right.’ Hot fury bubbled up inside me. I marched up to him and jabbed him in the chest. He stepped back, shocked, but not quite as shocked as I was. I’d always been meek; at school I was usually the one who tried to break up the fights. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. Piper was older than me, and bigger, and he clearly didn’t like being poked. But I was too angry to care, and all I could think of was that I had to do something.

  ‘That notebook belongs to my sister and I need it,’ I said. ‘She’s missing and I think it might have a clue about where she is. So, wherever you dumped it, you can just take me there RIGHT NOW!’

  ‘Quite sparky for a littlun, ain’t you?’ Piper stared at me through his long fringe and I thought I saw a grudging respect there. ‘What makes you think I dumped it?’

  ‘Because . . . you probably thought it was a purse or wallet,’ I blustered. ‘And once you realised it was worthless—’

  ‘Who said it was worthless?’ Piper asked. ‘I never said that. I was paid good money to nick that notebook.’

  ‘What?’ I gasped. ‘Someone . . . someone paid you to steal it? Who?’

  He shrugged. ‘The only question I was interested in was the price, and the price was right.’

  ‘You . . . you idiot!’ I spluttered. An icy dread took hold of me. ‘You don’t realise what you’ve done!’

  A trace of guilt crept into his eyes and for a moment it seemed he was about to say something, offer an apology perhaps, but then Gypsy held up something for us to read.

  I’m sure your sister will turn up. The notebook can’t be the only clue.

  ‘You don’t understand . . .’ I trailed off, still too angry with Piper, and myself for being the one to let the notebook go, to think clearly. I couldn’t risk blowing it; I needed Gypsy’s help, but one wrong word would ruin everything.

  ‘Alice is a writer,’ I said finally. ‘She often bases her stories on things that have happened to her, or are important to her. So I figured that if there’s somewhere secret she could have gone, or perhaps someone she could be with, it might be mentioned in the notebook.’

  Gypsy nodded. Makes sense.

  ‘There’s more.’ I felt short of breath, like I’d been running very, very fast.

  Gypsy indicated that she was listening. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Piper was, too.

  ‘The notebook was her latest story,’ I said. ‘The one she was working on when she went missing. But it’s not just any story, it’s a novel. Her first novel. Months and months of work.’

  Gypsy nodded. I understand. Of course you’d want to get it back.

  ‘That’s just it, though,’ I said. ‘You don’t understand. There’s something else going on here, something crazy . . . or magical.’

  Gypsy smiled. Lucky for you I believe in magic.

  ‘Alice’s novel is called The Museum of Unfinished Stories,’ I said quietly.

  Her smile faded. I had her attention now.

  How did you know that’s the title of the book I’m looking for?

  ‘I saw it written down earlier,’ I admitted. ‘In the bookshop. I didn’t say anything then, because it seemed too odd. I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.’ I lowered my eyes, uncomfortable with this half-truth.

  Why should I believe you now? Gypsy wrote, her eyes untrusting. It seems convenient that you want my help, and you suddenly say you know about the book I’ve been searching for.

  ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you straight away,’ I said. ‘Something weird is going on and that notebook is part of it. So, if you want it as much as I do, then you’ll help me find it!’

  I do want it. Very much. So I suppose I have no choice but to trust you. She sighed. It’s not like I’m getting anywhere by asking in bookshops: no one’s ever heard of it. It makes sense that it hasn’t even been published yet.

  ‘So you believe me?’ I asked.

  Gypsy chewed her lip in the same way Alice did when she was trying to make up her mind about something, then nodded.

  Piper muttered something under his breath. I glanced at him. He was rolling a pebble under his boot, staring at the ground.

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘I said it is the truth,’ he repeated. ‘I had a look through the notebook before I . . . before I passed it on.’

  ‘How much did you see?’ My voice was high-pitched, scratchy with fear. What if he’d read it? What if he knew?

  Piper looked uncomfortable. ‘At the front it had the title. One of the words was “museum”.’ He kicked the pebble into the gutter.

  ‘One of
the words?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘It was the only word I recognised.’

  There was a moment of silence in which I understood a second before he lost his temper.

  ‘Because the title was in capitals!’ he snarled. ‘The rest of it was in joined-up writing, so I didn’t . . . couldn’t . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ I said softly. ‘You couldn’t read it.’

  ‘So?’ he snapped. ‘You think that makes me stupid?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t think it, either. It just made me incredibly lucky.

  If Piper couldn’t read, he wouldn’t have seen what – or who – the story was about. The secret was safe, for now.

  Piper rubbed his nose and sniffed. ‘It was pages and pages. Little drawings and stuff. Must’ve been months of work, just like you said.’

  I couldn’t help feel a bit sorry for him. He’d admitted stealing the notebook without putting up much of a fight, but confessing that he couldn’t read must have been harder for him. Despite this, I still felt cross. If it weren’t for him, I’d still have the notebook. For a second time, I thought it seemed like he was about to say something, but the clock tower chimed the hour just then, and an expectant silence fell over the town.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘My mum is looking for me; she’ll be worried.’

  I stared into Gypsy’s clear green eyes. She was still watching Piper, deep in thought. There was no pity on her face, only coldness.

  ‘Are you still going to help me?’ I asked. ‘You said you would.’ I paused. ‘Why weren’t you at the bookshop?’

  I only left to get a drink. I was just about to go back when I saw him. She jerked her head towards Piper, then sighed. I’ll help. But are you sure your mother is going to believe this? Me pretending to be Alice?

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ I said.