Ramblebrook stopped his pacing. ‘No!’ he howled. ‘Not that one!’
‘Then open the door!’ Piper yelled. ‘Let us go and we’ll stop!’
There was a roar of rage as Ramblebrook grappled with his decision. Then the pacing began again, faster this time. Piper stuffed the two stories into the grate and threw the match. The words charred and vanished into black.
‘Another two gone,’ Piper declared. ‘How many more are you willing to sacrifice?’
The pacing continued, along with the horrid scraping sound of something sharp being dragged over the walls, scratching and gouging in anger.
The key.
‘Keep going,’ said Gypsy, her voice low. ‘He’s going to cave, I can feel it . . .’
She seized another stash of paper and began reeling off titles, too quickly for me to even take them all in, and with each one she threw it on to the flames.
‘The Mischief Spell . . . gone!’ she shouted. ‘The Yellow Tree House – gone! Three Sisters . . . The Witch in the Bottle, The Tale of Spinney Wicket . . . gone, gone, GONE!’
‘Enough!’ Ramblebrook flew at the door, jamming the key in the lock. ‘Enough, I say!’
We huddled together as the lock clicked back, and then the door was thrown open, sending a freezing draught into the room. It lifted the pages, scattering them further into the corners.
Ramblebrook stormed in, halting as he took in the scene. He lifted his hands to his head and a horrible sound groaned out of him. A loose leaf of paper wrapped round his leg, like it was trying to comfort him. He staggered to the fireplace and dropped to his knees, weeping and pulling at the burning pages with his bare hands.
‘What’s he doing?’ Gypsy said. ‘He’s crazy if he thinks he can save them!’
Piper shoved us towards the door. ‘Just go,’ he hissed. ‘All we need to think about is saving ourselves and Alice.’
We fled the room, thumping down the stairs. Then Piper stopped in front of me, turning back up the stairs.
‘Piper, no!’ Gypsy caught his hand. ‘Where are you going?’
‘My flute. It rolled out somewhere in that front room when I fell before.’
‘Forget the flute!’ she cried.
‘I can’t, you know I can’t.’ He pulled away from her and limped on to the landing.
I hesitated. ‘I’ll get it; you can barely walk. Go and I’ll meet you downstairs.’
‘No . . .’
I pushed past him, racing along the landing to the first room we’d been in. It was darker in here; the vast amount of boxes blocked what little light there was from the bare window. I knelt, feeling around blindly, my fingers gathering grime and dust. Then they brushed something smooth and cold. I wrapped my fingers round the flute and scrambled out and across the landing to the top of the stairs.
Something, fear perhaps, made me glance into the room where Ramblebrook was. What I saw rooted me to the spot.
He was on his hands and knees and, having removed his jacket, was swatting at the burning papers with it in an effort to put them out . . . but he’d only spread the flames further. Glowing embers had drifted to the moth-eaten curtains. The bottom of the fabric was smouldering, and already I could see dark, toxic smoke leaking away from it.
He looked so broken, so pitiful, that I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
‘You have to get out.’ I coughed as something bitter caught in my throat. ‘The flames are spreading and this whole place is full of paper. You can’t save it.’
I sensed he’d barely heard me over the crackling of the flames, but his eyes flickered in my direction. All I saw in them was madness; the look in them told me all this paper meant more to him than his own life.
Then Gypsy was next to me, tugging me away, breathless.
‘Leave him. He has time to get out if he’ll only make the choice.’ She urged me towards the stairs and I almost stumbled, wheezing as fumes invaded my lungs. We clattered down the stairs, to where Piper waited by the open front door. As I stepped outside and tasted the sweet, fresh air, I took one final look back at the stairs, willing Ramblebrook to come down them, but all that followed us were scraps of fiery orange paper, floating into the night like burning confetti.
‘Run,’ said Piper, grimacing. ‘I won’t be far behind you.’
We raced to the end of Pike Street. Before I turned the corner, I looked back at Piper. He was true to his word, keeping up well, but we’d still beat him to the boat. Behind him, orange light lit the upstairs window of Ramblebrook’s place. I turned away, my breathing ragged and my throat sore. I couldn’t think about him now.
The moon sailed above us, half clouded, unmoving, making everything seem slower, though speed had never been more crucial. Each time my feet pounded the ground, all I could think was Alice.
Alice, Alice, Alice. Please be all right.
‘I told you . . . that cat . . . would bring bad luck!’ Gypsy panted.
I didn’t have the breath or energy to answer her. Even if I had, there was no point. I recalled how Alice, when I’d summoned her, had been trying to tell me the truth about Dolly, and I’d prevented her by interrupting. I’d brought my own share of bad luck upon us. Now I had to make things right. I thought of the riddle again and of things that could sting. A hornet? Cold wind or rain on your face? Surely I’d thought of everything that could sting by now? Bees, nettles, scorpions . . .
Gypsy’s hair flew back, showing her tattoo of the scorpion, its tail up and ready to strike.
I slowed, but my heart raced faster. A scorpion could kill with a sting, delivered by one swift blow from the stinger at the end of its . . . tail.
I went back to the other part of the riddle, remembering the rolling coin with the Queen’s head. Heads or tails? The opposite side to a queen wasn’t just a king, it was tails.
But how did it fit with the rest of the riddle? I dug it out of my pocket.
I’m up when I’m up and down when I’m down . . .
I thought of an animal, how its tail would be up when it was happy and down between its legs if it was sad. Now the next part finally made sense, too. A thump when a smile and a flick when a frown. Dogs thumped their tails to show they were in a good mood, whereas a cat would flick its tail if it were annoyed.
I ran harder, catching up with Gypsy. Jubilant energy pulsed within me. I had it, I was sure of it! One word . . . and that turncoat of a cat would have to do whatever I said. Though I was bursting to tell someone, I kept it to myself. The only way I could be completely certain of saving Alice’s life – if it came to it – was to make sure I was in control of the cat. Me and no one else.
A low mist hung over the water when we reached the canal, and had oozed on to the towpath. Gypsy slowed to a walk and held her finger to her lips as we approached Elsewhere. I glanced back at the path. Somewhere along the way we’d lost Piper.
The narrowboat swayed lightly on the water. Gypsy crept to the window, squinting.
‘The lamp’s been turned off,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t see anything.’ She eased herself over the side and on to the deck, reaching for the door. It opened soundlessly and a chill ran over my skin.
‘Surely Ramone wouldn’t have left it unlocked . . .’
Gypsy threw the door wide open. ‘Stay there.’
‘No.’ I climbed on to the boat. ‘It’s safer if we stick together.’
Gypsy didn’t argue. ‘Then just stay behind me.’ She reached inside and I heard a switch click a couple of times, but the boat remained in darkness.
Her voice trembled as she called out. ‘Ramone?’
Silence.
She swallowed loudly. ‘There’s a switch to the backup generator in the kitchen cupboard. I’m going in.’ She went down the steps slowly, feeling her way to the bottom. I tried to get a glimpse of the bed where we’d left Alice, but I could barely see a thing. Gypsy slipped into the darkness, then cried out, stumbling against something.
She landed somewhere on the kitchen f
loor with a grunt. Something like a sob came out of her, and then there were the sounds of things being tossed aside as she rummaged in a cupboard.
‘What was that?’ I asked, my voice high-pitched with fear.
‘I tripped . . .’ Gypsy’s voice shook, muffled inside the cupboard. ‘There’s something . . . someone on the floor . . .’
Not Alice, please not Alice, I begged silently.
There was a sharp snap, then a dingy light flickered on overhead.
Ramone lay sprawled on the floor. His wrists and ankles had been tightly bound with rope, and there was a bump the size of an egg on his forehead. His lips were parted slightly, swollen and smeared with red. On the floor, a short distance away, part of a broken tooth lay in a few droplets of blood. He must have landed on his face as he fell. The blood glistened, fresh and wet.
‘Is he . . . dead?’ I asked.
Gypsy leaned over him. ‘No. He’s breathing.’ She touched his shoulder lightly. ‘Ramone? Can you hear me?’
He didn’t move, but a whimper escaped his lips.
‘Wake up. It’s Gypsy.’
But it was not Ramone who answered. A childlike, sing-song voice on the other side of the boat began to chant.
‘Mrs Spindle had a pail of water, as well as a liking for slaughter . . .’
For the first time since the light had come on, I looked towards the bunk. It took all my self-control not to scream.
Alice was still on the bed where we’d left her. Only now she wasn’t alone.
‘She was first scratched and bitten as she drowned three white kittens before moving on to her daughter!’
Dolly Weaver ran her ink-stained fingers over the coat of the black cat on her lap and then grinned back at us.
‘Surprise!’ she said.
23
The Master of the Cat
GYPSY LUNGED FOR THE KITCHEN drawer, frantically looking for something. She slammed it shut, empty-handed, then searched the drainer next to the sink. A dish clattered on to the work surface, then fell to the floor and smashed, narrowly missing Ramone.
‘Looking for this?’ Dolly withdrew a large kitchen knife from beneath a cushion next to her and smiled. Light flashed off the blade.
‘Please, Dolly,’ I said. ‘Don’t hurt Alice.’
Dolly rested the blade flat against Alice’s cheek. ‘So long as I get what I want then no one will get hurt.’
Gypsy took a small paring knife from the drainer and crouched by Ramone, reaching for his bonds.
‘No, no, no!’ Dolly wagged her finger playfully. ‘Daddy stays there.’
Gypsy stopped, but remained where she was. ‘You’ve tied the ropes too tightly; his hands are turning blue. At least let me loosen them.’
‘No. This won’t take long. And you can put that knife down.’
Gypsy stood slowly, but held on to the knife.
‘Please don’t make me cross,’ Dolly said sweetly. She stroked Alice’s hair, then lifted a strand, slicing it clean away. She threw it on the floor.
I gasped. ‘Leave her alone!’
‘Each time you disobey me, I’ll cut away a little more of Alice.’ She ran the knife down the tip of Alice’s nose. ‘After her hair, maybe I’ll take her tongue.’ She smiled at Gypsy. ‘Speaking of which, you seem to have found yours, although my furry little friend here tells me it’s only temporary . . . while you’re walking in her shoes, wearing her clothes. That’s . . . interesting.’ She looked at each of us in turn. ‘Just the two of you? Where did your little crook of a friend go?’
‘Ran away,’ Gypsy said flatly. ‘Decided to save his own skin.’
‘Hmm,’ said Dolly. ‘How curious. I wonder which way Alice would have gone with him in the end?’ She tilted her head to one side, studying Gypsy like a bird watching a beetle. ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed you still have that silly little knife.’
Gypsy placed the knife in the sink and stepped away from it. ‘What are you talking about? Which way Alice would have gone about what?’
‘With Piper. She couldn’t quite decide what to do with him.’ Dolly paused. ‘Whether to let him live, or die.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘Because it’s in the notebook,’ Dolly replied. ‘Still, it’s out of Alice’s hands now, thanks to my friend here.’
‘Yes, your furry little friend has been very helpful, hasn’t she?’ I said bitterly. ‘You wormed your way in from the start, didn’t you, Tabitha? Feeding information back to her.’ I thought back to the first time I’d seen the cat. ‘No wonder I found you in Alice’s room. It makes sense now. You were looking for the story even then, weren’t you?’
The cat gave a slow blink. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, almost apologetically. ‘I really didn’t have much choice.’
‘You knew this was all a story from the start,’ I said. ‘You and Dolly. How?’
Dolly ran her eyes over Gypsy, her gaze lingering on Alice’s clothes. ‘I didn’t know right from the start,’ she said. ‘But then I got lucky. Very lucky. I had the pleasure of meeting Alice. From there, it all unravelled.’ She sniggered. ‘A bit like Alice herself.’
I stared at her, confused. ‘You met Alice? When? How?’
‘I was trailing that idiot Ramblebrook,’ Dolly said. ‘He has something of mine, you see.’
‘Your story,’ I said. ‘Yes, we know about that, Dorothy.’
‘Oh, you figured that part out, did you?’ Dolly clapped her hands. ‘Bravo!’ She beamed. ‘So, obviously, following Ramblebrook brought me here, and I was just plotting how I was going to get him out of the way when, quite by accident, I saw Alice.’
‘Saw her?’ Gypsy asked. ‘But she would have been a stranger to you. I don’t understand.’
Dolly waved the knife dismissively. ‘She was a stranger.’
‘Watch it,’ said the cat. ‘You nearly took my whiskers off.’
‘But of course,’ Dolly continued, ‘I wasn’t a stranger to Alice.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I don’t know how long she’d been following me when I spotted her. But, when I did, the look on her face was just, well . . .’ She sighed dreamily. ‘Incredible. I’ve never encountered fear like it . . . and, believe me, I’ve seen a lot of that. But this was different. Like she knew everything about me, every wicked thing I’ve ever done. Which, of course, she did – although I didn’t know it then. That look . . . it was delicious. Like a drug, especially when she saw that I’d noticed her.
‘So I approached her. And she freaked out, right in the middle of the town.’ Dolly gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Made a proper scene, bashing me with her notebook, telling me to leave her alone and that I was a character in her story. I must admit, it was a thrill.’
‘You liked hearing that you were a character?’ Gypsy asked, aghast.
‘No, silly!’ Dolly snorted. ‘I didn’t believe a word of it – not then. I was excited, because after years of people saying I’m mad, I’d finally found someone who seemed to be stark raving . . . cuckoo, cuckoo!’
‘Alice isn’t mad,’ I said angrily.
‘Shh,’ said Dolly. ‘I’m getting to the good bit. So, like I said, she hits me and this notebook goes flying over my shoulder. And I see the sheer panic in her eyes – she’s afraid I’m going to get it before she does. So that makes me want it. I reach it first, and just get a quick look in it before she snatches it off me. But it’s enough to get me interested, because I see my name – my real name – and Tabitha’s, and Ramblebrook’s. And I’m wondering how this crazy girl got our names and so, at the very least, I want to know what she’s writing about.
‘So I send Tabitha after her. And what do you know? There’s a cat that looks just like her, making it so easy for Tabby to slip into the house. To watch and listen. And to hear enough to convince me that maybe this girl is telling the truth . . . or enough to convince me that I need to see that notebook. When I did, that’s the point at which I knew that she was telling the truth . . . and that I had t
o get rid of her.’
Get rid of her? Dolly spoke about Alice like she were nothing more than a used tissue to be thrown away. I glanced at the door. Was Piper coming? I thought Gypsy had been bluffing when she’d told Dolly he’d left us to save himself – but what if she was right? And, even if he did come, was there anything he could do when Dolly had a knife to Alice’s throat? Was there anything any of us could do, aside from keeping Dolly talking?
‘How did you escape from the hospital?’ Gypsy asked. ‘I’d love to know how Alice wrote you out of that.’
‘I used the cat,’ said Dolly, with a little laugh. ‘We switched places. Clever, or what?’ She tickled the cat’s ears. ‘I knew she still had a few lives left. I went into the cat’s body and she went into mine. Her on the outside and me still trapped in my room.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Surely if you went into Tabitha’s body and she went into yours, your body would still be in the prison—’
‘Hospital!’ Dolly trilled.
‘—and the cat’s body would still be on the outside,’ I finished.
‘All right, clever clogs,’ said Dolly, inspecting her nails. She pushed her cuticles back with the knife, then picked skin from the blade. ‘Tabby, be a dear and explain the science bit, will you?’
Tabitha lowered her gaze, almost like she was ashamed. ‘It’s not science,’ she said. ‘It’s magic. You’re right, though – that’s how it normally works. It’s the souls that do the moving – the bodies stay where they are. But, with a bit of witchery, using mirrors and the moon while the switch takes place, it can be the bodies that exchange places, rather than the souls.’ She sounded wistful. ‘As I did with my own dear familiar.’
‘So there we are,’ said Dolly. ‘Happy?’ She winked. ‘If not, then tough. It’s not like Alice is going to be rewriting any of this. I think she got a bit stuck on the logistics of that part. Anyway . . . where was I? Oh, yes. Cat, me, abracadabra and so on . . . Dorothy Grimes nowhere to be seen and a black cat in her place! Oh, it was brilliant. The faces of the wardens the next morning were an absolute hoot! They had to let me go, of course, for as far as they knew I was just a cat. I was taken to an animal sanctuary, meowed pathetically and got adopted by a nice old lady. It wasn’t difficult to get away from her at all.’
The Other Alice Page 24
