Authors: Michelle Harrison
Other Alice (17 page)
The girl’s name was Alice and, like Gypsy, she was sixteen years old
.
She also happened to be – again like Gypsy – a writer
.
She had a notebook open on
her lap and a pen in her hand, but she had not turned the page all evening, nor managed to write a sentence without crossing it out
.
She was writing a story, but she knew now that the story was getting the better of her
.
It was not just any story, like the ones she had written many times before to amuse her
younger brother
.
It was a novel, and her most ambitious work to date, but, despite beginning well and being over three-quarters written, she now found herself stuck
.
She stared at the page, rereading the same sentences. She’d read them so many times that they no longer held any meaning, like a threat repeated, but never carried out
.
Yet
Alice was aware of a real threat, should she not continue with the tale
.
She had been stuck like this before. It had not ended well for her or that story, for she had been forced to
destroy it, and she felt that things might be going the same way now
.
She didn’t want to destroy this. She couldn’t. She was too close and had worked too hard on it to give up. There had to be a way. She had to find an ending before the characters
chose it for themselves
.
Long ago, Alice’s father had told her that, if she wanted to be a writer, every story must have an ending. Even if it wasn’t very good, or if it was silly. He’d made her
promise, and she always thought it was simply advice. It wasn’t until sometime later that he told her the reason why, and after she’d had a glimpse of what could happen if she
disobeyed
.
The first time she defied this advice was when she was twelve years old. The story she’d been working on had dried up and become stale, and she was feeling particularly bitter about
her father not being around. She left the story unfinished and began another, but soon became plagued by dreams in which the characters in the abandoned tale were bothering her. Night after night
they came, demanding answers, demanding endings, until finally Alice could bear it no longer and forced herself to finish the story. With that, the dreams stopped, and she told herself she
wouldn’t leave a story unfinished again
.
She kept to this for three years until she decided to try her hand at a slightly longer yarn, eventually writing her characters into problems she could find no solution to. After several
days of being unable to move the story on, the dreams began again. This time, however, with the improvement in her writing skills, they were far more vivid
.
At first, she welcomed them, for it was a strange and wonderful thing to be able to speak to the characters she had created and imagined for so long. But in every story there has to be a
villain, and the problem with monsters is that those of our own making are the most terrifying of all
.
Alice began to sit up at night, drinking coffee to stay awake, hunched over her notebooks and willing the words to come. They wouldn’t
.
Soon after that, the characters came instead and not just in her dreams
.
They started off as shadows, quick movements glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. Then came reflections in shop windows, the footsteps behind her on an empty street, the figure sitting
outside the house
.
The doorbell ringing in the middle of the night
.
She burned the story soon after. Every page, every last note, exorcising them like ghosts. She didn’t miss them. She became well again. She wrote other stories. She remembered it as an
illness, a fever, the product of an overworked mind
.
The following year she felt strong enough to try again. A new novel, new characters. She told no one what she was doing; it was to be a surprise. She wrote and she wrote. Five thousand words
became ten thousand. Ten thousand became twenty. The blank pages in her notebook lost their crispness, becoming fat and full like a feather pillow
.
Then one day the words stopped coming
.
There were days Alice didn’t write at all, and days she did only to delete more than she’d written. When the dreams began, she told herself it was fear, nothing more. But then
the shadow movements started, and she knew that it wouldn’t be long before the characters came for her. Soon one did; the worst one of all
.
She knew the others would follow, one by one, stepping out of the pages and beyond her control. And what then? Where did she fit in, and what role would she play, if the story were no longer
hers? That night, as she watched the flames dancing in the grate, a glimmer of an idea took hold. An idea for a truly wonderful twist
. . .
Alice had always enjoyed a twist in the tale
.
Perhaps there was a way she could still be the one in control of it all. If they were coming anyway, what harm could there be in Alice speeding things up? In actually writing them out of the
story herself? At least this way she would be ready for them, and it might give her some idea of how much power she still had over them
.
Alice chewed the end of her pen, thinking deeply. Then she began to write
.
Gypsy’s and Piper’s paths had not crossed for six years, but fate was about to play a part
.
It was a wet and windy morning when Gypsy’s fortunes appeared to change. She woke shivering and dressed quickly, then shook the last few porridge oats into a pan on the stove with
some milk to warm. She’d have to stop off somewhere today. Supplies were low. While she ate, she had a quick look at her map. The nearest town was three miles south. She could be there by
mid-morning
.
When breakfast was finished, she washed up, then went out on deck. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and stung her cheeks. It didn’t help her already low mood. She
was still hungry and exhausted. Her plan wasn’t working. The search for her mother was running out of clues
.
She’d always imagined that looking hard enough for something meant it would eventually have to be found. She now realised that perhaps this didn’t apply to people who wanted
to stay hidden. She had to find another way to undo the curse
.
The trouble was she was broke and all out of ideas. Plus, her papa must be wondering where she was by now. She sighed, pulling a dead plant from a flowerpot on the roof and throwing it
into the canal. Perhaps it was time to go home. She clambered down inside the cabin again, then noticed that her little notepad, the one she carried everywhere with her, was on the
table
.
It was open
.
A pencil lay beside it, its lead resting on the creamy white paper like a pointing fingertip. She didn’t remember leaving it open. Something had been written on the page in a
hurry, in writing similar to but not exactly like her own:
Gypsy snatched up the notepad and held it to her chest, eyes darting round the cabin. It hadn’t been there when she was having breakfast, she was sure of that. But
there was nowhere to hide, and only one way in and out; the rear entry to the cabin was locked. Surely someone hadn’t been able to sneak down here in the brief moments she’d been out on
deck?
She ran outside again, searching the muddy banks and towpaths for any signs of movement. There were none except for a few wild swans and moorhens. There weren’t even any other boats in
sight. She was alone on the water
.
Unsettled, Gypsy unhooked the mooring and moved off, steering the boat through the waterways. The swaying motion helped to calm her racing mind. She was so lost in her thoughts that it was a
while before she noticed the path she was taking did not resemble the one on her map. The first she knew of it was a crooked signpost saying BLACK WATER – 1.5 MILES
.
She looked at her map again. There was no Black Water marked on it anywhere near and she couldn’t recall having seen any sign of a town for some time. Strange. Ahead of her, the next
place to be signposted was Fiddler’s Hollow. That was nowhere on her map, either. She wondered if the map was out of date. It was possible. It was old and had been on the boat ever since she
could remember. Her papa wasn’t one for replacing things unless they were broken or lost
.
If only all lost things could be replaced
.
Ahead, through the trees that lined the canal, the sun broke through the clouds and glittered on the murky green water. Gypsy lifted her face to it. She wouldn’t be going home just
yet
.
She had a story to search for
.
Seven miles away, Piper clambered into the cab of an oil tanker and pulled the door shut, his teeth chattering. It had been a filthy morning and his clothes were soaked
through. He hadn’t had much luck getting people to stop on this stretch of road, but a lay-by in which a few truck drivers were taking their breaks had changed his luck
.
The driver, a ruddy-faced man, climbed in on the other side. He’d been stretching his legs when Piper had approached him to ask for a ride. He handed Piper a plastic cup that he filled
from a flask. ‘Get this down you, lad.’
Piper nodded his thanks, but held on to the cup, warming his hands and waiting. The driver took out another cup and filled it, then drank some himself. Only then did Piper relax; you could
never be too trusting. The tea was weak and sweeter than he liked, but he was grateful for it and accepted a refill when the first cup was quickly drained.
‘Have you come far?’ the driver asked
.
‘About twenty miles,’ Piper lied. It was more like six, but he didn’t care to tell strangers his business
.
‘Got far to go?’
Piper sighed. Why did he always manage to get the chatterboxes? The ones who wouldn’t shut up, who wanted to hear your life story and to tell you theirs?
‘Sorry,’ the driver continued. ‘Don’t mean to be nosy. It just gets boring on the road. Nice to have a bit of company, that’s all. No problem if you don’t
want to chat.’ He checked his mirrors and pulled out of the lay-by, rumbling along the road
.
‘No, it’s all right,’ Piper muttered, feeling a bit rotten now. The man had been kind after all. ‘I’m just not much of a talker.’ He pushed his dripping
hair out of his eyes. ‘I’m visiting my cousin in Puddletown.’ Another lie: he had no cousins
.
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it,’ the driver replied. ‘And I know pretty much every town there is around these parts.’
Piper shrugged. He’d heard of Puddletown and liked the name, but the truth was that he didn’t care where he ended up. He was feeling reckless, although he couldn’t really
explain why. He leaned his head back and feigned sleep, hoping the man would take the hint
.
He didn’t.
‘You travel light.’
Piper opened his eyes and glanced at his bag on the seat next to him where he’d thrown it. It was clear it didn’t hold much and, compared to his well-kept flute case, the bag was
tatty like the rest of him
.
‘You play?’ The driver asked, touching the flute case. His voice was still friendly, but there was a slight edge to it that Piper picked up on immediately
.
He thinks I nicked it.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, then looked out of the window, deliberately evasive
.
‘Go on then, give us a tune.’
Piper continued to stare out of the window as if he hadn’t heard. He could refuse, but as usual vanity won out. There were enough people in the world who thought he was a
good-for-nothing toerag. He needed to remind himself at times that there was something he was good at
.
He took out the flute, bringing it to his lips. It was cool in his fingertips. He thought for a moment before settling on a well-known composition – not one of his own, even though the
temptation was great. One of his own tunes could prove too dangerous to someone who was driving and, besides, there was nothing Piper wanted from the man anyway, apart from the transportation
he’d already offered
.
‘You’re good!’ the driver told him and Piper could hear the disbelief in his voice. He finished that tune and began another. It was keeping the driver quiet, keeping Piper
from answering questions, and that was fine by him
.
He broke off mid-note as a sign whizzed past. ‘What did that say?’
‘Fiddler’s Hollow, two miles.’
Piper frowned. It was true that he didn’t mind where he ended up, but he’d planned to go somewhere that he’d heard of and knew he definitely wouldn’t be
recognised
.
‘There’s no such place as Fiddler’s Hollow. I’ve never heard of it.’ He pressed his nose to the window. Had they gone off track, down some unmarked country
lane?
The driver chuckled. ‘I drive this route week in, week out. I can promise you there is such a place.’
Piper stared at him, trying to work out if they’d met before . . . if perhaps he had crossed him in the past, but there was nothing about the man’s face that he
recognised. He wasn’t about to take any chances, though
.
‘Let me out,’ he said
.
‘Eh? I can’t stop here; you’ll have to wait—’
‘Stop, right now.’ Piper shoved his flute back in its case and grabbed his bag. He tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge
.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the driver demanded. ‘It’s a safety lock; the door won’t open while we’re moving!’
‘Let me out!’ Piper yelled
.
The driver swore, all good humour gone, and swerved dangerously to the side of the road. The tanker jerked to a stop and there was a click as the safety lock unlatched. ‘Go on
then.’ He glared at Piper. ‘That’s the last time I do one of your lot a good turn.’
Piper didn’t answer. He scrambled out of the cab, landing light as a cat. The truck growled away from him, spraying gravel into his face. He was alone on a country lane, breathing
raggedly
.
He caught his breath and set off, making no attempt to thumb another ride. He had no idea where he was going, or where he’d sleep, but walking would keep him warm. It had stopped
raining at least and, oddly, the ground underfoot was dry, like this place had missed the earlier downpour entirely
.
He had walked about a mile when he saw a signpost and the outskirts of a town up ahead. Soon he was close enough to read what it said
.
If only he could read
.
He stomped on, passing a pub and a church. Both were closed. It was still early. He crossed the town square, empty except for some sort of huge bonfire waiting to be lit. On the other side
was a bakery and it was open. He went in and the scent of fresh bread around him was like a warm hug
.
‘What town’s this?’ he asked the sleepy-eyed girl behind the counter
.
‘Fiddler’s Hollow,’ she replied
.
So the driver hadn’t lied. Piper frowned. ‘Is this anywhere near Puddletown? I think I’m a bit lost.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it,’ she said.
He closed his eyes in annoyance. Did no one know their way around in these parts? ‘How much are the bread rolls?’ he asked abruptly
.
‘Thirty pence, or four for a pound.’
He stared at her, confused. ‘Eh?’
She repeated herself, then pointed to the price list, which he ignored.
‘How many do you want?’
‘Er . . .’ He rummaged in his pockets, scraping out the few coins there
.
The girl looked at him kindly. ‘What have you got? If it’s a bit short, I can let you off. You look hungry.’
‘I am.’ Shamefaced, he held up his hand, showing her what he had
.
She peered at the money. ‘What currency is that? It’s foreign, ain’t it? I can’t take it.’
He blinked. ‘Foreign?’
She shook her head. ‘You really are lost, aren’t you?’ She glanced over her shoulder, then pushed a paper bag at him. ‘Here. Take it, quickly, before the boss
sees.’
He took the bag, the bread inside warming his numbed fingers. ‘You mean . . . I can’t spend this money here?’
She shook her head again. ‘You’d better hop it, or we’ll both be in trouble.’
He muttered his thanks and stepped out on to the street, trying to make sense of it all as he wolfed down the hot bread. The knowledge that his money was useless here was confusing him,
though he wasn’t too worried about having none. He could easily get money, whatever it was they used here.
He just had to figure out where ‘here’ actually was. And that was what worried him
.
There Alice stopped. She had done what she could – all she could. At least this way, Gypsy and Piper stood a chance of finding each other before they found her. As for what happened
next, she didn’t know. Perhaps her bringing them here, meeting them, would change that
.
Alice put down her pen
.
