Other Alice (21 page)

We squeezed past him into the hallway. I caught Gypsy’s look of annoyance and could tell what she was thinking: she and Piper could hardly be called children, and I wasn’t exactly a
baby.

‘Wait here,’ he told us. ‘And remember not to touch anything. I’m just next door.’ He vanished into a nearby room and, seconds later, there came the sounds of boxes
being cut open.

I stepped past a small table piled with unopened letters, looking for Piper. He was further down the hall, scratching his head as he looked at a pile of boxes. He appeared to be counting them
and I guessed he must have stashed the pages in one.

I stared round the hall as we waited in silence. It was a grand space with a high ceiling, a bit like my school, but it needed a good lick of paint. There was no carpet and everything was bare
except for thick cobwebs that hung from the ceiling and windows like dusty chandeliers.

My eyes rested on Gypsy, who was crouched down and looking intently at a box on the floor. Her eyes were wide and I could see she was trying to peek inside it without making a noise and alerting
the man next door. I knelt by her side.

‘What is it?’ I mouthed.

She pointed to something printed on the side of the box:

I shook my head, confused. I didn’t know any Lottie Churchill. Gypsy finally lifted the lid and we both looked inside. There, carefully padded with bunched-up paper and bubble wrap, was a
beautiful old typewriter, like Alice’s. Gypsy held her hands up, using her fingers to create a heart shape.

‘Love?’ I whispered.

She shook her head, then, again using her hands, mimed opening a book.

‘Favourite book?’

Then I got it. ‘Favourite author.’

She nodded, reaching in to lovingly touch the typewriter, tracing her finger over the keys. She replaced the lid quietly, then stood up, her eyes roving over the rest of the boxes. They were
less interesting, marked with letters like E–F and Y–Z. Occasionally, there were boxes that had a single name followed by the word ‘only’; obviously some sort of
record-keeping system. I wondered if the man was an accountant; he certainly seemed organised enough, although it didn’t explain why he had an author’s typewriter. Perhaps he was a
relative.

I stood up, looking for Piper again, but he’d vanished out of sight. A name on a box further down caught my attention. I recognised it, but I couldn’t think where from. Slowly, I
edged down the hall towards it, creeping past the door to the room the man had gone into. I glanced in to see him leaning over a desk, sorting papers from an open box with his back to me.

I looked down at the box. Why did I know that name? Then it came to me in a tumble: it was the name of a well-known children’s writer. She’d died long ago, but her books were still
popular and there were a few in my school library as well as several in Alice’s room. Carefully, I lifted the lid and looked inside.

This time there wasn’t a typewriter inside the box. It was full of paper. I pulled a piece out and began to read.

Once upon a time
, it began. My pulse began to race.
Stories? Typewriters?

‘You’re not touching anything, are you?’ the man called shrilly, still within the room.

‘No,’ I answered quickly. I slid the paper back inside the box and made my way back to the little table by the door. I picked up one of the unopened letters from the pile, my
breathing shallow. I knew what the name on the envelope would be before I even saw it.

Mr Sheridan Ramblebrook
.

‘
R
AMBLE BROOK?
’
I BLURTED.

I clapped my hand over my mouth, but the damage was done. Footsteps sounded nearby and then a surprised Ramblebrook appeared at the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Er . . . I, um . . .’ I searched for an excuse. ‘Did you used to . . . um . . . teach at Fiddler’s Hollow
School?’

‘I’ve never taught at any school,’ Ramblebrook replied. ‘And I’d never set foot in this town until a few days ago.’ He rubbed a hand over his moustache.
‘I should be interested to know if there is someone locally by the name of Ramblebrook, though. It’s an unusual surname. I’ve never heard of it outside my family.’

Because it’s made up
, I thought. Alice was fond of inventing strange names.

‘You shouldn’t snoop,’ he added, scooping up his letters protectively.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just noticed the name.’

I tried not to stare at the lettered boxes piled up everywhere. Not boring accounts after all. They must be alphabetised authors’ names, and the contents had to be stories.

Unfinished
stories.

‘Why did you come to Fiddler’s Hollow?’ I asked. I wanted to get Gypsy and Piper out of this place before Ramblebrook said much more, but I also needed to know his plans. Was
he intending to stay here, or just passing through? What had Alice written for him? Had she brought him here, like the others, or had he slipped through of his own accord when she got
writer’s block?

‘Work,’ he answered, looking back over his shoulder as though he were aching to get back to it. ‘The rent is cheap here and it’s as good a place as any.’

‘So you’re . . . um, sticking around for a while?’ I asked.

Ramblebrook nodded to the boxes. ‘Certainly. I don’t want to be shifting this lot again any time soon.’

I looked down the hallway. What was taking Piper so long? Gypsy had pulled out her notebook and was writing something. Her face was alive with interest, and I knew she wanted to ask more about
the typewriter and how it came to be in Ramblebrook’s possession. I wished now that I had told her the truth about the story, for if Ramblebrook made any mention of the museum it could ruin
everything. Mostly her trust in me.

For the first time since Alice had disappeared, I felt

something other than worry for my missing sister. I felt pity for Gypsy and Ramblebrook, and even Piper. Alice may not have fully believed in what she was doing, but all this had happened the
way she’d written it.
Because
she had written it. Her characters had always been real to her, but they were properly real now, and here. They spoke, they ate, they slept. If I cut
them, they’d bleed.

So what was to become of them when we found Alice? Would they be absorbed back into the story like ink sucked into paper? No longer existing except as words on a page?

Was that what it would take to get my sister back? Perhaps. I guiltily realised that I didn’t care. I just wanted Alice to be all right.

What sort of work do you do?
Gypsy had written.
I couldn’t help but notice you have Lottie Churchill’s typewriter
. She held the notebook up to Ramblebrook and he
read it, then regarded her curiously, but was too polite to ask why she didn’t speak.

‘I’m a collector,’ Ramblebrook told Gypsy. ‘I collect things to do with writers. Typewriters, favourite pens, or lucky charms, that sort of thing. But mainly I collect
their work, although it’s of quite a specific kind.’ He stopped, looking sheepish. Perhaps he’d been made fun of in the past for his bizarre interest.

What kind?
Gypsy asked.

‘All kinds in a way.’ He was speaking more quickly now, encouraged by Gypsy’s obvious interest. ‘I collect stories. Stories for children, stories for adults. True
stories, short stories, long stories, life stories. They all have one thing in common. They’re unfinished.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘Quite often due to being the last thing the
writer was working on before they . . . uh, passed away.’

I realised I was holding my breath, waiting for Gypsy to make the connection, but she was too caught up in what Ramblebrook was saying to think about what it actually meant. Besides, I had two
things on my side: Ramblebrook had not mentioned the word museum, plus Gypsy was looking for a
story
with that title, not a place. Thankfully, Piper appeared next to us, a shabby watch
dangling from his fingers.

‘Found it.’

Ramblebrook’s beaky nose twitched as if scenting the lie. ‘I don’t really remember you having a watch,’ he murmured.

‘Why would you?’ Piper asked. His tone had changed now he’d got what he wanted. The polite boy who’d knocked had been left at the front door, it seemed.

‘I have a knack for noticing small things,’ said Ramblebrook. ‘And I remember now, yes. You asked me the time once or twice. Why would you do that if you had a watch of your
own?’ He looked panicked. ‘Who are you really? What are you doing here?’ He darted along the hallway, checking boxes, making sure they were unopened, then scuttled back to us.
‘What have you taken?’

It was Piper’s turn to look confused. He pushed the watch at Ramblebrook again. ‘I asked you the time, because my watch doesn’t work, see?’

Ramblebrook squinted down his nose. ‘Oh.’ With trembling fingers, he handed it back, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. ‘If you’ll excuse
me, I have to get on.’

He herded us to the door, practically bundling us on to the street. Why was he so worried? And what did he think Piper had stolen?

Gypsy was the last out. I heard a slap as something hit the floor in the hallway behind me, and turned. She had knocked a padded envelope off the table and a sheaf of glossy leaflets had slipped
out of it. She bent to retrieve them and handed them to Ramblebrook. He took them, muttering his thanks, and shut the door abruptly. A couple had escaped through the door: one scampering down the
street, caught by a draught, and the other under Gypsy’s boot. She picked it up, and I glanced at it, my heart sinking.

On the leaflet there was a picture of a quill next to a pot of spilled ink. Below it, a line of words stretched out in a familiar phrase:

Gypsy stared at the leaflet, walking slowly towards the corner of Pike Street. She chewed her lip, then stopped to look back at Ramblebrook’s place. She tucked the leaflet in her pocket
and took out her notepad.

Had Alice heard of this museum before it came to Fiddler’s Hollow?

I hesitated. ‘I . . . I’m not sure. I suppose she must have.’

Gypsy looked thoughtful.
You said she based a lot of things in her stories on real life, real places. She must have researched it; it can’t just be coincidence
.

‘No,’ I muttered guiltily. I could almost guess what was coming next.

Perhaps, if we don’t get the rest of the notebook, I might find what I’m looking for in the museum itself
, she wrote.
If it inspired Alice’s story, there’s a
chance
.

Piper had stopped a short way ahead of us and was blowing into his hands.

‘What’s she saying?’ he demanded.

I repeated Gypsy’s thoughts.

He shrugged. ‘We might still get the notebook yet. Plus,’ he reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of paper, ‘your voice could even be in this part.’

Gypsy strode to him, glaring, and snatched it out of his hand.

‘Well, that’s what you’re looking for, ain’t it?’ he muttered. ‘A way to break the curse?’

‘Wait,’ I said quickly. My voice had risen, giving away my alarm. What if these pages
did
say something about Gypsy or Piper? There was no way another
‘coincidence’ could be passed off. If Gypsy saw her name within those pages, saw herself and her life written in someone else’s words . . .

She looked at me, suspicious.

I swallowed. ‘Maybe I should look first . . . to make sure there’s nothing . . . p-personal . . . you know? About Alice.’

‘Personal?’ Piper lifted one black eyebrow. ‘You said it was a story. That it was all made up.’

‘I know, but . . .’

‘You’re hiding something,’ said Piper. ‘I know it. Look at you, you’re sweating like a pig in a butcher’s shop.’

‘I’m not,’ I insisted, but, despite the chill wind, I felt my forehead becoming clammy.

‘Read it, Gyps.’ Piper folded his arms. ‘Find out what he’s so afraid of.’

‘Don’t!’ I lunged for the pages, but Gypsy held the sheaf out of my reach, and I could only get close enough to see that the pages were covered in Alice’s writing. There
was no way of knowing what was on them. Perhaps they never mentioned Gypsy at all and I’d blown it anyway.

‘Wait,’ I croaked, reaching towards her, but she twisted away from me and began to run.

‘Yes, Gypsy, run!’ A sing-song voice rang out over the cobbled street. ‘Run away and read it. You’re in for a
real
treat!’

I spun round, aware that, behind me, Gypsy’s hurried footsteps had frozen at the sound of her name.

Dolly Weaver had appeared on the corner of Pike Street and was staring at Gypsy. Her smiling, rosebud lips were painted red, as glossy as her neat, bobbed hair. She opened her mouth to speak
again and I saw that her teeth were smeared with red. I knew it was lipstick, but I couldn’t help imagining her tearing into a lump of raw, bloody meat. It was this, and those glassy eyes,
that made her look so disturbing. I’d never seen eyes so lacking in warmth, or so empty. Staring at her, my tummy became a hard little ball of dread.