The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (11 page)

The stick is blank. There's no sign of any number, not even the trace of a mark.

First, fireworks that don't leave cases; then a tidal wave that appears and disappears like magic; a box of chocolates that vanishes into thin air; and now, a number on an ice
lolly stick that was there and now isn't. This is all mad! It's barmy.

I need to talk to Reggie, and fast. But there's something else I need to do first. I don't know why I have to do it, I just do.

I can hear Bert moving. He calls out. I run out of the door. I know I'll get it from him when I get back, but I don't care. I run as fast as I can towards Vicky Park.

I stand panting in front of Giovanni's shop. Looking in the window, I stare at a box of chocolates, the box of chocolates that I won yesterday. It's got the same picture on the lid, the same yellow ribbon. I suppose it could be another one, of course. Perhaps Mr Giovanni has just put another box in.

I peer in through cupped hands, squinting hard. There on the ribbon is the same red mark that was on yesterday's box, just as if someone had spilled red ink on it. It's not another box. It's the same box.

I get this funny feeling, like everything that is supposed to be real isn't real any more. Which is daft, but that's how I feel. I turn. Walk away. A shiver of electricity crackles down my spine.

I walk around the park on my own, trying to think. The day smells new, clean. Mist clings, sleep in the eyes of the morning. On the trees, buds peep. The world is turning its coat inside out. Seasons are changing around me, but I feel like I did when I was walking through the ruins after the
bonfire, looking for something that wasn't there: like I'm in a bubble where anything can happen. It's exactly the same feeling. Something going on that you don't understand. But someone does. And I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do.

I
'm determined. I'm confused. I'm angry. I catch him up in the street. Reggie's walking fast, his head down. Forehead creased in a frown. Flash sniffs the gutters, runs to keep up, wags his tail when he sees me. The sun flicks shadows in and out of doorways.

I'm a steamroller. Reggie's the tarmac. I grab his shoulder. ‘Right, come on then, let's have it. What's goin' on?'

He stops; looks for a second as if he doesn't know me.

‘I'm not asking you, Reggie, I'm telling you. I want to know. Things are turning upside down around me and I think you know what's doing it. For a start . . .' I shove the lolly stick at him, ‘. . . what d'you know about this?'

He takes the stick. Turns it over in his hand and looks hard at me.

‘The n-number's gone. I thought it would be.'

I grab his shoulder again. He stops. Turns. Screws up his eyes, the way he does.

‘So? Come on. What's going on here? The fireworks, the tidal wave, the lolly stick – what's happening?'

He takes a deep breath. ‘It's not easy to explain . . .' He stops; looks around like he's searching for inspiration.

‘You know when you w-want something so bad you feel like you can taste it? Even
see
it?' He looks at me. Waits for a second. ‘Well, I can.'

‘Reggie, what you on about? You can
what
?'

‘S-see it.'

‘See
what
, you idiot?'

‘See whatever it is I want to see. I m-mean, really see it. Like it's real. But the really incredible thing is . . .' He stops again, hesitates, ‘. . . I can let other people see what I'm seeing. I've got the p-power to show people what's in my mind. I don't know where it comes from b-but . . .'

That's it. He's lost his marbles.

‘Reggie, you feeling all right? That is such a load of . . .'

He gives me one of his looks. Screws up his eyes.

‘I call it mind-touching because when I do it it's like I'm reaching out and touching other people's minds. Don't suppose it's got a n-name really.'

‘Reggie, I couldn't care less what you call it. I'd call it a load of old rubbish. The only thing that's touched around here is you. Right, the joke's over. If you're not going to tell me what's really going on . . .'

He looks hard at me. ‘It's n-no joke.'

‘Come on, you're not serious, are you?'

I can see he is.

‘I'm just trying to help. You wanted to know what's been happening, and I'm t-telling you.'

‘All right, then. Just let's say that for a minute I believe
you – which I don't – are you really trying to tell me that the fireworks, the chocolates, the lolly, all that stuff happened because you're making what you imagine real? Like making a dream come true? You're trying to tell me that we didn't have fireworks? We didn't go into Mr Giovanni's shop to get those chocolates? None of it was real? We just saw what you were thinking? This “mind-touching” thing?'

I don't wait for the answer. There isn't one. Not one that's going to make sense. ‘OK, what about the chocolates? I took the box home. Me and my mum
ate
them. They were delicious.'

‘No, you only thought you d-did. That's how real mind-touching is. If you go and take a l-look in Mr Giovanni's shop window, you'll find—'

‘I know what I'll find, Reggie, I've already been there.'

‘W-well, then?'

‘Well then, nothing. What about the fireworks?'

‘The same. They never happened, not for real. That's why there were n-no cases left.'

‘And you did all these things, right? You made fireworks appear in the sky and a number appear on a lolly stick?'

He suddenly looks at me, surprised, as if I've missed the point. ‘No, not m-me, Alice.'

Now I'm getting cross. ‘But you said you did it.'

‘No, I said I c-
could
do it. But it's not me who's been doing it. Don't you realize?' He stops. Looks hard at me. ‘It's not me. It's you.'

That really is it. I've had it now. The anger is boiling. A thermometer in my mouth would read ‘danger of explosion; remove from mouth'.

‘You're cracked, Reggie. You're cracked! I didn't do anything. Don't you think I'd know if I could go around doing things like that?'

‘That's how mind-touching starts. You do it without even knowing it. You just think you're thinking really hard about things. People do that all the time, but with us something else happens and suddenly you're showing people what's in your mind, what you want them to see, and they think it's real. That's what happened to Denis that day by the canal; he saw what you were thinking. That's why he ran away. And then with the chewing gum: it was you doing it. You made the Spicers think they were caught up in gum because that's what you wanted to happen.'

I cut across him. ‘All right. What about the tidal wave? D'you really think I was trying to drown myself on that lake?'

His expression changes. He looks worried.

‘I've been thinking a lot about that. There must be someone else around, apart from us, who can d-do it too and whoever it is is obviously trying to f-frighten us.'

If my mum were here, she'd say, ‘He's taken leave of his senses.' He's certainly taken leave of something.

‘I see. 'Course. And who is this mysterious person? Anybody I know? Let me guess . . . it was Norman. No,
Denis Spicer. No, don't tell me, I've got it . . . Mrs Gilbey! On her way to collect her pension, she thought she'd have a bit of fun mind-touching and scaring us to death at the same time. This is mad, and so are you! Things like this only happen in books, and it's called magic, and it's not real.'

‘Alice, this has got nothing to do with m-magic.'

‘So what
has
it got to do with? That makes any sense, that is.'

‘It's to do with being able to do something special and ...'

‘Don't start all that barmy stuff again.'

‘It's not b-barmy. I know how you're feeling. I used to think I was the only one who could do it. It scared me so I didn't tell anyone. But when we came here I could feel there was someone close by who could do it too. First time I saw you, I knew it was you. But then I realized it wasn't just you. I was getting these b-bad feelings too. I think it must be someone who's close to you, knows you well. Knows where you go, what you do.'

‘Yeah, my bloody shadow. Look, if you're gonna keep this up I'm going home.'

‘I know how it s-sounds, but it's all true.'

I start to walk away. ‘Yeah, right. Tell it to the fairies. You know, the ones at the bottom of your garden; the garden with the gnome in it who pulls rabbits out of a hat.'

I hear him calling my name. Don't turn round. I keep going. Head down. The way I always walk when I've got
something on my mind. Can't stand to be inside. Shut up. I just walk, nowhere, anywhere. The wind blows through my mind, shakes up my thoughts like leaves on trees. Scatters them. I try to pick them up. But I can't. I walk and walk. Can't get anything straight. The wind blows.

I
come here when I need to talk to someone who's going to listen. If anyone can help, Mrs Gilbey can. She used to look after me when I was a little girl and my mum was working. She lives in one of the posh houses around the corner. They're not joined to lots of other houses in a block like ours. Hers is big, with high ceilings, and lovely windows in the front that let in as much light as you could ever want. Inside there are lots of doors that must lead to lots of rooms. I knock. Hear her in the hallway.

‘Hello, Alice. What a nice surprise. Come in. I'm just making some tea.'

She always seems pleased to see me, makes me feel special. She leads me into a room that sparkles like a new pin, pink roses on the wallpaper – beats our green mould.

Nothing ever seems to change here. There's a tall, shiny coal scuttle, full of real coal, not the tarry block wood that we use in our fire. And there's so much furniture: a settee and an armchair with lacy things on the backs, a chest of drawers so shiny you can see your face in it, with patterns
carved in the wood. It smells of polish. On top of the chest is a clutter of photographs: men with moustaches, white-shirted, in baggy trousers. And smiling women, sleek as film stars, dressed like princesses, arm in arm with the men – linked for ever.

I turn to look at Mrs Gilbey, carefully, the way Sherlock Holmes would. Only my magnifying glass is imaginary. She's a small, neat bundle of blue and white. The white is her blouse and her hair – except her hair's more silver than white. The blue is her skirt. And she has a blue brooch with a white swan painted on it. Blue is her favourite colour. Even her eyes are blue.

‘I'll just put the kettle on.'

She goes out. I hear a tap running. Cupboard doors open and close. She comes back in with a tray, balances a teapot the shape of a thatched cottage, two thin white cups and saucers with pink swirly patterns, and a plate of cakes.

‘We'll just let the tea draw for a minute.'

I imagine a teapot drawing a picture.

‘So, how are you?'

‘All right, Emma . . .' I call her Emma when we're on our own. If my mum knew she'd tell me off.

‘There's a “but” waiting to get out there, if I'm not much mistaken.'

‘It's Reggie.'

She pours the tea – a golden stream. Offers me the plate of cakes. My mum has always told me that if I ever eat in anyone else's house I shouldn't take the biggest piece and I
should always leave a bit on my plate. Funny, here I am with all this going on and I think of that.

‘Go on, then.'

I take a deep breath and tell her the whole story.

She doesn't say a word. Just keeps looking at me. Listens to every word.