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:
THE MUSEUM OF UNFINISHED STORIES
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.
She walked slowly towards us.
‘Dolly Weaver’s the name,’ she said, then flashed her red smile. A chill went through me. Dangerous . . . and crazy. That was how Alice had described her.
‘But some of you already knew that, didn’t you?’ She straightened one black leather glove, then winked at Piper. ‘And others I’m already acquainted with.’
Piper scowled, but placed himself between Dolly and Gypsy. ‘What do you want?’
‘Don’t ask silly questions,’ she purred. She nodded to Gypsy. ‘I want Goldilocks over there to read those pages, then give them to me.’
‘Why would we give you anything?’ I said shakily. ‘You’re the one who broke into my house!’
Dolly laughed a tinkling laugh and held up her gloved hands. ‘Guilty.’ She reached into a little black shoulder bag and pulled something out. ‘I suspect you’ll be wanting this?’
‘That’s my sister’s notebook,’ I said, my temper rising. ‘Give it here now.’
‘I’ll swap you,’ said Dolly. ‘Those pages, and whatever else is missing from it, in exchange for the rest.’ She flicked through the notebook. ‘It’s a pretty good offer, given that I have the larger chunk.’
I clenched my fists. ‘You’ve got no right to—’
‘Oh, I’ve got every right.’
Something about the way she said it made my body tense even tighter. She knew.
‘I reckon I can get it,’ said Piper, stepping towards Dolly.
She smiled wider, but didn’t move. ‘I really wouldn’t attempt it if I were you. It would . . . upset me.’ She pulled off a glove and inspected her hands. They were every bit as horrible as Piper had described, her fingers caked with blood and black with something congealed round her fingertips. As I looked at them, I wondered what kind of things they were capable of. And what they might have already done. ‘When I get upset, things can sometimes get broken. Fingernails . . .’ She took something else from her bag and threw it. It landed at my feet, a grubby green strip of fabric. ‘Collars . . .’
I picked it up with trembling fingers. It had been savagely torn in two. A few silky, black hairs were caught on the buckle.
‘. . . .urry little necks,’ Dolly finished, smiling like she’d just offered us a slice of warm cake. ‘So, if you’d like to see that cat again, you’d better give me what I want.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fed up with the tiresome thing anyway. It refuses to speak. I’d be glad to give it back, or kill it.’ She inspected her nails. ‘Your choice. I don’t mind which.’
‘What do you m-mean our choice?’ I stammered. I shot a warning look at Piper, afraid he might mention Tabitha on Gypsy’s boat – but he was tight-lipped. I wondered what Dolly would do if she knew it wasn’t Tabitha she’d taken, just an ordinary cat, who was non-magical? Would she still think she had something worth trading? And, if she thought Tabitha were valuable, did she really mean to give her back at all – or was having the rest of the notebook even more important to her? ‘How do we get her back?’
‘By co-operating.’ Dolly pulled her glove back on and put the notebook in the bag. ‘I can see you’re not ready to just yet.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all right. I’m a patient lady. I understand that you’ll all want to read those pages before handing them over, well . . . all except you, Piper dear.’
Piper said nothing, but his expression said more than a thousand words of hatred ever could.
Dolly laughed and blew him a kiss, then gave Gypsy a playful look. ‘How are you enjoying it so far? She has quite an imagination, doesn’t she, this Alice?’
For the first time since Dolly had appeared, I looked at Gypsy properly. Her eyes were darting between Dolly and the pages, but it was the story that had most of her attention and her face was a mixture of disbelief and confusion. I knew then that my fears had come true. Gypsy had seen her name.
‘Are you getting it yet?’ Dolly asked. ‘Are you wondering how someone you’ve never met could know so much about you? And why it is that this person, this Alice, looks just like you?’
‘What’s she talking about?’ Piper demanded, trying to look at the pages as if he could make sense of them. ‘How could Alice have written about you if she’s never even met you?’
‘Don’t feel left out,’ Dolly cooed. ‘You’re in there, too, dear Piper. And me, and the pesky cat for that matter. We’re all there, all just paper people. Though, admittedly, Gypsy is the . . . what’s the word? Protagonist.’
Gypsy’s head snapped up, a flash of understanding in her eyes.
‘What’s a protag . . . protagon . . . ?’ I began.
‘The main character in a story,’ Dolly said. ‘So what’s it like, Gypsy? Finding out your entire life is a lie dreamed up by someone else? I mean, I know how I feel, and I can’t feel too sorry for you, not when you’ve got the starring role. The heroine’s role.’
The colour had drained from Gypsy’s cheeks. She tore her gaze away from Dolly and turned the page over, her eyes racing over the words on the back.
‘Still,’ Dolly continued, ‘everyone knows that villains always get the best lines, so I can’t grumble too much.’ She paused and winked. ‘They sometimes get a fluffy kitty, too!’
‘Are you demented or what?’ Piper asked. He spoke slowly, like he was talking to someone very young, or stupid. ‘Do you know how nutty you sound? Don’t listen to her, Gyps. She’s two licks short of a furball.’
He put his hand on Gypsy’s arm, but she shook him off.
‘But hark at me going on. I promised myself I wouldn’t give away any spoilers, but I just couldn’t help it. I’ll leave you to it now.’ Dolly’s voice changed, became sharp, and she looked at me. ‘And, speaking of furballs, you have exactly twenty-four hours.’
‘To do what?’ I asked, unable to disguise the fact my voice was shaking.
‘Before we meet back here and exchange our sections of the notebook, plus the cat. That’s more than enough time for you to read your part of it, and by then my patience will have worn rather thin. So, if you’re not here, the cat dies and the notebook is destroyed. If you try to pull any tricks or forge the story in some way, the cat dies and the notebook is destroyed. Got it?’
‘How do we know you haven’t already killed the cat?’ I said. ‘Or faked Alice’s notes yourself?’
Dolly waved a hand. ‘All that can be verified tomorrow. Besides, you really don’t have a choice.’
‘We do,’ I said, more boldly than I felt. ‘We don’t have to do what you say.’
‘Maybe you don’t,’ said Dolly spitefully. ‘But Gypsy does.’
Gypsy looked up again, ashen-faced. She shook her head, but it was unconvincing to us all.
‘Yes, you do.’ Dolly’s voice was soft. ‘Because you’ll want to know what happens. You’ll want to know your destiny and what’s written for you in the end – or at least where your story is going.’
‘And you?’ Piper asked and even he sounded rattled now. ‘You’ve read most of it already. Why do you want these pages so badly? There’s hardly anything here compared to what you have.’
‘No,’ said Dolly. ‘But I like to have all the information to hand before I make any decisions, particularly when the outcome for me doesn’t look good.’ She smirked at Piper. ‘Same goes for you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘The ending,’ Dolly said. ‘I don’t like how things are shaping up. Now I know that dear old Alice hasn’t finished it yet, so I’m going to give her a hand.’
‘You’re planning on finishing Alice’s story?’ I asked.
‘Finishing it?’ Dolly pouted. ‘Why would I want to do that when I can live as I please here, in your world, with no rules? Anything I want to happen can happen. So Alice finishing the story really isn’t part of my plan.’
I stared into her mad eyes, finally understanding. ‘You want to kill her.’
The pouting lips stretched into a grin. ‘Well, I told you I was the villain, didn’t I?’
17
The Silence and the Foundling
A CHOKED SOUND CAME OUT of gypsy. She pushed the pages at Piper, who grabbed them clumsily. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she turned and ran, sobbing.
Dolly cackled, breaking the stunned silence.
‘Gypsy!’ I yelled, but found I was rooted to the spot, torn between running after her and getting the pages from Piper in case he was thinking about giving them to Dolly. I moved closer to him and held out my hand. To my surprise, he handed the pages to me without arguing. He was pasty-faced now, unsure of himself and everyone around him. Despite my distrust of him, I found myself edging closer. Piper might be a liar and a thief, but right now he was all I had.
‘The plot thickens,’ said Dolly. ‘How juicy! I wonder what Alice would make of all this if she were here to see it. I think she’d approve actually.’
‘How do you know she isn’t writing this right now?’ I said, saying it as the thought popped into my head. ‘Making all this happen? She could be hiding out somewhere, writing a new version. This version.’
‘Doubtful,’ Dolly said. ‘You really think if Alice were in control we’d still be here?’
‘Maybe,’ I said hoarsely. ‘She wrote you. She created you. She can snuff you out just as easily.’
Dolly sneered. ‘Don’t kid yourself. She did the groundwork, but then she lost the plot. The story isn’t Alice’s any more. It’s there for the taking. Anything can happen now.’
‘Dream on,’ said Dolly. Her pale eyes glinted. ‘Alice created in me what scares her. All very well when you’re reading it on a page, but facing your fears for real? Not so much.’
‘You don’t know her,’ I whispered.
‘I don’t need to. She knows me. And she knows I’ve killed before.’
I couldn’t speak. Terror stuck in my throat like a poisoned apple.
Dolly ran her tongue over her red-tinged teeth. ‘I’ll see you back here this time tomorrow. And don’t be late; it makes me cross. I might be crazy, but I’m always punctual.’ She giggled and began walking away, her heels and laughter echoing over the cobbles as she vanished into Pike Street.
‘We have to find Gypsy,’ I said. ‘Then look for Alice’s dad. He must know how to end this and how we can find Alice.’
‘And what happens if you get Alice back?’ Piper asked. He was staring at his hands like he was trying to remember what they were for, as if nothing made sense any more. ‘Gypsy and me . . . we just . . . disappear? Go back to being nothing, except in your sister’s head? That’s what Dolly said, ain’t it? That we’re made up. Just characters in Alice’s book.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No stories or characters ever disappear, not really. They’re always there.’
‘Only when someone reads them,’ Piper said bitterly.
‘I don’t think that’s true. Alice says stories never start at the beginning. They start when something is about to happen. And, when we close the book, does that mean it’s the end for the characters? No. They still go on, but without whatever problems they had in the story.’
‘Then that must mean there’s a reason for me to be in it, too,’ said Piper. ‘That I’m not . . . useless. But . . .’ His face darkened.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Dolly said she didn’t like what Alice had written for her, that the outcome didn’t look good. And she looked at me and said, “Same goes for you.”’ He was speaking quickly now, panic making his voice rise. ‘What if . . . Alice is gonna kill me?’
Other Alice Page 16