Alice Isn't Well (Death Herself Book 1) Read online

  Just around the corner, edging closer, something was sniffing frantically, almost as if it was trying to locate her by scent alone. As far as she knew, that wasn't something policemen could do, but she held her breath anyway and listened as the sniffs came ever closer, until there was a pause and she waited to be discovered. A moment later, however, she heard the gate again, followed by footsteps in the path that ran along the side of the house, and she realized she'd been right: someone had stayed behind to see if she'd emerge, but they hadn't found her. She waited a few minutes longer, before figuring that this time she was probably safe. Crawling out, she looked around and saw that there was no-one around.

  She had no idea where to go, but she knew one thing. She never wanted to go anywhere near Barton's Cross again.

  Chapter Nine

  Today

  “Come on,” one of the forum's users had written, “no-one seriously believes that. Alice Warner killed him, end of story. The only questions are how and why.”

  The comment had a 79% approval rating from 312 votes.

  Although she knew she shouldn't read any more, Alice clicked to see the rest of the thread. Her eyes were sore and tired, and the laptop's flickering screen was bright enough to burn, but she couldn't help herself.

  “That's what no-one else seems to get,” another forum user had added below the first comment. “Too many people trying to make excuses for that bitch when the truth is right there for everyone to see. She's a serious psycho and she should never have been let out. No-one's safe with someone like her around.”

  Approval rating: 81%. 298 votes.

  “She should've been sent to prison,” suggested another user a little further down, “not some cushy hospital.”

  Approval rating: 90%. 301 votes.

  “BRING BACK THE DEATH PENALTY,” an anonymous user had added in full caps lock. “PROBLEM SOLVED.”

  Approval rating: 59%. 650 votes.

  A faint flicker crossed Alice's face as she scrolled down and read more comments. A few people had come to her defense, but they'd quickly been shouted down and, besides, they didn't interest her too much. Messages of support just left her feeling cold, whereas the ones that vilified her, the really venomous comments that called for her to be locked up or executed or worse... Those, at least, sent a shiver through her body and made her feel alive. At least she knew those people were saying what they really believed, instead of trying to be polite.

  Further down the page, she found that someone had added an image. For a fraction of a second, she was unable to work out what she was seeing, other than some text at the top that read NEVER FORGET. After a moment, however, she tilted her head slightly and then felt a punch to the gut as she realized she was looking at a photo of Officer Aspen's body with the top of his head missing and his broken lower jaw protruding from the mangled flesh, with stained teeth partially dislodged from the gum. He was on an autopsy table, and a tape measure had been placed next to her shoulder. She stared, not even blinking, and finally she leaned closer to the screen, taking in as much detail as possible.

  Approval rating for this post: 75%. 1,190 votes.

  “Could I have done that to someone?” she whispered. The idea was shocking, but unless her memory of that night ever returned, she couldn't know for certain. When more police had arrived shortly after Officer Aspen's death, they'd found no sign of an intruder. The official investigation had been inconclusive, but she knew what everyone thought.

  They all thought she'd killed him.

  For several minutes, she sat and simply stared at the image, before finally she clicked to open a comment box.

  “No-one should be forgiven if they cause another human being to suffer and die,” she wrote. “The inability to remember is no excuse. It's obvious what Alice Warner did and she should pay for it.”

  She read the comment over a few times before hitting the 'submit' button. As soon as the comment was posted, it had a 100% approval rating, and she sat back, feeling the knot of fear starting to fade in her gut. Checking her watch, she saw that it was almost 5pm, which meant that she only had five hours before she was due back at Barton's Cross for her second night-shift. Her weary eyes wanted to close now, but she knew she'd never be able to sleep so, instead, she opened another browser window and brought up a search engine.

  “Plane crash World War 2,” she typed, “Barton's Cross Kellis Hill area London.”

  The dream had been plaguing her all morning, to the extent that she'd begun to wonder whether it was truly a dream at all.

  As soon as the results appeared, she began to scroll down. The second entry piqued her curiosity, so she clicked through and was immediately presented with an old image of something burning against a dark night sky. The picture was speckled and grainy, obviously scanned in from an old newspaper, and according to the caption it showed the aftermath of a Spitfire having crashed onto a row of houses. There was a long entry underneath, explaining the history of the incident, but even before she began to read the text, she already knew one thing.

  The scene in the photo was exactly the same as her nightmare from the day before. It was almost as if -

  Startled suddenly by a knock at the door, she looked across the room. No-one ever knocked on her door, not apart from Mrs. Cole, the landlady, and she wasn't due to pop by for at least another week. There was simply no-one else who could possibly come, not ever. She'd made sure of that. Nevertheless, a moment later there was another knock.

  “Hello?” Alice said tentatively.

  “You had a friend pop over last night while you were out,” Mrs. Cole replied. “I heard her hammering and calling your name, so I had to come up, didn't I? Told her you were out working. That was right, wasn't it?”

  Alice paused. “A... friend?” She said that last word as if it was completely alien.

  “I told her she can't come banging around in the middle of the night, but could you maybe say the same thing to her? I don't want complaints from my other tenants.”

  Another pause, before Alice got to her feet and headed to the door. After sliding the latch free, she pulled the door open a little and peered out at Mrs. Cole.

  “A friend?” she asked again.

  “She seemed nice enough. Dark hair, seemed a little... I dunno, serious.”

  Alice paused again. “I'm sorry, are you sure it was my door she was knocking on?”

  “She was calling your name, too. Why? Weren't you expecting anyone?”

  “I...” Yet again, all Alice could do was stare blankly for a moment. The blunt truth was that having spent the past decade in a psychiatric hospital, she didn't have a friend in the world, certainly not someone who should have been banging on her door. “I really think there must be a mistake. Did she tell you her name?”

  “Yeah, it was...” She paused, frowning as she tried to remember. “Hannah!”

  Alice paused. “I don't know anyone named Hannah.”

  “Well, she knows you.”

  “That's impossible.”

  “Look,” Mrs. Cole, continued with a sigh, “I don't mind people dropping by, you know I don't. Entertain to your heart's content, so long as there are no disturbances for the other residents. And I don't want anyone sleeping over, either. That's my big rule.” She flashed a smile. “Sorted?”

  “Did she leave a number?”

  She shook her head. “Black hair. A bit intense, if you ask me.” She turned to shuffle away, before glancing back at her. “What's wrong? Got so many mates, you can't keep track of them all?”

  Alice paused for a moment, before gently shutting the door and sliding the latch back across. She still had no idea who Mrs. Cole was talking about, and she was quite certain that there must have been some kind of mistake, perhaps a moment of confusion. One thing she knew for sure was that she had no friends, no acquaintances, no colleagues, no family members... There was no-one who should be knocking on her door. Still, she felt no need to make a fuss, and she figured that whoever had been knocking th
e night before, they'd realize their mistake and they wouldn't be coming back. She certainly didn't know anyone named Hannah.

  Heading over to her bed, she spotted the small plastic box she kept on the table by the window. It wasn't much, but she used it to store the very few precious things that actually meant anything to her. She opened the lid and looked inside, seeing the only two things she'd added so far: her release papers from Adenguard Hospital, and the train ticket that had brought her to London. She allowed herself a faint smile, and then she reached into her pocket to take out the bus ticket from the previous night. She knew it was silly to save something so inconsequential, but at the same time she felt proud that after everything that had happened, she'd not only been able to get a job but she'd actually gone through her first night without making any major mistakes. She figured that one day she'd put all these items into a scrapbook, a kind of history of her new life.

  Pulling the piece of paper from her pocket, she began to straighten it out before, suddenly, a second piece fell down to the floor. Reaching for it, she frowned as she saw that it was another bus ticket. Holding them side by side, she realized that she actually had two tickets, both purchased at the same time for the same bus journey on the same night, as if she'd had someone with her when she went to work the night before. She hadn't, though; she'd been quite alone, and she remembered sitting quietly at the back seat of the bus, waiting for her stop. Reaching into her other pocket, she took out the return ticket from the morning, but there was a duplicate of that too.

  “One to Barton's Cross,” she remembered saying to the driver.

  One ticket.

  One seat.

  Yet now she had two tickets each way, apparently purchased at exactly the same time. Setting a copy of each into the box, she closed the lid and then tossed the duplicates into the bin by the door, and she told herself there must have been a simple mistake.

  Chapter Ten

  1941

  The air raid sirens sounded early that night, howling across the city before the sun had set. People scurried along the streets, keen to get home, while the few remaining cars seemed to be going just that little bit faster. London was getting darker, too, with even the street-lamps having been switched off, and soon Wendy found herself walking through darkness, her limping footsteps sounding louder and more clipped on the cold, wet cobbles.

  After several hours, she still had no idea where to go. It was as if her moorings had been cut loose and she was just drifting from street to street, a lost child.

  Finally, as if out of nowhere, she saw a ripple of moonlight catching on the surface of the Thames. The Thames? She hadn't realized she was anywhere near the river, and yet after just a few more steps through the shadows, she reached a small patch of grassland that led down to a brick wall and then, beyond that, to the water. After checking around to make sure that there was no-one nearby, she hurried across the grass and then leaned over the wall, looking down into the oily blackness of the river. She could hear water lapping at the wall below, and for a moment she felt almost as if something was staring back up at her.

  “The river's not safe at night,” she remembered her mother telling her. “Only scoundrels go down there after dark. You must promise me, Wendy, that for as long as you live, you'll never go anywhere near the river at night.”

  “I promise,” she'd replied, and she said it now too, just because it made her feel better to pretend her mother could still hear her.

  Below, something seemed to rock the water a little more, causing nearby boats to tug slightly on their moorings.

  Suddenly, she heard voices shouting in the distance. She turned, but as she looked across the dark patch of land, she couldn't see another soul. She could still hear them, though: a man and a woman were shouting at one another, using words that Wendy knew no-one should use, not if they'd been brought up properly, words her mother had told her were bad and wrong.

  “Alright there?” a male voice suddenly asked, much closer, as a hand touched her shoulder.

  Almost leaping out of her skin, Wendy spun around and saw a dark figure looming over her, silhouetted against the starry night sky.

  “Don't worry about those two,” he continued. It sounded as if he was smiling. “They're always cursing at each other, it's something of a tradition in these parts. They start each night as long-lost lovers, but pretty soon they get to fighting. Some people are just like that. Still, you'd already know that if you were from around here.” He paused. “Are you from around here?”

  “I...” She paused, before turning to hurry away. She only managed a half pace before she felt the man's hand grabbing her arm with a firm, insistent grip.

  “Listen -”

  “I don't want to go back,” she shouted, trying to twist free. “You can't make me!”

  “No-one's trying to make you go anywhere,” the man told her, with a friendly tone. “I just wondered if you wanted to come and sit with a few of us. We've got food and shelter for the night, and if -” Suddenly he screamed as Wendy sank her teeth into his arm. He immediately let go, but she held on for a moment longer before tasting blood and letting go, at which point she stumbled back, tripped, and landed hard on the ground.

  Looking up at him, she realized that the man's silhouette didn't include any sign of a policeman's uniform or a nun's habit. A moment later, the man stepped slightly to one side, allowing the moonlight to pick out a kind, middle-aged face with big dark eyes and black hair. Still, her mother had told her not to trust faces, too, and now more than ever she wanted to live by her mother's advice. It made her feel as if she wasn't alone.

  “You're a tough one, huh?” he asked, clutching his wrist. “So that's the thanks I get for trying to help.”

  “You can't make me go back!” she shouted.

  “Back where?”

  “To the -” Catching herself just in time, she realized it might not be wise to give him too much information. “I want to go home.”

  “Where's home?”

  “I don't know,” she replied, with tears in her eyes. “It got burned and destroyed.”

  “I saw a Spitfire going down a few nights ago,” he told her. “There was a big fire too.”

  “My house is gone,” she said cautiously. “My mother's gone too.”

  “Gone? Do you mean...” He paused, and then he sighed. “And now you've got nowhere to go, huh?”

  “I want to go home,” she said again, but the words felt even more hopeless than before.

  “Maybe I can help you tomorrow,” the man replied, “but for now, if you promise not to bite me again, I'll take you somewhere safe for tonight. You can't be out wandering alone like this.”

  As if to prove the man's point, an air-raid siren began to sound in the distance, followed a moment later by another much closer.

  “We can't have a fire going,” the man continued, “not out in the open, but over there...” He pointed across the grassland, into the darkness. “A few of us have got something, just enough for warmth, but we keep it in the old tunnels so we don't give the Germans anything to aim at. Doing our bit for the war effort, you could say.” He looked up at the sky, as sirens continued to sound in the distance. “On a night like this, they might just come anyway. The moon's so bright, it's like a spotlight trained on the city, lighting us up for the Germans' pleasure.”

  “Have you really got food?” Wendy asked cautiously as she got to her feet. She was still scared, but the thought of even a single mouthful was enough to keep her from running, enough even to override her mother's warnings. She hadn't realized how hungry she was, not until a moment ago, but now she felt as if there was a bottomless pit in her belly.

  “Don't get too excited,” the man replied, turning and limping away. “It's not gourmet cooking or anything like that, but it's not a rat on a stick, either. You don't look old enough to be out here on your own, so unless you've got a nice warm home to get to, why don't you come and at least meet the others, eh? I promise we're all friend
ly. I'm not forcing you, though. It's your choice.”

  “Be careful around strangers,” she remembered her mother telling her. “Most people are okay, but there are some bad people around. Really bad, Wendy. Types of bad that you're too young to know about.”

  “Hear that?” the man asked, turning to look along the river. “Reckon I hear engines. Probably our lot heading over to bomb France, but it could be Gerry getting an early raid in.” He turned back to her. “It's not safe to be out tonight, kid. If you can't go home, you need somewhere to take shelter. My name's Harry, and I promise you, you'll be alright down in the tunnels with us. It's your choice, though, and -” He stopped and looked up, as the engines became louder in the sky above. “That's our lot,” he added, turning and limping away. “Off to give Gerry a taste of it.”

  Wendy waited as he limped away. Finally, just as he disappeared from view into the darkness all around, she realized she had to make a decision.

  ***

  “How many people are down here?” Wendy asked a few minutes later as Harry led her down the steps, into the old ticket hall of a tube station that had long ago been abandoned. People were sitting all around, with their backs against the walls, but despite the cramped conditions and the sound of sirens in the distance, the overall atmosphere seemed strong, as if everyone was making do in difficult circumstances.

  “Dunno,” Harry replied, “but we usually fill the place up pretty quick when there's an air-raid in the offing. Most of it, anyway. Street-sleepers, people who've lost their houses... Whatever your reason for not having somewhere to go, we don't ask. It's none of our business. We just try to help people out.”

  She followed him across the ticket hall and along a tunnel that sloped gradually downward, leading further underground. Spotting a woman sitting nearby, warming her hands on a small fire in a tin can, Wendy realized the woman's eyes looked dead and hollow. Just as she was starting to think that the woman was dead, however, there was a hint of movement, just enough to show that she was alive.