Authors: Alison Littlewood
Thank God
, she thought.
She strode to the window, reached for her jacket, felt for her mobile. Then she paused; she had to catch her breath, think about what she was going to say. And more than anything else, she wanted to be outside when she did it, away from this place, clean air on her skin and in her lungs.
She braced herself against the edge of the table and climbed out of the window, almost spilling to the ground in her haste. It didn’t matter; she was in the wood again, and everything was as quiet as before. She grabbed her jacket from the ledge and took a few steps until she stood under the edge of the trees. She could hear the soft whisper of leaves, the piercing notes of birds. She took a few deep breaths and started to feel better. She would call Heath, get some help, have him bring the team.
As she began to do so, she stared at the ground. There were flowers growing there; she recognised ragged robin, celandines. Her eyes widened. Another plant was growing among them, taller than the rest, a froth of small white flowers standing proud above its leafy stems. It looked a little like parsley, but its stems were blotched with purple.
Alice gathered herself. She made the call and prepared herself to wait.
Heath was short with her on the phone, but he listened, and now he was on his way. At least they had time. Levitt
might have been watching Alice Hyland, but they had snatched her out of his reach; she knew the police had gone to fetch her, albeit for all the wrong reasons. And whatever the girl had been put through, at least that meant she was safe.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Alice stood in front of the lean-to. She felt a long way from the police, from her own home, and yet she had a sense that she was supposed to be here. The structure in front of her was nothing like the one in her dream but somehow it
felt
the same. She couldn’t see inside it, but she could picture the book as clearly as if it were in front of her, its wooden pages like something that had grown. There was something she was supposed to find there, something she was supposed to understand; still, she didn’t want to go inside.
She looked around and saw only the trees, silent now. Even the constant noise of birdsong had ceased. There was no one there, and after all, she would only be a moment. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to move. The thought flashed into her mind that she should go back, find the police, bring them here. Then a small bright shape flew down and perched over the doorway and looked at her. That decided it: if the blue bird was unafraid, she must
be alone. It surely wouldn’t have come here for anyone else.
She went to the doorway and looked in. The walls were neatly woven of branches and sunlight filtered through them in a soft glow. It was soothing. The latticework curved around so that it felt natural, more like a cave than a room, and it charmed her. It was as if part of her was still in that other place, the one she’d seen in her dream; the place that belonged only to stories. She took a step forward, breathing in the fragrant scent of cut wood, relishing the cool shade. There was nothing inside but a couple of chairs; it was as she had thought: the place was empty. She walked in, looking more closely at the way it had been made. Someone had cut thick supports which arched over her head, bound together where they met the trunk and the lowest branches of the oak tree. Between them smaller twigs had been woven or tied, and there were flashes of colour among them: the wilting heads of wild flowers, just beginning to droop. The floor rustled, shifting under her feet. It was made of bulrushes, which must have been gathered by the lake. It smelled like springtime.
Now that she was closer, she could see the chairs properly. There weren’t two, as she had thought: there was a large plain wooden chair, a folding chair with a faded fabric seat, and another, so small she hadn’t noticed it; this last was a stool, so tiny it could only have been meant for a child. Each had a bowl set upon it.
Alice couldn’t take her eyes from them. She couldn’t move. She knew what they meant, what it all meant. What
had
she been thinking? The chairs must have been placed here for her. She should get out, get as far away from here as she could. She whirled and stepped towards the entrance, distantly noticing as she did so a narrow slot that was cut into the canvas. She knew what it was, remembered seeing it from the outside, only now it was light instead of dark; perfect for watching without being seen.
There was a small sound and the light from the doorway dimmed. Someone had stepped in front of it and was silhouetted, their eyes nothing but pale ovals. Whoever it was shifted, took a step forward. The pale shapes resolved into a pair of glasses on a smiling face.
Alice stared. Then she swallowed, and forced herself to smile back. The expression felt strange on her face.
He took another step forward. He was still blocking the entrance; it was too narrow for her to slip past him. He was still smiling, and now she could see it was not a good smile.
She tried to take steady breaths. It was a coincidence, that was all. It was only the birdwatcher, he had built a new hide and she had stumbled over it. If he’d meant to hurt her he could have done so before.
Be bold
, she thought, but she found herself taking a step back anyway, away from him.
Bernard Levitt nodded, a genial expression, a friendly greeting, as if finding her there was the most natural
thing in the world. He gestured with his arms and she realised he was carrying something that was folded and draped across them. She stared at it.
He smiled again more broadly, freed one of his hands. He picked up the bowl from the middle chair and put it on the floor, then carefully placed the thing he carried upon it.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Everything just right.’
She didn’t reply.
Levitt turned to her and stretched out his hand; he couldn’t quite reach her, but he motioned anyway, as if he were stroking her hair. He was wearing leather gloves. ‘Just right,’ he said again. He went to the wooden chair, moved the bowl and set it on the floor beneath, and did the same with the stool. Each bowl had a dried, viscous mess inside, like the residue of porridge.
Alice edged away and felt the wall pressing at her back. ‘This is not a story,’ she said. ‘I’m not Goldilocks; it’s not a fairy tale.’
He looked at her with surprise. ‘But of course it is.’ He threw his head back and grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.
‘If it is, you have to let me go. Nothing happened to Goldilocks; it wasn’t like that. She didn’t— She ran away, and the bears let her go.’
‘She was a nasty little thief,’ said Levitt. ‘Are you a nasty little thief, or just a nasty little liar?’
‘A liar?’
‘I know you saw it.’
Alice didn’t know what he meant, couldn’t think; she was looking at Levitt, his solid build, wondering if she could push him out of the way and run all the way back to the house. It struck her that the police might already be coming after her, that they might have seen her heading into the woods. They could be following her now, bringing help with them.
Levitt looked amused, as if he knew what she was thinking. He tilted his head and sing-songed: ‘I hope it comes to you, Mr Levitt.’
Alice realised he was impersonating her, though she hadn’t actually spoken those words.
‘Oh yes, I hope so, Mr Levitt. Because I haven’t seen it, no, I never saw it, not at all.’ He paused. ‘Now you stand here and tell me you’re not a liar. That’s funny. That’s very funny.’ Levitt abruptly sat down in the largest chair, reached over and grabbed the stool. He placed it in front of his own seat, slapped his hand down on top of it. He eyed her, waiting.
Alice’s gaze went to the entrance. He wasn’t blocking it any longer; she could run, get past him. Then he moved, faster than she expected, and drew his chair back so that it barred the way. ‘Sit down,’ he snapped. ‘You can stay or go later, as I choose. For now, I have a story to tell. So sit down.’
She sat. The stool was meant for a child and it was unsteady under her, rocking on the uneven ground. She had to spread her feet to brace herself; now she couldn’t move quickly at all.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Levitt said confidentially. He leaned in towards her so she could feel his breath stir the air, smell the slow rot in his mouth. ‘But first you can listen. You like stories, don’t you, Alice? Well I’m going to tell you the story that is me. Would you like to hear it?’
Slowly, she nodded.
Levitt straightened in his chair, delighted, patting both knees with the flat of his hands. He looked for a moment like a delighted grandpa. ‘That’s lovely. Well, my dear, then I’ll begin.
‘Once upon a time, I had a sister. She died when I was young. My sister, little Marlene.’
Alice opened her mouth to say that wasn’t her name, couldn’t have been her name, that he’d only stolen it from another story; but his gaze had lost focus, as if looking at something far away, and she knew she didn’t want to call him back.
‘My mother loved little Marlene. It was just like in the stories. The younger sister is always the most loved, don’t you find? The youngest and the most beautiful. Age, growing up – they’re nothing in fairy tales. My sister knew this because my mother told her so every day in her tales, and oh, how they loved them. They had row upon row of books with pink covers and blue covers and green covers, and they read them over and over, always together.’
Suddenly Alice thought of her own mother. She wished she could see her, now, just for a moment. Why hadn’t
she seen her in so long? Her mother had once read her stories too, and Alice had told her stories in return, though not so magical, not invented: everyday stories of their lives together. Now she would forget, everything would fade, if Alice wasn’t there to tell them.
Levitt grimaced. ‘Little Marlene would sit on my mother’s lap and my mother would hold the book in front of her so that she could see and I couldn’t. It was like the book and her arms and my sister and my mother – they were a little circle and I couldn’t get in. I tried, more than once, but they said it wasn’t for me: I was too old and too male, and they had all the power, you see, because they owned all the stories, the good ones and the bad, the ones about the princesses and towers and birds and the kingdom.
‘It was always the younger sister who gained a kingdom.’ Levitt sighed, lowered his gaze. His expression was resigned. ‘Who has the kingdom now, do you think? Now she’s in her grave, now there’s nothing left of her but her teeth?’
Alice caught her breath and Levitt smiled as if she’d applauded. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Yes, quite!’ And he leaned in. ‘Did you know cats are the only creatures that torture their prey before killing them – except one?’
Alice couldn’t answer, but he continued as if he’d never asked the question, ‘Ah, the youngest. Always the youngest. Not surprising perhaps, when the oldest is the book of all the mistakes you made, too late to put them right. She could have tried, you know? But she wasn’t interested in
boys, not really. She always wanted a girl, and when little Marlene came along – well, you know the line, don’t you, dear? So refreshing to talk to someone who
knows
. “The devil got into her so that she began to hate the little boy.”’
Levitt looked up, waiting, and after a moment she nodded.
‘All right, so picture the scene: younger sister adored; father left, long before anyone could remember – God knows what she did to him. It could have been so different, don’t you think? But it wouldn’t be a good story if there were no loss, no death. No devil.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t push her.’
His mouth worked; his lips were damp. ‘I didn’t push her and I didn’t tell her what to do. I only suggested, you know. Anyone can
suggest
. And she didn’t do anything, not really, she never did. I’d always be the one doing everything, and she’d just sit there singing her little songs, or pretending to be a princess, preening and spreading her pretend skirts out on the ground.’
He was breathing heavily. ‘I was supposed to look after her, and I did. I
did
. We went into the woods. Mother had one of her headaches, and I hadn’t helped, she said, what with my building blocks and my cars and my games. They weren’t things she liked, and by then, I don’t think I was something she liked either. But this time she didn’t like little Marlene, so she told us to go out and play.
‘There was a place we went, where
I
went. Marlene just followed me – she didn’t
do
anything, you know? It was
always for me to decide. And I liked this place. There was a rope hanging from a tree, a faded old blue rope. It hung out over a long drop and you could swing high, way out, and see it beneath you, everything solid and not, at the same time. It was something magic, like in their stories, not that I thought about that at the time. No, I was a boy, and all I wanted to do was swing. But even that grew dull after a while, and so I decided I wanted to see
her
swing.
‘So I told her,’ he said. ‘I told her she should swing high, and that she would be like a bird, a silly bird from one of her tales. Just like that. And she believed me.’ The light faded from his eyes and he looked away, so that Alice thought he had finished, that he wasn’t
going
to finish.
He drew a long breath and went on, ‘I didn’t want her to fall. I only wanted to see her fly, see the feathers.’ He fell silent, barely conscious of Alice’s presence. Then he spoke again, chanting the words so that they sounded like a song or a rhyme he’d once heard: ‘She fell and broke her pretty neck. Tore and soiled her pretty dress. Snapped her bones. Then she was all, all gone, and Mummy was so sad. So very, very sad.’ He looked up, but his gaze was somewhere far distant. ‘Her scream was the cry of a bird. I heard it, after. Her voice, crying in the night. In the dark.’
Alice’s mouth was dry. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she tried.
He whipped his head around. ‘That’s not what my mother said. She made me know it, my mother dear. She blamed me every day. She made me
feel
it, too. She made
me bury her with my own hands, just where she said little Marlene would have wanted to be: under the juniper tree in the wood. It was a young thing then, nothing to it at all.