on the back of my neck. Mr Gibbs is humming quietly. He checks his pocket watch and nods encouragingly at us. âA moment more, if you please,â he says. Under my bodice, a bead of sweat rolls slowly down between my breasts. Suddenly, a weight falls onto my arm and my hand slips from Papaâs shoulder. I look in horror to see that Papaâs head has rolled from its position and is hanging awkwardly over the side of the chair. I move away and in my haste I knock into the table and send the bowl of roses crashing to the floor. Mama yelps, Mr Gibbs rushes forwards and in that moment I see why Papaâs eyes look so strange. His eyelids are closed, but someone has fashioned upon them, in paint, the crude likeness of an open eye. It is this, as much as anything, that sends me fleeing from the room.
I dash out into the hallway, desperate for air. But it is, of course, all shadows and dark corners. Where can I go? Every room in the house is smothered and in gloom. The whole place is like a tomb. I look to the great double doors at the end of the hall, the ones that lead outside. I know I shouldnât, I know it is the bad Alice that wants to go outside. But I have no choice. If I donât leave this house now, I think I might die too.
I tug the door open and step out into the remains of the day. I walk down the steps, through the iron gates and out onto the pavement. The evening air is soft and warm and I swallow great mouthfuls of it. It has been so long since I have tasted fresh air, I am dizzy with the pleasure of it. I look around and see the street is empty. I should go back inside. My head tells me
that
is the right thing to do. But the thought of the darkness and the scent of roses and lavender, mingled with the stink of Papa and the heaviness of my guilt, is too much to bear. I find myself walking away from Lions House, listening to my boots slapping the ground. I come to the end of the street and I walk faster. A cab passes me on the road, sending up clouds of dust in its wake. The thick plod of horse hooves echo in my ears. Further on and there is a pair of gentlemen, strolling along deep in conversation. Then there is a girl carrying a basket of wilted flowers. She is scuffing her feet along the pavement as though she has nowhere in particular to go. As I walk on, the streets grow busier. I pass an alehouse. A group of factory workers lean casually against the walls, their caps on the floor and pots of beer in their hands. There is colour everywhere now. In the bonnets and gowns of scurrying women and in the fruits and fancy goods piled up outside the shops.
I stop and listen to all the noises: the hum of voices, the rumble of wheels, the clatter of crates and doors. I turn this way and that, seeing everything, soaking it up, feeling the aliveness of it all. A trail of people walk by and turn the corner towards the town square. More follow, and before I know it, I am carried along with them, curious as to where they are all going.
In the far corner of the square there is a tight knot of people. There are all types: gentlemen in top hats, dour women in plain dress, merchants, hawkers, flower girls and a smattering of painted ladies. I hover on the fringes of the crowd and watch how each person finds their own spot, then stands still and listens. There is a voice coming from deep within the crowd, from someone that I cannot see. But everyone is listening intently, so I move closer so that I can hear too.
âTHE DAY OF JUDGEMENT IS ALMOST UPON US! THE LAMB OF GOD WILL WALK AMONGST YOU AND THE FAITHFUL WILL CLEANSE THEIR SOULS OF ALL EVIL!â
The voice is rich and powerful. I push my way forward, trying to catch a glimpse of who the voice belongs to. The crowd parts easily. Some are muttering under their breath and are already breaking away. There is a gap at the front, and I position myself between a young woman whose pale face is covered in a riot of freckles, and an older woman who has her
I dash out into the hallway, desperate for air. But it is, of course, all shadows and dark corners. Where can I go? Every room in the house is smothered and in gloom. The whole place is like a tomb. I look to the great double doors at the end of the hall, the ones that lead outside. I know I shouldnât, I know it is the bad Alice that wants to go outside. But I have no choice. If I donât leave this house now, I think I might die too.
I tug the door open and step out into the remains of the day. I walk down the steps, through the iron gates and out onto the pavement. The evening air is soft and warm and I swallow great mouthfuls of it. It has been so long since I have tasted fresh air, I am dizzy with the pleasure of it. I look around and see the street is empty. I should go back inside. My head tells me
that
is the right thing to do. But the thought of the darkness and the scent of roses and lavender, mingled with the stink of Papa and the heaviness of my guilt, is too much to bear. I find myself walking away from Lions House, listening to my boots slapping the ground. I come to the end of the street and I walk faster. A cab passes me on the road, sending up clouds of dust in its wake. The thick plod of horse hooves echo in my ears. Further on and there is a pair of gentlemen, strolling along deep in conversation. Then there is a girl carrying a basket of wilted flowers. She is scuffing her feet along the pavement as though she has nowhere in particular to go. As I walk on, the streets grow busier. I pass an alehouse. A group of factory workers lean casually against the walls, their caps on the floor and pots of beer in their hands. There is colour everywhere now. In the bonnets and gowns of scurrying women and in the fruits and fancy goods piled up outside the shops.
I stop and listen to all the noises: the hum of voices, the rumble of wheels, the clatter of crates and doors. I turn this way and that, seeing everything, soaking it up, feeling the aliveness of it all. A trail of people walk by and turn the corner towards the town square. More follow, and before I know it, I am carried along with them, curious as to where they are all going.
In the far corner of the square there is a tight knot of people. There are all types: gentlemen in top hats, dour women in plain dress, merchants, hawkers, flower girls and a smattering of painted ladies. I hover on the fringes of the crowd and watch how each person finds their own spot, then stands still and listens. There is a voice coming from deep within the crowd, from someone that I cannot see. But everyone is listening intently, so I move closer so that I can hear too.
âTHE DAY OF JUDGEMENT IS ALMOST UPON US! THE LAMB OF GOD WILL WALK AMONGST YOU AND THE FAITHFUL WILL CLEANSE THEIR SOULS OF ALL EVIL!â
The voice is rich and powerful. I push my way forward, trying to catch a glimpse of who the voice belongs to. The crowd parts easily. Some are muttering under their breath and are already breaking away. There is a gap at the front, and I position myself between a young woman whose pale face is covered in a riot of freckles, and an older woman who has her
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