The Book: Chapter 30

They sat at Alice’s kitchen table with the book. After the shock of the night before, they’d driven to her house because neither of them wanted to be at Mick’s. They knew it didn’t matter where they were or if the book was with them. It could dangle them at will. The supernatural craziness had left them raw and frightened and they wanted to be together, not least for the concept of safety in numbers. Alice felt stronger with him around.

The horror clung to them like a putrid algae riding their fear. She’d tried everything—burning the book, throwing it away, ignoring it—but it always came back. It dictated every event and twisted reality to suit its narrative. But what if they could change that? Instead of being at its mercy, they had to find a way to take control.

It was Mick’s idea. He asked if she’d ever tried writing in the book.

She hadn’t. The book was the antipathies of sacrosanct and it felt like she’d be breaking a great taboo if she dared deface it. His idea made her nervous but she was desperate enough to try anything. She picked up a pen, her fingers hovering over the margin and the paper was warm, anticipating her next move.  Go on. I dare you. As an experiment, they’d decided to start with something small to see if they could alter future events from their written words.

Alice wrote: On the way to work, Alice will see a black cat.

She shut the book. It was an innocent test. If they could influence a minor event, maybe they could do more.

On her drive to the hospital, she kept her eye on the pavement, scanning for any sign of a cat and soon felt foolish. She’d let her imagination run away with her and had given the book too much credit.

A movement in the road made her slam on the brakes. A sleek black cat darted in front of the car ahead of her. The vehicle swerved, but it couldn’t stop in time.

There was a sickening thud.

Alice gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as the car in front hit the cat head-on. It incurred terrible damage and Alice was sure it had been killed on impact, but she would never forget the nerves and muscle memory making the cat flip-flop on the road like a fish. Its limp body tumbled in the road until it stopped moving.

Their experiment had worked. But not in the way Alice expected.

Guilt and overwhelming sadness made her cry. She’d willed this into existence. She wrote it, and the book answered her request—but on its terms. It always had the last laugh.

If she’d been more specific this would have been different. If she’d just been clearer. She had to think like the book.

A dangerous thought germinated. She had written history and altered fate. It was a mind-blowing revelation. With the book, Alice owned an egotist’s dream—she carried Pandora’s Box in her bag. She could change the world. That terrible thought and the poor dead cat made her ill. She amended the concept. She could change her immediate world, and only as much as needed to keep those around her safe. She would never abuse this power.  She just needed to be clever.

At work, she skimmed through the next chapter. She’d learnt the hard way that the predictions were never straightforward. Most entries had a cruel edge and a dire inevitability.

She read in horror. The chapter was set in a general hospital identical to The Lady of the North. The names of some of the oncology staff had been changed but often only by a single letter, and sometimes not at all. Alice sensed a trap because the main character in the chapter was also named. It was too straightforward.

Mrs Marlene Corman, aged seventy-four, received a devastating diagnosis today. Her body has withered under the grip of an aggressive cancer, and, as expected, her final days will be spent in unbearable agony.

Alice’s stomach clenched. She accessed the hospital’s database and searched for inpatients in the oncology ward. Her blood ran cold when she saw the name Marlene Corman with a date of birth that made her seventy-four. The name was familiar and as she cast her mind back she realised she knew Mrs Corman. She was a kind woman who bought chocolates for the nurses and still painted her nails scarlet even in her old age. She didn’t deserve this. Nobody did.

Alice needed to be precise in what she asked. She grabbed her pen and wrote in the margin:

Don’t let Mrs Corman suffer in prolonged agony during her final hours. At this stage, her diagnosis is palliative, so I’m not asking for a miracle. But please make her comfortable during this end-of-life phase.

She stared at the words, willing them to make a difference. The book had listened to her before. If she could rewrite fate, and if she could outthink it, she could save lives. It was a huge thing.

She thought about Rosalina Espinal and how she’d been accused of using voodoo potions on her patients. Didn’t this amount to the same thing? She pushed the thought away and cursed the book for landing it. 

During her break, she felt compelled to visit oncology. A hush had settled over the ward and Alice knew something was wrong the second she opened the door. The nurses spoke in hushed tones and Alice’s stomach turned over before she even asked.

‘I’m here to see, Mrs Corman. How is she?’

Nurse Patel took her elbow preparing her for a shock. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Grant. Marlene passed away this morning.’

The expression on the nurse’s face told Alice that this was no ordinary death. Nurse Patel imparted the same news to dozens of loved ones every week—she had the correct tone and the right words, but her delivery was off. The expression on her face said awful things. Alice’s knees buckled. ‘What are you not telling me?’

Patel hesitated. ‘It wasn’t the cancer.’

‘Alice saw the cat’s body flip-flopping in the gutter like the fish out of a Christmas cracker that curls in on itself with the heat of a person’s palm—supposedly predicting the person’s mood. This would have had the fish flipping out of control. The same way the brain-damaged cat had contorted as death took it. ‘What happened?’ Her voice came out in a squeak, it didn’t belong to her. And she was annoyed for asking. She didn’t want to know.  

‘I guess she made her own choices.’ Patel touched Alice’s elbow again. It was patronising. And the damned nurse just kept on talking. Alice wanted to shut her up.

‘She climbed onto the ledge and jumped. We don’t know why. She’d never given any indication of being suicidal. There’ll be an investigation, of course.’

Alice’s world tilted. She felt light-headed and stumbled. Patel led her to a chair and told a care assistant to bring her some sweet tea. Alice didn’t like tea, but she didn’t object.

Marlene didn’t suffer long, just like she’d asked. But she died horribly. And Alice killed her.

The horror settled in Alice’s bones as she pulled the book from her bag with obsessive fingers. She trembled as she flipped through the pages until she reached the latest chapter:

The Twist.

Her breath caught as she read the first lines:

Some people think they can cheat fate. They think they’re clever. But fate always finds a way.

Mrs Corman was supposed to die. Hers should have been a slow death. A painful end awaited her as she writhed on a morphine tide. But somebody intervened on her behalf. Someone begged for a different ending. I aim to please. Fly little Corman. Fly.

Alice needed to throw up but she controlled herself.

Marlene had cheated death the only way she could—by throwing herself from the window. Did she jump? Alice hadn’t cheated the book.

It was that rung higher and still sitting on her upturned face. It played, revealing some things and misleading her with others.

I don’t grant favours.

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