Read Online The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin by Alan Shea - Free Book Online Page A

like he owns the place. Sniffs around. Sees an old piece of paper on the floor. Pushes it with his nose. Looks for a minute like he’s trying to read it. Then changes his mind and starts growling at it.
    Reggie ducks in. Sits down. Looks over my shoulder, which I hate.
    â€˜W-what’s it about?’
    â€˜Sherlock Holmes. He’s this—’
    â€˜I know. Famous d-detective. I like him too. I know all his adventures.’
    â€˜Well, you don’t know this one, ’cos I’m making it up.’
    â€˜Want to go over the p-park?’
    â€˜No, I think I’ll stay and do my play. I’m getting into it now.’
    â€˜Come on, it’s n-nice out.’
    â€˜No. I wanna get this done.’
    â€˜Come on, you can tell m-me all about the play on the way. I’ve got some money. I’ll buy you an ice lolly if you like.’
    â€˜That’s bribery.’
    â€˜So?’
    Oh well, we’ve all got our weaknesses. I put my stuff away in my biscuit tin. Touch the girl on the swing for good luck. I’ve made a little secret space where I hide it. You never know when the Spicers are going to come snooping around.
    Outside the sun is showing off, splashing warm on the streets. I’m glad spring is here, it’s my favourite time of the year. It’s like everything is waking up again, getting ready for a new start. There are still puddles left over from yesterday’s rain.
    We stop to make mud balls. Throw them at the side of a building. Flash runs after them like he’s some great retriever dog, leaps into the air barking. Some of the mud balls stick, some splatter into goo and slide slowly down the wall in disgustingly beautiful patterns. It’s really babyish, but that’s the kind of thing we do. Best thing is, we don’t care.
    I tell Reggie about my play as we leave Hawkins Street, turn right into Sidney Street, over Mile End Road, and head for Vicky Park. Reggie’s got Flash on a piece of string because of the traffic. Flash likes string, but not when it’s tied to his collar. Every now and then he stops and tries to pull it off.
    The walk is long and warm. We cross Mile End Road to Mr Giovanni’s sweet shop, stop for a rest and admire the view. In the window, alongside the sleeping tabby cat, colours clash and riot in sweet jars – row upon row ofthem, marching into the distance – liquorice curls, aniseed twists, saucers fly, powered by sherbet. The smell of cough candy beckons us with a sly finger. Winter warmers wait to heat tongues.
    We go in. Mr Giovanni is Italian, and sing-songs his words as if they were poetry. His face is a gob-stopper, multi-coloured. His chins are jellies. He makes the best ice cream in the world. And his own drinks and ice lollies. One bottle keeps you going all day. You can burp for ever on his raspberryade. It bubbles on your tongue and cascades into flavour down your throat.
    Some time ago he came up with a new idea. When he makes a batch of ice lollies he writes a number on one of the sticks. You can’t see it until you’ve eaten the lolly, because it’s covered by the ice. If you get the stick with the number on it you can exchange it for a prize – anything you want in the whole shop!
    â€˜If I ever w-win I’d have that jar of cough candy.’
    â€˜Why? You ain’t got a cough.’
    â€˜Or a jar of those p-pineapple cubes.’
    â€˜If I ever win, I’ll have the box of chocolates in the window.’
    The box has a yellow ribbon around it, tied in a big bow.
    On the lid is a picture. I love this picture – it’s an old thatched cottage in a country lane. It’s summer, the windows of the cottage have beautiful little squared panes of glass in them, and the sun, bright as a newly mintedpenny, winks back its light from the windows. The front garden is full of flowers. There’s a washing line flying kites of clothes, and you can just see the back