The Reckoning of Alice Jones

Little after having an eventful visit to the Waeringshire town of Cygninia, and renowned archaeologist Alice Jones was back, this time promoting her book at the prestigious Literary Festival.

Except she didn’t know how she got there.

The last she remembered, it was early August, and yet somehow here she was midway through an interview in early October.

She managed to hide the fact that a large chunk in the shape of the past couple of months was missing from her memory and the fact she was disturbed by it, as she answered the questions given to her by the moderator and the audience.

Eventually, there was rapturous applause, and it was time for Alice to sign copious copies of her latest book.

She felt very weird as she made her way towards the signing table, almost as if she was floating on air.

Nevertheless, she smiled at the various attendees as she signed their copy of her tome.

Strangely, most of them comprised celebrities she had never met and yet was very close friends with and non-famous people she knew, who had come to visit her despite losing contact with her many moons ago or being dead, even though Alice accepted wholeheartedly that they were not.

Alice gave the next person in the queue her book, and sat back.

“Alice Jones,” a man said, propelling her forward over the table and grabbing her pen.

She gazed upwards and found a middle-aged man gazing back at her, smiling warmly.

Alice grinned at the man and laughed. “Hi, sorry, just over a decade of being in the public eye and still haven’t got over the weirdness of a stranger knowing my name.”

Not that she had a problem with it, of course; it was nice to meet someone she didn’t know already.

The man offered her a hand, and she shook it.

“I’m Pete. I work with a travelling circus as a clown,” he said, before tapping one of Alice’s hardbacks. “Your book sounds fascinating.”

“Thanks,” Alice said, sliding a book towards herself so she could sign it. “I thought the excavation of graves and its consequences were in dire need of being explored in a book.”

Pete tilted his head and wrinkled his brow. “You excavated Francis Cranmer’s grave here, not so long ago. I remember.”

“Yeah, I did,” Alice said, pushing the book over to Pete, who placed it in his bag. “It’s funny, in my head I’d only just got back home, and yet here I am again!”

“Yes, that sort of thing tends to happen, doesn’t it?” Pete said.

Alice signed several more copies of her book and handed them to their new owners.

“I’d very much love to look at Cranmer’s original manuscripts, if you have them to hand,” Pete said, staring uncomfortably at Alice.

Alice adjusted her collar and smiled. “Sorry, I reburied them with their author. If you wanna see them, you’re gonna have to dig him up again.”

“Oh no, I know they’re in your possession,” Pete said, pointing at the archaeologist's leather satchel. “They’re currently in your bag.”

Alice’s face turned pallid, and her skin began to glisten with sweat.

She glanced at her satchel as she brushed off the sweat from her forehead.

Alice turned back around to Pete and laughed awkwardly. “How do you know what’s in there? The zip’s closed.”

Pete shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I have a hunch, and also you seem scared by the idea of someone knowing your secret.”

Alice wiped her clammy hands on her jeans, hoping Pete couldn’t see her. “You’re mistaken. I left Cranmer’s grave exactly as it was when I found it.”

The clown sifted through his own shoulder bag and brought out an ancient stick.

“This is an original 18th-century baton which belonged to my former ringmaster,” Pete said, twirling it through his hands. “It was a family heirloom of his, inherited over ten generations.”

Alice’s eyes dilated as she leant over the table, examining the stick. “That’s fascinating. I’d love to study it.”

Pete handed the baton to Alice. “It’s yours if you wish.”

But before the archaeologist could get a hold of it, the circus performer snatched it away. “In exchange for Cranmer’s original manuscripts.”

Alice wrinkled her forehead. “No. What good would several reams of old paper be for a clown?”

“This would be for my private collection,” Pete said. “I believe all good favours should be repaid adequately.”

Alice’s lips and chin began to tremble. “I can’t. I… I haven’t studied them yet.”

Pete sneered and raised an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting to having the scripts in your possession.”

Water reached Alice’s tear ducts as she grabbed her satchel and held it tightly. “Cygninia will benefit from my research. They could put on an exhibition revealing new information about their famous son.”

Pete sighed. “If you want to keep the manuscripts, then fine. But I’m keeping the baton.”

“No!” Alice said, reaching out to Pete as he placed the baton into his bag. “Why can’t I keep both?”

Pete cackled. “What, and leave me with nothing?”

“You have a copy of my book, don’t you?” Alice said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Yes,” Pete said, tapping the hefty slab in his bag. “But I paid for it. The baton would be a new transaction.”

Alice’s face trembled as tears streamed down her face.

She glanced at the other people around the room, hoping they hadn’t noticed her moment of distress, but they were just blurs in the background.

Alice gazed down at her knees. “What is happening?” She said to herself.

Pete bowed at Alice. “Good day to you, ma’am,” and merged through the crowds.

Alice peered upwards and clocked Pete vacating the scene, the only person in focus in a sea of hazy figures.

She grabbed her satchel and ran over to him.

“Wait! Wait!” Alice said, running towards the circus performer and sliding in front of him.

Pete ground to a halt, and gawped at Alice.

“Fine, if you want the manuscripts, take them,” Alice said, whipping the crumpled sheets from her bag and shoving them into Pete’s face. “Just give me the baton, please.”

Pete leered at Alice. “Very well. I’m glad you came around.”

He retrieved the baton from his bag and handed it to Alice.

Alice felt her cheeks burn as she watched Pete stuff the plays into his bag.

She stepped aside, pulling her arms and legs close to her chest, as Pete swaggered past her and out of the hotel.

Alice dropped her head to her chest, and flung the baton into her bag.

She covered her eyes with her fringe, and stumbled over to the wall.

Alice slid her back down it until she landed on the floor, and curled up into a ball.

She cried there for goodness knows when, whilst the blurry figures glided past her.

But then her whole world went dark and black, and all she heard was her phone’s alarm.

Alice sat up in bed with a start and hyperventilated.

She glanced around her tasteful, grey bedroom, already feeling more alive and real than she had at the hotel.

Her husband, noted historian Ben Jones, groaned next to her as he turned in the bed.

Alice grabbed her phone and turned off the alarm.

As she did so, she clocked the date: Monday, 17th August. The Cygninia Literary Festival was still over two months away.

Alice leaned back against her headboard, gazed at the ceiling, closed her eyes, and sighed. It was only a dream.

The sound of the sea gently crashing against the shore and cliff face finally reached her ears, accompanied by the calls of Seagulls flying overhead.

She glanced at her curtains, a square of bright light seeping around them.

A smile appeared on her face as she leapt out of bed and rushed over to the window.

Alice whisked the curtains open and gazed at the view.

The waves of the Atlantikoi ocean gently rose and fell outside her window, as they reliably did every morning.

A wistful smile appeared on her face as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She loved waking up to the sea every morning, but was especially grateful to see it this morning.

Alice rubbed her hands, looking forward to doing her usual morning stroll along the cliff tops overlooking her village of Porthysek.

But then something called to her in her subconscious.

She slowly turned round and gazed at her chest of drawers.

Alice ran over to them and tentatively opened the top drawer.

Inside were Francis Cranmer’s original manuscripts; they were still in her possession.

She laughed shakily as she observed the sepia reams safely concealed in the receptacle.

Alice’s laugh was very similar to that of a Kookaburra, so naturally the inevitable happened.

“Good morning, dear,” Ben said behind her.

Alice shut up and turned round to see her husband staring at her.

She smiled at him. “Morning, babe!”

The historian groaned as he shifted out of bed. “It’s good to see you’ve fully recovered from your illness.”

Alice’s eyes widened; she’d forgotten about the awful recurring migraine she’d had for the past fortnight, and rubbed her head.

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “I’ve never felt better.”

“Is there a particular reason for your impromptu jollity?” Ben said, sleepily creaking open the bedroom door.

“Not really,” Alice said, giggling slightly. “I’m just really happy to be awake.”

“I see,” Ben said, raising an eyebrow. “I hadn’t realised the chances of you not surviving the night were particularly high.”

Alice buckled over, howling. “No, no. I just had a really funky dream last night; I’m just so happy it was just a dream.”

Ben grimaced at his wife. “Clearly your Lucid Dreaming course is not as effective as you originally thought.”

Alice's grin shrank into a small line as she gawped at Ben.

“These things take time,” she said, hugging herself. “I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.”

Ben egressed the room, but not before poking his head round the door one more time. “I hope you’ll enlighten me on your eventful dream over breakfast.”

Alice’s smirk made a swift return. “Of course, babe, I’d love to.”

Ben nodded before departing to the bathroom.

Alice fist pumped the air and cheered, before jogging out of the room herself.

And so the original manuscripts belonging to renowned playwright Francis Cranmer remained hidden in the Jones' top bedroom door in their small cottage in Porthysek. For the moment, they remained the only people in the world who knew they were there.

As for how long that will stay the case, it remains to be seen.