The Trouble with Alice

by Olivia Glazebrook

Genres: Literary Fiction; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

The Trouble with Alice is a beautifully written tale of two people thrown in at the emotional deep end, struggling to find a way back in the aftermath of tragedy. With poignancy and humour, and a keen understanding of human frailty, Olivia Glazebrook unwinds the conventions of a love story. She speaks of compassion and renewal.

Release date: April 19, 2011

Publisher: Octopus

Print pages: 304

Sample

Through the yellow air the car fell, and then out of the sunlight and into the shade of the mountain. In the air it turned over, catching the light with a glint and a flash before – bang – it hit the ground and careered the rest of the way down the stony hill on its roof.


It continued to make a sound like something being torn in half as it skidded down the side of the valley but in the end, with a crump, the rear end hit the bottom of the hill, and it stopped dead.

Then there was silence again, and everything was as it had been before in the empty desert valley except for the addition of a Mercedes-Benz 5-door saloon, lying as helpless as an upturned turtle. Its wheels pointed skywards; its grey underbelly was bared; it lay half propped at an acute angle. Its boot was wedged into the ground and its bonnet pointed up towards the twisting mountain road from which it had tumbled.


Nothing moved. For a moment nothing stirred. Then came the sound of something – someone – scratching; scrabbling to get out. The front passenger door opened and a man fell on to the dirt limb by limb like a contortionist from a box, struggling with the seatbelt and the heavy car door which slammed behind him when finally he slumped on to the pink dust. He lay there coughing, then he tried to stand but instead slid on his back down the remainder of the slope to the flat ground. For a moment he was still, his shirt all rucked up round his ribs. Then he turned over on to his hands and knees and straightened up inch by inch, testing his legs and using the car to support himself. He stood. With a gentle hand he cupped one ear and shook his head.


On the other side of the car a second man emerged: the driver. He dropped out on to his backside and slid straight down to the ground. His eyes were wide; he trembled all over as he too attempted to stand. His knees buckled and he had to lean on the car. He was too shocked to speak.

The first man turned on him and shouted, ‘You bloody little man, Karim! What have you done?’ Then he started coughing again.

‘Mr Kit, I’m so sorry, sir, I…’ Karim spread his quivering hands, upturned, in a gesture of helplessness. Then his eyes darted to the car and said, ‘What about the lady?’


Kit looked at him, stupid for a moment, and then said, ‘I don’t know, Karim, Christ! I don’t know.’ He turned to the car and pulled at the back door, but it would not open. He tugged at the handle again, saying, ‘Alice? Alice? Can you hear me?’ He crouched beside the window, tapping on it, pressing his face on the tinted glass. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said. He dragged himself up the dirt slope, wrenched open the front door and crawled back into the seat – now an upside-down cavity – from which he had emerged. As he got into the car the door fell shut on to his legs and he let out a yelp of frustration before peering into the back of the car and pleading, ‘Alice?’


There was no reply, just silence, and whether it was a live silence or a dead one he could not tell.

‘Oh God, oh Christ, Alice, Alice,’ said Kit, getting back out of the car, slipping over, standing up again, pulling at the back door, begging it – ‘Please, please,’ – thumping it, and eventually smacking the window with the flat of his hand. Then he slid down the slope and dragged himself up the other side of the car to tug at the back door on the driver’s side. It too remained sealed. Abandoning it, he wriggled into the car again via the front and crawled between the seats into the back.


Inside the Mercedes it was hot, dark and quiet. There was a stink of fuel and burned grit that seemed to cut at the inside of Kit’s throat. Across the back of the car, wedged between the roof and the rear headrests and looking like a bundle of clothes, was Alice. It seemed too small to be her, Kit thought. She was folded up, her neck and shoulders pressed against the quarterlight window. Kit could not see her face or any part of her head, just her hair, which made him feel a surge of panic. She faced the back door, away from him, and she was quite motionless – beyond motionless, in fact: she was as still and quiet as a fly trussed in a web.

Kit saw that he could not get her out without tugging at her and unfolding her from her little bundle. He did not think it wise to pull at her shoulders from behind in case she had broken her neck. Instead, he flipped at the door handles with his fingers and then touched her shoulders, her back and her calves with his fingertips, imagining that she might turn her head and laugh, What are you doing, my love?


Between her shirt and her shorts a little bit of the bare skin of her back was revealed. Kit pressed his fingertips against it, as if he had never touched her before. He thought, This will tell me whether she is alive or dead. Surely if she were dead I would be able to tell? Surely that was a little beat, a pulse, that he could feel beneath his fingertips?


He let out a sob, ‘Oh, please, Alice…’ But she did not move. He was struck by panic and claustrophobia. He scrabbled backwards out of the car again and slipped down to the ground.

Karim was half sitting on the upturned back end of the car, fingering a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. Kit rounded on him, snarling, ‘Don’t you dare!’ Karim stared at him and Kit held his tongue and caught his breath. What if I need this man to get out of here? he thought. He spread his hands and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry but there might be fuel around… We don’t know… Let me think for a minute.’


Karim said nothing, but he put the cigarette back in his pocket. Kit rubbed his head and then asked, ‘Where’s your telephone?’

Without speaking, Karim opened the driver’s door and rummaged about in the front of the car. He re-emerged with a mobile phone and held it up, frowning at the screen: ‘No signal.’ He and Kit both looked up with intimidated faces at the dishevelled, rocky slopes which surrounded them.


They had ended up at the bottom of a little valley, one amongst a thousand, perhaps, or ten thousand, in their surroundings. From the air this landscape would look like a scrumpled brown paper bag or an unmade bed, for it is desert, and featureless but for its contours: steep-sided troughs, shaded now in the afternoon, and sharp-edged, red peaks.

The Mercedes had been descending a road which twists through the mountains that lie between Wadi Musa, where the ancient city of Petra is, and the flat, wide valley, Wadi Araba, which contains the Dead Sea. Kit recalled, with a mounting sense of alarm, that their narrow road had had neither markings nor signposts; that only one or two cars had passed them; that they had not driven through any villages since they had left the outskirts of Wadi Musa.

The accident had happened in a second. Heading westwards with the sun shining into his eyes, Karim’s attention had been diverted by his mobile phone. He wanted to send a text message: the screen had told him he had no signal but he repeatedly pressed the ‘send’ button, his eyes flicking from phone to windscreen and back. Kit had been asleep in the passenger seat and Alice, feeling sick, had been lying down across the back. She had been staring, with eyes dulled by nausea, at the ceiling of the car. Neither had seen Karim look up from his phone (clasped between his hands on the steering wheel) to find a tight corner close in front of him, closer than he liked. They had been alerted by his exclamation, and by his violent – too violent – tug at the steering wheel. The car had slipped – you could not even have called it a skid – on the loose surface as they were wrenched away from the corner. Karim, cursing again, had swung the wheel the other way and that had been enough to send them gliding towards the edge of the road. Kit woke with a start, thrown against the passenger door, and glanced sideways at Karim in alarm. Alice had said ‘Oh!’ in a surprised voice, and attempted to sit up in the back, to steady herself with a hand on the headrest in front of her. Karim tried to correct his steering for the third time, plucking with panicking hands, but one of the car’s back tyres drifted off the edge of the road and the car dipped; hung backwards; tilted, and then tipped. One wheel over the edge became two.


Alice had clutched in terror at the empty air of the interior; Kit had turned his head towards her. The slip had turned into a spin and then the car had turned over in the air – quite slowly, to those within, but to an observer (if there had been one) it would have happened in a glimpse, a flash of metal – before hitting the ground with its roof, bang, and then circling, sledging, skidding and sliding one, two, three hundred feet down the rocky slopes until it could go no further.

 

‘Karim,’ said Kit, squinting up at the hillside above them, ‘you’ll have to go up there, somewhere, and phone for help. Alice is pregnant. We can’t move her; we have to get a doctor here. She might be bleeding internally, or something, I don’t know…’

‘Yes.’

‘Find someone, phone for help, something. I can’t leave her. She might wake up. And then wait, wait on the road, so you can show them where to come. Don’t go anywhere.’


‘OK, yes.’

But he continued to stand there, not doing anything, not moving.

‘Karim! Go!’

‘OK, I’ll go,’ Karim said. But he hesitated, and then said, ‘But maybe, maybe you should go? And leave me here? You can stop a car up there, on the road –’

‘Fucking well do as I say!’ shouted Kit. ‘Get up that fucking mountain! Do you think I’m going to leave her here, with you, alone? After what you’ve done already? What if she wakes up? What if she dies?’ His voice was feeble in that wide open space.

Karim said nothing more, but turned to the hill and started trying to walk up it. It was hard going: the slope was covered with loose scree, and there was nothing to hold on to. Within a few moments he was drenched in sweat.

From beneath, Kit watched Karim’s slow progress up the stony hill, seeing his shirt turn translucent with sweat and cling to him in patches. Kit felt rage suffuse him from his toes to his fingertips as he stood and watched each hobbling step the other man took. For every step up, Karim slipped back down half as far. The only sound, the diminishing scrape of Karim’s sham Italian loafers sliding downwards on the stony ground, tormented Kit.

Sweat trickled down his ribs, out of his hair and into his eyes. Silence engulfed him like a dense fog. He swallowed and for nothing more than the comfort of the sound of his own voice called up: ‘Don’t forget where we are! Don’t go too far away!’


Karim either did not hear or took no notice (That bloody man, thought Kit with savagery,) but continued his dogged struggle up the valley wall, his head bent with purpose to his labour, his fingertips clutching at the dirt.


 

With Karim out of sight, Kit felt more alone, somehow, than if Alice had not been there at all. At present she inhabited a different world, and he envied her.

He turned and looked at the car. ‘Alice, you’ve got to wake up,’ he muttered, but he realised as he said it that in fact it would be better if she didn’t, until help had arrived. To regain consciousness trapped in that place would terrify her. And the baby… how could it survive such a thing? Kit swallowed. He had no idea what to do now. He looked at the sky, the ground and his shaking hands, and then pulled open the car door again and wriggled back inside.

The door wouldn’t stay open. It kept falling shut on to his shoulders and then on to his legs, which for some reason made him angrier than almost anything else. He wanted to tear it from its hinges and hurl it into space.

‘Alice? Can you hear me?’ he whispered. Something in the car was clicking, or ticking, and then it stopped. ‘Alice?’ he said again. He licked his lips. ‘Please? Come back.’

He got out of the car and slipped to the ground beside it. What the hell was he going to do now? Dear God, he thought, I’ll do anything if you’ll get me out of this, I really will; I promise I’ll never do anything bad. To his surprise tears burst from his eyes. He shut his mouth tight and rubbed at his eyebrows with his fingers, frowning to make himself stop crying. ‘Please make sure she’s OK,’ he said. ‘Please.’


Panic ignited in his chest and although he tried to smother it, taking deep breaths, tears squeezed from his creased-up eyes and refused to stop. He gasped and clutched for breath; his mind leapt and plunged like a Geiger counter. He tried to level it by steadying his thoughts: how could he get her out? How could he wake her up? To get help, to get her out of the car, to get her to a hospital, and to get both (no: the three of them, including the baby) home? A terrifying and insurmountable challenge! The difficulty of it! How could it be possible? Thoughts scorched across the surface of his mind and he tried to beat them back but he was overwhelmed and so he gave up and sobbed with his mouth hanging open, his hands over his face, and spit and snot spooling into his fingers.


Then he stopped and rubbed his face with his shirt, and stood up. ‘I must be practical,’ he said aloud, wiping his fingers on his trousers and passing a hand over his face and head.

Karim must have got back to the road by now. Once there, he would telephone for help. How long would it take to arrive? An hour? Two? Kit felt panic clutch him again as he wondered how they would get her out, when they came… How would they get a stretcher down to the car from the road…? Calm, calm, be calm, he told himself. He looked around to see if there might be another way into their valley, a way that a car could take, but it seemed to be a neat, enclosed bowl. When will it get dark? he wondered. He looked at his watch: five o’clock.


Seeing the watch face seemed to root his experience in an undeniable, appalling present, and fear fluttered inside him. He could tell by the softening light that the sun was beginning to set; he could feel on his bare arms the temperature begin to cool. His sweater was in the car boot: unless he could turn the car back on to its wheels it might as well be on the moon for all the use it could be to him.


He thought to himself, It all comes down to Karim. Then he thought, Perhaps Karim will not come back.


This thought set off another blaze of panic and he tried in desperation to put it out, but again his mind was alight and leaping. What then? he thought. What if I have to spend the night here? Here in the car, with Alice unconscious? And what if she dies? ‘No, no, no,’ he said, rubbing his head and pacing the dirt.


There had to be a point at which it became acceptable to leave Alice here and climb up to the road to find help. He could not sit here in the car through a long, dark night, not doing anything, not knowing whether Alice would live or die, and perhaps have her die right next to him. He could not.

Amongst his feelings of terror, panic and distress, Kit had room to feel astonished that something quite so dramatic, so impossible, so wrong could have happened. They were on a weekend break, for heaven’s sake, a last-minute dash to the sun. Moments before, they had been looking forward to two nights at a plush hotel on the Dead Sea, having spent the two previous nights at Petra.


And now Kit was at the centre of a nightmare, a nightmare of untold proportions, with no knowable conclusion. If they survived, and the baby too, they would tell the story to their friends, sitting around their kitchen tables with wine and cigarettes, and everyone would say, ‘My God, you were so lucky.’


If they survived. If. The word struck like a clock in a dark hall.

To distract himself, Kit hurried his thoughts along. So: it was five o’clock. If Karim did not appear again soon, in an hour perhaps, Kit decided he would climb out of the valley and up to the road. He would have to go before the landscape was plunged into a purple darkness, when he was able still to see his way.

Glad of a plan (of some description at least) Kit exhaled and put back his shoulders. Then he climbed back into the car and crouched there.


It was very hot and uncomfortable, and the air was sour. He held his breath and listened for Alice’s breathing. He thought he could hear it, very faint, as if she were in a deep sleep. If he could have silenced the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears, then he might have been able to hear her better. He tried to remember everything he had ever learned about first aid but he was distracted by a raging thirst and by the idea that there might be something to drink in the glove box.


He had meant to get more water when they stopped for lunch, but the hotel had seemed so near. ‘We’ll be there in two and a half hours,’ Alice had said. ‘Karim told me.’

Kit had thought, Well, that’s no time at all. I’ll wait, and have a proper drink at the hotel.


 

He fiddled with the catch of the glove compartment until it flipped open and everything inside fell on top of him: a can of Coke (full), two water bottles (empty), a Bic lighter (green) and several packs of Marlboro (red).


Kit picked up the can of Coke and unwrapped one of the packets of Marlboro. He inhaled the smell of fresh cigarettes and said aloud, ‘Sorry, Alice.’

He imagined what she would have said: ‘Oh, Kit, you are hopeless… You don’t really want one, do you?’ It was almost as if she had spoken.

He took a cigarette from the pack, got out of the car and used the empty water bottles to prop the door open. He walked twenty feet away and crouched on his haunches in the pink and white d. . .