David Mitchell - Slade House

I feel like I’m plunging upwards. What did I do to deserve this?

“What does ‘Deserve’ have to do with anything?” Norah Grayer lifts her sharp eyebrows. “Did the pig whose smoked flesh you ate at breakfast ‘deserve’ her fate? The question’s irrelevant. You desired bacon and she couldn’t escape the abbatoir. We desire your soul to power our Operandi, and you can’t escape our Lacuna. That’s it.”

Men who scare easily don’t last long in the Force, but now I’m scared as hell. Although religion always struck me as daft, suddenly it’s all I’ve got: If they’re soul-stealers, pray to God . How does it go? “Our Father …”

“Splendid idea,” says Jonah. “I’ll do you a deal, Detective. If you recite the Lord’s Prayer from start to finish — Book of Common Prayer version — you win a Get Out of Jail Free card. Go on. See how far you get.”

“This is juvenile, Brother,” sighs Norah.

“Fair’s fair, he should have a chance. On your marks, Plod; get set; ‘Our Father, which art in heaven …’ Go on.”

This Jonah’s a skunk and a snake, but I’ve got no choice. “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thou name—”

“Was that a ‘thou’ or a ‘thy’ you quoth?” asks Jonah.

I have to play this bastard’s game: I think, “Thy.”

“Bravo! Onwards, onwards. ‘Hallowed be thy name.’ ”

What’s next? “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and lead us not into temptation, and forgive us our trespassers, as we—”

“Ooooo! ‘Trespass ers ’ as in ‘Git orf my larrrnd!’ or ‘trespass es ’ as in ‘transgressions’? Former or latter? Person or act?”

Jesus, I want to glass his sodding face. I think, “The act.”

“Plod’s on a roll! Forgive us our trespasses … ”

“As we forgive those who … who … who …”

“What’s this? A thought-stutter or an owl impression?”

“Who trespass against us. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever, Amen.” I’ve done it. I look at him.

“You botched it, Plod. Alas, it’s ‘forgive them that trespass against us’ ; temptation comes after trespasses; and you forgot the ‘deliver us from evil’ bit. Ironically.”

I’m going to die.

I don’t want to die.

But I’m going to die.

“The point of that little interlude being …?” asks Norah.

“A sprinkle of last-minute despair gives a soul an agreeably earthy aftertaste. Ready when you are, Sister?”

Norah mutters “I’m always ready,” and the Grayer Twins begin tracing symbols in the air. They’re chanting, too, a chant in a language I don’t know, and something appears above the candle-flame, a bit above eye-level: a bruise in the air, a glowing lump, lit reddish from inside, beating like a heart, big as a brain. Worms or roots or veins snake out from it. Some grow towards the twins, and several come my way and I try to pull my head back or swat them away or even shriek or shut my eyes but I can’t; they enter my mouth, my ears, my nostrils, like sharp tiny fingers, and get to work inside me. I feel a drill-bit of pain in my forehead, and in the mirror I see a black dot there … Not blood. Seconds pass. Stuff oozes out and hovers there, a blob the size and shape of a golf ball, right in front of my eyes. It’s almost see-through, like gel, or egg-white, and filled with shiny grains of dust, or galaxies, or …

God, it’s beautiful.

Jesus, it shimmers.

It’s alive, it’s mine …

… the twins’ faces loom up, Jonah to my left, Norah to my right, smooth-skinned, hungry, pursing their lips like whistlers, sucking, so sharply, that my soul — what else could it be? — is slowly but surely stretched like Blu Tack. Half my soul streams like smoke into Norah’s mouth, and half into Jonah’s. I’d sob, if I could, or I’d say I’ll get you I’ll kill you I’ll make you pay, but I’m just the residue of Gordon Edmonds now. I’m his husk. I’m his flesh-and-skin suit. The twins gasp and let out soft groans like junkies shooting up when the drug hits their bloodstreams. Now there’s a rushing noise louder than the end of the world. Now it’s quiet like the morning after the end of the world. The floating brain-thing’s gone; its air-veins are gone too. Like nothing was ever there. The Grayer Twins kneel across the candle from each other, as still as the flame that never moves. The mirror’s empty. Look at the scorched tiny papery scrap. There, on the floorboard. The end of the moth.

“Five,” pronounces Axel Hardwick, Astrophysics postgrad, corduroy-clad, hair short, black and curly, real name “Alan” not “Axel,” but he thinks “Axel” makes him sound more Guns N’ Roses. Axel looks at us as if we ’re the ones who haven’t bothered turning up. “Some shrinkage is inevitable as the dead wood drops out, but a head-count of five, at this point in the term, is frankly dismal.” There’s a beery racket booming up the stairs from the main bar below and my mind sort of floats off, and I wonder if I’d have met more people if I’d joined the Photography Society in Freshers’ Week instead of the Paranormal Society, like I meant to. But then I wouldn’t have met Todd.

Todd Cosgrove, second year Maths, a shyish elfish guy, black coat, white T-shirt, maroon jeans, Camel boots, vice president of ParaSoc, fan of The Smiths. Across the table from me, Todd sips his Newcastle Brown Ale. His hair’s brown, too, like strong stewed tea. Todd lives with his parents here in town but he’s not creepy or helpless, he’s bright and kind and strong, so there’s probably a good reason. My mouth and brain seize up if I try to speak with him, but when I shut my eyes at night, he’s there. It’s crazy. But like every love song in the history of love songs says, love is crazy.

“The walk may have deterred some of the waverers,” opines Angelica Gibbons. Definitely more “Gibbons” than “Angelica,” she’s a second year studying Anthropology, has floppy indigo hair, Doc Martens, dresses like a fortune-teller, and is as big-boned as me. I thought we might be friends, but when we only scored 18 percent on the telepathy test she blamed me and said I had “no psychic potential whatsoever.” It was the way she said “whatsoever.”

Axel scowls. “The Fox and Hounds is a twenty-minute walk from campus. Tops. I refuse to eat into ParaSoc’s budget by laying on fleets of buses for a two-mile walk.” He starts spinning a beer mat. A leprechaun on an enameled Guinness ad over the fireplace catches my eye. He’s playing his fiddle for a dancing toucan.

“I completely agree, Axel,” says Angelica. “I’m just saying.”

“Maybe a gang of them are coming, but got lost en masse, like.” Lance Arnott, final year Philosophy, dandruff, Pink Floyd The Wall T-shirt, pongs of hamburgers. Lance made a pass at me at the Roman ruins at Silchester. Frightmare on Elm Street or what? I lied about a boyfriend in Malvern, but he thinks I’m just playing hard to get. He turns to Fern: “Where’s that mate of yours this week, Ferny?”

Fern Penhaligon, first year like me but doing Drama, Rapunzel hair, model slim, Cornish-born, Chelsea-bred, Alexander McQueen jeans, Union Jack parka and here to “research the supernatural” for a stage version of Ghost that she’s starring in, curls her lip. “It’s ‘Fern’; and which ‘mate’ do you mean?” She sips the Cointreau she let Lance buy her, but he’s a bigger dick than he acts if he thinks he’s in with a chance.