David Mitchell - Slade House

“In yet another curious twist”—Axel sips his beer—“Slade House turned out to be just as elusive as Chloe Chetwynd.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” says Lance. “The house disappeared?”

“Big stone houses,” says Fern, “don’t nor mally melt into the fog.”

Axel sniffs. “Last time I looked, we’re the Para normal Society.”

Down in the bar a fruit machine vomits out a slug of coins.

“Proper X-File, this is,” says Lance, teetering on his chair.

“What if,” proposes Fern, “Gordon Edmonds made Slade House up in his notes — and invented Chloe Chetwynd, too?”

“Why would he risk telling such a flimsy lie?” asks Angelica.

“No idea,” asserts Fern. “Nervous breakdown? Serial fantasist? Who knows? But which is likelier, people, really: fabricated police records or a house going poofff, in violation of the laws of physics?”

“What did that security contractor guy say?” asks Todd.

Axel’s pretending not to enjoy this but he is. “He swore blind that nobody ever contacted him about a Slade House: neither a Chloe Chetwynd, nor Detective Edmonds.”

“Murderers have been known to lie,” says Angelica.

“CID investigated him,” says Axel, “and every locksmith, builder, whatever, in the area too — and found zilch, nada, niente, sod all. Nobody had worked at any ‘Slade House’ in, or near, Westwood Road.”

Todd asks, “Was any Slade Alley connection made between Gordon Edmonds’ disappearance in 1988 and the Bishops’ disappearance in 1979?”

Axel shakes his head. “The factoid was suppressed. The cops didn’t want Slade Alley to become a magnet for true-crime nuts.”

“Typical of the fascist pigs to repress the truth,” says Angelica.

I’d like to ask Angelica how safe she thinks she’d be in a society without any police at all, but I don’t have the nerve. Todd asks, “How did you link the two disappearances, Axel?”

“An informant brought it to my attention,” Axel looks a bit cagey, “and suggested that ParaSoc take a closer look.”

“What informant?” Lance picks his nose and deposits his bogie under the table. I may be fat but he’s repulsive.

“An uncle of mine,” admits Axel, after a short pause. “Fred Pink.”

“Fred Pink’s your uncle ?” Angelica gapes. “No shit! The window-cleaner in the coma? But you’re a Hardwick, not a Pink.”

“Fred Pink’s my mother’s brother. My mother is Hardwick née Pink. Slade Alley is Fred’s obsession, I’m sorry to say.”

“Why ‘sorry’?” asks Fern, the question I wanted to ask.

Axel wrinkles his mouth. “Uncle Fred feels … Oh, ‘chosen.’ ”

“Chosen for what?” presses Fern. “By whom?”

Axel shrugs. “Chosen to find out the truth about Slade House. He had a hard time adjusting to real life after his nine years in a coma, and he’s, uh, in care now. Out beyond Slough. In a … unit.”

“Too bloody brilliant,” declares Lance, holding up a palm to indicate he’s about to belch; and he belches. “All the supernatural yarns need a realist explanation and a supernatural one. Like, is the hero really seeing ghosts, or is he having a thermonuclear breakdown? I love this case. I’m in, Ax.”

“The more the merrier,” says Axel, unmerrily.

Angelica sips her pale ale. “It’s an intriguing case study — but how are the six of us s’posed to find this Slade House and all these missing people when like a ga zill ion cops failed?”

“The question’s not how,” says Axel, “it’s when. Look at the dates, people.” He taps the A4 sheet. “Use your gray matter.”

I look again, but all I see are the man, woman and boy staring out of their inky Xeroxed images. Little did they know. My fingers find the jade pendant that arrived from my sister in New York this morning. It’s a symbol of eternity and I love it.

Todd the mathematician gets it. “Christ, I’ve got it. The Bishops vanished on the last Saturday in October 1979; fast-forward nine years, and Gordon Edmonds vanishes on the last Saturday in October 1988; fast-forward a noth er nine years, and you get …” He glances at Axel, who nods. “Today.”

“Last Saturday in October 1997,” says Lance. “Shitting scoobies, Axel. Today. Today!” Lance is able to take the piss and be sincere all at once. “A mystery house that only blinks into existence one night every nine years. God, I’ve got a hard-on as big as Berkshire. Drink up!”

Westwood Road’s street-lamps have orange haloes of fine drizzle. Cars dash from speed bump to speed bump. A St. John’s ambulance trundles past us, not in a hurry. The guys lead the way, with Lance airing a theory that Slade House could be the mouth of a miniature black hole. Angelica and Fern are arguing about whether or not When Harry Met Sally is offensive to women, which leaves me bringing up the rear. My customary place. I look at the rooms with undrawn curtains and see sofas, lamps, pictures and look — a girl practicing the piano in a room as blue as July. She has short hair, a blue and gray school uniform and let’s call her Grace. Grace looks upset because she can’t get her piano piece just perfect, but as her elder sister, I’d be a gifted pianist and I’d help Grace out. I’d never tell her, “You’d feel better about yourself if you lost a few pounds.” Mum’s making dinner in the back, not for a dozen bitchy Shell Oil Wives but just for Dad, Grace, me and Freya, who didn’t jet off to New York as soon as she graduated, but who works in London so she can hang out with me every weekend. Mum’s not cooking fusion, demi-veg or faddish, she’s cooking roast chicken with potatoes, carrots and gravy. I’m stirring the gravy. Dad’s walking home from the station because he’s not a £190k-a-year-plus-share-options oil exec — he works for Greenpeace, but only for £40k. Okay, £60k. Grace senses me watching, looks up and out at the street, and I do a little wave, but she draws the curtain. You never know if they’ve seen you.

“Are you okay, Sally?” Jesus, it’s Todd. Standing right next to me.

“Yes,” I say, jolted into acting normal. “Yes, I …”

The others are watching me and waiting.

“Sorry everyone, I was, uh …”

“Away with the faeries?” suggests Fern, not unkindly.

“Maybe,” I admit, “but I’m back again now.”

“Wagons roll, then,” says Lance and we’re off, but Todd stays by me. He’s got a baggy duffle-coat and there’s room in his pockets for both our hands. Telepathically I tell Todd, Take my hand, but he doesn’t. Why is it only slime-balls like Lance who hit on me? If I were slimmer, and funnier, and sexier, I’d know what to say to Todd now so before we even found Slade Alley, Todd’d be saying, “Look, Sal, I vote we grab ourselves a Chinese take-out and then head back to my place for coffee,” and I’d reply, “You know, I vote we forget the take-out.” We step aside for an Afghan hound trailing a woman in a long coat and sunglasses. She ignores us. I mutter, “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Todd makes a “Mm” noise to show me he’s on my side.

We walk a few paces. There’s something between us. I hear a grunting noise like sex getting louder and louder but it’s only a jogger running by. He’s wearing black and glow-in-the-dark orange like he’s escaped from an acid rave somewhere.

“Sal,” says Todd. “I don’t want to sound too forward—”

“No, not at all,” I answer nervously. “It’s fine. Of course.”

He pauses, confused: “But I haven’t asked you, yet.”

Sally Timms, you stupid oink. “I just meant ‘Ask away!’ ”