David Mitchell - Slade House

“People, I’ve found it!” Lance calls out, a few paces ahead, and the moment’s gone. Todd shines his torch up at an easy-to-miss plaque: SLADE ALLEY. The passageway’s dark and narrow, only a bit wider than a pushchair. Lance says, “Spooky as hell, or what?”

“Of course it’s spooky,” says Fern, lighting another of her French cigarettes. “It’s nearly night, and it’s an enclosed space.”

“ I feel,” says Angelica in a wavery voice, “presences here.”

One part of me thinks, Yeah, yeah, sure you do, but another part kind of … knows what Angelica means. Slade Alley cuts through black shadow before turning sharp left under a feeble lamp that pulses dim beige. If I was a “presence,” this is the kind of place I’d be drawn to.

“Who’ll disturb the presences first?” asks Lance, deadpan.

“You’d be less cocky,” says Angelica, “if you had the Sight.”

“Fred’s my uncle,” says Axel, “so I’ll lead the way. Ready?”

Lance, Angelica, Fern, me and Todd follow Axel, in that order. I feel safe with Todd behind me, and trail my gloved fingers along the bricks on each side: Slade Alley can’t be more than three feet across. A properly fat person — fatter than me, I mean — couldn’t get past someone coming the other way. “It’s cold,” I murmur to no one, but Todd hears: “Sure is. The air’s like a knife against your throat.”

“Cool echo,” says Lance. “Balrogs of the deep, I summon thee!”

“Mind who you’re invoking,” says Angelica, schoolmarmishly.

Lance bursts into an echoey recital of “Bohemian Rhapsody” before Axel tells him, “Put a cork in it, Lance.” He’s reached the corner under the lamp, and seconds later the six of us are huddled there. After the left turn, Slade Alley runs on for forty or fifty paces — it’s hard to see — until it turns right under another high-up, flickery lamp. “Always a bad sign,” says Lance, “those buzzing bulbs. Anyone seen Candyman ?” I actually have but I don’t say so. Slade Alley’s just an alley in an ordinary town, but its brick walls are as high as two men and block any view of anything. The sky’s just a long strip of dusk over our heads. My back’s pressed against Todd, who smells of damp wool, warmth and mint. First chance I get, I’ll ask him what he was about to ask me back on the street. Then he’ll pluck up the courage to ask me out. “No sign of a gate,” says Lance. “It’s just one long wall.”

“Two long walls, you’ll find,” says Angelica, annoyingly.

“Okay,” says Axel. “This alley may be a POS.”

“What’s a POS when it’s at home?” asks Lance.

“Paranormal Occurrence Site, which explains why Angelica’s picking up presences.” God, Angelica looks so pleased with herself. “Lance, Fern, Todd; I need you to scan the right-hand wall, every square inch. All the way to the far end. Angelica, Sally and I’ll take the left. We’re looking for PAIs. Which is an abbreviation of — anyone?”

Todd clears his throat: “Psychic Anomaly Indicators.”

“Excellent,” says Axel, and I kind of feel pleased too.

“Remind me what a PAI looks like, exactly,” says Fern.

“Items, signs, writing,” says Axel. “They manifest themselves in many different forms. Anything that’s out of place could be a PAI.”

“I’ll search for rips in the membrane,” says Angelica.

“What membrane?” asks Fern, just as Angelica hoped.

“The membrane between worlds. You can’t see it, though. It’s only visible to those of us who are empaths with suitably developed chakra vision.”

“Ah, of course,” says Fern, as if she’s profoundly impressed. “ That membrane.”

“Open-mindedness is a wonderful thing,” says Angelica. “Try it sometime.”

Fern lights another cigarette. “If you’re too open-minded, your brain falls out.” I can’t see Angelica’s face in the shadows, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be firing death-rays at Fern. “Not sure if this is a PAI,” Lance calls out a few yards ahead. “But it is a gate.” Everyone joins Lance who crouches next to a small black iron door. At least, I think it’s a door. It’s low and very narrow, like it was built for skinny hobbits, but it’s got no handle or latch or sign or anything.

“PAIs are often camouflaged as normal objects,” says Axel.

“Looks solid.” Fern raps her knuckles on it. “Feels solid.”

“Don’t knock!” Angelica tells Fern. “You may wake a hostile entity.” She presses her palm against it. “Emanations. Definitely.”

“Odd that none of us noticed it from the corner,” I say.

“It’s a narrow door,” says Fern. “From an obtuse angle.”

“No keyhole,” says Lance. “The lock must be inside.” He presses the doorframe at various points.

“What’s that in aid of?” asks Angelica.

“Release latches.” But the door stays shut. “If I stood on your shoulders,” Lance says to Axel, “I might just be able—”

“Not before my skeleton collapsed.” Axel turns to Fern — not to lardy-arsed Sally Timms, obviously. “Fern, could you climb—”

“Forget it,” says Fern. “If Slade House is on the other side of this wall, this titchy door can’t be the only way in. Why don’t we just follow the alley out to the street, and walk round the other side until we reach the main gates?”

This makes a lot of sense, but Lance isn’t having it. “Ah, but if it was that simple, the police would have found it, yeah? Inter-dimensional wormholes don’t have ‘other sides’ or ‘main gates.’ This is the door all right.” There’s something mocking about how Lance says this, and a voice in my head says, Don’t trust him, he’s toying with all of you . Then something strange happens: my hand decides to press itself hard against the door, and a zap of heat goes through my palm. I let out a yelp of surprise like a trodden-on puppy and the small black iron door opens. Like it was only waiting to be asked. It waits, ajar …

“Bugger me,” says Lance. “Not literally, Axel.”

“Looks like Sal’s got the magic touch,” says Todd.

“It was probably open the whole time,” says Angelica, but I’m so spooked, I don’t even care.

We emerge from a shrubbery and stare up a long lawn at a big old stone house. A Virginia creeper, dark crimson in the twilight, grows up one side. Faint stars shine through the gaps in the cloud. The sky’s a little lighter and the air’s a little warmer than it was in the alley. “Viewed through my non-psychic eyeballs,” says Fern, “Slade House looks more Rocky Horror Picture Show than ‘a membrane between worlds.’ ” Angelica can’t rise to the bait because Fern’s right. We are looking at a student house, mid-Hallowe’en party. “Novocaine for the Soul” by Eels thumps out, Bill Clinton and a nun are canoodling on a bench, and a gorilla, a Grim Reaper and a Wicked Witch of the West are sitting around a sundial thing, smoking. “My, my, you’re a crafty one, Axel,” says Lance.

“Huh?” asks Axel, vaguely; then, sharply, “ ‘Crafty’?”

“You’ve lured your poor followers to a piss-up.”

“I’m not luring anyone anywhere,” snaps Axel.

“Hang on,” says Fern. “Is this the same Slade House that the collective brain of the Thames Valley Police failed to locate?”

Axel mumbles, “Apparently so, but …” His “but” fizzles out.

“Good,” says Fern. “And while this fit of sanity lasts, could we rule out the theory that we just passed through a black hole?”

“Fern?” It’s the Wicked Witch of the West, walking over. “Fern! I thought it was you!” The witch is American and her face-mask is green. “We met at Professor Marvin’s seminar on Jacobean drama. Kate Childs, Blithewood College exchange student. Though right now,” she gives a twirl, “I’m moonlighting for the forces of evil. Gotta say, Fern, your performance in The Monkey’s Paw blew — me — away.”