David Mitchell - Slade House

“Yes, actually. Have you seen Todd?”

“I’ve seen how besotted he is with you .”

I so, so badly want to hear this that I join her, just for a moment. The leather sofa’s cold. I sink deep into it. It makes that dry squelchy noise like new snow or polystyrene that someone needs to invent a proper adjective for. “Do you think so?”

“Big time, Sal. It wasn’t for paranormal experiences that Todd showed up tonight. When are you guys going to hook up? Tonight?”

I act cool, but I’m happier than I’ve been for … Ever, actually. “That depends. These things have their own … pace.”

“Bollocks, girl.” Fern’s cigarette hisses in her glass. “You set the pace. Todd’s a keeper. Lovely guy, really. Reminds me of my brother.”

Fern’s never mentioned a brother — not that we’ve talked much. “Is your brother a student, or an actor, or …?”

“He’s not anything these days. He’s dead.”

“Oh God! I’m famous for my big mouth, Fern, I—”

“It’s okay. It’s fine. It happened, um … five Christmases ago. It’s history.” Fern stares at the body of her cigarette bobbing in her drink.

I try to fix my blunder. “Was it an accident? Or illness?”

“Suicide. Jonny drove his car over the edge of a cliff.”

“Bloody hell. I’m sorry. Why — I mean, no, forget it, it’s not—”

“He didn’t leave a note, but the cliff was a field away from the road to Trevadoe — our ancestral pile near Truro.” Fern acts a smile. “He chose Daddy’s vintage Alfa Romeo as his sarcophagus, too. The act was the suicide note, you might say.”

“I didn’t mean to probe, Fern, I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, I—”

“Stop apologising! Jonny was the idiot. Well, that’s not fair, Daddy had died two years before, Mummy had gone to pieces, so Jonny was juggling the legal mess, the death duties, a degree at Cambridge of course, and battling depression — unknown to us … His ideas about poker debts and honor, though, they really were idiotic — utterly, utterly idiotic. We could’ve just sold off an acre or two.” We watch the misted-up night through the misted-up window. “That’s why I joined ParaSoc, if I’m honest,” says Fern. “If I could just see a ghost, just once — a Roman centurion or a headless horseman or, or Nathan and Rita Bishop, I’m not fussy … Just one ghost, so I know that death’s not Game Over, but a door. A door with Jonny on the other side. Christ, Sally, I’d give any thing to know he didn’t just … stop, that stupid afternoon. Anything. Seriously. Like”—Fern clicks her fingers—“that.”

I unpeel my face off a big cold leather sofa in a dark alcove. “Safe from Harm” is still on, so I can’t have slept long. Fern’s gone, but sitting a foot away is a guy dressed in a furry brown dressing gown and not a lot else, judging by his hairy legs and hairy chest. Right. He’s not eyeing me up. Actually he’s just staring at the blank wall — I thought there was a bay window there, but obviously not. The dressing-gown man’s not that old, but he’s going bald. He has sleepless owlish eyes, and an almost-monobrow. Do I know him? Don’t see how. It’s strange that Fern would just vanish like that, straight after spilling her guts about her brother, but that’s actresses for you. Maybe she was pissed off that I nodded off. I ought to find her and put it right. Poor her. Her poor brother. People are masks, with masks under those masks, and masks under those, and down you go. Todd must be back in the kitchen by now, but the sofa won’t let me get up. “Excuse me,” I ask Mr. Dressing Gown, “but do you know the way to the kitchen?”

Mr. Dressing Gown acts like I’m not even there.

I tell him, “Thanks, that’s really helpful.”

His frown deepens, then, in slow motion, he opens his mouth. Is it supposed to be funny? His voice is dry as dust and he leaves big gaps between his words: “Am … I … still … in … the … house?”

Jesus, he’s stoned out of his Easter egg. “Well, it’s not Trafalgar Square, I can promise you that.”

More seconds pass. He’s still talking to the blank wall. It’s bloody weird. “They … took … a … way … my … name.”

I humor him: “I’m sure you’ll find it again, in the morning.”

The man looks towards me, but not at me, like he can’t place the source of my words. “They … don’t … e … ven … let … you … die … pro … per … ly.”

So far, so loony tunes. “Whatever you smoked, I’d steer clear of it in future. Seriously.”

He cocks his shaved head and squints, as if hearing words shouted from a long way off. “Are … you … the … next …”

I actually giggle; I can’t help it. “What, the next Messiah?”

The sofa vibrates to the giant bass in “Safe from Harm.”

“Get a big strong black coffee,” I tell Mr. Dressing Gown.

The man flinches, in pain, as if my words are pebbles hitting his face. Now I feel bad about laughing at him. He screws up his red eyes like he’s trying to remember something. “Guest,” he says, and blinks about him, Alzheimer’s-ishly.

I wait for more, but there isn’t any. “Am I the next guest? Is that what you’re asking? The next guest?”

When the man speaks again he does this utterly incredible ventriloquist’s trick where he mouths his words a second or two before you hear them. “I … found … a … wea … pon … in … the … cracks.”

His sound-delay trick’s amazing, but his mention of weapons triggers a warning light. “O kay, thing is, I don’t need a weapon, so—” but from out of his dressing-gown pocket the sad, half-naked stoner produces a short silver spike, about six inches long. I half recoil in case it’s a threat, but actually he’s offering it to me, like a gift. The non-spiky end’s decorated with a fox’s head, silver, small but chunky, with jade eyes. “It’s lovely,” I’m saying, twizzling it. “It looks antique. Is it some kind of a, a geisha’s hairpin or something?”

I’m alone on the cold leather sofa. Nobody’s in the corridor. Nobody’s anywhere. Mr. Dressing Gown’s long gone, I sense, but I’m holding his fox hairpin. God, I zoned out again. This isn’t a good habit. “Safe from Harm” has turned into The Orb’s “Little Fluffy Clouds.” There was a blank wall here, I thought, but actually there’s a small black iron door, exactly like the one in Slade Alley, only this one’s already ajar. I go to it, crouch down, push it open and peer out, just my head. It’s an alley. It looks very like Slade Alley indeed, but it can’t be because it can’t be. My knees are still on the carpet, in Slade House. It’s dark, with very high walls and no people. It’s as quiet as the tomb, as they say. There’s no “Little Fluffy Clouds” out here; it’s as if my head’s passed through a soundproof membrane. About fifty meters away to my left, the alley turns right under a flickery street-lamp. To my right, about the same distance away, there’s another lamp, another corner. It can’t be Slade Alley. I’m in a corridor in the house, fifty, eighty, a hundred meters away — I’m no good with distances. So … Drugs? Drugs. If one frickhead put hash into no-hash brownies, another frickhead-to-the-power-of-ten could have sprinkled something trippier in the punchbowl. It happens. Two students Freya knew in Sydney went to Indonesia, ate some kind of stew, and thought they could swim home to Bondi Beach. One of them was rescued, but not the other. What do you actually do if you find an impossible alleyway in an acid trip? Go down it? Could do. See if it takes me back to Westwood Road. But what about Todd, waiting for me, right now, in the kitchen, wondering where I am. No. I’d rather get back. Or …