“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 gazillion 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 works it out first. “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 another 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 streetlamps have orange haloes of fine drizzle. Cars dash from speed bump to speed bump. A St. John 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. I’d love to add something that would make Todd respect me as a sharp thinker, but I’m always too slow. 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 fairies?” 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 slimeballs 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 telling me, “Look, Sal, I vote we grab ourselves a Chinese takeout and then head back to my place for coffee,” and I’d reply, “You know, I vote we forget the takeout.” 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 invisible connecting 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, and my heart goes zoom. “It’s fine. Of course. Yes.”
He pauses, confused: “But I haven’t asked you yet.”
Sally Timms, you stupid oink. “I just meant ‘Ask away!’ ”
“People, I’ve found it!” Lance calls out, a few paces ahead, and the moment’s gone and my heart goes “No!” 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 one 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 of me kind of…knows what Angelica means, actually. Slade Alley cuts through black shadow before turning sharp left under a feeble lamp that pulses dimly. 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 and nobody else says anything either. 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 soupy 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. I have to make this happen, to take control for once. “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 A
xel. “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 empaths. Those of us 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? Interdimensional 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, but the sky’s still 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–Halloween 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 disciples to a piss-up, right?”
“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 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.”
“Kate!” Fern the future A-lister forgets us, her embarrassing tagger-alongers. “So glad you gave a monkey’s about Monkey’s.”
“You kidding?” Kate Childs takes a long drag on her spliff and releases a plume of dope smoke. “I literally died of envy.”
Lance asks, “Are you smoking what I think you’re smoking, you wicked wicked worstest witch?”
“That depends,” the American girl gives Lance a dubious look, “on what exactly it is you think I’m smoking.”
“Shut it a sec, Lance,” says Angelica. “Excuse me—Kate. We’d just like you to settle something: Is that Slade House?”
Kate Childs smiles like it might be a trick question. “Unless they’ve renamed it in, like, the last half hour: yes.”
“Thank you,” Angelica continues. “And who lives here?”
“Me and about fifteen Erasmus exchange scholars. You guys are here for the Halloween party, right?”
“Definitely,” says Lance. “We’re six psychic investigators.”
“So just to be clear,” says Angelica, “the university owns Slade House, this building, where you live?”
“Technically, the Erasmus Institute owns it, though a university groundsman mows the grounds on his shit-on mower. There’s a sign round the front that—Christ, did I just say ‘shit-on mower’? I did, didn’t I?” Kate Childs bends over with silent laughter, which vanishes as quickly as it came. “Sorry. What were we saying?”
“The sign,” says Axel. “The sign round the front.”
“ ‘Slade House, Erasmus Scholarship Centre, Sponsoring Cross-Cultural Understanding in Education Since 1982.’ Walk past it every day. It’s by the”—she jabs a finger over the roof of Slade House—“big gates. So if that’s all settled…” Kate Childs points to the big house. “Eat, drink, be merry: tomorrow we…” She waves her hand to shake out the last verb, but gives up and offers Lance her spliff.
Lance turns to us. “I’ll see you guys later.”
· · ·
“I’ll lodge a formal apology on ParaSoc’s records,” says Axel, as he, Angelica, Fern, Todd and me approach the house. “My uncle swore that Slade House had never been found.” Axel slaps the stone wall of the building. “Either he’s a liar or he’s delusional. Who cares? My first error was to believe him.”
I feel bad for Axel. “He’s your uncle. You shouldn’t feel guilty just for believing him.”
“Sal’s right,” says Todd. “No harm’s been done.”
Axel ignores us. “My second error was a failure to reconnoiter the locale. A short stroll down Cranbury Avenue would have done the job. It was unforgivable.” Axel’s near tears. “Cavalier. Amateurish.”
“Who cares?” says Fern. “Looks like a slinky humdinger of a party.”
Axel adjusts his scarf. “I care. ParaSoc is suspended until further notice. Good night.” With that, he walks down the passage around the side of Slade House.
“Axel,” Angelica rushes after him, “hold your horses…”
Todd watches them disappear. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Angelica,” says Fern, which I don’t understand; I thought Fern hated her. “Well, when in Rome…” She trots up the steps and slips inside. Todd turns to me and makes a What a night! face. I make a Tell me about it!
face. He readjusts his glasses. If I were his girlfriend I’d make him get frameless ones to let his doomed-poet good looks shine. “Todd, you wanted to ask me something.”
Todd looks all hunted. “Did I?”
“Earlier. On the street. Before Lance found the alley.”
Todd scratches his neck. “Did I? I…” I deflate. Todd’s pretending to have forgotten because he’s got cold feet. It’s all these waif-thin girls gyrating their skinny bodies around. “Maybe if we go inside and chat, Sal,” Todd’s saying, “it’ll come back to me. I—I mean, if you’ve got no other plans tonight. A quick drink and a chat. No strings attached.”
· · ·
“Just the one sister,” I tell Todd a second time, louder, because “Caught by the Fuzz” by Supergrass is pumping on the stereo. We’re huddled in a corner by an oven with a noisy fan. The kitchen’s crammed, misty with cigarette smoke and smells of bins. Todd’s drinking a Tiger beer from a bottle and I’m drinking shit red wine from a plastic cup.
“Your sister’s older than you, I’m guessing,” says Todd.
“Was it a fifty-fifty guess, or can you really tell?”
“An eighty-twenty hunch. What’s her name?”
“Freya. She lives in New York these days.”
Laughter explodes nearby; Todd cups his ear: “Wassat?”
“Freya. As in the kick-ass Norse goddess of…um…”
“Love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, war and death.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “As opposed to ‘Sally,’ a doomed pit pony, or a tart in the East End docks in a Dickens novel.”
“Not true!” Todd actually looks hurt. “Sally’s a sunny name. It’s kind.”
“All the research suggests that Freyas go way farther in life than Sallys. Name me one famous Sally. Go on. You can’t, can you? My sister won every medal going at school; picked up good Mandarin in Singapore, fluent French in Geneva; graduated in journalism from Imperial College this June; moved in with her boyfriend in Brooklyn, who is of course a hotshot Chinese American documentary maker; and got a job with a photo agency on Bleecker Street. Not an internship, an actual paid job. All within a fortnight of touching down at JFK. That’s so Freya. If I sound jealous, I am. God, Todd, did you spike my wine with truth serum?”
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