Free Slade House by David Mitchell Page B

dark; now I see it, now I don’t. “You’re smirking, brother,” says Chloe, if that’s her real name. This woman has the same face as the one who served me tiramisu but while her voice before was smooth and woolen, now it’s a rusty jackknife.
    “I am not smirking,” objects the man, moving his legs like they’ve got pins and needles.
    I try to move too. I still can’t. I try to speak. I can’t.
    “You’re a damned liar, Jonah,” says Chloe. She holds up her hands like they’re a pair of gloves she can’t make up her mind about. “
I
didn’t smirk when you serviced that hairdresser two cycles ago. And you really
did
exchange fluids; I only threw this dog in heat”—she gives me a disgusted, sideways look—“an imaginary bone.”
    “
If
I smiled,” says the man, “it was a smile of pride at your performance in my suborison. You played the neurotic widow to perfection. The attic cage was one of my finest mise-en-scènes, I think we’ll agree, but Meryl Streep herself could not have delivered the role of poor Mrs. Bishop with greater aplomb. Why,
I
scarcely noticed the prickly creature, all those years ago. Her voice hurt my ears. Why the long face, sister? Yet another Open Day has gone swimmingly, our operandi has proven itself robust, our pheasant is plucked and basted, yet you’re looking all…vinegary.”
    “The operandi is an improvised hodgepodge, too reliant—”
    “Norah, I beg you, we’re about to dine; can’t we just—”
    “—
too
reliant upon luck, Jonah. Upon nothing going wrong.”
    The man—Jonah—looks at his sister—Norah—with fond smugness. “For fifty-four years, our souls have wandered that big wide world out there, possessing whatever bodies we want, living whatever lives we wish, while our fellow birth-Victorians are all dead or dying out. We live on. The operandi
works
.”
    “The operandi works pro
vi
ded our birth-bodies remain here in the lacuna, freeze-dried against world-time, anchoring our souls in life. The operandi works pro
vi
ded we recharge the lacuna every nine years by luring a gullible Engifted into a suitable orison. The operandi works pro
vi
ded our guests can be duped, banjaxed and drawn into the lacuna. Too many
provided
s, Jonah. Yes, our luck’s held so far. It can’t hold forever, and it won’t.”
    I’ve got no idea what they’re on about, but Jonah looks properly pissed off. “Why this illuminating lecture now, sister?”
    “We need to make the operandi proof against mischance and enemies.”
    “What enemies? Thanks to my insistence on isolation, not even the Shaded Way know about us. Our life-support system works. Why tamper with it? Now, supper is served.” Jonah looks my way. “That would be you, Detective Plod.”
    I try but I can’t move, or fight, or beg. I can’t even shit myself.
    “You’ve stopped breathing,” Jonah tells me, matter-of-factly.
    No no no, I must be breathing,
I think.
I’m still conscious.
    “Not for much longer,” replies Jonah. “After four minutes without oxygen, brain damage becomes irreversible, and although I don’t have my watch on me, I’d say you’ve had two. You’d die after six minutes, but we intervene prior to the final agony. We’re not sadists.”
    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 Inspector. If you