Free In Your Dreams by Tom Holt, Tom Holt Page B

all but one of the locks. ‘Okay, then, on three. One. Two. Three—’
    He turned the key in the last of the deadlocks, grabbed the door handle and pushed outwards. He hesitated on the threshold, not letting go of the handle, as if checking to make sure that it was safe. Then he took a step forward and disappeared.
    Seriously unnerving stuff. Paul could distinctly see Benny Shumway vanish – made no sense, but that was what he saw. First Mr Shumway’s left hand, then the rest of his left arm, his shoulder, then his head and torso, finally his back and right heel, and then he was gone. Bugger this , Paul thought, no way I’m —
    â€˜Come on, then,’ called Mr Shumway’s disembodied voice. Paul shut his eyes, and followed.
    When he opened them again, everything had gone dark. Panic flooded through him and he shuffled backwards towards where he remembered the door being—
    â€˜No.’ Mr Shumway again, calm but urgent. ‘Don’t do that, you’ve got no way of knowing where it’ll take you. It’s complicated,’ he added, ‘I’ll explain later. Just follow my voice, OK?’
    Paul tried to say something, but his words turned into a little trembly squeak. He stuck his left foot out; it was rather like trying to take the last step off an escalator with your eyes shut. Nothing bad happened, apparently. After that, it was very slightly easier.
    â€˜Keep up,’ Mr Shumway called back at him. Paul did his best; but each time Mr Shumway spoke after that, his voice sounded further and further away. ‘And don’t look round, whatever you do,’ was another helpful piece of advice. ‘Come on, we’re nearly there. And don’t worry, all right? This is just something you have to get used to.’
    The lights came up gradually; first a faint grey gleam round the edges, then a glow that seeped into the darkness like ink soaking into blotting paper. Not that it helped much, because there was nothing to see; nothing to right or left, nothing up or (very worrying) down. Paul was a little animated cartoon figure walking across a blank grey screen—
    And there was someone walking beside him. He didn’t notice at first, so he had no idea how long he’d been there. It was only when he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye ...
    â€˜And don’t talk to anybody ,’ sighed a faint echo of Mr Shumway’s voice. ‘Not anybody , got it?’
    Just in time; because Paul had been on the verge of saying, ‘Is that you, Uncle Mike?’ He’d only hesitated because it was such a silly thing to say, given that Uncle Mike had died ten years ago.
    â€™Course it’s me, you prat , said a memory of Uncle Mike’s voice inside his head. And look at me when I’m talking to you.
    (‘Don’t turn round,’ Mr Shumway had said.)
    What’s wrong, Paul? It’s me, Mike. Aren’t you glad to see me after all this time? (Paul wasn’t hearing the words, because there was no sound. Someone had hit the mute button, and he couldn’t hear his footsteps on the lack-of-floor, or his own breathing or anything. But he could distinctly remember Uncle Mike saying the words, at some unspecified point in the past.)
    He didn’t look round, because he’d been told not to; but Uncle Mike had gone, and there was someone else. Hello, Paul mate , he remembered, haven’t you grown? Here, what’s the matter? Haven’t you got anything to say to your old grandad?
    (Which was cruel; because Paul had so much to say, starting with, Sorry I missed your funeral. He’d pretended he’d had a migraine, but that had been a lie. He’d always hated funerals, anyhow.)
    This is daft, son, we never had a chance to say goodbye. Don’t just walk away, Paul. Please. (Wherever this was, Paul decided, he’d rather be somewhere else. ‘This way,’ Mr Shumway was calling, but Paul