House with No Doors by Jeff Noon

Author:Jeff Noon [Noon, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473555372
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2021-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

The Living-room Theatre

Dark skies over London. No rain. Just the feel of it on the air, waiting. A twilight moment. The room darkened without the two officers fully realizing. Neither bothered to turn on the light. The clock ticked loudly from the hallway. Otherwise silence. Latimer was sitting in an armchair, while Hobbes paced nervously about, his eyes skipping from one item to another on the walls. Portraits, landscapes, playbills. Presenting a new stage play by Mr Leonard Graves, The Silent Guardian. With the much-admired Mary Estelle Graves in her finest performance yet. The face of the actress in profile, stark black-and-white, shadows, smoke drifting in from a hidden cigarette.

Another glance at his wristwatch.

‘She’s not coming.’

‘Have faith.’

‘We can go round, knock on the door.’

Latimer contemplated the empty fireplace. ‘She wants to meet us alone, away from her mother. That’s the deal.’

‘There’s a deal?’

‘Just sit down, Hobbes. You’re making me tired. And yes.’

‘What?’

‘There’s always a deal, you know that. Of some kind, or other.’

He could no longer see Latimer’s face clearly. He switched on the overhead light. Now the room was too stark, too bright. He was reminded of his first time here, seeing the dress laid out on the carpet, the sheer surprise of it.

Another playbill: When Dreams Unfold, a searing exploration of forbidden love. Only at the Aldwych Theatre. Opening: 2 September 1939. That would be right after the war started. The theatres stayed open, though, where and when they could. He knew that. Even during the Blitz.

‘Calling Planet Hobbes.’

‘What?’

Latimer had got up from her chair. ‘She’s here.’

Hobbes shook his head to clear it. He could hear the front door opening. ‘She has a key?’

‘That proves something, right?’

He turned towards the hallway, but Latimer held him back. ‘Let me handle this.’ He raised his hands in mock-surrender and moved aside.

A young woman came into the room. A teenager. Latimer greeted her, then looked over towards the inspector. He nodded.

Yes, it was her. The girl he’d seen in the cemetery, the girl in the flowery dress.

Latimer took charge. ‘Joan. It’s good of you to see us.’

‘I can’t stay long – I mustn’t, or else my mum will have a go at me. She doesn’t like me coming round here. She never did.’

Her voice denied everything genteel her mother had taught her: this was an accent learned from the playground, the bus stop and television. All the airs and graces cast aside: these days, everyone wanted to be working class, or at least to appear that they were.

‘Do you want to sit down?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ She was chewing on gum, and she kept moving it around her mouth as she spoke. ‘Thanks very much.’

She dropped into the most uncomfortable chair available, a rickety wooden one at the table. It creaked as she shifted about, one of her arms dangling over its back, the other playing with a long strand of hair, which had a frayed look about it: a favoured site of worry.

Latimer took a seat at the table. Hobbes remained on his feet.

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