Slade House by David Mitchell

Author:David Mitchell [Mitchell, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FIC000000 Fiction / General
ISBN: urn:ean:9780812998689
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group - Random House
Published: 2015-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

Everyone’s glued to the screen the way people are when something major’s happened. I ask a half-turned werewolf what’s happened. “Some girl’s been abducted, like.” The werewolf’s a northerner. He doesn’t look at me. “A student, a girl, from our uni.”

“Jesus. Abducted?”

“Aye, that’s what they’re saying.”

“What’s her name?”

“Polly, or Sarah, or …” the werewolf’s drunk. “Annie? She’s only been missing five days, but a personal item was found, so now the police are afraid it’s, like … A real kidnapping. Or worse.”

“What kind of personal item?”

“A mirror,” mumbles the werewolf. “A make-up mirror. Hang on, look …” The TV shows our student union building where a female reporter’s holding a big pink microphone: “Thank you, Bob, and here on the city campus tonight the mood can best be described as grim and sober. Earlier today the police issued an appeal for any information on the whereabouts of Sally Timms, an eighteen-year-old student last seen in the vicinity of Westwood Road on Saturday night …” The reporter’s words all gloop together. Missing? Five days? Since Saturday? It’s still Saturday! I’ve only been in Slade House for an hour. It must be another Sally Timms. But a photo of my face fills the screen and it’s me, it’s me, and the Sally Timms on the screen is wearing exactly, exactly, what I’m wearing now: my Zizzi Hikaru jacket, and Freya’s Maori jade necklace that arrived today. That I signed for at the porter’s lodge only twelve hours ago. Who took that photo of me? When? How? The reporter thrusts her big pink microphone at Lance, Lance Arnott, who, apparently, is dancing in this building right now—while also speaking to a TV reporter two miles away, saying, “Yeah, yeah, I saw her just before she disappeared, at the party, and—” Lance’s cod-fish lips keep moving but my hearing kind of cuts out. I should be switching on the lights and shouting, “NO NO NO, people, look, there’s been some stupid mistake—I’m Sally Timms, I’m here, it’s okay!” but I’m afraid of the fuss, the shame, of being a spectacle, of being a news story, and I just can’t. Meanwhile Lance Arnott’s making a doubtful face: “ ‘Fraid so, yeah. She had serious trouble adjusting to college life. Bit of a tragic figure; vulnerable, not very street-wise, know what I’m saying? There were rumours of drug use, dodgy boyfriends, that kind of stuff.” Now I’m angry, as well as frightened and confused as hell. How dare Lance say all that about me on live TV? For not fancying him, I’m a “tragic, vulnerable” druggie? The reporter turns back to the camera. “A clear picture is emerging of the missing student as an unhappy girl; a loner, with weight issues; a girl who had trouble adjusting to real life after private schools in Singapore and Great Malvern. Following the discovery of her compact mirror in, uh,” the reporter shuffles her notes, “Slade Alley earlier today, the friends and relatives of Sally Timms, while still hoping for the best, must, as the hours go by, be fearing the worst.

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