How to Live Forever Read Online Free PDF Page A

past that held their own magic stories, but here time seemed to have given up. Whatever lay behind the doors would remain secret forever. Was it too awful for anyone to look at? Was it simply too dull and boring? Or were the rooms just empty? Everywhere else seemed to welcome him, but here he felt like an unwanted intruder.
    â€˜Come on, old cat, let’s go home,’ he said. ‘It’s horrible here.’
    But Archimedes ignored him. He went to the last door on the right and tapped it with his paw.
    â€˜No, come on, cat, they’re all locked,’ said Peter, but as he turned to walk back he heard a voice.

‘Brought him, have you, my little friend?’ said the voice.
    It was a woman’s voice, old, thin and brittle like crumpled paper, and it was coming from behind the door that Archimedes was scratching at.
    Peter’s initial reaction was to run. His heart pounded against his ribs and his breathing grew fast and terrified. All the sensible thoughts about how there was no way there could be anyone there raced through his head, but they left just as quickly. Because there was someone there. Unless it was a ghost. In his heart he had always felt he was not alone in this great city of deserted corridors and rooms.
    There were no clues to have ever made him think this, no sounds, no footprints in the dust, no fingerprints on doors, no bits of rubbish left behind. He had just sensed other life.
    â€˜Come on then, come on then,’ said the voice and, trying to soften a little, it added, ‘bring him inside.’
    Archimedes touched the door again with his paw and it opened. Peter brushed aside the cobwebs and followed the cat inside. The smell of old damp books and wet clothes poured out around him. There was the smell, too, of earth after fresh rain and a mixture of all the other smells Peter had ever experienced, some wonderful, like turpentine and roses, and some disgusting, like mildew and cabbage.
    â€˜Come on, come on,’ said the voice. ‘I have not got all day.’
    Peter peered into the darkness.
    â€˜Well, actually I have got all day,’ the voice continued, now talking to itself. ‘I have all day and every day, every day there has ever been, every day there ever will be. I have them all whether I want them or not, and most of them I do not want, nor ever did. A hundred years sitting by this window until I know every grain of sand in the cement between the six hundred and eighty-seven bricks I can see outside in those two chimneys, one chimney forever silent, onechimney with winter smoke where you sit far below with your mother and grandfather and Archimedes. I have learnt the seventeen thousand and four patterns the smoke makes. I know by heart the million patterns in the ferns of frost that cover the window on winter mornings, and I could draw every one of them blindfolded. I have endless days of time and it has turned my soul to dust. My heart is lifeless, but it will not stop beating and sleep. Come on, young man, come on, over here to the light.’
    Staring through the gloom, Peter walked into the room. In the middle of a filthy Persian carpet ankle deep in rubbish, surrounded by dark furniture, was an old chair with its back to him. The voice was coming from the chair. It was a rapid, squeaky voice full of impatience.
    â€˜Come on, come on,’ it said. ‘Hurry up, hurry up. There is no time to lose. Though what are a few more minutes after all these years already lost? What difference do minutes make, or even days? None at all, none at all. A second or a century, there is no difference.’
    Peter walked further into the room. Sitting in the chair was a tiny white-haired lady. The cobwebs that were everywhere clung to her too. They were tangled up with her hair, both cobwebs and hair thin and silver. Peter looked into her face and saw whathe thought death would look like. The woman seemed very, very old, almost too old to be alive. Her skin