Slade House Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Nathan!” I knew about Joy, who Mum calls “your father’s dolly bird,” but it was still a jolt to see Dad holding hands with another woman. They’re going to have a baby in June, so they must’ve had sexual intercourse. The baby’ll be my half brother or half sister, but it hasn’t got a name yet. I wonder what it does all day. “Sleep well?” says Joy. Joy’s got a Rhodesian accent like Dad’s.
    “Yes. Mad dreams, though.”
    “I
always
have mad dreams after a long-haul flight. OJ, bacon sandwich do you, Nathan?”
    I like how Joy says “OJ.” Mum would hate it. “Yes please.”
    “He’ll need some coffee too,” says Dad.
    “Mum says I’m too young for caffeinated drinks,” I say.
    “Horse pucky,” says Dad. “Coffee’s the elixir of life, and Rhodesian coffee’s the purest on earth. You’re having some.”
    “OJ, bacon sandwich
and
coffee, coming up,” says Joy. “I’ll get Violet on it straightaway.” The hatch closes. Violet’s the maid. Mum often used to shout at Dad, “I’m not your bloody maid, you know, Frank!” Dad lights his pipe, and the smell of his tobacco brings back memories of when he and Mum were married. He says from the corner of his mouth, “Tell me about this dream of yours, matey.”
    The gazelle’s head’s distracting, and so are Dad’s grandfather’s muskets from the Boer War and the ceiling fan. “Mum took me to see a lady, like a lord-and-lady-type lady. The house was missing so we asked a sort of window cleaner man but he didn’t know either…then we found it, it was this big house like in
To the Manor Born.
There was a boy called Jonah but he turned into a big dog. Yehudi Menuhin was there too, and Mum played with him upstairs”—Dad snorts a laugh—“and then I saw a portrait of me, but my eyes were missing, and…” I see a small black iron door in the corner. “That door was there, too.”
    Dad looks round. “Dreams do that. Mix reality with moonshine. You were asking about my gun-room door before you turned in last night. Don’t you remember?”
    I must’ve, if Dad says so. “It all felt so real when I was in it.”
    “I know it
felt
real, but you can see it wasn’t. Right?” I look at Dad’s brown eyes, crinkly lines, tanned skin, grayish streaks in his sandy hair, his nose like mine. A clock’s going
krunk…kronk…krunk…kronk…
and there’s a trumpeting noise outside, not far away. I look at Dad, hoping it is what I think it is. “Dead right, matey: a herd drifted across the river yesterday afternoon. We’ll go see ’em later, but first, line your stomach.”
    “Here we go,” says Joy, placing a tray in front of me. “Your first African breakfast.” My bacon sandwich looks epic, with a triple layer of rashers, and ketchup dribbling out.
    “That’s God’s own bacon sarnie,” I say. Someone said that line on a sitcom I saw once and lots of people laughed.
    “Well, aren’t
you
the charmer?” says Joy. “Wonder who you get
that
from…”
    Dad puts his arm around Joy’s waist. “Try the coffee first. It’ll make a man of you.” I lift the mug and peer down. Inside’s black as oil, as holes in space, as Bibles.
    “Violet ground the beans just now,” says Joy.
    “God’s own coffee,” says Dad. “Drink up now, matey.”
    Some stupid part of me says,
No, don’t, you mustn’t
.
    “Your mother’ll never know,” says Dad. “Our little secret.”
    The mug’s so wide it covers my nose like a gas mask.
    The mug’s so wide it covers my eyes, my whole head.
    Then whatever’s in there starts gulping me down.
    · · ·
    Time passed, but I don’t know how much. A slit of light opens its eye and becomes a long flame. Cold bright star white. A candle, on a candlestick, on the scarred floorboards. The candlestick’s dull silver or pewter or lead and it’s got symbols on it, or maybe letters from a dead language. The flame’s not moving, it’s as if time’s unspooled and jammed. Three faces hang in the