Slade House by David Mitchell

“Sure is. The air’s like a knife against your throat.”
    “Cool echo,” says Lance. “Balrogs of the deep, I summon thee!”
    “Mind who you’re invoking,” says Angelica, schoolmarmishly.
    Lance bursts into an echoey recital of “Bohemian Rhapsody” before Axel tells him, “Put a cork in it, Lance.” He’s reached the corner under the lamp, and seconds later the six of us are huddled there. After the left turn, Slade Alley runs on for forty or fifty paces—it’s hard to see—until it turns right under another high-up, flickery lamp. “Always a bad sign,” says Lance, “those buzzing bulbs. Anyone seen
Candyman
?” I actually have but I don’t say so and nobody else says anything either. Slade Alley’s just an alley in an ordinary town, but its brick walls are as high as two men and block any view of anything. The sky’s just a long strip of soupy dusk over our heads. My back’s pressed against Todd, who smells of damp wool, warmth and mint. First chance I get, I’ll ask him what he was about to ask me back on the street. Then he’ll pluck up the courage to ask me out. I have to make this happen, to take control for once. “No sign of a gate,” says Lance. “It’s just one long wall.”
    “Two long walls, you’ll find,” says Angelica, annoyingly.
    “Okay,” says Axel. “This alley may be a POS.”
    “What’s a POS when it’s at home?” asks Lance.
    “Paranormal Occurrence Site, which explains why Angelica’s picking up presences.” God, Angelica looks
so
pleased with herself. “Lance, Fern, Todd: I need you to scan the right-hand wall, every square inch. All the way to the far end. Angelica, Sally and I’ll take the left. We’re looking for PAIs. Which is an abbreviation of—anyone?”
    Todd clears his throat: “Psychic Anomaly Indicators.”
    “Excellent,” says Axel, and I kind of feel pleased too.
    “Remind me what a PAI looks like, exactly,” says Fern.
    “Items, signs, writing,” says Axel. “They manifest themselves in many different forms. Anything that’s out of place could be a PAI.”
    “I’ll search for rips in the membrane,” says Angelica.
    “What membrane?” asks Fern, just as Angelica hoped.
    “The membrane between worlds. You can’t see it, though. It’s only visible to empaths. Those of us with suitably developed chakra vision.”
    “Ah, of course,” says Fern, as if she’s profoundly impressed. “
That
membrane.”
    “Open-mindedness is a wonderful thing,” says Angelica. “Try it sometime.”
    Fern lights another cigarette. “If you’re too open-minded, your brain falls out.” I can’t see Angelica’s face in the shadows, but I’m pretty sure she’ll be firing death-rays at Fern. “Not sure if this is a PAI,” Lance calls out a few yards ahead. “But it
is
a gate.” Everyone joins Lance, who crouches next to a small black iron door. At least, I think it’s a door. It’s low and very narrow, like it was built for skinny hobbits, but it’s got no handle or latch or sign or anything.
    “PAIs are often camouflaged as normal objects,” says Axel.
    “Looks solid.” Fern raps her knuckles on it. “Feels solid.”
    “Don’t knock!” Angelica tells Fern. “You may wake a hostile entity.” She presses her palm against it. “Emanations. Definitely.”
    “Odd that none of us noticed it from the corner,” I say.
    “It’s a narrow door,” says Fern. “From an obtuse angle.”
    “No keyhole,” says Lance. “The lock must be inside.” He presses the doorframe at various points.
    “What’s that in aid of?” asks Angelica.
    “Release latches.” But the door stays shut. “If I stood on your shoulders,” Lance says to Axel, “I might
just
be able—”
    “Not before my skeleton collapsed.” Axel turns to Fern—not to lardy-arsed Sally Timms, obviously. “Fern, could you climb—”
    “Forget it,” says Fern. “If Slade House
is
on the other side of this wall, this titchy door can’t be the only way in.