Soul Music

They had created a towel rail an entire athletics team could have used for training. The black towels on it were fused to it and were quite hard. Whoever actually used the bathroom probably dried themselves on the white-and-blue, very worn towel with the initials Y M R-C-I-G-B-S A, A-M on it.

There was even a lavatory, another fine example of C. H. Lavatory's porcelainic art, with an embossed frieze of green and blue flowers on the cistern. And again, like the bath and the soap, it suggested that this room had been built by someone… and then someone else had come along afterwards to add small details. Someone with a better knowledge of plumbing, for a start. And someone else who understood, really understood, that towels should be soft and capable of drying people, and soap should be capable of bubbles.

You didn't expect any of it until you saw it. And then it was like seeing it again.

The bald towel dropped off the rail and skipped across the floor, until it fell away to reveal the Death of Rats.

SQUEAK?

"Oh, all right," said Susan. "Where do you want me to go now?"

The rat scurried to the open door and disappeared into the hall.

Susan followed it to yet another door. She turned yet another handle.

Another room within a room lay beyond. There was a tiny area of lighted tiling in the darkness, containing the distant vision of a table, a few chairs, a kitchen dresser–

— and someone. A hunched figure was sitting at the table. As Susan cautiously approached she heard the rattle of cutlery on a plate.

An old man was eating his supper, very noisily. In between forkfuls, he was talking to himself with his mouth full. It was a kind of auto bad manners.

"'Snot my fault! [spray] I was against it from the start but, oh no, he has to go and [recover piece of ballistic sausage from table] start gettin' involved, I told him, i's'not as if you're not involved [stab unidentified fried object], oh no, that's not his way [spray, jab fork at the air], once you get involved like that, I said, how're you getting out, tell me that [make temporary egg-and-ketchup sandwich] but, oh no—'

Susan walked around the patch of carpet. The man took no notice.

The Death of Rats shinned up the table leg and landed on a slice of fried bread.

"Oh. It's you."

SQUEAK.

The old man looked around.

"Where? Where?"

Susan stepped onto the carpet. The man stood up so quickly that his chair fell over.

"Who the hells are you?"

"Could you stop pointing that sharp bacon at me?"

"I asked you a question, young woman!"

"I'm Susan." This didn't sound enough. "Duchess of Sto Helit," she added.

The man's wrinkled face wrinkled still further as he strove to comprehend this. Then he turned away and threw his hands up in the air.

"Oh, yes!" he bawled, to the room in general. "That just puts the entire tin lid on it, that does!"

He waved a finger at the Death of Rats, who leaned backwards.

"You cheating little rodent! Oh, yes! I smell a rat here!"

SQUEAK?

The shaking finger stopped suddenly. The man spun around.

"How did you manage to walk through the wall?"

"I'm sorry?" said Susan, backing away. "I didn't know there was one."

"What d'you call this, then, Klatchian mist?" The man slapped the air.

The hippo of memory wallowed…

"… Albert…" said Susan, "right?"

Albert thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Worse and worse! What've you been telling her?"

"He didn't tell me anything except SQUEAK and I don't know what that means," said Susan. "But… look, there's no wall here, there's just…"

Albert wrenched open a drawer.

"Observe," he said sharply. "Hammer, right? Nail, right? Watch."

He hammered the nail into the air about five feet up at the edge of the tiled area. It hung there.

"Wall," said Albert.

Susan reached out gingerly and touched the nail. It had a sticky feel, a little like static electricity.

"Well, it doesn't feel like a wall to me," she managed.

SQUEAK.

Albert dropped the hammer on the table.

He wasn't a small man, Susan realized. He was quite tall, but he walked with the kind of lopsided stoop normally associated with laboratory assistants of an Igor turn of mind.

"I give in," he said, wagging his finger at Susan again. "I told him no good'd come of it. He started meddlin', and next thing a mere chit of a girl- where'd you go?"

Susan walked over to the table while Albert waved his arms in the air, trying to find her.

There was a cheeseboard on the table, and a snuff box. And a string of sausages. No fresh vegetables at all. Miss Butts advocated avoiding fried foods and eating plenty of vegetables for what she referred to as Daily Health. She put a lot of troubles down to an absence of Daily Health. Albert looked like the embodiment of them all as he scuttled around the kitchen, grabbing at the air.

She sat in the chair as he danced past.

Albert stopped moving, and put his hand over one eye. Then he turned, very carefully. The one visible eye was screwed up in a frantic effort of concentration.

He squinted at the chair, his eye watering with effort.