Lady of the Shades Read Free Page B

horror book, isn’t it?’ Joe presses.
    ‘Maybe,’ I grunt.
    ‘Come on,’ Joe groans. ‘You can tell me. It won’t go any further.’
    ‘You’ll be the first to know. But you have to be patient. Sometimes plots come together quickly. More times they don’t.’
    ‘It’s really not all there yet?’ Joe asks.
    ‘No.’
    ‘So . . . ’ He blushes. ‘If I came up with an idea, and it was really good, and you used it, could I get a credit?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Imagine,’ he sighs. ‘An Edward Sieveking and Joe Rickard book. Your name at the top, mine below, slightly smaller print.’
    ‘Maybe
your
name should be at the top,’ I deadpan.
    Joe withers me with a look. ‘No need to be cynical. I know the book’s yours. I was only thinking how nice it would be to –’
    ‘What was that?’ I silence him with a sharp gesture.
    There’s a low rumbling noise. My hopes rise. Joe dashes them.
    ‘Just a cat.’ He laughs. ‘A tom on the make.’
    He’s right, and I’m annoyed with myself. I should have made the connection before him. I’m the one with experience.
    We settle back into silence. I think about when I first made contact with Joe, nearly a year ago. I was promoting my most recent book,
Soul Vultures
. It was the first time I’d
released a novel under my own name. Before then I’d called myself E.S. King. (My original agent thought that Stephen King fans might buy my work on the strength of the pseudonym, but in fact
it worked against me and hampered sales.) With
Soul Vultures
and a new agent, Edward Sieveking finally saw the light of day. My first two books,
Nights of Fear
and
Summer’s Shades
, were re-released and did better business second time round. I wasn’t exactly haunting the best-seller charts, but after a stumbling start, I had a definite
feeling that I was on my way.
    I took part in an internet chat-room session that turned out to be a damp squib. Several people lodged questions about the new book, but Joe was the only one who seemed familiar with my past
work. I sent him a signed copy of
Soul Vultures
and the reprints of the other pair, and we became Facebook buddies. A few months ago, I told him about the start I’d made on my next
novel, mentioning the fact that I was exploring the field of SHC, and he talked me into setting it in London.
    ‘This city’s spookier than a graveyard,’ he vowed. ‘Plus I know people in the field who could be helpful.’
    It didn’t take him long to persuade me. I’d been to London a few times, but years ago, before I established myself as a writer. I’d never explored it with a creative eye. My
other novels were set in rural towns – two in America, one in Canada – but a city was vital to the framework this time, and London seemed as good a place as any. Besides, I was looking
forward to meeting Joe. I’m a loner and don’t have many friends. I thought it would be good for me to team up with an assistant. My agent keeps telling me that I come across too stiffly
in interviews. I was hoping that time spent with Joe might loosen me up and help me talk more freely about my work.
    Joe leans forward and taps my knee, interrupting my reverie. His dark brown eyes are wide. He points towards the opposite wall. As I turn, a wind gusts through the room and the candles blow out.
Fortunately there are numerous holes and cracks in the boards covering the front windows, and enough light seeps in from the street lamps to see by.
    Mist is rising from the bare brick wall. No, not rising . . .
emanating
. It doesn’t drift like normal mist would. It’s bubbling out, as if blown from an invisible pair of
lips. Dirty grey mist, coming from within the wall.
    ‘Shit,’ Joe gasps, getting to his feet. ‘It’s real.’ He’s trembling. This is his first time. Nothing can prepare you for that initial encounter, that moment
of confirmation that there really
is
more to the world than what most people ever see.
    The bubble has reached its limits. About