Voices in Stone - Emily Diamand Page 0,5

she’d be okay if no one from school ever went past the shop or looked in the window… But, what if they found out? What if they went in?

Cally’s smile drifted into a puzzled frown. “You’ve asked me so many times to get a job.”

“Not there!” Isis grabbed a handful of biscuits and marched back into the living room. She threw herself on the sofa, switching on the telly.

“I don’t understand,” Cally called after her. “I thought you’d be pleased!”

Isis stared at some programme where children got to redesign their bedrooms. She ought to be pleased, and Cally was trying to change. But why couldn’t her mum do something normal, just once?

“Your mother’s right,” whispered a voice from behind her. She twisted around but there was no one there. As she turned, a biscuit crumb caught in her throat and she began to cough. Or maybe it was the dust that was suddenly filling the room? Every surface seemed to be breathing out particles; motes danced in the sunlit air, fibres floated up from the sofa, dust balls rolled out from beneath the coffee table.

It wasn’t a breeze – the windows were all shut.

A straggle of spider’s web began to un-weave itself from a ceiling corner, wafting in a single line through the air to a point near Isis’s head. Still floating, the spider silk gently coiled in the air, winding itself into a ball, and with each twist it caught the dust and fibres, spinning them in its tiny whirlwind.

Isis got up slowly, moving away.

Now dust was pouring out from underneath the TV stand and rising up from the carpet. Frayed scraps of paper peeled and fell from an old tear in the wallpaper. Above the sofa, the spin of spider silk was transforming into a swirling, mouldy-smelling column. It became a body and a head. Arms formed from the gathering fluff, draping across the back of the sofa. Long, thin legs slithered out, crossing themselves at the knees.

At last, sitting in Isis’s living room was the recognisable shape of an elderly man, dressed in an old-fashioned tweed suit, a fez perched on his head. Across the formless shape of his face, the dust and dirt was beginning to crust, like drying mud, bulging into bony features and a long, beaky nose. Holes cracked in his eye sockets and blue light glinted through them.

“Mandeville,” whispered Isis.

“The very same,” said the ghost, lifting his fez in greeting. With every moment he was becoming less a creation of dirt, but even as his body settled into its final form, his skin remained patched and flaking, his suit tattered and threadbare. He was human-looking, but rotten.

“What are you doing here?” Isis whispered. “I thought you were… eaten.”

Mandeville smiled, relaxed and amiable. “I must admit, I did think my doom had arrived when Philip Syndal directed the Devourer to consume me, but thanks to your prompt actions only a little of my essence was absorbed before I was freed. When you opened a tear in its monstrous side I was one of the first to escape in the general stampede of spirits. After a period of rest and recuperation, I thought I would come and pay my respects to my saviour.” Mandeville bowed his head. “I am most grateful.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Mandeville shrugged, sending a puff of dust into the air and making Isis cough. She glanced back at the kitchen, checking that Cally was busy. She turned up the volume on the TV and a boy’s voice blared out, complaining to the show’s presenter about the way they’d transformed his bedroom.

“I appreciate that the effort was for your sister,” said Mandeville. “Nevertheless, I benefited.” He peered around. “Where is she, by the way?”

A small voice called out of one of the sofa cushions. “You goway! You horrid!”

Mandeville tutted. “She has the matter backwards. I believe the correct form is for a child to be seen, but not heard.”

“You poopy!” shouted the cushion.

“Children are no better when dead,” muttered Mandeville.

Isis folded her arms.

“What do you want?” she whispered. “And what did you mean before, about my mum being right? Supermarkets weren’t even invented when you were alive; how would you know if she could work in one or not?”

Mandeville raised his eyebrows, cracking the papery skin of his forehead. “I was not referring to her employment. I was discussing her decision to retire from the Welkin Society. Probably the first sensible thing she has ever done, leaving that nest of self-deceivers.