House with No Doors

Jeff Noon

HOUSE WITH NO DOORS

Contents

About the Author

Jeff Noon trained in the visual arts and drama, and was active on the post-punk music scene before becoming a playwright, and then a novelist. His first crime novel featuring Detective Hobbes was Slow Motion Ghosts. His other novels include Vurt, Pollen, Automated Alice, Nymphomation, Needle in the Groove, Falling Out of Cars, Channel SK1N, Mappalujo (with Steve Beard), A Man of Shadows, The Body Library and Creeping Jenny. He has also published two collections of short fiction, Pixel Juice and Cobralingus. He lives in Brighton.

Also by Jeff Noon

Novels

Slow Motion Ghosts

Vurt

Pollen

Automated Alice

Nymphomation

Needle in the Groove

Falling Out of Cars

Channel SK1N

Mappalujo (with Steve Beard)

A Man of Shadows

The Body Library

Creeping Jenny

Collections of short fiction

Pixel Juice

Cobralingus

For Michelle

1962

A shroud had fallen over London, a thick layer of all-encompassing smog that covered both the suburbs and the central regions. This was the third day of its reign. The pitch-black fog reached into every street and alleyway, crawling through open windows and under doors, seeping into public houses and living rooms, causing people to cough and choke, even those who wore thick scarves or homemade masks of cotton gauze. The screens in the picture houses could barely be seen. Already a good number of people had died, ninety or so by the last count. More would follow.

The city was blinded. Visibility zero.

In the district of Soho people groped along with their arms outstretched in front of them, to keep from bumping into other pedestrians. Police officers shouted warnings, and car horns sounded continuously. A double-decker bus loomed out of the fog, then stopped with a squeal of brakes. Headlamps flared and died after a few feet. It was hopeless: there was no way forward. Two vehicles had collided. One of the drivers was trapped behind the steering wheel, and another man was trying to free him. The klaxon of an unseen ambulance made a harsh cry, but any kind of rescue seemed many miles away.

One young woman stood beneath a silver-blue neon sign, its diffuse glow lending her face the haze of a ghost. She could not move. Her eyes were wide in shock and she looked around in fear, as though expecting to be attacked at any moment. But she was alone. Alone within the crowd, as so many were on that day, in that great, overpopulated city. The smog held all in its grasp.

The woman murmured to herself. Her hands were cold and trembling.

The blood ran down her fingers.

Part One

1981

Blue with Yellow Flowers

Somebody slammed a drawer shut and let out a curse. Bollocks! One of the older guys was coughing his guts up. The Monday-morning blues. Cigarette smoke and cold coffee, and the blasted light that never stopped flickering over by the window. Hobbes was troubled. The phone call wouldn’t go away: why had Glenda rung him at such an hour, still dark outside? What did she want? They hadn’t spoken in so long. Maybe she— No, he cut off the thought. Once upon a time he’d known his wife’s moods to a tee, but now she was a stranger to him. Yet it hadn’t been that long since they’d split up. Half a year, that was all.