Danny arrived, first thing that morning, stopping only to collect his jaw from the pavement.
Teena Rama’s own personal White House ran some three hundred feet from one end of Moldern Crescent to the other, half enclosing the houses across the road, as though trying to eat them. From somewhere behind the building, a white pole prodded the sky, its polka dot flag declaring the owner to be in residence.
He checked the address she’d given him and, having reassured himself for the fiftieth time that this must be the place, climbed the step that connected it to the street.
Staring at the oak panelled front door, he again checked the address. It was still the right place. About to knock, he noticed a tiny sign beside the handle; please press me. An arrow pointed to a green plastic panel by the door. He did as instructed. The panel lit up.
‘Hello?’ asked a voice that seemed to be Bob Holness.
Danny looked around, trying to locate its source.
Above the door, a camera’s red light activated. He addressed it. ‘Er, good morning. I believe I’m expected.’
‘Expected?’
‘By Teena Rama. I’m her new lodger.’
‘Ah. You’ll be young Mr Gary.’
‘No. I’m Danny.’
‘What happened to Mr Gary?’
‘He won’t be coming.’ He lacked the inclination to go into all that again.
‘Has he had an accident?’ asked the voice.
‘No.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No.’
‘Have you murdered him and taken his place, in a daring assassination bid on Miss Rama?’
‘No,’ protested Danny. ‘He just won’t be coming.’
The voice fell silent, as though checking something, then said, ‘Miss Rama will be disappointed. She was rather looking forward to receiving young Mr Gary, much as one welcomes the arrival of small but unfocused animals. However, I’m sure she’ll accept you in lieu. Miss Rama can be tolerant.’
Clunk, the door unlocked.
‘Feel free to enter, Mr Daniel.’
‘Thank you.’
He was about to push the door open, when the voice warned, ‘But please don’t touch the door frame; you’ll be disintegrated.’
Once in the hallway, Danny closed the front door behind him. Stepping over a junk mail mountain, he took care not to touch the frame. But perhaps the man had been having him on.
His finger reached toward it, curious, then stopped.
Upon starting work once, he’d resolutely refused to cross town for a left-handed screwdriver and had promptly been sacked from Wheatley Long Stand, Glass Hammer and Left-Handed Screwdrivers PLC. It was a mistake anyone could have made, but hadn’t.
Then there’d been his fourth day at Lucy’s, when she’d said Osmosis had given her Danny’s room and he’d have to sleep out on the landing because he was the new kid and sleeping out on the landing was what new kids always had to do. And he wasn’t to use her old room, it was needed for frog storage.
For a month he’d slept on that landing, until Osmosis had pointed out the lack of ribbiting.
Perhaps everyone played a joke on the new kid and this was Teena’s.
But he withdrew his finger anyway.
He looked around.
The hallway stretched to the distant back door, silent but for the ticking cuckoo clock to his left. A wooden bird burst from its slot, said, ‘Cuckoo,’ then went into hiding for another hour. Tiny doors flipped shut behind it.
Danny went across.
Stretching on tiptoes, he removed clock from wall, turned its hands forward fifty-nine minutes, then took it to the door. He pointed clock at frame then, confident it would be unharmed, waited.
Tick tick tick tick …
The bird burst from its hidey hole, gave one proud, ‘Cuck –’ and disintegrated.
Clunk, Danny threw the twisted thing-that-was-once-a-clock out onto the street, hoping someone would steal it. They would have done back at his old home.
He slammed the door shut, having not seen any shady characters in the moment it was open. Like the police, shady characters were rarely around when you needed them.
He checked again, easing the door slightly open, peering out through the gap. The blackened mass was still there. He retrieved it, bringing it back inside, again stepping over junk mail.
He hung the clock back on the wall. The wreckage hung lopsided. He hung it straight. It hung lopsided. He hung it straight. It hung lopsided. But who looked at clocks anyway?
Now he heard just the mild hum of some unseen machine.
Two endless rows of rooms ran the walls’ length, like the Yellow Submarine scene where everyone ran in and out of doors, opening them, slamming them, disappearing into them.
No one emerged from these doors.
‘Hello? Anyone at home?’ he asked.
No reply.
Between each door hung three black-framed photos arranged in an inverted triangle. He took a closer look.
The photos hung chronologically. The first showed Teena as a five-year-old, a grim-faced little thing receiving an award from a scientist.
The next showed her receiving an award from a scientist.
The next showed her receiving an award from a scientist.
The next showed her receiving an award from a scientist.
The pictures continued, each at a four-week interval.
Each photo was larger than the one before, each prize bigger than the previous, till the awards were too big for her to lift; a girl grown too clever for her arms.
The scientists tried to help her lift the trophies but eventually she was too clever for everyone’s arms.
Nearing the back door, he found an eighteen month gap when she’d not won a single award nor done one thing of note, as though she’d disappeared into some black hole.
The pictures resumed just before the incident in Osmo’s shop. She’s back, declared the accompanying magazine caption. Kooky genius Teena Rama collects her eighth Nobel Prize for Physics. Kooky?
The photo parade continued.
‘No no no. I want no more mess ups.’ To Danny’s right, a door opened, a stern voice striding through into the hallway, followed, moments later, by its owner. Teena Rama was carrying a roll of cable. Upon noticing Danny, she stopped, hard expression replaced by that smile. It looked like she’d been working on it since yesterday. ‘Gary?’
‘Danny.’
‘Of course. Well, Gary, welcome to my abode. Humble though it may be.’
‘You call this humble?’
‘It serves its purposes.’
Thud. The thing that had once been a clock hit the carpet. It lay there dead.
Danny turned red.
Teena watched the smoking wreck then looked directly into Danny’s soul. ‘Have you been touching that?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He shuffled uneasily, transparent as glass.
Still gazing at him, she said, transparent as six inch thick lead shielding, ‘I should show you around.’
‘This is the Sponge Room.’ Having already shown him the three kitchens, drawing rooms, piano rooms, dining rooms, gyms and reception areas, she held the latest door open for Danny to look inside.
Its walls were windowless, paperless and white, with a radiator attached to the farthest. Otherwise it was empty but for a small bath sponge carefully placed on the floorboards at its centre.
‘Sponge Room?’ he asked.
She seemed embarrassed. ‘The lower floor has fifty-eight rooms. My research shows no individual needs more than ten. Consequently, upon moving in, I had to manufacture uses for the remainder. By room twenty-three, those uses were becoming somewhat contrived. The Sponge Room was Doors’ idea. Doors insisted.’
‘Doors?’ asked Danny.
‘The voice that let you in.’
‘And what room’s he in?’
‘None. Doors is a computer. It answers the front door, controls heating, air conditioning, lighting, et cetera. It also assists with my experiments, despite being of little use.’ She shut the Sponge Room door. ‘You don’t really want to see the Shower Cap, Rubber Duck, and Margarine Rooms, do you?’
‘Too right I do,’ he enthused. ‘I’ve never seen a Margarine Room.’
For some reason, her eyes rolled.
Teena showed Danny the rest of the downstairs.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, rattling.
Teena Rama stopped, halfway up the embassy-width staircase, and turned to see the Gary boy stood by the door at the stair bottom. Her eyes flickered over the scene.
She pulled a dreadlock away from her face, tucking it behind her right ear. It fell across her face again. She tutted internally. ‘It’s the broom cupboard. I have a man who comes in twice a week and “does” for me.’
Again the boy rattled the knob as though trying to tear it from the door.
Calves tightening, she descended one step.
‘It’s locked,’ he said, still rattling.
‘Chemicals. Many used in housework are highly toxic, I’m told. I ensure my Man Who Does always uses suitable protection while performing his duties. He keeps the key. I could phone him, drag him from bed and all the way across town during mid-morning rush hour for you. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
‘No. It’s okay,’ he joked. ‘I’m not desperate to see mops.’
‘You’re sure. Only, you were so keen to see the Margarine Room. Look; the phone’s just here.’ She reached through an Art Deco banister and lifted the receiver from its table. She waved it in his direction.
‘No. I’m certain,’ he insisted, waving a hand.
Click, she hung the phone up, and again tucked dreadlock behind ear. This time it stayed. ‘Good. I’ll show you the rest of the house.’
‘I thought this should be your room, if acceptable.’
Danny stood at its centre, gazing round, amazed by its sheer white expanse. Teena remained by the door.
He’d been in fields that were more claustrophobic than this. ‘Acceptable? It’s incredible.’
‘I feared it might not live up to your expectations. I can always transfer you to another. Any room on the top landing, except mine, could be made available. I’ll simply have to reprogram Doors’ register.’
‘Register?’ He paid little attention, hand pressing a firm but fair bed. It didn’t creak. He tried the other end. It didn’t creak. He sat on it, bouncing along the mattress. It didn’t creak.
She explained, ‘In an emergency, I’d need to know exactly where any guests are, a fire for instance. Quick location could be a matter of life or death.’
Danny bounced.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I have things to be getting on with. I’m sure you have too, unpacking and the like. Doors’ll deal with any enquiries you might have. Make yourself at home.’
‘Thanks. I will.’
And she left him to bounce.
He let himself fall back into silk sheets, arms and legs outstretched. He tensed them into relaxation, sinking into the bed’s warm embrace. Resembling a Modern Art sculpture, a multi-faceted lighting installation hung from the ceiling directly above. He pressed a switch on the understated headboard. The lights came on, humming gently. Click, he switched them off.
A white slatted wardrobe stood by the window.
He went across.
He opened its twin doors, peering into emptiness. He stepped inside, closing the doors behind him.
The smell of fresh pine tickled his nostrils. Light seeped in through the slats, making it almost as bright inside as out. Arms outstretched, he performed a full turn, fingertips at no point contacting wood. He estimated the closet to be three inches wider than Lucy’s old room, and had to concede she’d had a point.
Teena’s door-muffled voice reappeared. ‘Gary? Are you still here?’
‘I’m in the wardrobe.’
‘Oh.’ She said it as though she’d never stood in a wardrobe in her life. ‘I see.’