Where: Clod Iremonger’s bedroom

Who: CLOD IREMONGER

I heard things. Those flesh flaps on the sides of my head did too much, those two holes where the sounds went in were over-busy. I heard things when I shouldn’t.

It was just names that I heard, only ever names, some spoken in whispers, some in great shouts, some singing, some screaming, some sounded with modesty, some with great pride, some with miserable timidity. And always, to me, the names seemed to be coming from different objects all about the great house.

Of all the names I heard, the one I heard most of all was James Henry Hayward. It was a pleasant young voice. James Henry was a plug, a universal plug, it could fit most sink holes. I kept it in my pocket. James Henry was my birth object.

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