Excerpt from Black Swan Green by David Mitchell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

But this morning the house looked so hunkered down and locked up, I doubted anyone was still living there. Plus, my bladder was about to split, and that makes you less cautious. So I peed up against the frosted wall. I'd just finished signing my autograph in steamy yellow when a rusty gate opened up with a tiny shriek and there stood a sour aunt from black-and-white times. Just standing there, staring at me.

My pee ran dry.

"God! Sorry!" I zipped up my fly, expecting an utter bollocking. Mum'd flay alive any kid she found pissing against our fence, then feed his body to the compost bin. Including me. "I didn't know anyone was living . . . here." The sour aunt carried on looking at me.

Pee dribbles blotted my underpants.

"My brother and I were born in this house," she said, finally. Her throat was saggy like a lizard's. "We have no intention of moving away."

"Oh . . ." I still wasn't sure if she was about to open fire on me. "Good."

"How noisy you youngsters are!"

"Sorry."

"It was very careless of you to wake my brother."

My mouth'd glued up. "It wasn't me making all the noise. Honestly."

"There are days"—the sour aunt never blinked—"when my brother loves youngsters. But on days like these, my oh my, you give him the furies."

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

"You'll be sorrier," she said, looking disgusted, "if my brother gets a hold of you."

Quiet things were too loud and loud things couldn't be heard.

"Is he . . . uh, around? Now? Your brother, I mean?"

"His room's just as he left it."

"Is he ill?"

She acted like she hadn't heard me.

"I've got to go home now."

"You'll be sorrier"—she did that spitty chomp old people do to not dribble—"when the ice cracks."

"The ice? On the lake? It's as solid as anything."

"You always say so. Ralph Bredon said so."

"Who's he?"

"Ralph Bredon. The butcher's boy."

It didn't feel at all right. "I've got to go home now."

 

Lunch at 9 Kingfisher Meadows, Black Swan Green, Worcestershire, was Findus ham'n'cheese Crispy Pancakes, crinkle-cut oven chips, and sprouts. Sprouts taste of fresh puke but Mum said I had to eat five without making a song and dance about it, or there'd be no butterscotch Angel Delight for pudding. Mum says she won't let the dining table be used as a venue for "adolescent discontent." Before Christmas I asked what not liking the taste of sprouts has to do with "adolescent discontent." Mum warned me to stop being a Clever Little Schoolboy. I should've shut up but I pointed out that Dad never makes her eat melon (which she hates) and Mum never makes Dad eat garlic (which he hates). She went ape and sent me to my room. When Dad got back I got a lecture about arrogance.

No pocket money that week, either.

So anyway, this lunchtime I cut my sprouts up into tiny pieces and glolloped tomato ketchup over them. "Dad?"

"Jason?"

"If you drown, what happens to your body?"

Julia rolled her eyes like Jesus on his cross.

"Bit of a morbid topic for the dinner table." Dad chewed his forkful of crispy pancake. "Why do you ask?"

It was best not to mention the frozen-up pond. "Well, in this book Arctic Adventure these two brothers Hal and Roger Hunt're being chased by a baddie called Kaggs who falls into the—"

Excerpted from Black Swan Green by David Mitchell Copyright © 2006 by David Mitchell. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.