Trap Door

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Bandana.

  Sunglasses – DKNY always.

  Hoodie

  Water bottle

  I type three of my choices one after the other until Keats’s computer tells me that I’ve had all the shots it’s going to give me. I thump my fist against the workstation in frustration, accidentally hitting the mouse, which in turn clicks and opens Keats’s photo file. My body changes into a block of ice. Staring at me, as if it’s that summer all over again, is a photograph of Philip.

  ‘Can you help me unlock the treasures inside this? Or know someone who can?’

  I shove the memory stick I hold with the funeral file under Jed’s nose. Keats might have been clever with a password to protect the file but that didn’t stop me being able to download it. The photo I printed off of Philip is in my bag. A photo that’s proof that it was his face on the funeral programme that’s inside the memory stick. How can Philip have died recently? I don’t understand any of this but am determined to unlock the secrets of the past.

  Jed’s head inches back, startled to see me at his door, which I get; I don’t live here anymore and it’s late at night. Bleary-eyed, the untidy hair a given, in his boxers and a Prodigy T-shirt, the scent of eau de weed pouring off him, his expression shifts to bewilderment.

  His rough voice tells me, ‘If I can’t eat, snort or drink it, I’m not really that interested.’

  It occurs to me that he may have company. I lean in closer. ‘Sorry if I’ve interrupted but I really do need your help.’

  Yawning, he pushes the door to. ‘Footloose and fancy free, that’s me. I’m on a babe hiatus at the moment. My last girlfriend chucked me a couple of weeks ago. Said I kept eyeing up her bestie. Never dawned on her that it was her best mate making a play for me.’

  I cough to get the earthy smell of cannabis permeating the room out of my nostrils and throat. The offender is a squat fat bright yellow smiley-faced bong with a nozzle shooting out of its forehead. His sparse room is surprisingly neat and ordered.

  When we’re next to each other on the sagging sofa, I explain my predicament.

  ‘Do you know what this is, Jed?’ I present the memory stick to him again.

  Instead of answering, he gives me a quizzical look. ‘How did you get into the house?’

  ‘I’ve still got my key.’

  He holds out his hand and, with a resigned tut, I pass it over. He says, ‘I don’t need more trouble here.’ Key forgotten, he switches his gaze back to the memory stick with an intent fierceness that suggests he has psychic powers that will open it. ‘Is this a game?’

  This time, an impatient sigh escapes me, though I was already expecting this; I’ve never seen Jed near a computer or any other electronic equipment, bar his mobile phone and gadgets associated with music.

  ‘It’s a data stick for a computer. You stick stuff on it. You know heaps of people, so I’m thinking you must know someone or someones who can open it.’

  Jed’s carefree nature has made him an extremely popular guy about town. There’s also something about musicians, some kind of cool that makes people want to hang out with them.

  He thinks for a bit. ‘You mean someone who knows their way around computers?’ I nod. He thinks. Then, ‘There’s Bonnie, but she isn’t talking to me anymore, not since the incident in the supermarket.’ Best not to go there and ask what the incident was; I let him carry on. ‘Rick’s on holiday. John and James – twins – own their own tekkie shop.’ Hope takes hold of me. ‘But they’re on remand because of hacking into some government agency. Allegedly of course.’

  The hope’s snuffed out. My shoulders slump and only then do I realise how shattered I am. Not tired, weary, or exhausted. I’m a plate-glass window that’s been blasted apart. I must’ve made a noise of distress because the next thing I know, Jed’s on one knee next to me, a lifeline holding my hands.

  ‘What’s on this memory stick, babe?’ Too many people view Jed as this big cheery dumb bloke, stuffing clogged between his ears instead of brain cells. They don’t know what I do – he’s a man who senses the hurt in others.

  I want to tell him, I really do, but the truth is I don’t have the words yet to talk about Philip, the past. Only in my head does the story straighten into a logical sequence of sense. A fleeting thought crosses my mind. I wonder how he knows Michael. It was Jed’s good word that got me the job with Michael in the first place. But this isn’t the time to raise the question with Jed.

  Instead I tell him, with a softness I don’t feel, ‘I can’t say. Not yet anyway.’

  The pressure of his much-larger fingers tightens ever so slightly on my own. His gaze falters, flicks away. Comes back with the slo-mo of a door creaking open. ‘There is one other person.’

  Hope burns feverish again. ‘Who?’

  He shrugs lightly. ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  We’re both standing outside the room on the third floor. I’m not sure which one of us is more jittery, Jed or me.

  I whisper, ‘Don’t forget to pile on the charm. Wiggle that crooked nose of yours.’

  He sends me an infuriated dirty glare. ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t have done this on your own.’

  I step into his space. ‘We both know the answer to that.’

  Muttering, Jed rubs his hands down his T-shirt, finger flicks through his hair and knocks. We wait.

  Finally, my bête noire, Sonia, opens up. One of the longest smiles I’ve ever seen pings on her face at finding Jed on her doorstep, only to semi die when she sees me.

  Sonia’s battle armour is swiftly donned. ‘What the heck are you doing back here?’

  ‘Do you mean me?’ Jed counters with the tone of the broken-hearted. Thank you, my great friend.

  Sonia is shaken, her mouth opening and floundering. ‘Not you, Jed. You know—’

  He leans that body of his closer to her, making her suck back whatever she was about to say with a gulp. Jed’s good at this; she can’t take her adoring eyes off him. ‘Sweets, I was hoping you can help me out. You work in computers, right?’

  Sonia stretches her neck with obvious pride. ‘Software. Know it like the back of my hand.’

  ‘Can you open a file on this for me?’ If he leans any closer to her he’s going to fall flat on his face, taking her with him. Mind you, Sonia will probably love that. He waves the memory stick like it’s an engagement ring.

  Suddenly, Sonia’s neck lashes back as her glance slicks to me, back to Jed. ‘Is this for her?’

  ‘No, it’s for me.’ I can tell by his tone that Jed is tiring rapidly of the charm offensive. ‘Will you do this for me or not?’

  Sonia stares me down. Decision time: does she dislike me enough or fancy Jed more? After a few seconds’ hesitation her thing for Jed wins, she lets us in. I don’t know what I expect but not this, her room’s a chaotic mess. Clothes, shoes on the floor, drawers open, and piles of papers and books taken root everywhere. It’s not exactly clear where she sleeps. Sonia finds her laptop, crosses her legs on the floor and stretches her hand out for the memory stick.

  We stand either side of her, looking down as she plugs it in. Taps away. Does what I suppose is some tekkie wizardry with her fingertips for five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

  Looks up at us. ‘Who does this belong to?’

  ‘A mate,’ is all I tell her.

  ‘Well, they’re a genius. Never seen an encryption like this before.’

  I frown. ‘What does that mean?’

  There’s a smug expression coating her twisted lips. ‘I can’t open it. Only the person who set it up can.’

  In the weak brown-yellowed light spilling from the ancient bulb, I stick Philip’s photo to the storeroom wall. Take a step back and stare at his features. His eyes, nose, mouth, lips, strong determined jaw.

  My voice is faint. ‘I vow I’m going to find out what happened to you. What really happened that summer.’

  Nineteen

  It’s morning. I begin the climb up my knotted rope to the to
p of the grill. Fingers finally curl around the bars. A tingling skates down my arms as freezing metal touches skin. My rucksack bangs against my back as I leverage the bottom of my shoes flat against the wall with the knowhow of an acrobat on the cusp of thrilling the crowds. Teeth gritted, I use the force of my feet to shift the grill to the side. Move one hand to clutch the pavement and then the other. Haul my body out. I shove the grill back into place. Almost skip down the side of the building and turn into the front. Nod to The 22 and go inside when I gain entry.

  As I speed-walk through the tunnel beneath the trap door, my thoughts turn to the dog and woman – girl? – I heard at night. Upstairs, keening and wailing. A requiem of weeping for the dead garment workers? That’s a frightening thought. I shake it off with an all-over shiver. Reach the steel door and walk inside.

  The blue arc lights and their offspring shadows seem even more pronounced today. The static humming beat of the walls a pitch louder too. No-one acknowledges my presence as usual except the zombie who was watching the disgusting video of the woman being attacked. The loathing pours off him. Screw him. Let him look. Let him hate.

  When I take my seat, Keats perches his head sideways to look at me through his shades. I stare right back. Does he suspect I was messing with his computer after he went home? Knows that I have a copy of the funeral file? That I printed off the photo of Philip? I imagine the blatant shock sitting uncomfortably, defining the expression on his face. The tension of his compressed lips behind his outlaw bandana. It’s blood red today. A warning for me to keep away? He’ll be disappointed then because I won’t. Not today. I have plans for him.

  ‘I can’t open it. Only the person who set it up can.’

  Sonia’s frustrating conclusion reminds me what priority number one is. Persuading Keats to either open the file for me or give me the password. Yeah, a difficult one from a man I think is persecuting me and probably hates women in the bargain, but I have to believe he’ll help me. I mean, why should he give a flying damn if I see the file or not? I see Philip’s face taped to the storeroom wall, which gives me courage to tackle Keats. Softly softly does it, Rachel.

  I start with the inoffensive, the bland. Begin messaging.

  Me: How long have you been working here?

  He checks his message box, hesitates.

  Go on. Talk to me.

  As he taps his keyboard, a mini jubilant smile curves my lips, creeping up to my eyes.

  Keats: Why?

  Me: I’m just trying to find out more about you. You’re obviously a very clever man.

  Yeah, the last sucks but so many men love to have their feathers stroked. Zero comeback. My side-eye sees his fingers hesitate over his keyboard.

  Go on. Please.

  His fingertips touch base.

  Keats: What is this??? Are you trying to build a relationship with me here??? Your idea of tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree??? Here’s the thing, I don’t want to build a relationship with you. Okay? I don’t like hangers on.

  That’s the cut-off line of a conversation if I’ve ever heard one. Philip’s face stamps back into my mind. I can’t give up.

  Me: Maybe we can go out for a coffee or drink sometime to get to know each other better.

  Keats: If you’re asking me out I don’t fancy you.

  Me: What’s your type?

  Keats: Someone with a lot less mouth on them.

  Me: I was only referring to us doing something social to cement our professional relationship so we feel easier about working with each other.

  This guy’s like a robot, no emotions, no social skills. There’s no other way to do this – I’m going to have to go in for the kill.

  Me: I need to apologise.

  Keats: For what?

  I’m careful and think before I write.

  Me: I’ll be honest – I snooped on your computer.

  There’s a heavy-duty puff of air behind his bandana.

  Keats: I know you did. Don’t sweat it. My fault. I shoulda locked in the main password before I went. Don’t bother trying again. Password protect is in place.

  Me: I couldn’t help seeing the funeral programme you’re working on. So sad when a loved one passes away. Are you doing the job for someone? Or are you connected to the family?

  Keats sits back. I imagine indecision playing across his features, drawing the blood high into his cheeks. Finally he leans forward.

  Keats: Do you want some advice?

  Me: Sure.

  It’s surprising what you can tell about someone when they think they’ve hidden their emotions on their face. Other parts of the body speak volumes too. His fingers are hitting the keys hard.

  Keats: Mind your own business.

  His pissed attitude doesn’t deter me, although I don’t message back. I’ve got the whole day to wait. Wait for him to leave promptly at five and follow him. Maybe I can persuade him when we’re away from this dungeon-like place.

  The heartbeat of the walls is in sync with my own as the minutes, the hours, tick away.

  Finally. Finally, just after five, Keats heads out. I count to ten before following him. I follow on through the steel door. Stumble with a horrified squeal. A puff of fur and tail, in a flash of brown, shoots up the stairs. Or was it a shadow? No, I saw something moving. I’m rocking in shock, unable to move. When I hear a brief scuffle and soft bark, another squeal shoves past my quivering lips. Vermin. I shudder. I imagine them in the walls, in tiny holes in the bottom of the walls, beady eyes, hairy tails, flea-bitten coats waiting for me to go by. Ready to spring on me. I shouldn’t be surprised there are rodents hanging out down here, this being an ideal des res for them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not scared of our ratty friends, it’s just they live a very diseased life that I don’t want anywhere near me.

  Hang on, rats don’t bark. I’m frowning as my heart thumps way too forcefully in the hollow of my chest. I think back to what I saw. It was a bit on the large size for a rat too, although there are urban myths of rats as big as cats haunting London’s sewers. Something tells me to rule that out. The mournful keening of the dog in the night bounces in the acoustics of my head, a death march at a funeral.

  I rush through the tunnel to the stairs. Look up. Nothing there. Punch my hand against the trap door and peer out and around. Nothing. I think for a moment of the reports of Scrap’s ghost. The heroic dog that had led the way, keened in helpless anguish.

  Properly freaked out, I scramble past the trap door, bang it closed behind me and am on the narrow street in three seconds flat. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m petrified.

  I feed on natural air, breathing harshly, lacking control. For the first time, I question this quest to find out about Philip. To untangle our crooked past. I step away. Stare, eyes wide, at the Victorian building. It stares blatantly at me almost to attention, shoulders back. This once-upon-a-time sweatshop isn’t scared of anybody. My mind conjures up Philip’s face taped to the storeroom wall. No, I can’t, won’t let him down. Won’t run this time.

  The irate blast of a car horn returns me to the street. Only then do I remember my mission to follow Keats. He’s nowhere in sight.

  ‘Bloody, bloody damn.’ Followed by a stream of ear-blistering cursing.

  I’m not giving up, so I walk with speed to see if I can locate him. Then my phone goes off. I shake my head in consternation.

  It’s Dad. Should or shouldn’t I take it? I take the call.

  ‘Rachel, I’m at your house.’

  All thoughts of following Keats fly out of my mind.

  Twenty

  Pulse rate kicking up a storm, breathing like it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I come to a panting unsteady stop outside my house. It’s shrouded in the falling evening light. My arms and legs ache as if I’ve been running since I bolted from trying to find Keats. It’s my mind that’s been running and running with how I’m going to stall Dad from going inside my house and holding at bay the inevitable bombardment of questions he’ll fling at
me.

  I spin in an unsteady circle, feet finding it difficult to balance against the ground, my terse gaze searching and searching. Where is he? Where’s Dad? I can’t find him anywhere. I don’t understand. Then it hits me. I remember. I become as stiff as a corpse waiting to be embalmed. He has a spare set of keys.

  I swallow hard, knowing there’s no way out of this. Correction: no way out. Of course there’s a way – it’s called The Truth. I drizzle some CBD oil onto my tongue, not under it, and coat it across my gums, top and bottom, before going inside.

  I find him in the main room. Cross-legged, he sits on the bare floor, back against the wall in the exact spot where once sat a huge majestic prayer plant he’d bought for me on a spur-of-the-moment fatherly indulgence. He’s the image of a boy whose toys have been crushed right in front of him. Neither of us speaks. But it’s not silence really. How can it be with the creaking weight of the life I haven’t told him about crammed in between us. He’s set up an LED lamp on a tripod, which he carries in his van, a relic from his days as a site foreman.

  ‘Dad?’ Nerves have a stranglehold on my throat, diminishing my voice to a raspy reedy mess.

  He waves a hand indicating not just this room but also the whole house. ‘What happened here?’ There’s no accusation in his tone, no anger. It’s flat, seeking the facts; no wonder he’s considered a master at negotiating deals in his line of business.

  The strident LED light stings my eyes as I shuffle deeper into the room, though I make sure not to invade his space. ‘I’m… I…’ Can’t stop stuttering. I pull in a heavy punch of air. ‘I was going to tell you.’ Liar.

  Dad slowly uncoils his body and my breath hisses in the depth of my throat; I got it so wrong, he’s angry. Furious. It’s there in the movements as he straightens – taunt bunching of his muscles, the jerk of limbs against their joints, the flexes and twitches of his fingers by his side. And a face made of granite ready to be chiselled and hacked apart.