Trap Door

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  He begins. ‘All those years ago his family, for whatever reason, refused to talk with me—’

  ‘But you told me you spoke with his mother ten years ago.’ The shocked words rush out of me with a burn that scorches my skin from toe to head.

  ‘I couldn’t make his family talk to me. What I could do was try to find out for myself. So I tracked down which hospital Philip was in.’ Dad shakes his head with a heavy-hearted sigh. ‘I wasn’t permitted to see him but one of the doctors told me that he was burnt so badly he wasn’t expected to last the night.’

  My hands cover my quivering mouth with the horror of it. Images of Philip with tubes going in and out of him, motionless. God, so still, in a hospital room only fit for the dead, the flame in his dancing eyes snuffed out forever.

  Dad keeps his distance. I respect him for that. This awful grieving is one I have to do on my own.

  ‘I really did think what I told you was the truth, love. I wasn’t keeping anything back. It’s just I had to deal with Danny…’

  I reach out and take Dad’s hand. Squeeze. Wrapped in my own selfish grief, I’ve forgotten that Dad carries the burden of his friend’s tragedy too. The moisture in my mouth dries because I wish I could tell him… I don’t. Can’t. He’d hate me. I hate me. We sit there for… I don’t know how long, but it’s enough time for us to give a shoulder to each other’s grief.

  ‘Did his mother tell you how he died?’ I don’t recall my voice ever being so small.

  Dad’s response is quiet too. ‘Philip was badly injured. After what the doctor told me, I can only conclude that Philip made it through all those years because he was strong—’

  ‘He was that.’ A strange smile flutters against my lips. Then is gone. ‘One of the strongest people I know… Knew.’

  Dad’s expression tightens. ‘I never realised you were so close to him. I assumed he was a workmate you were merely concerned about.’

  My face shutters. I’ve given too much away. Then again, this is Dad, the man who held my hand when I took my first steps as a toddler, so I give him a partial truth. ‘Philip was what I needed after Mum passed away.’

  Dad scowls hard; there’s something beneath it I can’t identify. ‘Rachel, you and Philip never…’ He leaves it hanging, a father’s modesty with his daughter.

  I shake my head. ‘No. It was never like that between us. What happened to him?’

  Dad reaches for his drink and knocks it back in one. Keeps his palms round his mug. ‘His situation must’ve got too much for him. He booked himself into a euthanasia clinic in Switzerland.’

  I try to control the quiver of my mouth, the involuntary clenching of my tummy. I can feel the walls of my tears crumbling inside. Then they come, a dam of pent-up emotions finally erupting. A horrible noise cracks at the base of my throat. My shoulders shake. And I’m crying and crying. Can’t stop. Finally understand I don’t have to stop. Dad takes me in his solid arms, which I’m eternally grateful for because I need someone to lean on during this time of intense self-revelation.

  When there are no more tears left, I pull back and ask, ‘I’d like to go to his funeral. Can you fix that for me, Dad?’

  The flash of irritation on Dad’s face startles me. ‘Rachel, that isn’t a good idea. His parents want a private family service. And you need to respect that. Just as they wanted their privacy ten years ago.’

  He’s right, I know. Nevertheless it’s a crushing blow. Dad gently lays his large callused palms on my shoulder and turns me towards him. ‘Your life’s back on track, princess. It’s time to leave the past in the past. To look forward. This is our chance to steamroller ahead – together – no more secrets. To be open with each other.’ He leans over, kisses with the lightest touch on my cheek. ‘Let’s put the Rachel and Frank Jordan show back on the road.’

  I hold the lighter in one hand and the funeral programme in the other over the sink. I’m alone now, ready to do one of the hardest things I will ever do. I press the lighter on and the flame holds me in its yellow-tipped blue-based flare. My hand trembles as the memories come and go like the swaying motion of the flame that warms my thumb. I shove the memories back with all the strength I have. Take the plunge while I’m still strong and touch the flame to the programme.

  The growing flame hypnotises, chewing into the paper. Curls. Blisters and blackens over Philip’s beloved face. Nothing left but lifeless ash that drops and smoulders in the metallic matt of my new sink. Debts sorted, Philip laid to rest, it’s time to move on. Hand in my bye-bye letter to Michael. Time to shut the trap door on my job.

  Still, a disquiet descends. You know, like the latest hit song that everyone’s raving to death about and you’re the only one that can hear the beat is lazy manufactured pop. I can’t quite figure it out at first. Then it hits. What are the chances I get a job and it turns out that the programme for Philip’s funeral service is being put together by the person sitting next to me? Coincidence? Six degrees of separation? It’s downright weird. Isn’t it?

  Twenty-Four

  ‘Bye, Philip, my mister eighteen.’ My voice is soft and full of sisterly love. ‘I’m sorry. Forever sorry.’

  I’m back in the storeroom later that night. Back staring up at Philip’s face pinned to the wall. It’s as if I’m staring at him laid out in his coffin, one last moment before the lid slides over, consigning him to earth and dust. There are no more answers to search for here. Thanks to Dad, I know what happened to Philip, why he didn’t die ten years ago, why he did pass only recently.

  It still chokes me up to think of Philip being in such a bad way that he chose to end it all. The guilt is still part of me, but the elastic tightness of it is loosening. One day, if I’m lucky in life, it may go away. One day.

  I lean up and carefully take down the photo. I could stand here in the dead-yellow gloom of this room and weep until my heart hurt but what would be the point? Regretful tears aren’t going to bring him back. I run a finger over his face and then carefully pocket it away.

  I’m here to pack up my gear, never to return. I’ve already written a letter of resignation to Michael, which I’ll post to him tomorrow. As for the strangeness of Keats doing the funeral programme… a sad coincidence, that’s all.

  I pick up my things and haphazardly stuff them into my bag. Only the Aran jumper Mum gave me gets the folded treatment. I do a three-sixty stare around. I can’t wait to get out of this room that scares me at night. The whole bloody building gives me the creeps. There are no footsteps above. No mysterious woman weeping or dog keening. I didn’t imagine those noises when they echoed through the building. But now it’s easy to think that possibly I did. Tricks and tics of a very tired and grief-stricken mind.

  I make my way to the basement office, pop on the blue lights and clear my personals from my desk. I stare at the walls of this silent space because even the humming of its heart and the blinking bulbs on the digital devices seem to have faded away. In fact, it’s rather like those Westerns where our hero cowboy says it’s too quiet just before the gunfire blasts into town. It’s not only this former sweatshop; the whole city surrounding it seems to be silent as if waiting for something to happen. As if…

  A crash above like a tray of drinks being tipped down the main stairs makes my muscles harden and jump. A voice floats down, muffled, full of ripe curses, and although I can’t be sure, I think it’s that of a woman. The weeping lady? Wailing girl? I look upwards in alarm. And something else my mind tries to crush. Curiosity. It grabs me, refusing to do the decent thing and let me go.

  I’m beyond the steel door before I can talk myself out of it. Feel my way down the jet-drenched tunnel. Take the steep stairs carefully until my head’s perched at an angle beneath the trap door. I prise up the door an inch, maybe less, and peer out into the reception area, half lit from the front dormer window that gives out onto the street. There’s nothing to see, of course. I’m not sure why I’m doing this. It’s not as if I’m going upstairs to find out who this woman
is, now is it? Is it?

  I’m distracted by a noise the other side of the arched entrance doors. I tune my ears to it. A car blaring heavy rock music and from the sound of the engine, it’s a high-performance vehicle. Keys rattle in the lock. Heart racing, I drop the trap. Flatten my back to the damp wall. Wait. Listen. Footsteps inside. A clear distinct voice shouts – not too far away — must be up the stairs.

  ‘Mum? Mum? Are you up there?’

  It’s Michael. Calling for his… mum? Yes, that’s what he said. Is that who haunts the building at night – his mother? Why would his mother be living here? I’m assaulted by a roll call of questions that have no answers. Michael’s footsteps fade upstairs the same time I hear another vehicle stop outside. The pulse of its engine thrums against the wooden step beneath me.

  A violent slam of a door disturbs the quiet of the night in the street. The sudden hammering on the main door goes right through me. Pushes me to sink closer to the wall. I imagine the security buzzer being repeatedly pressed as well because whoever’s out there, I sense their volatile impatience.

  Michael’s back on the stairs. His voice is strained and something else I haven’t heard in his tone before – fear. ‘Who is it?’

  I creep closer to the trap door. My palm lifts it ever so slightly. I see Michael’s spit-polished black designer shoes and jeans-clad legs. The answer to his question is a fusillade of thumping knocks that shake the Victorian door in its frame. Michael’s feet shuffle hesitantly forward. I think he’s looking through the peephole. His feet skip back in alarm.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The letterbox opens. ‘Open the door, Michael, or so help me, I’ll kick it in. And then I’ll kick you in.’

  My chest constricts, leaving it hard to find air as I go absolutely still. It can’t be. Not that voice.

  Michael opens the door. Another pair of feet and legs covered in grey trousers come in.

  It can’t be.

  Michael’s legs abruptly jerk up like a puppet on a string, almost on tiptoes, his body swaying. Whoever has arrived has grabbed Michael.

  The visitor growls, ‘I want to know what you’ve been saying to my girl. She’s asking questions about Philip’s death. Now why would Rachel be doing that after all this time? Unless you or your mother have been whispering in her ear.’

  But it is.

  Dad.

  What’s Dad doing here? What if…? No, I shake my head in denial. Maybe… Maybe he’s here to give Michael a good telling off, or worse a sound thumping about putting me in the basement. But how would Dad know I’m working here? I’ve never told him the name of my employer or the address of my job. I gaze sharply down the sheer drop of stairs, which seem to be beckoning me to go back. Get your gear and get out. But a magnetic need to find out what’s going on holds me.

  I pull apart Dad’s words to Michael. Why does Dad seem so angry that I asked him about Philip’s death? And why would he think this has got anything to do with Michael and his mother upstairs?

  Michael says, ‘Rachel? Why would I be talking to Rachel? I’ve never met her, now have I?’

  Of course he has; I work for him.

  Michael squeals, the noise an animal makes when a predator pounces and takes it by the neck. I don’t hear the blow but the gurgling groan from Michael’s guts means there’s certainly been one.

  ‘Don’t try to make a fool out of me, lad. You of all people should know how angry that makes me. You of all people should know what I’m capable of. No-one makes a fool out of me, not in public or private. And never, ever, does someone make a fool of me in front of my girl. You’ll find that out the hard way if I discover you or your meddling mother talk trash to my daughter. You’ll find that out for sure.’

  Michael staggers across the floor, legs wobbling. Dad’s let him go.

  Dad’s voice detonates and explodes. ‘Is your mother here? Does she hang out in this rat hole too?’

  My legs are wobbling. In a state of confused disbelief. That can’t be my dad out there. That man who grabbed Michael with a vicious violence that bordered on hate. I don’t want to believe this.

  Michael’s spluttering. ‘Mum? No, no. She’s at our place in Spain. Did you know we had a villa there? Just down the road from Malaga, lovely place.’

  No she’s not. He’s lying. She’s upstairs. I heard her drop something and swear a blue streak. Why is Michael hiding the fact his mother’s in the building from my dad? And why would Dad know Michael’s mum? And why is Michael denying knowing me? What would happen if I Jack-in-the-box surprised them now by pushing the trap door back and leaping out? I wouldn’t dare.

  ‘I don’t care about your housing arrangements, you little tramp.’ Dad’s volume refuses to dial down.

  ‘Why don’t we go up to the office? Have a coffee? Talk?’ Michael’s back in the guise of in-control professional CEO.

  Dad’s not interested as he warns, ‘Don’t make me come and find you again, Michael. And tell your mother the same. I don’t care what she thinks about me. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. But if I find out she’s been twisting my tail over this matter, she’ll feel my claws across her face and they’re razor sharp, as you know. As for you, don’t make me break you, Michael. I’d hate to see you end up in the gutter. Do you understand?’

  Michael’s voice is solemn and chastened. ‘I understand. I won’t let you down.’

  Dad’s gone with a slam shut of the front door. His car bursts into life and he skids off at speed, taking out his anger on the road. When he’s gone, Michael walks partway up the stairs, disappearing from my view.

  ‘Did you hear any of that?’ he calls out tightly.

  ‘Enough. You’d better come up.’

  The lady from upstairs. His mother. She keeps her response flat, monotone. I don’t know this woman but I’m sure it’s to hide her emotions from her son. But I hear them. It’s funny what you can really see when your vision is taken away. Buried beneath her answer is a cold bitter harshness. Michael disappears up the stairs. There are no more voices. No more words. Mother and son have blended in the hidden secrets of this building.

  The basement I re-enter is back to its usual trickster self. The walls’ heartbeat pounds, blue lights blatantly gawking, the digi lights morbidly brighter, the ceiling a visual illusion of being lower. I leave it behind and go into the storeroom. Stare up at the wall. I take out Philip’s photo from my pocket. Smooth it as best I can. Tack it back on the wall.

  I’m staying. It’s as if Philip’s ghost has grabbed me by the collar and dragged me back. I won’t leave until I find out what Michael, his mum and… I swallow hard… my dad have got to do with Philip. His death. The death that never was a decade ago. Can I believe anything Dad told me about Philip’s recent self-inflicted death?

  Michael has promised my father that he won’t let him down.

  I stand back, looking at Philip, and silently promise him that whatever has happened, I won’t let him down either. I could give Michael my notice, leave the job and sneak in here at night to find answers. No. The best way will be to continue working here. In plain sight. Carry on as normal so Michael doesn’t catch a whiff of what I’m really about.

  I grab my bag. Climb up the rope. Head out into the night to talk to the one person who might be able to tell me more about Michael.

  Twenty-Five

  The doorbell hangs limply by its wires off the door frame like an eyeball dangling out of its socket, so no surprise it doesn’t work when I press. So I knock with a smart urgency on the front door of the house, the one until very recently I had a key to. The night air is mild, temperature perfect for spring to bring forth new life, not me though; I’m head-to-toe a case of ice with an icicle piercing my heart. Michael and Dad. Dad and Michael. And Philip. WT Holy F is going on?

  I knock on the door again. Correction: knock. No, this is no knock that connects with the door but a fist that bangs and barges to the beat of the frustration that boils inside me. The air shooting
off my lungs reaches my ears – clipped, ragged, like I’m at the end of a race. This is no end, I suspect. It’s the start – I just know it is – of finally knowing what happened to Philip. And it terrifies me.

  The patter of approaching feet pulls my mind fully back to the door. It opens, revealing Pauline, the teacher who lives in the attic. Her usually perfecto ’fro is slightly lopsided. Thank God it’s not Sonia.

  ‘Is Jed in?’ I’d called and called him and got voicemail each time, which left me with no alternative but to come to a place I never wanted to be seen in again.

  Pauline doesn’t immediately respond, instead gives me one of those arched gotcha looks that teachers reserve for their naughtiest pupils, reminding me pointedly what I did to the kitchen. She finally speaks. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should give him a call. It’s rather late.’

  Oh, it’s like that, is it? I’m barred for life from re-entering this dump she and the others call home. Well, tough shit; I’m going to see if Jed’s in whether she likes it or not. I’m prepared to hammer on this door, Lionel Ritchie style, all night long.

  My ‘I’m in it for the long haul’ determination must stand out like a pair of knuckledusters on my clenched fists because she pulls the door back, stepping out of my way. My stride lengthens as I pass her and take the shifting staircase to Jed’s room, and I knock as soon as I get there.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Jed’s voice is relaxed and I can’t tell if he’s been on the bong or sleeping.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Rachel?’ His voice hits a high note of squeaky surprise, followed by a flurry of noise including something tipping hard onto the floor.

  When he opens up, it’s his broken nose I notice first. I’m not surprised after the violence I’d just witnessed Dad mete out to Michael. And now I also see Dad’s explosive fist coming straight at Jed’s face five years ago. A guy I’d been going out with at the time had had the nerve to slap me during what I’d thought was a low-key disagreement. I’d been shaken up, and when Dad found out about it, he went gunning for him. But when he came to my home to exact revenge, he’d mistaken Jed for the idiot. Without any questions asked, Dad had let loose with a volley of punches that had knocked Jed flat on his arse and smashed his nose. I’d screamed at Dad, couldn’t believe what he’d done. Dad had apologised but ever since Jed has, understandably, been very very wary of Frank Jordan.