Trap Door

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  I recall Joanie jokingly calling it ‘menohell’ before. There’s no merriment now. What I know about the menopause – which isn’t much, I admit – is hot flushes, sleepless nights and mood swings. I’ve never heard of one that drives a person to stare. The feeling of it comes back to me. Hostile, chilling, downright disturbing.

  Michael abruptly joins the conversation as he remains in the light of the window. ‘She did the same thing to me last week. Didn’t you, Joanie?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barrington.’

  ‘Interrupted me during a very important phone call,’ he quirks his brow, ‘which I had no alternative but to end because I was so worried about your welfare.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barrington.’

  Joanie’s answers are the toneless recital of a robot on autoplay. She looks cowed as if she’s waiting for someone to strike her. My hot gaze meets Michael. Has this bastard done something to her? Made her feel even worse about being a woman going through a natural physical change? I have this strong urge to take her by the arm and rescue her from this place.

  Before I can display any heroic actions, Michael folds his arms just as the brightness of the light recedes slightly from the room. ‘I hope that’s an end to the matter. Be assured it won’t happen again.’

  I’ve been dismissed, so get up. It’s my turn to stare at Joanie. I don’t want to leave her here. I suggest we have tea and chocolate fingers.

  She smiles and nods with reassurance, a glimpse of Joanie getting her groove back. ‘I’m fine. We’ll have a cuppa together. Soon.’

  As I leave the room, I feel The Stare again. This time it’s the hotness of Michael’s eyes that bore into me.

  Thirty-Two

  I’m shivering inside the duvet on the mat. I can’t get warm in the storeroom tonight. Everywhere seems to breathe Arctic ice. What I wouldn’t give for some central heating. Maybe I need to buy one of those freestanding oiled-based radiators. Don’t get as snug as a bug here. This isn’t your real home. I know, I know, but still I’m here for the duration until I get the answers I need. I sit up and pull my rucksack over. Fish out another pair of woolly socks and put them on. Do the same with the thick Aran jumper Mum bought me. I snuggle under the duvet… and so does the cold. It’s eating its way into my bones.

  Will I hear Michael’s mum upstairs tonight? The dog? Will their mournful melody seep through the ceiling and the walls again? I hope not, a restful sleep is what I need to start my journey to the truth tomorrow. My breathing relaxes, smooths out…

  What was that? I sit up, breathing a waterfall of noisy air as I urgently look around like a bird sensing danger. The sound was definitely not the building’s natural rhythms. It wasn’t a dog or a woman weeping either. I softly flick off the duvet and stretch across, a female panther ready to spring into action.

  Listen. There it is again. Scraping. Something heavy dragging across concrete. I know that sound. It’s so familiar… I do it every day. Someone is moving the grill that guards the courtyard. Guards my makeshift temporary home.

  It hits me how vulnerable I am. No-one to hear the echo of my cries and screams.

  ‘No telling what type of accidents may be waiting to befall you in the dark.’ The remembered threat from the zombie concerning his sickening film slugs me full in the stomach.

  I fumble as quietly as I can through my possessions until I find my penknife. Whoever’s there will soon discover I’m going to go down fighting. I can sense whoever’s on the other side of the wall hanging down, a bat in the night, judging when they should drop onto the cobbles below.

  Again, I fine-tune my hearing to catch the sounds of the night. Listen. A soft thud. The intruder has landed. I push out the small blade of my knife. This is what crossing a line and refusing to go back feels like. Stronger. Determined. Bloody double terrified. I stand tall, centre where the room is at its fiercest. And wait. The invader doesn’t seem to care about me hearing them because their tread moves with a confidence, a steady fall. Getting closer to the door that separates us. Is that the in-out of their breathing I hear? Yeah, there it is, super faint like a collection of whispers travelling through the night.

  Is this what shaking like a leaf feels like? Every part of me rocking to a beat I can’t control? The handle moves, a circular motion that has the power to hypnotise. It stops and I can’t help but take a step back. The door opens in its silence. A figure appears, drenched in black. The face no features at all. A demon. I’ve seen this demon in a doorway before.

  Keats.

  Keats, AKA A Boy Named Sue, pulls down her bandana like an outlaw who’s lucked in nabbing the loot and outridden the posse.

  I gawk at her. ‘What are you doing here?’ More importantly, ‘How did you know I was here?’

  She inches out of her own surrounding shade of black, closer to me. Pulls her sunglasses off and hooks one of its arms onto the upper pocket of her fatigue jacket.

  ‘You probably don’t realise that you do it, but you keep looking at the door in the basement which appears like a panel in the wall that leads here when you’re sitting at your desk.’ She delivers her explanation in a levelled-out tone, matter of fact, devoid of emotion. And maybe this is what I need, her logical upfront style of talking. None of that tedious dodging the issue, talking in circles. ‘So, I did a bit of snooping myself and it wasn’t hard to figure out who the gear in this room belongs to.’

  I reset my calmness. ‘So, you’re here to tell me about a connection between my dad and Michael?’

  Keats rolls her eyes with much drama. ‘I’m not here to admire the pipework, am I.’

  The pipework. A huge grin travels up my face. Who but Keats would liken anything to pipework? A thrill fizzes through me. I’m not alone anymore. Keats flicks her hood back as she settles next to me on the duvet.

  She crosses her legs like she’s ready to meditate. And begins. ‘Michael runs another series of businesses, so he’s a genuine businessman. Quite successful really. But I couldn’t find any connection between your father and Michael. There was nothing there.’

  The disappointment is crushing. ‘There must be something—’

  ‘If there is, someone’s doing a brilliant job of hiding it.’ Keats tilts her head in a way I think means she’s got more to say. It’s hard for me to tell because her face remains new to me, so I’m still learning what the tics and turns of her expressions mean.

  I prompt her. ‘Like you said before, you didn’t come here to discuss the pipework, so tell me.’

  I hear Keats sigh beneath her breath. ‘The task you gave me meant I was going to inevitably bump into stuff about your family. I did find out lots of other interesting stuff about your father. Your mum’s medical records—’

  ‘Stop!’ It’s a screech wrenched out of me, forgetting where I am. ‘Who the hell gave you permission to stick your beak into my family? I never asked you to investigate my family. All I asked you to do was find out how Dad knows Michael.’ The fury’s the first heat I experience tonight. ‘How dare you.’

  Keats remains unruffled, levelling me with such a frank glance I flinch. ‘I told you. That’s what happens when you go digging into the past; there are lots and lots of other skeletons waiting to tell their stories.’

  It’s like she’s blown a hole in my chest. I try to control the involuntary clenching of my muscles below my ribs. ‘You’ve got the nerve of the devil.’

  Keats shakes her head. ‘So, you don’t want to know what I found out? Maybe you’re scared to hear?‘

  I scramble to my feet. ‘How would you like it if I poked my nose into your family’s private business?’

  I begin pacing. Wrap my arms round my Aran jumper as if it’s Mum, and I’m hugging her don’t-ever-leave-me tight. There are things in my past I find hard to talk about – obviously – and Mum is one of them. Alongside Dad and Philip, she was the other bright star guiding my life. My mum was… I evict the joy of her from my fragile mind. It’s too painful.

  ‘You’re hurting,’ K
eats says as if she’s impersonally tapped my profile into a computer and it’s spit out the correct answer.

  ‘No kidding,’ I grit back with maximum sarcasm. ‘Award her the Nobel Prize for being the world’s leading expert on observing emotions.’

  There’s a lapse back into silence and I wonder if I’ve hurt her feelings. Over my shoulder, I peak at her face. A glimpse so she won’t catch me in the act. She’s worrying her lip with concentration.

  Then she says, ‘You want to know about my family? I’ll tell you. My parents thought I was a screwball. The kid who would sit quietly and stare. And stare. They were so ashamed of me, so embarrassed, they didn’t let me go out to parties, play sports, all the stuff other kids did.’ I expect her to be raging, on her feet like me, shaking her fist at the rottenness of the world. But she’s not. I know because of the texture of her voice. It’s as soft and gentle as a feather floating between us.

  ‘My family is one of those who can’t stop yakking, talking from dawn to dust. So, you can imagine how the silent middle child who liked her own company, told people the truth, freaked them out. Everyone thought there was something wrong with me.’ Her throat bobs. ‘So when I was little, they dumped me in a state-run boarding school buried in the country for kooky kids with special needs—’

  ‘I’m so sorry—’

  Her sudden smile cuts over my words. ‘It was the making of me.’ A dark cloud smothers the smile. ‘But when I got there, I thought I was defective. Washed up. A failure. One day I threw my computer to the floor where it smashed. This feeling – I can’t explain it – came over me like a spell to fix the computer. So I found out how to and it took me a long time, but I put it back together. That’s how I got into computers. Every time I put a part of that computer in the right place, pieces of broken me slotted back into their rightful place too. It’s okay to be hurt. Okay to be broken. It’s normal. Anyone who says different is peddling a lie.’

  ‘Are you on the spectrum?’ I ask as I resume sitting next to her.

  ‘And what spectrum is that? Being a human being? We’re all meant to be different. People have tried to stick labels on me, but I won’t have it. My parents wouldn’t allow me to be who I am. I’m normal. My normal.’

  I’m blown away by her speech, her revelation of who she is. And suspect she doesn’t tell it very often, if at all. I don’t know whether to feel honoured or thank her. In the end I say nothing; her words speak for themselves.

  Keats gets back down to business. ‘I get it, you just want the stuff about Michael and your dad.’ Her fingers fiddle with the arm of her sunglasses. ‘So, let’s be logical about this. Michael’s in the business world and so is your father. Maybe the link is one about business.’

  I rewind back to that night when Dad came here. Was talking to Michael.

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

  I shudder as the wash of Dad’s remembered violence drenches me. No, what was between Michael and Dad was much more personal than business dealings gone bad. And if it was about business, why did Dad mention my name? And that’s what I tell Keats. ‘Whatever was between them had something to do with me and Philip.’

  Keats gets up, surprising me. My back teeth grind together in an act of possession as she approaches my altar to Philip. Yes, an altar. There are no flowers, no statues, no sticks wafting sweet incense or flickering candles, but that space on the floor beneath the photo is sacred ground. The special place where Philip is back in my life. I avoid using the word ‘worship’ because that’s not what I’m doing. I’m not, am I?

  So I get up and join her. Keats regards Philip’s face for a long while. ‘Was he your boyfriend?’

  I tell her the truth. ‘It was deeper than that. He was like the brother I never had. He was there at a time I needed him.’

  Keats glances away and regards me instead. ‘I know you haven’t told me the whole story, but the best place to find the truth is to start at the beginning. So, Rachel, where does your “once upon a time” start?’

  Should I tell her? I look up to Philip for guidance. Eyes still on his adorning face, I whisper, ‘We were both working summer holiday jobs. At the home of…‘ Deep breaths. Deep. ‘A man called Danny Hall. He’s dead. He died that summer.’

  Keats joins her gaze to mine on the photo. ‘Tomorrow, let’s take a trip to the scene of the crime. Danny Hall’s house.’

  Then Keats is gone like a bat beating its veined wings out into the night.

  Thirty-Three

  My emotions are on lockdown as I prepare to meet Keats to go to Danny’s former house. I woke up in the storeroom with such a feeling of wretched panic, I wasn’t able to leave the haven of the duvet for a long while. I made myself get up and gazed at Philip on the wall. His face unburdened me, gave me the courage I need to walk the next steps along the journey to find the truth.

  I pick up speed through the tunnel because the shadows lurking in corners seem to bulge with tongues today that mock and jeer at me. The ground doesn’t feel safe under the grip of my shoes.

  Rachel. Rachel. Rachel comes out at me from nowhere. I know it must be in my head. The eerie call of my name floats after me all the way to the bottom of the stairs. Then it’s gone.

  I take the steps as never before. Thrust the trap door open. I’m out.

  At the touch of natural light, I suck in gushes of air. It’s like menthol clearing a path to my lungs, my head too. My mobile pings. Text message. My brows lift at who my messenger is. Polly, my debt counsellor. Former debt counsellor. Thanks to Dad, I don’t owe the world anymore. I wonder what she could want. I’d already let her know that I was debt free and thanked her for her services. I take out my phone.

  I still have your paperwork.

  Of course. Paperwork, a nice neutral name for the red letters that had tormented me. She wants me to arrange a time to pick them up. Truth be told, as far as I’m concerned, she can burn the lot. I don’t answer and shove my phone away. Right now the only thing on my mind is getting this visit to Danny’s former home out of the way as quickly as possible.

  I find Keats sitting at the wheel of a very racy sporty car, soft top on despite the great weather. It only occurs to me then that as a freelance computer tekkie, a highly lucrative business, she must’ve made a packet over the years.

  ‘Nice wheels,’ is my greeting as soon as I sit beside her on the soft leather beige seat.

  She doesn’t look at me, getting the engine going instead. ‘It isn’t mine.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice of one of your friends to let you use it.’

  There’s an abrupt noise from the back of her throat. ‘They’re not my mates. I’m borrowing it for the day.’

  Borrowing? That’s a strange way of putting it. Hang on a bloody second, does she mean…? A harsh frown digs into my forehead. ‘Did you steal this car?’

  Keats doesn’t miss a beat, keeping her focused expression on the road. ‘Like I said, I borrowed it. Mr and Mrs Fenchurch won’t miss it. They’re on holiday, but they do keep an electronic tag on their car. I used some software so that when they check in it will appear to still be in its parking bay.’

  My jaw drops. She recounts her tale of stealing someone else’s property as if she’s telling me how she purchased a loaf of bread. ‘Why didn’t we catch the train, call a cab?’

  ‘A cab will cost too much and during a train ride, your nerves may get the better of you.’

  I resent the hell out of her for pointing out the obvious. I’m holding onto my wits by a thread. So, I divert the conversation by turning the spotlight away from me. ‘Why would a woman want to shut herself off from the world by wearing a handkerchief over her mouth, shades and a hoodie?’

  I don’t expect Keats to answer. Surprise, surprise, there’s a loaded silence. But I’m proved wrong when she says, ‘I’m not hiding. It’s my way of blending in, being forgotten.’

  I gape at her. ‘Blend in? You stick out like a tat
too on someone’s forehead.’

  ‘Initially, then everyone forgets. This is London after all.’

  I consider her words. She’s right to some degree. London can be such an impersonal city filled with people minding their own business. If Coco The Clown rode a bike wearing a kilt, no-one would take a blind bit of notice. Suddenly, one-handed, Keats pulls out her mobile, taps away at its screen, her gaze alternating quickly between it and the road. My upper body jolts slightly back when she throws it at me. It tumbles into my lap.

  ‘Scroll through the photos.’

  Which I do. The first is an old sepia photo of a young woman decked out in cowboy gear – hat, shirt, trousers and boots, looking incredibly confident as she holds a shotgun across her thigh and her leg hitched up on what appears to be an old tin bucket. The second is of the same woman in braces and sporting men’s clothing, again sitting, one leg thrown over the other, on a bed.

  Keats notes my confused expression. ‘Her name was Pearl Hart. She was an outlaw back in the Old West. That second picture is of her in prison where she became a bit of a celeb.’ There’s an excitement fizzling off Keats that holds me in awe. ‘Okay, Pearl was a proper bad girl, but look at her. The tilt of her hat. The absolute ooze of badass boldness coming off her like the rarest perfume. Bet she gave the finger to anyone who tried to tell she couldn’t wear clothes that the world said only guys could.’

  Keats angles her head, eyes steady on the traffic. ‘I like going about in my hoodie, shades and scarf because I like it. Why shouldn’t I be what I want to be?’ She becomes sombre. Flicks me a dead-serious glance. ‘I don’t know what this story is with you and this Philip character. But, Rachel, wherever your story ends, don’t let it snuff out your light.’

  I know she’s right, but it’s not easy to break the shackles that hold me to that life-changing summer. How can I walk in my light when it’s overshadowed by the dark clouds of the past?