Trap Door

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  My face scrunches up from the impact of the clack-clack-clack noise coming down the line as if Keats’s phone is rolling on the ground. Rubber against road squeals and a car’s engine fades into the background. That’s when I know, dawning horror of what’s happened. I don’t feel my heartbeat anymore.

  ‘Keats? Keats? Keats?’ I’m bellowing by the end.

  No response. My back slides down the icy wall.

  Whoever was following Keats has just run her down like an animal in the street.

  I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. There’s no time for tears. My spine straightens with fortitude. Although I think of the car parked over the grill, I know who hurt Keats – Michael and Joanie. I get practical. My gear’s already packed, I’m going to have to leave my bucket behind. The rope’s coming with me though, it’s my talisman, my good luck charm that has been my lifeline to safety.

  I make it out of the sliding trap door in no time at all. Look at the entrance door and face another possible boulder in my way – what if it’s locked with a key I don’t have. Then, by God, I’m going to kick it in. I undo the bolt at the top and bottom. Press down the handle. The air swarms out of me as it opens. I don’t have time to nod to The 22 today, not with Keats lying bleeding, maybe dying, on the ground without a friend to hold her hand. The tears threaten; I won’t let them.

  Think. Think. Think. My head’s a jumble. I need to clear it, to figure out what to do.

  First, I pray and hope that someone saw what happened to Keats and called an ambulance, which means I can try to find out if she’s in a hospital. I pull out my mobile as I walk away from the building and… I jerk to a halt.

  The zombie who watched the distressing film and threatened me stands at the corner looking up at the building. My heart does a funny skipping beat. I keep my skittish gaze away from him as I pass him by and walk down the street. My pulse goes into free fall as I hear footsteps join the beat of my own. Quick peak over my shoulder. Hell, he’s following me. The death knoll ringing in my head is his promise of retribution:

  ‘Say anything to anyone and you better be ready to have eyes in the back of your head on the way home. No telling what type of accidents may be waiting to befall you in the dark.’

  He’s obviously not waiting for the dark. I sense his stride lengthening. Other people are about but there’s no telling if anyone will help me, even if I scream blue murder. The only person I can rely on is me. I pick up the pace. So does he. Clinging greasy sweat making its presence felt, oozing down my back. The base of my throat becomes cuttingly dry as the noise of his shoes becomes the only sound I hear.

  I’m almost running. So is he. I speed around a corner. When he does, I’m waiting for him. He squeals as I grab his jacket, spin him and slam him into a wall. Then I let loose with a one-two series of power punches to the bastard’s solar plexus. He doubles over, groaning through clenched teeth. Dad taught me well.

  ‘If you don’t stop following me, I’m going to call the cops.’

  He raises his head, gasping and gulping oxygen. I notice his hair’s different, it’s slicked back with gel and he sports a pair of attractive glasses that are askew on his face.

  ‘What…?’ His palm rubs his belly as he straightens. ‘What did you do that for? I was only waiting until Michael arrived to collect my fee.’

  Is this guy for real? ‘You said you were going to do serious damage to me if you caught me outside, just like the woman being terrorised in the video. You scum.’ I’m so mad I raise my fist to deliver another blow to that despicable mouth of his as a lesson in what happens to men who only have bad words to say to innocent women.

  His hand comes up in defence as he shrinks back. ‘But it was part of the script.’

  I angle my head and give him a very hard stare. ‘What script?’

  Grimacing, he shifts up the wall slightly in an attempt to pull himself together. ‘Come on, you’re an actress, I mean an actor. I know you ladies no longer like any gender distinctions.’ He winks at me, which riles me up again. Seeing my bewildered expression, he says, ‘Maybe Michael forgot to show you that part of the script—’

  I cut over him. ‘Who exactly are you?’

  ‘I’m an actor. Name’s Teddy. At your service.’ He performs a little bow that ends with a wince.

  The baby hairs tingle on the back of my neck. I’m not sure what this is, so I decide to kill two birds, one stone.

  I give him my widest and most dazzling smile. ‘Do you have a car?’

  Forty-Two

  ‘Here she is,’ Teddy announces with pride.

  ‘She’ is a knocked about white Renault van. He takes his keys out and shuffles to the back doors, opening them. Inside is a collection of clothes hanging from any space they can find and a mattress with a duvet neatly spread over it.

  He looks at me sheepishly. ‘I’m in between places to live at the moment and this is as good as any to bed down for the night.’

  I sympathise with him. Know exactly what that nomad feeling is like.

  As I jump in beside him up front, I ask, ‘But I thought you actors got paid mega bucks.’ Thinking about it, ‘Were you in that frozen pea commercial a while ago?’

  ‘No, not in that one. I was up for it but they chose some other young chap with green eyes, I suppose to match the peas.’ He’s embarrassed. Then a shine picks up in his eyes. ‘I was in the ad for orange juice. Perhaps you’re thinking of that? I was the guy in the orange costume singing, “You can’t get fruitier than a fruity orange”.’

  Any other time I’d have been chuckling away at the image he’s planted in my head, but this is no humorous moment. First things first, I need to see if I can locate Keats.

  So that’s what I do as Teddy drives along the M25 towards Surrey. Only when the first hospital I contact asks me Keats’s name do I realise that I don’t know it. I can imagine if I said, ‘A Boy Called Sue,’ they’d slam the phone down on me, so the names Sue and Keats are all I have to go on. I become more rattled and fidgety as hospital after hospital informs me that no-one of Keats’s description has been admitted.

  ‘What happened to Keats?’ Teddy asks with genuine concern. He’s been surprisingly good-natured towards a woman who double socked him in the belly.

  I can’t answer his question of course. So I decide to lay off the hospitals for a time, since we’ve still got quite a distance until we reach any part of Surrey, and ask him instead. ‘Explain to me how you came to be working for Michael Barrington.’

  Teddy swiftly changes lanes as he goes into his tale. Being an actor he does it with a certain amount of dramatic flare as if I’m auditioning him for a part in my play.

  ‘To be honest, I was hoping I was going to be playing Hamlet by now but you can’t turn work down, can you? There was an advert in The Stage calling for actors to join an academic project on workplace environments. Michael said all he wanted me to do was sit in a basement all day as an extra. His only instruction was not to interact with you in any way. Apart from that, we could surf the Net or do what we liked for a hundred quid a day. Easiest job I’ve ever had.’ His voice lowers, ‘Between me and you, I was tempted to complain about the lack of fire exits.’

  ‘But what about the film you were watching?’

  He coughs appearing slightly ill at ease. ‘I dabble in making films. The first video you saw was a short film I’d just finished—’

  I’m outraged and want him to know it. ‘You call a woman being scared out of her very skin art?’

  His head rapidly shakes. ‘The actors were my friends Tess, Leon and Sanjeev. We were recreating a scene from a horror classic.’ He flicks his gaze at me, then back on the road. ‘“The Horror At Number Five”. Do you know it?’ He can see from the distasteful flare of my nostrils I don’t. ‘Anyway we were giving it a modern twist. You know with the ambience, the direction, the—’

  ‘No disrespect, Teddy, but I can do without the introduction to the art of film.’ I delete the sarcasm. ‘You seem
like a nice enough guy, so how did what Michael ask you to do involve scaring the sweet life out of me?’

  His voice becomes solemn. ‘Can you answer a question for me, Rachel?’

  I stiffen. ‘If I can.’

  He glances at me again, longer now. ‘I suspect you’re not an actor, so did you know about the project in the basement? Know it wasn’t a real workplace?’

  I dither inside my head about what to tell him. Decide to brazen it out. ‘Of course I knew.’ I laugh, more of a wild cackle that’s grating and ugly. ‘I mean there’s this Keats knocked up in crazy gear that looks like a reject from High Noon and Joanie creeping around and staring like the ghost of Hamlet’s father?’

  He joins in my fake laughter until I say, ‘I don’t understand the film though. I suppose Michael wanted to bring some realism to the project and the only way he could do that was by not telling me.’

  ‘Ah, classic method acting,’ Teddy responds. ‘I have to tell you that the way you reacted to the film was pure brilliance. Storming off to tell Michael. When he took me and the fellow next to me to his office, I thought we were off the project. But he said he was going to pay me an additional fee to create another film.’

  I’m seething, filled with such a blazing fury I have no idea how I don’t explode. I let Teddy carry on. ‘So he pretends to shout at us enough for everyone to hear in the basement. When we returned I was to give you a look of pure loathing.’

  That was one acting role he hit on the nail.

  ‘Make sure you saw the next film, which I edited to make the actress look similar to you, which is what he asked for, and appear as if it was shot in the basement. If you challenged me when you saw it I was to threaten you. Michael told me exactly what words to repeat to you.’ Teddy looks smug. ‘I’d say I did a pretty spectacular job.’

  I lapse into brooding silence. Michael and his mother have been picking me off at every turn. Every last detail planned and executed. It confirms my conclusion that whatever they have against me is personal.

  I get back on the phone on the hunt for Keats. Two more hospitals to go and if neither one of them plays out, I don’t know what to do.

  The receptionist on the phone asks, ‘A patient called Keats? Is that their first or last name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There’s an audible huff as if I’m a timewaster. ‘I’m not sure if I can… Wait a moment.’ She goes offline for a while. Then is back. ‘We do have a patient carrying ID in the name of Priscilla Green and other documents that had the name Keats.’

  Finally.

  The receptionist at the desk in the main area of the hospital smiles at me. It’s one of those quick smiles that flashes bright and as quickly is blown away. She’s obviously stressed and I can’t blame her. Tomlington Hospital is busy, packed, a never-ending stream of people. She doesn’t ask me how she can help; obviously that’s what people come to her desk for.

  ‘Can you direct me to the ward that Priscilla Green is on?’

  The other woman mutters Keats’s birth name as she checks through the computer screen in front of her. ‘Temple ward on the fourth floor.’

  The ride in the lift seems to take an age. My rucksack feels like a huge stone weighing down my back. Temple ward has the hushed atmosphere of a mortuary. A place to take people who have already died. It sets me on edge. The impersonal white walls aren’t helping much either.

  A voice, as disturbingly quiet as the ward, interrupts my observations. ‘Can I help you?’

  It’s a nurse. He looks keen to assist. ‘I’m looking for Priscilla Green. She’s also known as Keats.’

  ‘Are you a family member?’

  That catches me unawares. I should’ve thought that one through. ‘I’m… her sister. Rachel.’ I think of her parents who put their genius child in a special school far away from home. How much hurt it still causes Keats.

  Now she’s hurt again. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s in the trauma unit…’

  His voice fades as a buzzing whelms in my ears. I’m caught up in the implications of the word ‘trauma’. That’s bad. Really bad. Something dreadful has happened to Keats. I try the best I can to quell my bouncing nerves, the twisted clenching of my stomach whose muscles have transformed into the cutting sharpness of barbed wire.

  I make the uneasy journey to her room. Hover outside.

  My fingers clutch the handle but don’t turn. I’m scared of what waits for me behind this door. If you’re frightened, how do you think Keats is feeling? I open and… I have an urgent need to clamp my palm over my mouth at what confronts me. And that’s when I realise the overwhelming emotion that balls inside. Guilt. This is all my fault. Keats is where she is now because of me.

  There are tubes going in and out of her. Logically I know they’re supporting her road to recovery but I can’t help think they resemble the tentacles of multiple parasites greedily sucking the nourishment from her injured body. The rhythm of the coloured lines on a monitor and the steady beep-beep-beep are the only outward signs she’s still alive. Keats is so so still. A disturbing stillness that rings her and the bed in a motionless world that will never wake up. With the softest footsteps, I move towards her in this room filled with isolated silence.

  I stand at the side of the bed. She’d hate being here, strangers staring and staring at a face she has the power to reveal and conceal from the world. A large dressing covers the top half of her head and her expressive chin is lost inside a neck brace. I don’t see any other evidence of wounds but I know they are there. Her breathing is barely audible. Grief stretches and contorts my face. I did this to her, I did.

  Someone enters the room. Another nurse. Her brows knit together, eyes squint slightly in concern. ‘I know this must be a terrible time for…’

  I say nothing. Let her deliver her kindness in peace. When I feel the time is right, I ask, ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Witnesses report that she was the victim of a hit and run.’

  Bastards. How could they do this to Keats? ‘How badly is she injured?’

  ‘She sustained trauma to her head. We believe she sustained this when the car hit her not when she hit the road.’ The image zooms cruelly across my mind. ‘Thankfully one of the members of the public on the scene was a nurse so she was able to make sure your sister’s airways were cleared and that no-one moved her. Our team is still investigating possible damage to her internal organs and trauma to major blood vessels.’

  This nurse gives me time to absorb all this information before adding, in a tone that suggests there’s more bad news coming, ‘It’s her head injury that is causing us the most concern. Since Priscilla—’

  ‘Keats,’ I cut in with force. ‘That’s what she likes to be called. Keats.’

  The nurse nods. ‘Since Keats was admitted, she hasn’t regained consciousness. This may be due to a brain injury so we’re waiting for the neurological team to take a look at her.’

  ‘Is she going to make it?’ I wait, breath stuck in my gut for an answer I’m not prepared for.

  ‘We need to let the medical staff here do their work. The neurological team has a reputation on a par with our world-class burns unit. She’s in good hands.’ And with that, the nurse leaves me alone with my anguish.

  I let the tears fall, hot and scalding a path down my cold cheeks. Guilt is such a terrible burden to carry even in the pursuit of what is right. Nevertheless I won’t allow myself to escape from the fact that I put Keats in danger. Michael and Joanie have done this to her. Tried to snuff out her life. Anger comes in many shapes and forms. Spitting. Explosive. Raging. Red-hot. The one I feel towards the evil duo is best described as ‘doesn’t give a damn’. I’m going to get them if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.

  Before I leave, I place my good luck charm, my rope, under her pillows.

  In the corridor, as I pass the reception desk, the same nurse who spoke with me calls out, ‘One of the doctors remembers seeing your sister downsta
irs in the reception earlier which was lucky for Keats because the incident didn’t happen far from the hospital.’

  That stops me. ‘She was here earlier? What was she doing here?’

  The nurse’s fingers flutter briefly above her paperwork. ‘I assume she was visiting someone.’

  The wheels of my brain spin into gear. The puzzle starts slipping into place. Of course. Keats said she was going to Surrey to confirm whatever she’d discovered.

  Is that discovery in this hospital?

  Forty-Three

  I’m back in the main foyer downstairs, drilling the receptionist. ‘My sister was here earlier. Can you tell me who she came here to see?’

  A pleated frown disturbs the woman’s expression. ‘I’ve been on duty for the last three hours. Are you sure it’s this section of the hospital?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She fills me in. ‘There’s the private convalescent hospital in the annexe. Maybe your sister was visiting someone there.’

  After she’s given me directions, I set off across the car park and soon after that the grounds of the hospital changes from concrete to a pretty well-loved garden with summer flowers basking in their arrays of colour. The garden sits at the back of a small neat building whose glass windows gleam clean and bright in the reflection of the sun.

  I should go around to the front to enquire at the reception but I see an open sliding glass door that tempts me inside. So that’s what I do, pick up speed and enter a rectangular room with an alcove housing books, polished tables and comfy chairs. The air is so different from the disinfected harsh smell of the main hospital. Here is sweet orange scented that is designed to be inhaled slowly. I suspect that this is the day room.

  I check what’s beyond the door. A corridor. Long, with a type of muted lighting that warms up the pale lilac walls. I have a problem though. I still can’t be sure that Keats came to this private wing of the hospital and if she did, who she came to see. Maybe, just maybe, one of the rooms off this corridor holds a clue. Right, here goes.