Trap Door: the creepiest psychological suspense you will read this year

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  I tell him, ‘I’d like to join your company.’

  Michael nods with satisfied understanding as he pulls out a stapled set of papers from his bag and hands them to me. ‘It’s a short-term contract with the standard T&Cs. Take it away and read it first. I wouldn’t want you to think you’re signing your life away.’

  Signing my life away? If only he knew he was giving it back to me.

  He gets to his feet, signalling the interview is at an end. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning then, bright and early, hopefully with a signed contract.’ He slings the strap of his rucksack over one shoulder and turns. Then hesitates. Oh heck, maybe I should’ve offered to buy him a coffee. I get ready to apologise – yet again – but the face he shares with me when he swivels back makes me stop. There’s a carved intensity to his handsome features that tells me what he’s about to say is important to him.

  ‘We’re like a family at my firm.’

  That’s it. Nothing else. Then he’s gone, leaving me clutching the paper lifeline to solve all my worries. Slowly, and with a peace I haven’t known in ages, I smile.

  I got the job. Nothing can go wrong now.

  Two

  As soon as I’m inside my room, the window silently calls to me as it always does. I begin the ritual. Stride over to the window. Look out at the overgrown back garden. Tilt my chin down to get a better view of what’s directly below. A bashed-about concrete patio that’s been broken and shattered by weeds and lack of affection. It’s about a thirty-foot drop. Death would probably be the result if I fell. A motionless twisted tangle of limbs leaking blood. I turn away, ritual over.

  After leaving the interview, I came straight back here, a house I share with six others, mind buzzing with yee-haw delight at hitting employment bullseye. But when I’d closed the front door, the shabby unloved hallway instantly snatched my cheeriness away. I hate this house. Dislike most of the people living here. The woman in the communal kitchen who had sensed my entrance, her head twitching my way like a vulture scenting prey. She’d caught my eye, her mouth crimped with sourness. The hostility vibrating off her was the smell that reached my nose, not the aroma of the tangy food she was cooking. Nothing new there; most of the others living here don’t give a toss about me. Yeah, well, I don’t wanna be in this fleapit either, lady, I was tempted to yell. Or play a game of ‘bring it on’ and stare her down. But I didn’t. The gut-wrenching truth is I’ve got nowhere else to go.

  So, I sucked up her disdain and headed for the staircase, my grip tightening on the rickety and wobbly bannister. Sooner or later, some unfortunate fee-paying soul will go hell for leather over the top, breaking their neck. It’s that kind of house. Who the landlord is no-one knows, so the tenants have the letting agency on speed dial for an arm-long list of repairs that rarely get done. The renters making their own makeshift arrangements. Like the radiator, pockmarked with rust, I passed on the first floor landing that slants drunkenly despite the block of wood jammed under it. Or the quiet deadly patches of rotten timber my feet took care to avoid on the floor above that leads to my room.

  My room. Controlling my shallow breathing, I study the room that has become my home. It’s not too big, not too small either. Enough space for me and my material world. A narrow bed pushed up against a blank white wall in one corner and my clothes and other necessities in a good-sized rucksack that sits on a carpet that was once cream but is now a shade dimmed by the excesses of life.

  It was Jed who stepped in when I was thrown out of my last place. A friend had let me sofa-surf at hers for a few weeks. When the weeks turned into a couple of months, her patience wore thin and eventually her temper told me I had to go. Another friendship bites the dust. Jed saved the day and fixed it for me to temporarily lay my hat here where he’s lodging too. Once again, I’m on the treadmill of a few weeks that have spun into a number of months.

  The worst of it is I could solve all my problems with a single phone call. Make all of this disappear. But that’s a phone call I can’t ever make. My mobile must sense I’ve just walked over its grave because it rings. It’s Dad. My heart rises and sinks in one fluid motion.

  ‘Hi, Dad!’

  ‘Hello, love.’ I hear and feel the broad smile I know graces his face even though I can’t see him. ‘How’s my little princess? And why doesn’t Her Royal Highness Rachel call her poor old lonely da anymore?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I know, I know, I’m a terrible daughter but I’ve got so much going on at the mo, I don’t get a second to myself.’

  As always, he understands, never gives me a hard time. ‘You don’t have to apologise to me. You don’t have to tell me about making sacrifices to get on a rung on the ladder of success.’ I flinch slightly at the old regret he can’t disguise. No way in hell do I hold it against him the number of times he was away during my childhood as he worked like a man possessed to create the best life for me and Mum.

  He continues, ‘But if you could find a five-minute slot in your busy schedule to check in with your old man occasionally, you know how much it would mean to me.’

  I feel terrible because I do know how much it means. Dad hasn’t only gifted me everything a daughter could wish for, above all, he’s loved and cherished me. I wander over to the framed holiday photo that takes pride of place on my mantelpiece. Me and him. He’s grinning despite the Spanish sun in his eyes, his arm draped over my shoulder like he never wants to let me go. My expression is more grimace than grin; that’s a teenager for you. No photos of Mum. It’s still too painful even after all these years.

  I turn away and say, ‘I’ve really been meaning to call but I’ve just changed jobs and joined a management consultancy, so it’s busy, busy, busy my end.’

  ‘Fantastic! Good business to be in.’ He covers up his disapproval of management consultants. In his book, you don’t consult in business you roll your sleeves up and crack on with it. ‘Which firm is it? I’ll probably know them.’

  ‘Not likely, they aren’t in the construction sector.’ To my intense relief there’s a strong three-beat tap on my door. Jed; the others keep well clear of me. ‘Got to run, Dad, there’s someone at the door—’

  ‘A new boyfriend?’ he teases.

  The infectious joy from the outcome of the interview seeps through me again. ‘Not enough minutes in the day for one of them too. Call you later. Love you!’

  ‘Love you more!’

  I hate faking a busy and successful life on the phone with the one person who loves me unconditionally. I’m such a fraud. Maybe I won’t have to be for much longer with the new job.

  When Jed comes in, I sense something’s wrong. His locks of unruly hair and big broken nose are what grab you about him first of all. He’s not exactly made of puppy dogs’ tails, but he bounds about like a huge shaggy dog, eyes mischievously shining at the wonder of the world around him. And I adore him. A heart of gold never came more solid than his. Usually he’s grinning like an idiot born under a full moon. Not today. The seesaw action of his lips rubbing together, combined with sombre eyes levelled over my head, speak volumes about how uncomfortable he is.

  As he moves towards me, I see the disaster that’s about to happen. I open my mouth in warning… Too late. He kicks over the bucket of cold water I keep by my bed.

  Oh hell! The water meanders aimlessly across the dirty carpet, leaving a sodden trail in its wake. Jed looks stupefied as he stares at the overturned bucket, window wiper eyes jerking up at me and then back at the bucket.

  I’m in there quickly with an explanation. ‘I know that looks odd but I’ve been watering my plants.’

  The dried withered cactus on the mantelpiece, the solitary plant in the room, tells another story. Jed nods as if he understands perfectly and picks up the bucket, placing it upright by the wall.

  I’m on my feet heading for the door. ‘Just let me clean up the mess—’

  ‘Don’t bother with that, sweetheart, it will dry up soon enough.’ He clears the back of his throat, a jitte
ry noise that fills my stomach with dread. ‘I need to have a quick word.’

  I perch on the camel stool, a solid memory of a better time, a better life on holiday in Cairo, while he sits on the edge of the bed. Jed is one of these animated talkers, all waving hands and arms, but now his hands are paralysed together, listless, almost dead.

  ‘So, how’s tricks, babe?’

  I’ve been his babe since we were in school together. Despite going our separate ways after senior school, there’s always been a tight bond between us. He’s what most ladies call a stunner, but there’s never been any lovey-dovey heartache between us. Okay, there was that time he threw himself on my lips after assembly when we were ten, receiving an outraged sucker punch to the belly for his romantic troubles. We’re Rachel and Jed. Mates who look out for each other.

  I’m about to answer when I remember. ‘I got the job with your friend Michael. I can’t thank you enough for putting in a good word for me. First pay cheque I’m taking me and you out to celebrate.’ Fun lights up my voice and features.

  Jed’s not listening. Instead he’s still staring at the bucket, frowning with extreme concentration as if he expects it to start talking. Share with him why I really have a bucket of cold water every night in my room.

  He brushes off my words about Michael Barrington with an offhand, ‘That’s great, that’s great… Listen, Rachel… the thing is this.’ His big eyes flick up, hook up with mine and speedily skid away again. ‘There’s no rush obviously but I was just wondering, you know, if you’ve got any plans to move on from here at some stage? It’s, you know…’ His voice trails off. He finally makes his gaze stick to mine. ‘I did say you’d only be able to have this room for a month. It’s been two. So…’ His tight shrug says the rest.

  My heart’s racing to the rhythm of the treadmill I find myself back on. I won’t prolong Jed’s agony by making him give me chapter and verse about how the other renters put the screws on him to kick me out. Weird, one called me. Oddball, another.

  ‘Don’t sweat it.’ I hate that he feels bad. ‘You did me a good turn when others wouldn’t. Now I’m earning again I’ll be able to sort something else out. Give me a week or so and I’ll be out of your hair.’

  Jed’s face transforms into a glitter ball of brightness switching on. ‘You sure? There’s no rush, obviously, in your own time.’

  Relieved that his work is done, he gets up. Squelches over the wet carpet. But as he gets to the door, he turns. That frown of concentration’s back. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  I playfully scoff, ‘As if you’ve ever needed my permission to ask anything, Jed Harris.’ My attempt at lightening the mood doesn’t work.

  ‘Your…’ Jed hesitates, fingertip unconsciously running down the crooked slide of his nose, ‘dad’s loaded. Why don’t you give him a bell and ask him to bail you out? I’m sure he would slip you some cash if you asked.’

  I’m defensive as cold breaks over my skin. ‘He’s not that wealthy.’

  Jed shakes his head. ‘He’s a millionaire, Rachel.’

  When I don’t answer, Jed sighs and shrugs, looks at the bucket one last time, before closing the door behind him.

  Shortly after, I hear someone talking to Jed on the landing outside. It’s the vulture from the kitchen. Bitch! Perhaps she’s been waiting for him. Her voice is deliberately loud so that I’m witness to every nasty word.

  ‘Have you told that nutjob she’s got to move out yet?’

  Three

  The building has me thinking maybe I got the wrong address. It’s not what I expect. A rapidly cooling breeze frosts over the back of my neck as I stare up at the place where I’ll be working. It started life as a tenement, I’m guessing, part of a set of buildings all lined on the street like a Victorian family. The others have been given a twenty-first century makeover bringing out their rosy-cheeked bricks.

  My new place of work is different. Its façade is blackened with age, tarnished and dark as if it hasn’t been washed in a hundred years. Brooding and looming, the bad tooth in the mouth of the street. It casts me in its shadow, leaving me feeling overwhelmed. As if I need to be more skittish than I already am on my first day in my new job.

  This part of London is on the border of where the East End meets the financial City. Twenty years ago it would have been run down, desolate, a byword for poverty and desperation, now it’s a marker of innovative businesses and start-ups, all the rage bars and clubs and eateries where avocado on toast is a delicacy. Still, I can’t forget that it was once Jack The Ripper’s favoured hunting ground.

  I shake off the murderous past as I move towards the huge arched wooden doors and press the entrance bell.

  It buzzes. ‘It’s Rachel. Rachel Jordan.’ I see no evidence of the lens of a security camera but I get the impression someone’s watching me.

  ‘Rachel. Yes.’ The voice is sparky, female, slightly breathless. ‘Be right down.’

  I like the sound of her. Super friendly. It relaxes the highly-strung muscles in my tummy. The back of my neck warms up. As I wait, my side-eye catches sight of something. Positioned on the wall near a window on the left-hand side of the door, it captures my curiosity with a strength that compels me to walk over. A plaque. Not round-shaped like the honoured blue ones that pop up on London’s buildings but square. Made of brass, if I’m not mistaken, but has been painted over in a fading coat of white. The writing is barely visible. I lift up to read:

  In Memoriam

  In the basement of this building on 29th April 1908

  22 garment workers lost their lives due to fire

  Requiescat In Pace

  London County Council 1958

  A shudder worms its way through me. What an awful story. This area of London was once teeming with sweatshops, horribly crowded places where poor people toiled for their daily bread in dreadful conditions.

  ‘Miss Jordan?’

  The call of my name snaps me back to the present. A woman stares at me from the doorway. Good grief, the last thing I want is for her to think I’m already slacking on the job. I step to it and shake her hand with solid commitment I hope doesn’t hurt.

  ‘I’m Joan Connor. Most people here call me Joanie. I’m Mr Barrington’s PA.’

  Joanie’s a young person’s name, like the freckled Rock ‘n’ Roll Cunningham daughter in Happy Days. This Joanie’s middle-aged. Petite, carrying a plumpness around her hips that suggest she’s comfortable in her age. Despite the lines criss-crossing her face, there’s a smooth curve to her skin. Her skirt suit is bang-on formal, but her black flats with the bows on the front remind me of slippers. Professional cosy. Is that even a style?

  We enter a reception area that’s an eye-grabber with its bright walls and wooden floor and does dizzy stuff to all my senses. The staircase continues the hardwood theme, along with a sparkling chrome bannister rail. Clean and ordered is the impression that stays with me.

  As she leads me up, Joanie starts talking. ‘Mr Barrington is ever so pleased to have you on board.’ Her head twists sideways to look at me, her eyes lively. ‘I really hope you’re going to love it here.’

  ‘I’m sure that I will.’ I end with a wide smile I don’t quite feel. Truth is, until I get through this first day, I won’t be taking anything for granted.

  The older woman keeps up a chatter of bubbles and froth until we reach Michael’s office. He waits behind a commanding desk in a contemporary office painted white. A carpet deep enough to lose your toes in and a ceiling you have to stretch your neck to fully appreciate. Huge wide windows frame him in a cityscape portrait of the go-getter CEO. The windows hold my attention until Michael’s on his feet moving towards me. He envelops my hand into a solid warm shake.

  ‘So pleased you decided to take up my offer.’

  By way of reply, I give him the signed contract. After that Michael gives me the grand tour of the first floor. A creative estate agent would probably describe it as ‘in need of renovation’ or perhaps ‘full of original
features’. It’s a strange mixture of old and new. On the one hand this building seems to have been untouched since Queen Victoria was on the throne. I half expect to see Oliver Twist emerge with a bowl asking if he can have some more. The heavy wooden doors look like panels in the wall while the panels look like doors. Whereas the staircase and its fixtures and fittings are contemporary. Fixtures and fittings; listen to me sounding as if I’m said estate agent on a mission to sell the place. Not far from Michael’s office is a door that leads, I suspect, to a staircase to an upper floor. A twisted purple cord ropes it off with a ‘private’ sign hanging from it.

  ‘Let me show you to your office,’ Michael announces, diverting my attention back to him.

  I’m so shocked I stupidly sputter, ‘I’ve got… my own office?’

  I’ve never had one of those before. Usually it’s all open-planned with the cover story of ‘so we can network more easily’ instead of the truth: ‘We don’t want to spend any more than we need to on the workers.’

  The broad smile he displays brings out his dimples as he leads me to my own private space.

  I’m quietly delighted. The room is on the other side of Joanie’s office. It’s small, bog standard really, with bare white walls and bare wooden floors, a chair, desk and computer.

  Michael surveys the functional space. ‘You might want to think about putting up a calendar or something. You know, personalise it a bit.’

  But I don’t hear him. The windows are calling to me.

  My ritual begins. I drift over. The view is out over a back street, scruffier and less trendy than the one at the front. The drop is a single floor onto a pavement below. Too far to jump? I try to open the wrought iron window but it’s painted over. Stuck.

  ‘Have you got the key for the window?’ Seeing the baffled expression on Michael’s face, I realise I’ve been too abrupt. I should’ve weaved it more naturally into the conversation.