Minutes later, I leave, the thing I carry with me bulging bigger with more venom than ever before.
Before the whisper of courage deserts me completely, I pull it out. My poisonous unwanted bulging friend. The cheap carrier bag that stays with me twenty-four-seven. Tip it upside down. The contents scatter onto the table.
There. Done. Now the real trouble hits the fan.
I meet the unwavering stare of my newly assigned debt counsellor. It’s my first appointment with her. Polly doesn’t so much as blink; I suppose she’s seen it all before.
‘It certainly looks like we’ve got our work cut out,’ Polly remarks in a very matter-of-fact attitude.
Our attention is hooked on to the mountain of letters I’ve unleashed. My dirty laundry laid bare on her pristine desk. Red letters, warning letters, threatening letters detailing exactly what I owe to whom and how much. I’m #Broke #InDebt #Can’tAffordToHaveSex.
My debt counsellor is one of these happy souls and plump like a Christmas pud that can’t wait to be lit up. I suppose that comes with the training, full-on upbeatness so that clients don’t feel even more crap about their financial shit show.
I’m grateful she doesn’t request chapter and verse on how I ended up in this desperate situation. How does anyone end up in debt? To give myself credit – correction: credit – definitely the wrong choice of word – I wasn’t one of those big spenders, splashing out on the high life. I’d merely been trying to keep my head above water when I couldn’t find a job. Pay the bills, put bread on the table, cash for everyday travel. You end up borrowing from Peter to pay Paul and Paul and Paul… I shake my head as I drop on the seat opposite Polly. What a catastrophic, awful mess.
Polly stands up and I change my first impression of her. She’s like the head of a troupe of Girl Guides ready for action. I like that. I need someone who’s going to help put me straight.
‘Right,’ she announces, leaning over the table. ‘The first thing we need to do is organise these letters into some type of order.’
A half-hour later there are three piles: final warnings concerning maxed-out credit cards, mortgage arrears, and one that sits on its own.
Polly resumes her seat. Her chin tips down. ‘I can call your credit card providers and keep at bay potential court action, but your mortgage company won’t be so easy. We need to show good faith, so you’ll have to start paying the money back almost immediately. The last thing you want is to find yourself homeless.’
My house. Debt. The Big Bad Wolf threatening to huff and puff my house down. How could I have jeopardised the house Dad helped me buy out of the goodness of his heart?
Polly continues, ‘It will be easier for me to contact the relevant organisations if I can keep all your correspondence.’ I nod. She can keep the evil plastic bag. The sooner it’s gone from my life the better. ‘Rachel, you’ve come this far, so I’m not going to patronise you and say this will be easy. But, heads together, we will get this sorted out.’ Her chair creaks as she arches her back ever so slightly. ‘What about family? Can they support you?’
My throat muscles constrict, my troubled stare flickering momentarily away from this kind woman with shame. Thinking about Dad finding out about this leaves me cringing. If I tell him I’d have let him down – again.
‘No. There’s no-one.’ That voice surely can’t be mine. It belongs to someone who’s been battered black and blue.
‘No matter,’ she musters with cheerfulness, ‘we’ll get this done and dusted the best we can.’
Then her fingertip slides the letter sitting in its own pile towards her. I’m riveted by the action. It’s like watching the Titanic sailing ever closer to the iceberg. She taps it once before asking, ‘Why haven’t you opened this?’
I swallow. Tell the truth. ‘I know it’s cowardly, but I couldn’t face it.’ My head dips. I’ve spent so much of my life gazing at the ground lately I sometimes wonder if I truly know what the sky really looks like.
Seeing my dejected pose, Polly softly enquires, ‘Are you feeling depressed? There are other services I can refer you to.’
Are you happy? would be the more revealing question for her to ask. What would she say if I answered that I haven’t really known the melting abandon of happiness since that summer I was eighteen?
I ignore her kind enquiry and force my head up. ‘Will you open the letter for me?’ That’s why it remains sealed; I know whatever’s inside is bad.
The chopping sound of the paper, as her finger saws through the seal, leaves a tiptoe trail of chill bumps climbing my arms. I want to disappear. Can’t hide forever, Rachel, my sensible voice informs me with the rhythm of a skipping game. Polly pulls out a single sheet of off-white paper. Silently reads.
Places it carefully on the table and smooths it out with her fingertips like it’s the most delicate thing in the world. ‘This is a letter to inform you that since you’ve had a county court judgement against you relating to the non-payment of one of your debts, you’ve now been placed on a register—’
‘What?’ I can’t believe what she’s telling me. ‘What register? Like I’m a sex offender or something.’
Her fingers release the letter. It doesn’t lose its smoothed-out shape. ‘Let me explain. The register is not made public. Once your name’s on it, you have a month to pay off what you owe.’ She coughs delicately. ‘If you don’t pay, you’ll be on the register for six years.’
I squeeze my eyes tight. Want to slap my hands over my ears. See no evil, hear no evil, stuff evil in a cheap plastic carrier bag. Yeah, that’s worked out a real treat for ya, Rachel. What a complete fool I’ve been.
‘Are you in work?’
I nod.
For the first time her tone sharpens. ‘I need to be honest with you. I wouldn’t be advising you properly if I didn’t. If you’re going to keep your home, you need money to pay off your mortgage arrears.’ Her voice tightens with the power of a screw in my brain. ‘If you end up on this register it could affect your future employment prospects. Employers have been known to check it. You’ll have that hanging over you for six long years.’
‘But I—’
Her stare is direct. I realise that Polly’s not all jolly hockey sticks, but as tough as the seasoned leather of work boots. ‘You’re not in a position to pick and choose, which means you have to keep this job. Having a regular income is the one thing that’s going to work in your favour. So, the job’s got to stay.’
Polly’s right. Debtors can’t be choosers. My new job is a lifeline. My only one. Thank God Michael is such a generous and caring boss.
Six
I finally get what Katrina and the Waves meant by Walking On Sunshine. Because I feel the thrilling freedom of a bird as I stroll – swagger – up the stairs towards my office the following Monday morning. My step is jaunty, my hair allowed to go loose for once in its restrained life. And my heart… my heart’s practically singing inside my chest. I’m even showcasing my other smart suit, my Stella McCartney pinstripe blazer and wide-legged pants I bought a few years back. That’s how H.A.P.P.Y. I am.
If someone had told me I’d make it to my second week as a management consultant I’d have replied, straight and upfront, they were talking about some other Rachel from an alternative universe.
There have been no more sour moments after Milkgate. Things have settled down in my new job. Maybe it was because it had all got off to such a rocky start that Michael frequently popped his head into my office, asking how things were going. Really sweet of him, but if I’m truthful, he did it so much that it was wearing on my nerves. It wasn’t like the tasks he gave me called for the rebirth of Einstein. Still, thanks where thanks are due, I appreciate him thinking of my welfare. And Joanie, bless her, is writing, in bold black marker, the use-by date on the cartons in the fridge.
I’ve felt the backhand of the gig economy so know this job is pitch-pure paradise. No managers bawling anyone out, no written warnings, looming redundancies or backstabbing petty
office politics. Just me working at my computer, and occasionally surfing the net or doing some personal e-mails. If this is how the coming three weeks of my probationary period pan out, and Michael offers me a long-term contract, I’ve pretty much landed in a pot of jam.
I leave the stairs behind and head off towards my office. Say a cheery, ‘Morning, morning,’ to Joanie as I pass by. Open the door to my office. I rock slightly backwards, stunned speechless. The room’s empty. No desk. No chair. No computer. Only the lived-in floor, four walls and my cherished window with the static buildings of London’s skyline beyond imprinted in the background. A room wiped clean of me.
I stand in the doorway, palm rubbing with agitation over my bag. I don’t understand.
I frown with a thought. Maybe Michael told me he was moving me somewhere else and I… forgot? Maybe my work’s not up to scratch and he’s giving me the push? No money means no cash to pay off my debts means I lose my house means I end up on that blasted register of financial rejects means my precious dad will find out. Butterflies beat in my belly, not the type you get when you fall in love, but the kind that visit when you’re going to throw up.
Anxiety levels off the scale, I tap a single knuckle softly on Michael’s door. My boss. Yes, my boss, I convince myself that’s what he’ll continue to be. No answer. Try again. Same thing. I have this insane urge to boot his door in.
Joanie’s voice behind me saves me from the meltdown I feel coming on. ‘Mr Barrington hasn’t come in yet.’ I don’t face her, instead try as hard as I can to get the shallow air pumping out of me under control. ‘Is there something wrong?’
Finally I turn. She’s as mumsie as ever in a pretty floral print dress whose summery feel-good vibe is at odds with the dipped scowl depressing her forehead.
‘All the furniture in my office has gone.’ It comes out a breathless string of words stuck together.
She steps closer, her eyes widening with dumbfounded surprise. ‘What do you mean, it’s all gone?’
I decide there’s no point us having this two-way chat, best to show her the conjuring trick that’s been performed in my office instead. Joanie makes no comment as her gaze jerks around. Then her shoulders shift as if to fit the shape of her dress more snugly like a pair of shoulder pads. I’ve seen her do this before, a personal tick I suppose she’s developed when trying to be ultra professional. ‘Although Mr Barrington never told me about this, there must be a reason.’
‘What reason?’ I snap. Calm down, Rachel. Use your lungs the way you’re meant to. I do exactly that and don’t speak until calmness is back balancing my breath. ‘What I mean is surely he would have told me something on Friday.’
Michael’s PA brightens. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll give Mr Barrington a ring. He’s probably out getting you some new furniture; he likes his staff to be comfy. Why don’t you wait in his office, Rach. I’ll sort this out.’
My back teeth grind. I wish she wouldn’t call me that. Rach. It’s not that I don’t like it, but it belongs on the lips of another person. Another time. Another summer.
Zooming back to now, I move towards Michael’s office, the rhythm of my feet changing to a drag. Reach out and clasp the Victorian door handle, but don’t turn it. It doesn’t feel right stepping into his office while he’s not there. It’s his space, his private domain. It’s like I’m poking around in his mind without him knowing I’m there. But still, I can’t lurk out here like a naughty kid outside the headmaster’s office.
As soon as I enter, the glass wall of windows calls to me. The unnatural magnetic pull draws me into the inevitable journey across the room. I gaze down the dizzying drop. Twenty-five, thirty feet? No coming back from a fall like that.
‘What are you doing snooping around the boss’s office?’ Oh hell, it’s Michael. My heart kicks up as I quickly swing round. Heart slows down when I see the cheeky grin that lifts his whole face. ‘You’re not trying to hack into my bank account, are you? Don’t bother – all my cash is in the Cayman Islands.’
He laughs. I try to join in the fun but can’t. I move to the employee side of his desk as he takes off his jacket and neatly drapes it on the back of his chair. He doesn’t sit though, instead settles into an even stance by the side of his desk. Why this makes my nerves itch under my skin I don’t know.
‘There seems to be a problem in my office,’ I tell him.
Correction: seems. There is a problem, no seeming about it. We English do love our polite verbal tiptoeing dance of skirting the issue.
He looks genuinely baffled. ‘Problem? I don’t like the sound of that.’
Without warning, he marches out and I follow him into my office. Ourselves stare back at us, faint phantoms reflected in the window. Michael rubs the inside of his thumb against his temple, mouth skewed to one side as his gaze makes the rounds. Then he looks at me with such force I back up slightly.
‘It’s all coming back to me now. Please accept my apologies. I had the boys clear out this office.’
What boys? There’s only the three of us in this building.
He walks and talks back to his office, me trying to keep up with his lengthy stride. ‘I should have mentioned this to you on Friday. I’m reassigning you to a bold new project where you’ll be summarising reports. You’ll be joining a new team headed up by my top guy.’
My brain buzzes, trying to keep up with the new information he chucks my way. What top guy? What team? Before I can quiz him, he’s back as lord of the manor behind his desk picking up his phone.
‘Keats? Can you come to my office please? I want to introduce you to someone.’
Are there other people in this building? Have they been here all the time? I know the answer to both questions and an uneasy crawling, itching sensation travels up and down my spine.
Michael leans forward when he ends the call, his gaze trapping mine. ‘The thing you have to remember with Keats is that Keats is a little eccentric and can take a bit of getting used to. A software whizz and they’re not nine-to-five people, are they? Cost me big bucks to poach Keats from one of my rivals. But these software guys are all artists and you have to cut artists a bit of slack. So just humour Keats, okay?’
Eccentric? I don’t like the sound of that. I’ve got enough strangeness already in my life. It seems like an age before I sense a presence in the doorway. I do a double take and almost recoil at the man standing there.
I lose the will to use my tongue. Keep gaping. Downright rude, I know, but I can’t help it. He’s about my height, I suspect in his twenties too, wearing military fatigues and heavy boots. It’s not the type of dress code I’d assume would be permissible in a company like this, but that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s his face. Over his head lies a low-hanging hoodie that obscures the top half of his face. Below that a pair of oversized sunglasses conceal his eyes and a good portion of his cheeks. Beneath that… I’m still trying to process what I’m seeing here. I think it’s a bandana. Midnight black. It covers the whole of his mouth and the bottom of his nose. In a nutshell, except for a partial slice of the bridge of his strong nose, this man is faceless.
How the guy’s maintaining that even soft in-out push and pull of air lifting his chest behind that piece of cloth I’ll never know. He looks like a throwback to a Western outlaw including the six-shooter style mobile phone on one hip and small water bottle on the other. He’s either about to set out on a terrorist mission or rob a stagecoach.
I’m stupefied and horrified all at once. Is this a joke? Am I the butt of some sort of peculiar practical-joke-cum-workplace initiation rite?
Obviously not because the boss introduces us. ‘Keats, this is Rachel – Rachel, Keats.’
My hand shoots out awkwardly as I mumble, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He ignores my stretched hand, in fact puts his behind his back. Mortified, I let mine drop limply to my side. Holy hell, what have I let myself in for here? Then a relieving thought occurs to me. Maybe he suffers from one of those immune syste
m attack diseases where the only way to avoid an excess of germs is to protect his mouth and eyes and limit what he touches. Or he’s disfigured. Or protection against London’s pollution. Whatever’s going on here leaves me off balance. Off kilter.
‘Keats, take Rachel to the systems room and settle her into her workstation and computer. And keep an eye on her.’ A twinkle lights up his eyes. ‘I don’t want her hacking into the Pentagon like you do…’
Yeah, hahaha. Not amused. But I slap on my best employee grin.
Keats turns and begins to leave the office, gesturing with his hand that I’m to follow. Michael mouths at me, ‘Eccentric … but… brilliant.’
Only when we go down the stairs does something uneasy occur to me. ‘Is this systems room on the ground level then?’
I get no answer. We continue walking. I can’t help but look back at my surroundings as we go. Yes, it’s a dead ringer for the set of a Victorian costume drama or Fagin’s lair but it’s bright and light. Has windows. We cross the foyer until Keats stops near the back to the side. I look around dumbfounded. Don’t understand why we’ve stopped because I can’t see any evidence of a door or another office. Then he hunches down. Reaches out towards a round wooden handle in the floor. My stomach flip-flops, the air in my chest speeds up. He pulls, releasing a trap door flush with the wooden floor.
You’ve got to be kidding me! I figure out now where we’re heading. Down to the place where twenty-two poor souls perished in a fire over a hundred years ago. Where a heroic dog tried to raise the alarm.
The basement.
Seven
Down and under.
Down and under.
That’s where this masked man is taking me.
Anxiety hits. Panic grips. I can’t do it. Can’t. I have a fear of being trapped underground. Going down and under. No windows.
My jittery gaze skates over my shoulder to the building’s entrance that seems to be beckoning me urgently. Whispering, warning me to run, run away. I know it’s not real, a figment of the familiar paranoia and disorientation that’s hijacked my mind and body.
Trap Door: the creepiest psychological suspense you will read this year Page 4