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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Of course, love,’ he answers in a voice that’s still threaded with his Yorkshire roots. He’s a man who’s proud of where he’s come from, also proud of where he’s got.

  As he goes outside, I skim over the framed photos of him and Mum proudly mounted on the walls. Snaps that catch them in their youth at the start of their relationship. Frank and Carole.

  In those early years, married life was the three of us in a semi in south London suburbia. Dad was a labourer on building sites until he decided the only way he was ever going to get the job he really wanted was to create it himself. So he set up his own construction company, working gruelling hours day and night, often coming home with tiredness threatening to pitch him forward after dropping off his crew in his van late at night. As his fortunes grew, he moved us into larger and larger homes that he often did up himself with the workers he hired.

  Flashed memories flick through my remembered mind of him treading his dirty boots and overalls through the house, leaving muddy footprints behind. Mum would follow him around with a squeezy bottle and a cloth without complaint. Dad doesn’t wear boots or overalls nowadays; he’s a Saville Row made-to-measure gent. I’m dead proud that his catchphrase remains, ‘I’m what I always was – a working man.’ I study their couple pictures again. They look so happy. Especially Mum. I look like her, except her young self sparkles from the health of her skin to the shape of her pixie-like smile. Towards the end of her life, the smile had eroded away until the day it slipped away forever.

  ‘I miss her too.’

  The strained sadness of Dad’s voice behind me draws a lump to my throat as I turn. He rarely speaks about Mum because I sense he thinks it will upset me. It was such a devastating time. She fell prey to an illness of the immune system that none of the many doctors she saw could cure. There I was, at the gateway of adulthood, eighteen; I wasn’t ready to let go of my mum. Each day she grew fainter, thinner, fading from the picture of my life, until one day all that was left was a devastating blank page.

  The year Mum passed he tried to cheer me up with a goodness that he still has no idea went completely bad. I could pretty it up with all manner of flowery adjectives but the simple fact is what happened has left me feeling like I’ve betrayed everything Dad has done for me. Let him down. And I’ve been struggling ever since.

  Just as I’m struggling with what to say now as we sit facing each other at the high-legged dining table in the massive kitchen with the commanding views of the North Downs and Kent countryside in the background. In the summer it’s a mash-up of green hills, sandy-coloured wheat fields, wild flowers and bees blowing around in the warm breeze. In the winter, snow lying long, fixed to the ground, reflecting the white gleam of the moon on dark evenings. Today I find it hard to find any beauty outside.

  Dad cuts to the chase. He always does, priding himself on the plain speaking he learned as a child in a northern mining community where bluntness is a virtue.

  ‘Spit it out, girl. What’s the matter?’

  My teeth worry my bottom lip. Rising blood flushes my face. My skittish gaze darts away, skidding with annoying panic around the room, only stopping as it settles on a small photo on the fridge. Mum pregnant with me. Her hand rests on her large bump, her teasing eyes only for the man behind the camera. What would she say about the screw-up the baby she nurtured, loved, has made of her life?

  The warmth of Dad’s palm over mine draws me back to him. ‘Whatever’s the problem we can sort it out. Together. I’m here to help. I’ll always be here to help.’ I look into his comforting sturdy eyes. Suddenly his expression burns fierce. I know that look; Dad’s donned his battle armour. ‘Is it a boyfriend? If it is, he’ll be answering to me and no mistake. I’ll teach him to mess my Rachel around. I’ll knock some manners into him. If you’re in trouble…?’

  If it were only that easy. ‘No, Dad, I’m not going to present you with a grandchild. I don’t have man trouble—’

  ‘Then it’s got to be this new job. Are they taking advantage of you? If they are, you know what the answer to that is – work for me instead.’

  Since I dropped out of uni halfway through my first year, he’s run a subtle campaign of trying to coax me to work for him in readiness for the day when I inherit his construction empire. But I’ve run a counter-campaign with the banner ‘Rachel does life the Rachel way’. Me wearing a hard hat? No, not a look I’d want to carry off. That’s what I tell Dad, but my reasons are much deeper, more rotten. Once I start working for him, it won’t take him long to discover that I’m as much of a wreck as the house he helped me buy. Then he might wonder why that is.

  I remember the first time I decided that always telling my dad the truth wasn’t such a good idea. A teacher made a joke about my appearance at school one day. A pretty harmless joke really but I was upset. Back home, after my dad persuaded me to tell him what was wrong, he promptly jumped in his Range Rover and went to the school. He threatened to do serious damage to the teacher if he ever did that to his daughter again. It was the talk of the playground for days and I was beyond embarrassed. That’s when I decided that perhaps some things were better left unsaid.

  And that was before everything that happened when I was eighteen, giving me even more reasons in the world to be guarded with the truth around him.

  ‘Darling.’ I hear the emotion he’s trying so hard to control. And there’s hurt there too. Pain.

  ‘Dad…’ I hate seeing him like this. Hate even more that I’ve brought it to his door. I’ve heard the rumours about how ruthless he can be in the business world. Formidable is what they really mean. A kid from a poor community has had to be in order to get where he is in the world. I wish they could see him now, the no-holds-barred kindness and devotion he has for me.

  ‘Do you know the last thing your mum said to me?’ He takes my hand again, his broad fingers curling into mine, bonding us together. ‘Make sure our girl grows up to be like you. Independent. A fighter. The best there can be. And that’s what you’ve done. I’m proud of you. I know things didn’t work out at university, but so what? I never went to one of those snob-nob places and look at me? You’ve got the spirit of your mother in you.’ He stabs a finger passionately into the table. ‘Whatever’s eating at you will never shake the belief I have in you. Your mum had in you.’

  His staunch belief in me slays every last word I was determined to lay on the table between us. How can I sit here and tell him things that will demolish his unconditional conviction in me? Watch the aching disappointment in his eyes that the rest of his face tries to hide. Why isn’t there a law against putting others on pedestals? We all come tumbling down in the end. A heavy depression shrouds its veil over me.

  I feel the ridges and calluses in his palm as I squeeze. And go with a semi-truth. ‘I wanted your advice about this character who’s my supervisor at work.’

  I tell him about Keats’s manner of dress and remote behaviour, which Dad responds with, ‘Stay out of his way as much as possible. I had this client once, him and his lady wife would dress up as Batman and Robin every Friday.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’ At least I’m smiling.

  ‘God’s honest truth.’ He winks at me. ‘The fellow would insist I call him Bruce Wayne and they’d go around their home humming the theme song.’ Dad does just that, humming the theme tune wildly, rocking his body, eyes alive with mischief ending on a resounding, ‘Batman!’

  I lean over, punching light-heartedly on his arm as we laugh ourselves silly. That’s what my dad does for me, makes me feel great about the world again. But this time he’s done something else. He’s given me my mum’s words to help me through.

  ‘Make sure our girl is a fighter. The best there is.’

  The best doesn’t choose to remain on their knees when they can be standing strong on their own two feet. Sort out my financial woes, that’s what I’m determined to do. I’m going back to my job. Back to the world beneath the trap door in the basement.

  Ten
>
  BBs, aka Beta Blockers, and cannabis oil are my breakfast of choice this morning. No way on this earth can I go back through the trap door, work in that dungeon-coffin-basement without their chemical assistance. I can hear the naysayers in their saintly perfect-world voices: ‘I’d never go back to that job. No how, no way.’ But would they really? With debt growing every day? The haunting dying words of a mother for her child to become the best she can be? Walk in my very heavy shoes first before you cast the first know-it-all stone.

  Relax. I hang on to the word with the tenacity of a rosary bead as I approach the building that is my place of work. Before I press the entrance buzzer, my eye catches the plaque honouring the dead workers. Dead girls. The 22. That’s what I’ve decided to call them. I give them a nod of respect before my finger on the buzzer lets Joanie know I’m here.

  Joanie doesn’t drop the lock but comes down to greet me, her features a mask of pinched concern. Inside the foyer there’s a subtle twitch in her arm muscles. I hope that’s not the forerunner to her hugging me to her motherly breasts, attempting to ‘There, there, there,’ soothe me better. I mini-step to the side so she gets the message to keep her embraces for those who request them. Don’t get me wrong, open-armed physical kindness is always a beautiful blessing but I suspect this morning the only thing it will do is make me turn tail and run.

  Joanie satisfies herself with a tingling single comfort-pat on my shoulder, her tongue hitting the roof of her mouth with disapproving noises. ‘Rach? You shouldn’t be here. You should be at home with your feet up. What are you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She examines me, head-to-toe, expression grimly doubtful. ‘You still look a bit off colour.’

  Before I have any say in the matter, Joanie’s corralled me upstairs with a steaming cuppa between my hands, doing a ten-minute chillout in her office before work really begins. We’re a strange pairing, me and Joanie. Her offering me chocolate finger bikkies as she fusses and flutters recommending this herb, that potion that can kill the common cold dead, while I sit impassively with a strange strained smile. Still, anything that delays me having to face going down and under is welcome.

  ‘On a tea break already, Rachel? I wish I had your job.’ The sound of Michael’s unexpected voice rattles my cup, splashing drops of tea over my hand. Oh heck.

  Dreading coming face to face with him, I take all the time in the world turning, recalling his fleeting displeasure that I went home sick yesterday. I’m not sure what expression he’s wearing. Blank-faced? Suppressed anger? I don’t know this man well enough to judge.

  I breathe easier when his dimples strut the catwalk of his cheeks. ‘Sorry about the low sympathy quota yesterday. I had a lot on, which is why I’m off to my office now.’ He turns, then shoots over his shoulder, ‘Good to have you back in the family, Rachel.’

  Joanie flashes a triumphant look, clapping her fingertips together in rapid glee. ‘Told you he was being a tad touchy yesterday. Don’t mind him. His bark is worse than his bite.’

  My moment of grace is up so I stand. Smile, with heart this time. ‘Thanks so much for the TLC.’

  She escorts me to the door. ‘Are you sure you’re all right to work?’

  I want to ask her a question back: will she escort me beyond the trap door? I know I’m a proper scaredy-cat, but there’s a killer dread brewing within.

  ‘Are you all right working down there in the systems room with the boys?’ Joanie must sense my reluctance to go.

  The systems room? A polite phrase for the basement. ‘I preferred working up here with some light and space.’ I can’t help the internal tug that draws my gaze to her window.

  ‘You mustn’t mind the lads.’ She waves my fears staunchly away. ‘They’re all perfectly harmless, I know they are.’

  What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t get a chance to find out. Joanie closes her office door.

  Less than a minute later I’m looking down at the trap door. This is the first time I’ll be going under on my own. The spit I nervously try to swallow refuses to slither down. I notice what I didn’t yesterday; the trap door has an extra-light sweep of polish, that the flooring it lies flush with has started to let go. Smooth. Entrancing. A make-believe sheen that’s to lure me into a false sense of security that blinds me to all manner of horrors below.

  The BBs and CBD oil have long kicked in but they can’t reach that tiny screaming part of me that won’t let go. It’s inside my manic mind, shaking and quivering, dreaming up terror-soaked happenings I’ll encounter beyond this door. Darkness. Encroaching walls. A ceiling waiting to free fall onto me. Stop it with the silly shrieking girly drama. Right now! It’s a walkway not a tunnel. The only thing moving down there will be you.

  Before I lose my nerve, I hunch down. Gather my building courage. Take the hard handle in my hand. Pull back. Stare down. Hunt the light in the naked bulb at the top to help me breathe properly again. That’s it – air, air, air. I take two steps. My arm shoots up, halfway in the world below, half in the world up there. I know I have to do it. I clutch the inside handle. Do. It.

  Pull the door shut above me.

  I want to run down the stairs, but know that’s an idiot idea. I’d probably go head over heels and who knows what may happen to me then. So, I remember the light above the air it brings and move steadily to the bottom.

  ‘Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.’ The whispered echo of Michael and Joanie saying my name as they did that first day suddenly joins my journey. It’s my ears playing a nasty trick. Hearing things that aren’t really there. I pick up speed, looking ahead only, willing myself to make it to the steel door.

  ‘Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.’

  Get out of my bloody head. Slam! I shut my ears down. Centre every part of me on the light. Air, air, air. There! Made it! You did it, girl! I touch my palm to the coolness of the steel door to verify I’m really there. I catch my breath for a few seconds. Then to the business of how I’m going to deal with my day inside the basement. One thing I have decided is to love-bomb creepy Keats with the messaging system in an effort to get some kind of conversation going so I don’t feel so isolated. I also plan to do the mountaineering thing; not look up at the ceiling, down at the floor or across at the walls. Instead focus on my computer to try to forget where I am.

  Nothing’s changed inside the underground room with no windows. They’re all in there, sitting in rows. Zombies doing exactly what they’re told. Zombies? That’s exactly what they’re like. No surprise that not a single one looks up, or acknowledges my presence with a morning-morning, a welcome-again-to-the-club smile. I could be the phantom soul of a dead sweatshop worker.

  Only Keats gives me the time of day with a glance and short nod. His choice of bandana today is green fatigue. I wonder what his eyes are like behind his shades as he takes me in. Smiling? Rolling? Squinty eyed? Dead dull? Who was it who said, ‘The eyes are the window to the soul’? Well, this man’s keeping his soul under lock and key. It’s what you can’t see sometimes that terrorises you the most.

  After a decent interval of cracking on with a report that uses stupid happy-clappy management phrases like ‘blue-sky thinking’ and ‘out of the box’, I turn my attention to my charm offensive against Keats.

  Me: Hi Keats. How’s things?

  He takes his mouse, and with an elaborate swirl, clears the message and carries on working. Ah, a man who isn’t into office chat. I’m not giving up. The idea of having no-one down here to talk to is crippling. I’m not looking for a friend, but that human-to-human spark every now and again would be massively appreciated.

  I give it five mins then I’m pinging back up on his message box.

  Me: Do anything interesting last night? I stayed in and watched Love Island. Don’t know why really, it gave me an inferiority complex about my body.

  A bit of humour to dent his armour. Doesn’t work. Double damn.

  Me: Joanie’s a real softie, isn’t she? She’s worried that I’m unwell.
I thought she was going to make a camp bed up for me in her office and make me drink honey and lemon for the rest of the day.

  Keats sits back. What’s the expression he wears under his facial mask? I suspect it’s mouth-twisting annoyance. The reply I finally get proves I’m spot on.

  Keats: This is a work environment not a club for the twinset and pearls brigade. Put a cork in it and get on with your work.

  That has my mouth flapping like a fish. How rude is that. And condescending. I don’t know why this guy doesn’t like me. I haven’t done a thing to him. Probably I was right yesterday; he doesn’t like women. I side-eye him with the type of contempt I hope turns his seat into an electric chair. Okay, not really. All I want is someone else down here to be able to reach out to. But it won’t be Keats.

  What a nasty piece of work he is.

  Eleven

  It’s lunchtime. And a strange thing happens. Keats stands, with the others following suit. I feel like a solitary audience watching a synchronised chorus line of male workers. I tried to talk to one of the guys earlier and he blanked me. I was midway through asking him a question about his role when he shuffled away like he was fleeing from me asking him out on a date. My teeth press into my lip as doubt and indecision play tag. Am I meant to stand too? New jobs can leave you so insecure with their unwritten rules and regs no-one takes the time to tell you about. Before I can decide on what to do, the door opens revealing a beaming Michael.

  He rubs his hands together as he makes a jolly announcement. ‘Who’s for pizza?’

  Ah! So that’s why they all got up. I assume this is some kind of lunchtime office ritual, Pizza Tuesday, bonding over food and drink. What a great idea. So I stand and reach for my jacket as Michael disappears back into the corridor. But Keats puts his hand on my shoulder. I tense at his touch. I’ve never felt his flesh on me before. I thought it would be the sensation of forbidding cold, but beneath his imprint is a stirring warmth. How strange, I wouldn’t have expected a cold creature like him to be warm-blooded. He goes over to his computer and types. I lean down to view my message box.