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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  The only tune she’s listening to is her own. ‘You should’ve been gone a month ago. My friend’s been waiting to rent the room.’

  ‘Your mate’s just going to have to wait. Now there’s a rhyme you can take to your lonely bed and snuggle up to every night.’

  I know, I know, I shouldn’t bait her; I can’t afford to be kicked out onto the street. Get her on side. Turn the heat dial down. Softly softly the mood tone. But I’ve had it to the gritted back teeth with her and the snide swipe of her eyes at every turn, whispering bitchy badness about me in poor Jed’s ear.

  Her rampant breath covers my face with the evil intent of a plastic bag. ‘You think you’ve got him wrapped around your crooked little finger.’

  ‘What?’ Him? My snapped-together frown shows my confusion. Bloody heck, are those tears glossing her eyes?

  ‘Jed,’ she gulps, ‘he deserves someone better than a user like you.’

  The pattern of the air she leaves on my skin changes. Ragged with a cyclone of emotions. Ah, I get what’s going on. Little Miss Vulture is jealous. No, she’s no vulture, but a lovelorn lovebird who thinks I’m Jed’s latest squeeze. Thinks I’m making a play for him on her field. Utter crap. Me and Jed are buddies and that’s all it will ever be. Why can’t some people get it that a gal and guy can just be very good friends? Mind you, Jed’s always had a large female following, including our school days too. Most want to run their fingers through his hair, detangling its unruliness, flatten the very personality out of him. Why can’t most people love someone for who they really are, not what they want them to be? Like you, Rachel? Avoiding confessing to your dad the truth about what your life’s really become? About Philip? I flinch from my own truth.

  And turn the spotlight on my nemesis. ‘Jed’s a mate doing another mate a turn. That’s all. End of story.’

  She won’t let it go, seething through the tiny gap I see in her cut-sized front teeth. ‘I know women like you. Gobble up the goodness in a guy and then spit him out.’

  I’ll gobble her up in a minute if she’s not careful. Oh, she wants to play get-down-and-dirty does she? Best not disappoint her. I lean in and boldly whisper, ‘He’s a red-hot chilli Casanova between the sheets. Morning, noon and three times a night.’

  Lovebird springs forward.

  ‘Ladies? Ladies? Is there a problem?’ The interruption of Jed’s anxious voice from the top of the stairs stays her attack. Just as well; at the age of seven, Dad had instructed me there were three things I needed to learn inside out – the alphabet, the times table and how to land a punch. He’d applied himself to teaching me all three.

  She swings round, takes one look at her love interest’s expression, probably realises he’s overheard every word and bolts with mortified Run Rabbit Run speed into the kitchen. The air crackles out of me with a dead-on-my-feet motion as I trudge up the seesaw steps on aching and sore legs that are begging for sleep. Instead of taking Jed to my room, I draw him to a spot by the lopsided radiator on the landing. Truth is, when I shut the door of my room, I want privacy. The company of me, myself and I.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Jed’s eyes are wide, his hair wilder than usual, his broken nose even more off-centre.

  ‘You certainly know how to pick your girlfriends.’

  He blusters, ‘She isn’t my…’ He lowers to a whisper like he’s scared the other tenants will hear, ‘current steady.’

  ‘You might want to think about telling her that.’

  His pose abruptly changes as he shoves his hands into the front pockets of his Levi Classics and shuffles his feet. Then he captures my gaze and won’t let go. ‘Thing is, Rachel, Sonia,’ – so that’s her name – ‘has got a point. I did say you could stay with the knowledge that one of the others’ friends has earmarked the room to move into soon.’

  This must be what people mean by the weight of the world on your shoulders. Except the sensation I experience now is a crushing pressure on the top of my head. It won’t stop. Keeps pushing. Pushing. Threatening to squash me right through this scarred bare floor. Seeing the photo of Philip – or whatever that was – and having to contemplate moving out of this house is too much for me. I want to throw myself on Jed’s mercy – again.

  What halts me is the agonising expression Jed probably doesn’t even realise he wears. Upset. Sad. Like he wants to hold me tight. I wish I could wipe it away with the words he wants to hear. But I don’t have that power within me. Call me selfish, a worshipper at the altar of me-me-me, call me what the heck you like: but know this – I’m staying put until I’m forcibly shown the door.

  Finally I speak. ‘I’m doing my best to find alternative digs. You know I’ve got money coming in with this new job. Okay, it’s at a place where sweatshop workers were killed in a fire—’

  Jed is bug-eyed. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m happy there. It’s a really great place.’

  There’s the nervous shuffle-shuffle-shuffle of his feet again. ‘You’re going to have to find another place to lay your head soon. Or go back to your house and face up to things.’

  I’m already turning away as I shoot over my shoulder like a woman who hasn’t got a care in the world, ‘Doing my best. A girl can’t do more than that.’

  I’m back in my room. The door a barrier between me and a world that clearly has a beef against my very existence. I’m not alone though; Philip’s there too. Side by side with me as I do my routine of casing the window. Checking the drop and the impact it will have on my body. Then it comes to me, what people call a light-bulb moment, of how I can find out if Philip died recently and not ten years ago. I pull out my phone. Hit the Internet. Type in ‘Philip’. My tapping thumbs and fingers stall. Hell. I don’t know what his surname is. Was. ‘Philip’ and ‘Rachel’ that’s all we ever were to each other.

  For the next couple of hours I try, desperately, to block out the past with the latest must-watch five-star box set streaming sensation on my handset. Doesn’t work of course. So it’s a pill down my throat, a squirt of thick oil under my dry tongue. The chemicals, mixed with exhaustion, start to do their work…

  I wake, head heavy, dried drool caked down one side of my mouth, in a room that’s long been dark, laden with a blanket of cold. I could stay here for the rest of my days, cocooned in a space of utter nothingness. No debts to pay off, no past bad deeds to account for.

  No Philip.

  I blink my weary eyelids open. Tap the pad of my finger above my right eye until whatever I saw in the dungeon office on Keats’s computer disappears. For now. Then I go utterly still as I do most nights and listen. No noises; the others are all safely tucked up in their rooms. Judge the time to be right for my night-time ritual. Check my mobile just to be sure. Thirty minutes after the witching hour.

  I leave my room, barely touching my feet to the floor, so the others won’t hear me. Make my way to the bathroom. Open the door, its peeling paint shuddering as I shut it with only a click I hear. It’s small, no thrills. There’s a shower minus curtain or screen. It’s the distastefully avocado-coloured plastic bath that holds my full attention. I pop in the plug. Turn on the tap, which lets loose a short protesting growling sound before the water gushes out. I’m hypnotised by the water. The way it dances from side to side as it streams from the tap’s open mouth. The way it splutters and slaps the water already pooling below, forming tiny bubbles that burst and die quickly.

  I’m not here to have a bath. When it’s filled I won’t get in; I never do. Just remind myself to come back to the bathroom at six before anyone else is about so I can release the water.

  The unexpected ringtone of my mobile, in my back pocket, distracts me from the running water. I pull it out. The shocking brightness of the screen in the gloomy dark hurts my eyes as I check out the number. Michael. Alertness shoves the running water and everything else aside.

  ‘Rachel. I hope I haven’t disturbed your beauty sleep.’ His voice is as crisply cold as the water.

  I ease the door of
the bathroom shut. Rush on my toes back to my room as I answer quiet and low, ‘No, no, I was up anyway.’

  The last thing I want is to wake any of the housemates and for them to find me lurking around the house in the dark like a spirit that has long lost the ability to rest at night. For them to realise that I fill the bath with water every night. I check the time on the phone. 00:44. How bizarre. What an odd time for him to call.

  ‘That’s good. Obviously I wouldn’t have phoned unless it was urgent.’ I’ve made it back to my room, my feet snapping past the bucket of water by the bed I sit on with unease.

  His controlled tone gets swiftly down to business. ‘The thing is, I asked Keats for a progress report on your work to date. He submitted it this afternoon before he left and I’m going to be frank with you, it doesn’t make for very pleasant reading. To be even more frank, Keats thinks you’re totally unsuited for the work. It’s his opinion that you’re sloppy, unprofessional, and don’t seem to know the first thing about management structure and analysis, which is a bit of a problem for someone working as a management consultant.’

  I picture runt Keats upstairs in Michael’s office, snitching me up. Bastard. Without thinking, I retaliate. ‘Yes, well, perhaps if Keats actually took the time to speak to me—’

  ‘All you did was regurgitate my words in those reports,’ is the backlash that stings me. ‘I don’t need a parrot on my team. I want a skilled operator who can analyse and synthesise information.’

  Analyse? Synthesise? The words make my heart pound.

  ‘Umm… Well…’ I don’t know what to say. How to defend myself.

  He cuts me short. ‘Look, Rachel, we need to sort something out here, because if we can’t, then I’m afraid, and with regret, we’re going to have to part company. I want you in my office first thing so we can explore our options.’

  Options? The earlier sick feeling in my tummy comes back with a vengeance.

  I trip over my reply, pulse going into overdrive. ‘Yes, but…’

  It’s too late. He’s gone.

  I slump on my mattress. This morning I came back to this desperately needed job to stave off bankruptcy. Now I don’t care about the money or bankruptcy anymore. This job is solely about getting my hands on that funeral programme, no matter what it costs. Finding out if the face on the programme really belonged to Philip is all I care about.

  Adrenaline suddenly shooting through my veins like a class-A drug to a junkie, I reach for my bag. Pull out the rope I keep with me at all times. Except during the night and the dawning of the early morning. My hand glides over it. Black, braided, above all strong and long. And knotted at intervals like fat twine jewels in a nylon necklace. I go over to the window, as I do every night. Open it. Secure one end of the rope to the radiator below and dangle the rest out of the window. I freeze. Something disturbs this other nightly ritual. A movement in the garden. A figure looking up at me from the shadows. I don’t have to ask who it is. Jed’s little heartbroken bird. Sonia.

  She stares hot-eyed at me. Then at the rope that hangs from my window.

  Fourteen

  Something detaches me from sleep. What it is, I don’t know. I lie in this semi-scared half-tense world, curled protectively on my side, as if expecting massive hands to shackle around my ankles before dragging me from the bed. There’s a hyper alert energy about the house that leaves a strange roaring deep in my ears.

  That’s when I hear it. Them. Shouting downstairs. Despite seven different people with their own personalities co-existing within these walls, this has always been a relatively peaceful house, so the sound of yelling surprises me. And at this time… 01:53. The voices hike up in volume, driving me out of the bed and into my jeans jacket over my T-shirt and shorts. A big yawn accompanies me to the door. I’m exhausted, brain-weary, leg muscles aching from the never-ending marathon that has become my life. The last thing I need is domestic drama.

  The landing feels inhospitable in its chilly inkiness, leaving me shivering and pulling my jacket tighter to insulate my own body’s warmth. The residue of a downstairs light blurs against the staircase wall. Does it belong to someone’s room or the kitchen? Even though I don’t know most of the people who live here, I hope that no-one has been taken ill.

  My steps quicken down the unsteady stairs, the voices getting louder. I freeze when I turn the corner at the bottom and see the backs of my housemates gathered at the entrance to the kitchen, heads slightly down looking at something on the floor as they criss-cross argue. Well, it’s actually Jed involved in a right royal row with his unrequited love. I must’ve made a sound, I’m not sure, because they all suddenly turn my way like wind-up toys getting ready to perform a macabre collective march. Accusatory expressions maul me. Only Jed’s features are set in a different way – hopeless and helpless. Whatever this is, it isn’t good.

  I stand my ground in the space I’ve marked as my territory by the staircase, resisting the urge to wrap a hand on the end of the bannister for the support I suspect I’m going to need.

  ‘What’s going on?’ My voice is slow as if that will delay matters.

  Lovebird speaks, glaring and spitting at me. ‘I want you OUT. Now!’

  ‘We’ve already had this conversation.’ My swift comeback lacks the confidence I had earlier when us two got into a verbal ding-dong.

  Wonderful Jed comes immediately to my defence but he won’t touch my gaze, stirring the dread in my bones. ‘Leave off, Sonia,’ he snaps, reminding me she does have a name other than one that belongs to the bird kingdom. ‘You’re jumping to conclusions—’

  She butts in, ‘Are you having a laugh? Let the bitch see what she’s done.’

  Jed waves an irate finger at her. ‘Don’t you dare call my mate a name like that.’

  ‘Mate?’ Sonia lets loose with sarcastic scorn, fists balled. ‘She’s using you, you muppet.’

  ‘Now you hold on—’

  ‘Stop.’

  Pauline from the attic room stops them with the commanding tone she’s no doubt honed as a primary school teacher. Pretty woman, with a perfectly shaped ’fro who usually keeps herself to herself.

  ‘I understand where you’re coming from, Jed. This is your friend, but Sonia has got a point.’ The others nod. Whatever this is, I’m on the losing side. ‘Rachel needs to see what’s happened.’

  There’s a Red Sea parting of the ways to allow me through. I feel no exhilarating Moses moment as I move forward with trepidation, slow step by slow step, their hot eyes watching me every inch of the way. I see it before I reach the kitchen doorway and can’t help the choked gasp that disturbs the sudden stillness of the night.

  It’s a scene of utter destruction. There’s a huge jagged hole in the ceiling where the plaster has come down, exposing the floorboards and insulating foam of the room above. Directly beneath is the debris awash with water that’s turned the kitchen floor into a mini lake. Water weeps down the walls, leaving it looking like fresh dirty-white paint settling in to dry.

  I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Try again, still baffled what this has to do with me. I turn. Talk. ‘I don’t understand—’

  Of course it’s Sonia who decides she’s the one to fill in the blanks. ‘You left the water running in the bath tonight.’

  The bath. Tap. Water. My mind skates back. Earlier. The bathroom. Triple damn. I must’ve got distracted by Michael’s call and forgot to turn off the tap. I’m always so super careful. Make a point of giving the tap an extra secure turn that burns my fingers so that it’s tight. I always leave the bathroom with the sensation of the frigid coldness of the metal of the tap imprinted on my palm. There’s no such memory now.

  Jed plays knight in shining armour to my dumbstruck damsel in distress. ‘It could happen to any of us—’

  ‘It happened to her,’ Sonia fiercely cuts in.

  ‘I mean, we’ve all had those moments,’ Jed continues as if she hasn’t spoken, each word delivered in a jerky upbeat tone, ‘when we’ve forgotten
to do something.’

  ‘But we don’t fill up the bath every night when we think the rest of our housemates have gone to bed.’ It’s Pauline this time, her careful reasoned teacher tone getting everyone’s attention. ‘That’s what you do, isn’t it, Rachel? I saw you do it once when I got back from a night out with my friends.’

  There! Out in the cold like the water flooding the kitchen. My secret. One of my demons on the prowl in plain sight for all to see. My face is a hotbed of humiliation. Quickly, I avert my face to the side; I don’t want any of them to see how this is eating me. Tearing me apart.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ It’s Pauline again, soothing, like she’s asking one of her kids why they smacked another child in the mouth.

  ‘I tell you why,’ Sonia storms, ‘she’s a bloody weirdo, that’s why. She also hangs a rope from the window of her room at night.’ Now they’re all looking at me, except Jed who won’t look at me at all, like I’m a serial killer in the making.

  ‘She’s got to go.’

  Jed steps back in. ‘Why? She’s never late with the rent.’

  Another voice this time, the man in the room next to mine whose name my tilting mind can’t find. ‘If we’re being official about it, she doesn’t have a lease with the letting agency—’

  ‘Who we all know won’t do the repair—’

  ‘I’ll pay for it—’

  ‘What with? The pittance you earn gigging…’

  On and on they go, as if I’m no longer there, a ghoul who’s haunted their house for way too long. Five against darling Jed who refuses to back down. The voices of Michael and Joanie join in during Milkgate on my first day at work.

  Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. The tormenting calling of my name swamps my ears again.

  Voice after voice beats and bangs against the four corners of my drained mind. Relentless, painful, grinding whatever will I have left into dust until I can’t find myself. The same terrible feeling I experienced when I got into debt. When Philip…