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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Dad slowly uncoils his body and my breath hisses in the depth of my throat; I got it so wrong, he’s angry. Furious. It’s there in the movements as he straightens – taunt bunching of his muscles, the jerk of limbs against their joints, the flexes and twitches of his fingers by his side. And a face made of granite ready to be chiselled and hacked apart.

  ‘Who did this to your house? I want to know who did it, because…’ his voice is a dizzy escalation of fury, ‘I’m going to do the same to them as they did to this property! Rip them apart.’

  Then he sees the fear in my eyes, noticing how scared of him I am.

  ‘Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through?’ His voice is as clipped as the walk he uses towards me, the light dragging his sliding shadow behind. ‘As soon as I saw your house, I knew something was wrong. When you didn’t answer, I spoke to the neighbours. You can imagine my horror when they told me they hadn’t seen you for months—’

  ‘But—’ My hand reaches beseechingly in the charged space between us, but he cuts grimly over me.

  ‘I thought something terrible had happened to you. And when I got inside and saw the wreck…’ The memory of it torments him, forcing him briefly to close his eyes. He looks at me again, steady and unrelenting. ‘I thought someone had harmed you. Hurt you.’

  I open my mouth but words fail me. I’m horrified that I’ve put him in a position where he must have been twisted so badly with pain.

  ‘It’s only when I heard your voice on the phone that I knew you were okay. What the hell’s going on here, Rachel?’

  So, I gather the courage to tell him the truth. About my home at least. It’s time to halt the turning of the emotional ringer I’ve already put him through. I shake my shoulders back as I suck in a narrow tunnel of air. I want the telling of this to be calm, the tempo and tone of a dad and daughter together at the Sunday dinner table.

  I start, deliberately fixing my gaze to the side of him, to a corner where the artificial light hasn’t penetrated the dark. ‘I rented the house out to a couple I know – knew – who turned out not to be such mates after all. They used it as a get-rich scheme. Instead of taking up residence themselves, they moved in other people, getting them to pay well above the odds.’

  ‘Okay, I get that. I’m not happy about it but I’ve heard of these things happening before, common practice in the trade I’m in. What I still don’t understand is why this house looks like a disaster zone.’

  The final lingering embrace of bravery deserts me as I gaze at the floor. Shame, that’s what’s eating me up. Shame that I’ve let him down. The mighty Frank Jordan has given me every advantage in life. A leg-up any young person would use as a dizzying spring to a successful future. And what have I done? Let him down. Again. The same way I did that summer.

  Dad confronts me with a question that blindsides me. ‘How much money do you owe?’

  My head shoots up in shock. I don’t know what’s holding me up because it certainly doesn’t feel like my feet. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Come on, love.’ Love; I cling on to it. ‘In my business I’ve seen it all.’ He takes a full step closer, hugging the light. ‘Why else would you rent out your home? Why else are you living like someone who’s one day short of being repossessed?’

  My palms rub along my thigh. I’m so desperate to touch him, to feel the weight of his parental security around me. But I know the time isn’t right. The words on my tongue miss a beat. This is hard. So hard. ‘I got into money trouble—’

  ‘How?’ Dad howls. ‘How can you be up broke street if you’ve been working and rubbing shoulders with Lord and Lady posh nuts in the City? Those jobs pay a packet.’

  ‘Because none of it’s true,’ I cry out. The lightning shock on Dad’s face would usually stop me but I’m on a street called honesty and have to keep going right to the end. Breathe, Rachel, breathe. ‘I tried. I really did. But nothing’s been right since—’

  ‘Your mother passed away,’ he supplies sadly, wiping his hand over his face. He’s partially right, but that’s not what tipped me over the edge.

  I nod, leaving him thinking he has the right of it. ‘At first no-one wanted to give me work because I left uni early so didn’t have the qualifications. But there was plenty of work in bars, call centres, delivering door-to-door to meet the demands of the online shopping industry. I’ve been spending more than what comes in.’ Completely true. Spending hand over fist to maintain the basics of life. ‘Before I knew it, I was in trouble with the mortgage company.’

  ‘So, you tried to pay off your arrears and keep your head above water by renting your place out to a pair of deadbeats who ripped you royally off. And the bastards they moved in stripped this house of everything of value to sell on the midnight market.’

  Surprise at his knowledge shines bright in my eyes.

  ‘In the construction industry you see it all the time. One of my first jobs in London was working with a crew who also dabbled in stealing copper piping anywhere they could find it and making a tidy profit, no questions asked.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ My wretched words ring high round the room.

  ‘Sorry.’ Dad paces, rubbing behind his neck. He swivels so swiftly in my direction, I stumble back. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me? Have I been some kind of tyrant to you?’

  ‘Never—’ A whisper of painful dismay clogs up my throat that he could even think such a thing. But if truth be told, I was terrified that he’d go after my so-called friends and do them some serious damage. I know what violence feels like against flesh.

  His voice rises, the thunder in it discolouring his expression. ‘You’re the only person I have left. I would do anything for you, precious, anything.’

  He opens his arms and I fly into them. We hug each other tight. Tears of exhaustion and relief mark a watery path along my cheeks. We stay like that for… I don’t know how long, until Dad leans back, his fingers smoothing the tears into my skin.

  ‘I should’ve spent more time with you after your mum left us.’

  ‘But you did. You gave me all the time you could but you also had a job to get on with.’ Talking about the past and being in his arms, maybe that’s what gives me the strength to ask, ‘Do you remember Philip, the guy I knew when I was eighteen?’

  Dad’s arms fall away as he backs up slightly out of the light. ‘Philip?’

  Of course he’d never met him and it was such a long time ago. ‘My friend who died.’ A burning sensation scalds my lips.

  Dad looks perplexed, his brows touching in confusion. ‘I still don’t—’

  ‘You remember, the summer I was eighteen.’ Gulp. ‘After Mum died.’

  ‘That’s a year I’ll never forget.’ The faint ghost of bitterness masks his features. Of course he remembers laying his beloved wife to rest. Clutching my hand as sobs tore through me. His chin comes up. ‘You’re talking about the accident in which Danny was involved too.’

  At the mention of his friend, Danny, Dad looks upset. I want to acknowledge his private pain, but that would mean talking about Danny. That I can’t do.

  ‘Tragic business,’ Dad utters with sorrow. ‘How upset you were at your friend’s death. What’s made you think about him, this Philip, now? After all these years?’

  I choose my words carefully, obscuring my eyes behind my lashes. ‘I met a friend Philip and I had in common and he told me that Philip didn’t die then. That he only passed away recently.’

  ‘What?’ Dad comes back to me, striding with a pressing purpose. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. When I contacted his family, because you asked me to, they told me he was dead.’ Dad scratches his head in thought. ‘I don’t recall who I spoke to, but that was definitely what I was told. And that the funeral would be a private matter which was why you couldn’t attend.’

  I soak up the information. Sift through it. Finally conclude it makes no sense. Why would Philip’s family tell Dad he was dead if he wasn’t? My head pounds at the back,
throbbing in my twin temples.

  Dad places his big caring hands on my shoulders. All the heat from our earlier exchange is gone. ‘Do you want me to see if I can contact them, his family, again, to find out what went on?’

  It’s an offer I can’t turn down. I hug him again, with his words soothing in my ear. ‘We’ll sort out this situation with the house. There’s no more need to worry.’

  I squeeze him with heartfelt gratitude.

  But why don’t you tell him what really happened when you were eighteen?

  I ignore the truth whisperer inside me.

  Twenty-One

  It’s five o’clock. Keats is on the move. He checks his watch, closes his computer and hauls a bulging sports bag out from under his desk. I wonder what’s inside the bag. I can’t see him pumping iron down at the gym. Nothing’s going to stop me today. Not a phone call from Dad, not Michael, not the ghosts of twenty-two sweatshop workers or Scrap the stray dog. Nothing. Dad reaching out to Philip’s family is not going to stand in the way of me personally pursuing the truth. I’m going to get that password out of Keats even if I have to beat it out of him. When he leaves the basement, I count to ten, pick up my bag and follow. Along the tunnel. Through the trap door.

  Michael’s in the foyer as Keats closes the exit door behind him. With an arched flourish, Michael looks at his watch. At me. ‘Knocking off early, Rachel? You’ve got things to do in the basement.’

  Interesting how he’s stopped calling it the systems room.

  I don’t let his appearance phase me. In fact I’ve planned ahead for this possible moment. ‘Just popping out to stock up on supplies for the evening’s work.’

  He doesn’t say anything in reply. He’s run out of mind-numbing online management theory videos for me to watch but I’m still expected to be down there until an unearthly hour. But, for now, that suits me fine.

  For a moment, it looks as if my chance has gone. There’s no sign of Keats in either direction. I stop cursing under my breath when I spot him at a bike stand at the end of the street unchaining a sporty-looking red and white model and climbing on board. His sports bag looks bigger than him as he sets off. I’m surprised he rides a bike. Maybe he’s worried about the planet, which explains his anarchist style get-up.

  I run over, shouting, ‘Keats! Stop! Please! We need to talk!’

  My voice is loud enough to get Lazarus rising from the dead again, but there’s no indication from Keats that he’s heard me. Perhaps his hoodie muffles his ears, or he’s lost in the world of music via earphones. Or he’s keeping up his policy of ignoring me. I chase down the street. Damn! He’s already heading out onto the main road, expertly weaving through the traffic. My moment has gone.

  I don’t give up. I can’t.

  At the corner, I swing onto the main road clogged with traffic, hoping that perhaps Keats will be trapped in it somewhere. No such luck; he recedes into the distance, lost in a flurry of lorries, vans, buses and cars. But I keep running, bumping into angry passers-by and dog-tired-looking commuters. A hundred yards down, at a crossroads controlled by traffic lights, it’s clear he’s long gone.

  Cyclists from left and right, some jumping the lights – I hate it when they do that, so bloody dangerous – and Keats will have no doubt done the same. Someone who goes around dressed like him won’t be a stickler for the rules of the road. He could have gone in any direction. Frustration bites hard when I can’t find him. In despair, I hold onto a lamppost and rub my eyes.

  All I want is a password for one lousy file that means nothing to him and the world to me.

  Something catches my eye. Over the street. Red and white. A bike chained to railings beside a row of restaurants, takeaways and an e-cigarette shop. I’m not kidding myself that it’s the bike; this city is full of red and white bicycles. Still… I make it to the other side of the street. Check out the bike. It’s so spotless it positively gleams. Gleams like the prized possession of a weird computer whizz. It’s been customised. Various stickers are stamped all over it, showing it’s been ridden in Norway, Russia and Japan. I might be wrong, but my sixth sense screams this is Keats’s two-wheeled friend. I realise the fact that he’s cycled in other countries is the first human thing I’ve learned about him.

  I switch my attention to the street. He’s in one of these buildings. I begin my search.

  In a Turkish takeaway, two city-type guys and a woman are waiting. The Italian restaurant next door houses a scattering of early-evening diners. None of them are wearing hoodies, dark glasses or bandanas concealing the bottom half of their faces. But hang on a minute. What if one of them is Keats? After all, he can’t eat with his disguise on. I observe the restaurant’s clientele more closely. None of them match Keats’s statue.

  I move on. In the e-ciggy shop, a spotty nerdy underage kid is trying to persuade the owner to sell him some vapour. Is this Keats in his civilian guise? No, Keats is no smoker and this kid is exactly that, a kid, way too young. I’m running out of buildings. A florist is empty and looking to close up. A boutique has a few customers but they won’t be Keats. The shops and eating holes give way to an array of anonymous office buildings. I feel dizzy. Shake myself back into focus.

  Across the road is a scruffy rundown launderette. I imagine Keats’s mum does his washing but I dodge the traffic, cross and peer inside. There, still in his full rig, sitting on a bench, looking at his washing go round and round with the empty sports bag at his feet, is Keats.

  With no hesitation, I go in and sit next to him. ‘Hi, Keats. It’s me, Rachel. I hope I’m not bothering you.’

  That’s a stupid start. He can see full well it’s me and of course I’m bothering him. But he doesn’t turn or acknowledge my presence. Just sits and studies his washing doing the rounds as if it’s a particularly absorbing TV show.

  I try again. ‘That’s a lovely bike you have. I noticed you’ve been to lots of interesting places on it. Did you travel alone or with friends?’

  No answer.

  I’m light-headed, breathing too loudly. I plunge on. ‘I don’t want to make any trouble but I need you to do something for me. You see, I had this friend. Ten years ago. He offered me friendship at a crucial time in my life. Philip. That’s his name. Anyway, he died. Tragically in an accident.’

  No answer. Again.

  I plough on. ‘On your computer, I know you’re working on his funeral programme. This suggests that he died recently.’ My tone rises. ‘But he died ten years ago. He can’t have passed away recently and ten years ago. That doesn’t make any sense.’ My eagerness to get Keats to understand, open that closed mouth of his, makes me shuffle so close the heat of his thigh melts into mine. ‘Here’s another crazy: what are the chances of the person doing his funeral programme sitting next to me, his friend, at my new job? In that building of all places? Is someone playing a sick game?’

  I’m freestyling. Don’t even know what I’m saying. Perhaps my words are just for my benefit, not his. But it doesn’t matter because he isn’t listening anyway.

  I’m pleading with him now. ‘If you could just send me the open file or give me the password, then perhaps I can unravel it all. I don’t know Philip’s surname or where he lived or anything about him really. He was just my friend. I couldn’t go to the funeral. If there was a funeral.’ My mind’s a patchwork of confusion, my words hoarse with emotion. ‘I won’t tell Michael or anyone. And anything you know about it, like the details of who commissioned you to do it and suchlike. Is that too much to ask? Is it really?’ I get to my feet, trembling. ‘I hate this feeling that I’m abnormal. I just want to be like other people. Get my life in order. Do you understand? Are you going to help me?’

  Ten years of pain, of knowing I let Dad and Philip down, well up and flood out. My skin feels like it’s been torn away, leaving me bleeding raw. Why won’t Keats speak to me? How can he sit there, still, emotion free after what I’ve just told him? Something bursts inside and I shove him. It’s only a gentle touch of my hands.
At least, that’s what I think it is. But he tumbles off the bench, his legs and arms akimbo. His sunglasses go spinning across the floor. His hood tears away to reveal a mop of short curly hair. The bandana’s sagging under his chin. His eyes dart around looking for his shades. They’re beautiful doe eyes like a woman’s.

  My gaze slams into Keats’s face. My world skids to a shuddering screeching stop.

  The shades are gone. Bandana. Gone. The landscape of a face revealed. I’m stupefied. Can’t believe what my eyes reveal to me.

  Keats is a young woman.

  Instinctively, I rush across the launderette to pick up his – I mean her – shades and pass them back to him – her. She snaps them out of my hand and shoves them back on. Angrily yanks her hood over her hair. Then she plonks herself down on the bench again as if nothing has happened, eyes firmly on her washing going round and round. But there’s a rigid set of her shoulders that wasn’t there before. A tightness to her body as if she’s trying to disappear.

  I stand there. My apology a whisper. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.’ There’s nothing else to say. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all.’

  When I get outside, the tears are belting down my cheeks. Only it’s not the soft tears that caress your cheeks but the bitter spare ones that sting and slice. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing. I don’t even know if I’m here anymore. Tangled in there is something else – I hurt. How could Keats have left me thinking I was the only woman in a sea of men? How could a woman of a similar age not have revealed herself to me?

  ‘Rachel!’ A woman’s voice calls behind me.

  I turn around and through a misty glaze find Keats standing outside the launderette, beckoning towards me. I stumble back the way I’ve come. It strikes me it’s the first time I’ve heard her voice. It’s rasping, low, soft. It’s the softness that astounds me; I’d expected her voice to be all back-throat growls.