I hear what she has to say. ‘You shouldn’t think like that. It’s not you that’s abnormal. It’s everyone else that is.’
I pause then say a quiet ‘Thanks.’
‘Are you going back to the basement?’
When I don’t answer, she takes out a notebook and pen from her pocket. ‘If you are, this is the password for the file.’
I can’t believe it. I could hug her, but she angles her body in such a way that screams, ‘Back the bitch off.’
She hands me the scribbled piece of paper. ‘Go on my computer. I was working on the file earlier.’ The step back she takes builds a wall between us again. ‘Don’t ask me for any more help. You know how one thing leads to another?’
Keats isn’t quite done and draws a deep breath. ‘Watch your back in the basement, Rachel.’
Before I can ask what she means, she returns to the steamy warmth of the launderette, leaving me in the cooling air of the evening, holding a piece of paper with the password in my shivering hand.
Twenty-Two
‘Watch your back in the basement, Rachel.’
Keats’s warning leaves me on edge as I sit in his – her – chair in the basement. What did she mean by it? Is she talking about the zombies and the film? That I need eyes in the back of my head around them? The incident with the two guys seems to have turned the other zombies against me too. The reception I get from all of them has gone from frosty to glacial. I can’t figure out what she means and now isn’t the time.
The blue lights blink, flicker, hiss and fry. They’ve been doing that sporadically since I returned. The room transforms around me, enclosing me in a web from another time. The basement colour becomes a dusty depressing monochrome black and white. Workers, heads bent, toil at long benches. The machinery and the tools in workers’ hands make no sound, all I hear is the dog in the corridor bravely belting out its warning to all inside. The only colour comes from the girls. The red ribbons in hair. The red moves. Leaks from the ribbons. Shiny, heavy, it slips and drips, scarring their faces below.
I snap out of the tricks my mind’s playing on me. The only girl here is me. I pray what I find in the funeral programme gives every question a rounded answer because I don’t want to come back to this place. I unfold the paper Keats gave me and stare at the password.
LeTmEiN
Very funny, Keats. Very funny. I suspect that once she knew I’d been dabbling in her computer, she changed the password to one for her own amusement. I find the file. Open it. Oh God. Philip’s face stares back at me. A shuddering and discordant warmth fills in my heart. Oh Philip. My head’s shaking. Tears brim in the bottom of my eyes but don’t fall. I wipe my hand over them. I shake myself up. It’s time to start getting practical. I notice that the programme is a leaflet of four pages, but I don’t investigate what they contain. Not yet. After I’ve printed it off, I’ll say my goodnights to Michael and then sneak round the back into the storeroom. Only when in the solitude of that forgotten room will I allow myself to delve deeper.
I press print. Move across to the printer, which whizzes as it starts its work. There’s a wave of expectation I’m finding hard to control. I shake my shoulders back. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. There’s silence as the printer stops. There’s a slight tremble in my hand I can’t control as I reach for the programme. I pick it up. Raise it to take my first look at it.
The blue lights flare so bright I have to shield my eyes from the glare. They go crazy blaring blue with a high-pitched sizzling that makes my ears ache. They cut off, plunging me into darkness. The basement into a thick sightless abyss.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.
Packed coffin-tight, head-to-toe, side to side in thick inky walls. The stone-hearted wall beats its continuous hum-hum-hum louder than it’s ever been before. I’m surrounded by a seeping encroaching nothingness. No light. Means no air. Means I can’t breathe. I suck on the oxygen as hard as I can. That horrible noise can’t be me trying to catch my breath, it must be a terrified creature cowering in the room somewhere.
Tap. Tap, tap over my right eye. Tap, tap, tap over my left. Tap, tap, tap in the crease in my arm. Both arms won’t stop shaking. Please help me stop shaking. I dredge up the image of the horse on the beach, but the horse disappears because the seashore is a roaring darkness too. Panting, shallow spurts of air slice my chest. The oxygen is draining away. Please give it back. Give it back.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Sweat loosens all over my body. Hot. Cold. Flaming. Freezing. No light. Means no air. Means I’m going to die. Die.
I’m rocking with the final motion of a person on a bridge ready to end their life. I stumble. What’s that noise that joins me in the dark? Whispers.
‘Prayers for divine intervention were feverishly howled by the doomed girls.’
That’s what the haunted website claimed the sweatshop girls did before they were consumed by fire. Is that what burns my ears now? I listen closer. No, that’s not the clandestine sound of whispers. It’s mechanical. A motorised zip-zipping. Zip-zipping. More again. I know what that is.
The spark of colours of a memory flash through my head. Young me sits in Granny Jordan’s sitting room as she makes clothes. Zip-zipping. An old-fashioned sewing machine. Is that what I hear now? The sound of sewing machines from the sweatshop? I have to get out of here. Now.
Find the light, Rachel. Find the light.
Find the light.
I’m confused. Can’t figure it out. Light. Where? Where? I know. The cowering creature’s back with that frightening ballooning sound as shuddering air fills my lungs. I dare to lunge into the shadows, hands becoming my eyes to guide me. The rustle of the funeral programme in my hand ripples in the darkness. Easy. One step at a time. One at a time. That’s the way.
A sharpness digs into my hips, twisting my thigh muscles with pain. But this is good because I know I’m nearly there. My desk where my bag sits. I lean forward, my hand patting against the table. Seeking… Finding. I know exactly where to locate my phone. Trembling fingers switch on the phone’s light.
The light. Means air. Means breathing. Not going to die. I don’t care how stale the air is here – it’s the most precious sensation my tongue has ever feasted on. I throw the light back on me, my face. You see I have to make sure I’m real.
I call Michael. Dead line. Recall there’s no reception down here. The last thing I want is to go out into the tunnel on my own but I don’t have a choice.
Somehow I make it to the door. Open out into a tunnel swept black. The yellow lighting is gone here too. Then I do something many will think with my affliction of being terrified of being underground is strange. I close my eyes. This way I plunge into the darkness I understand; my own darkness. I have control here because I have created it. I’m shut in not shut out.
I tread carefully, slowly, learning the irregular pattern of the lumps and bumps in the hard stone ground. The coldness is so much heavier than in the daytime, so harsh my teeth chatter together; or maybe that’s the fear. My private dark swallows me as I get closer and closer.
Suddenly I stop as the trap door in the distance shrieks open. Heavy footsteps pound against the stairs. Now in the tunnel. My eyes punch open to a blinding strong white light that makes them instinctively want to curl back into the dark again.
‘Rachel.’ Michael. The shadow he casts against the floor and walls makes him appear so big. ‘Are you okay?’
I nod with relief. ‘The lights went out, which means I couldn’t finish the work—’
‘Don’t worry about that. The electricity is shot. The wiring in this place is so old. The electrics were probably put in by Thomas Edison himself.’
‘But surely that’s against health and safety. It’s dangerous. It could lead to a fire down here.’
He practically shoves the torch in my face, demonstrating his anger. ‘If you want to pay for an electrician to rewire the place, be my guest. Now, if you’ve finished with
the safety lecture, shall we go to your office to collect your stuff.’
He’s already moving off, stomping really. I turn as I remember what I hold in my hand.
With Philip’s face looking down at me from the storeroom wall, I sit crossed-legged on my duvet. His funeral service programme sits idly in my lap. I’m afraid to touch it, open it. It’s as if I’ll be going through his death all over again. I mourned hard for him ten long years. I went around like my co-workers in the basement, a zombie programmed to do the basics – eat, sleep, perform daily tasks – but inside I was a weeping hollow shell. I took great pains to hide it all away from Dad with glittering gilt-covered smiles and chatter that went on for too long; the last thing he needed was more grief piling up against his door.
But I have to do it. Take the funeral programme in my hand and examine it. Find the clues to why I was told he was taken from me a decade ago. I fold my head down. Give the programme a long shaky stare. Pick it up. It doesn’t burn me, cut into me. Infect me with the awful grief-stricken emotions that come with the death of someone you love. His gorgeous open face stares back at me on the cover, a replica of the photo I have already on the wall. It’s not his familiar features that hold me enthralled, but that slight smile of his. It’s lopsided, mischievous, above all gentle and kind. It sounds syrupy, I know, but hand on heart that was Philip.
Now to the real task, finding out if it holds the clues I need. Names, family members, undertakers. Where the service is to be held and the date of the funeral. These will all make it possible to get in touch with people to find out what’s gone on in the past ten years with my friend. Answer the question why I was told he was dead. Out there somewhere is somebody who can tell me what’s going on. There has to be. Dad might be reaching out to Philip’s family but I’m not taking for granted that they will speak to him.
The hope drops away because I find none of these things. Not a single piece of information that might lead me to a friend, relative or a man or woman of the cloth. There are readings, poems, songs and testimonies but nothing to identify who will be performing them. No hints as to the cause of death. Date of death.
There are spaces left which Keats has marked as ‘Family photo 1’ and ‘Family photo 2’ and ‘Family photo 3’, pictures that would definitely help me in my quest. In fact, a lot of white space has been squared up on this document. It looks half finished. No indication who has asked for this order of service to be compiled or where the information came from. The details box only shows Keats has done the designing and worked on it today. The file was created a week ago.
At the bottom of the last page, there’s a request that donations be made to a musicians’ benevolent fund and a charity for stray dogs. I laugh softly. That’s so Philip. He loved his guitar and had a puppy he doted on. Ray, that’s what he’d christened the puppy. Ray for Rachel. Then one of the songs draws me as if hypnotised. Alice Cooper’s Eighteen. Philip’s song. Any lingering doubts that this funeral is planned for Philip disappear.
The noise of my phone ringing pulls me away from the programme. I grab my mobile.
It’s Dad. ‘Rachel, I need you to come to your house. Right now.’
Twenty-Three
Something’s wrong. I know straight away as soon as I enter my house. The house I wish I could put a spell on to make go away. The first red flag is a blanket of warmth that covers me. I don’t understand. The gas hasn’t been paid for months, so was cut off. Hence no central heating. So where the fecking heck is this heat coming from now?
My disbelieving gaze finally catches up with my brain. The walls of the hallway are… Goodness me, they’re the same gleaming gloss white they were when I moved in. The broken bannister has been repaired. A spanking new runner with diagonal lines covers the stairs. That’s when I look down and notice the hardwood floor has been coated to a liquid-sheen of polished perfection it has never been before.
Reeling, I rush through each room, down and up. I’m in a state of shock. Everything is new or repaired – bathtub, taps, wardrobes, window frames, locks, kitchen units, sink… My beloved front room is restored, not exactly to my tastes, but you know what they say about beggars and choosing. I spin around near the gigantic rug relaxing in the middle of my favourite room. I stop when I catch my dad’s satisfied broad grin peering at me from the doorway.
‘How? When?’ I can barely get the jubilant words out. ‘Did you do this?’
He laughs. ‘Well, it weren’t the building fairies in the night now, was it?’ He chuckles this time, as pleased as punch with himself. ‘I got some of my lads to put everything back to rights. They’ve been working round the clock.’
We embrace partway across the room, a chorus of thank you, thank you muffled against his immense secure chest. And it’s just as well he’s holding me because there’s a weight dragging me, a weight of pure and utter relief – no, disbelief – that’s so intense the only way to respond is to collapse on the floor.
Dad must sense what I’m going through because he soothingly whispers, as if guiding my first steps into the world, ‘I’ve got you, love. I’ll always have you, my darling baby girl.’
A while later we’re side by cosy side on my new sofa – neutral white with large red buttons marking the cushion of each seat – nursing mugs of steaming coffee made from water run from my state-of-the-art mixer tap and brand new kettle with the temperature gauge up the side, a bit like the one in Michael’s kitchen in the bright light office above the trap door. The sizzling thrill that’s been running through me fades slightly. The last thing I need tarnishing the polish of my restored home is the brooding bleakness of the basement.
‘I thought you were angry with me the last time you were here,’ I say softly.
‘I was.’ Dad stops and places his cup on the sparkling glass side table. He visibly collects his thoughts before he starts again. ‘Years back, when I first arrived in London with me knapsack like Dick Whittington,’ we share a smile, ‘I found work on a big construction job. Massive building site. I got matey with a younger guy. We sorta looked out for each other.’ Dad’s features become cloudy. ‘But I couldn’t look after him the day he had a terrible accident—’
The harshness of my indrawn breath unsettles the ease in the room. ‘What happened? Did he die?’
Dad picks up his cup and sips slowly, then rests it against his thigh. ‘He was in a bad way. I only saw him once in the hospital. Then his family took him away. Never saw him again.’ Dad places his cup to rest on the table. ‘See that’s the thing with life, it can cut up rough, go sideways sometimes. One minute you’re on cloud nine, the next – bang! – you’re broken on the ground with no idea of how it happened.’ His whole body twists to face me. ‘I learned that early on as a kid. I needed you to be tough enough to survive. But I was wrong.’
His naked anguish hijacking his face makes my eyes widen. ‘This isn’t your fault, Dad. I should’ve come to you sooner—’
He bats my words away. ‘How could I have allowed a child of mine to end up in such a terrible situation? I shouldn’t have tried to mould you into something you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looks so helpless. ‘I should’ve realised your mum’s death hit you hard. All I could think about was her wanting you to be a woman of the world, so I had high expectations.’ The shake of his head is somehow more damning than what he’s telling me. ‘I couldn’t even see that they weren’t expectations but rocks and boulders I put on your grieving shoulders. I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been.’
‘You were,’ I tell him with quiet conviction, although the truth is he was away a lot, as much as when Mum was alive. ‘Just as you are now. Thank you, Daddy.’ And I mean it from the bottom of my mending heart. Clichés are right and proper for moments like this.
Dad rubs his hands like the businessman he is. ‘Right, first thing I do when I leave here is put ten grand in your bank account. I’ll contact the mortgage company and put that right too. Then
we’ll sort out the rest over another cuppa.’
#BrokeNoMore #CanAffordSex No more money worries. No more waking, covered in freezing sweat, in the dead of the night. No more. No more. No bloody damn more. Now it’s all done and dusted, it’s easy to sit here in the sparkling bliss of hindsight and beat myself up about not having the guts to come to Dad before. You know why you didn’t, Rachel, inner me niggles away. You know this was never only about your mum dying.
I suddenly notice a tension about Dad, like he’s gazing down the sheer drop of a cliff.
‘What is it, Dad?’
‘I managed to track down Philip’s family. I spoke with his mother.’
My heart drops onto the newly varnished floor. ‘What did you find out?’
Dad’s tongue peeps out to wet his lips or to gather the taste of coffee on them, I don’t know which, but I know this much – Dad is as nervous as heck.
Finally: ‘She told me that he didn’t die ten years ago. He passed away less than three weeks ago.’
Correction: Philip died ten years ago. Oh dear God. I’m shaking so bad even the wrap of my arms can’t help me. All the sobbing that tore me apart that summer comes back, choking and bulging in the very soul of me, threatening to rip every seam of healing I’d stitched into place. But I never healed, did I, not really. How can I when what I allowed to happen has haunted me ever since?
Seeing my distress, Dad is on his feet, already moving to the door. ‘I’m going to get you something stronger. There’s a bottle of brandy—’
My chaotic voice stops him. ‘No. I need to know what Philip’s mum told you because, Dad, I don’t understand how this can be. After…’ The words are there about what happened, but they refuse to be brought up to the light. ‘After it all happened and I asked you to contact his family, you told me that they said he was dead.’
I’m not accusing my dad of anything – let’s be clear about that – But…
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I know he’s holding something back because he wears that same expression he wore when Mum passed – guilt. Like he blamed himself for what happened to her.
Trap Door: the creepiest psychological suspense you will read this year Page 13