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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  San Quentin? I’ve never heard of it. It must be a concert venue in the States. Keats or Sue? What should I call her, although I suspect that Sue isn’t her real name either.

  It’s my turn to lean over the table, to lower the pitch of my words. Each one I choose very carefully. ‘How did you come to be working for Michael?’

  A vein visibly throbs in her neck. ‘I’m a freelancer. Software and stuff. He contacted me, so I came to work here a week before you did.’ Her gaze pierces right through me. ‘And he asked me to keep an eye on you. Hence, let’s go back to the starting blocks – what were you doing in his office?’

  Heat jumps unexpectedly into my tone. ‘And you kept an eye on me all right, going behind my back and telling him my work wasn’t up to shit. And that’s why he started making me work late—’

  ‘Now hold on one bollocks minute.’ The shape that anger twists her mouth into is a sight to see. ‘I never told Michael anything of the sort. Although let’s be practical here, you’re no management consultant.’

  I discard her need for honesty and focus on the real issue. ‘You never spoke to him?’

  Another eye roll. ‘Of course I spoke to him—’

  ‘No. About me and my work?’

  Her chin goes down as she shakes her head. ‘He never asked.’ Her eyes flick across the room away from my face. ‘Michael did want me to report on you to him,’ Keats admits, ‘but I’m no-one’s snitch. And that’s what I told him. So, we agreed I’d look after you… from a distance. Getting chummy-chummy ain’t my scene.’

  My mind whirls. So, if Michael never asked, he made it up. Why is he playing with my mind? Doing this to me? My temples punch and pull, stirring up a dull ache in my head.

  ‘It’s a weird set-up in that office, that much I know.’ Her words get my attention. ‘That’s why I told you to watch your back in the basement.’

  ‘I think he’s been playing you against me. Probably using the way you look to knock me off balance. Add to the spooky atmosphere in the basement.’

  As soon as the words are out, I wish I could drag them back. No-one wants to be told that they look like a weirdo.

  I’ve obviously hurt her because Keats’s chest puffs with an expanse of emotion. ‘There’s nothing weird about me. Nothing wrong with the way I look.’ Her tone is hard, verging on fury. ‘I’m normal, it’s the world that’s all bent out of shape. That’s why I let you into my computer. Because of what you said.’ I don’t prompt her. Let her speak. She lowers her eyes. ‘“I just want to be normal again.” That’s what you said to me at the launderette. I know how that feels.’

  And that’s when I do it. Tell her everything. Well, some of the truth. Half-truths have been the story of my life for so long it comes naturally to me.

  When I finish, pulse blasting like I’ve been running for my life, I watch her. Expect Keats’s features to be a mix of horror and the curious. That’s not what I see. Her face is smooth with considered calm.

  After a drawn-out silence, she tells me, ‘I’m doing the funeral service programme for Michael.’

  So, Michael is connected to Philip. But how? Then Keats spikes my bubble. ‘But he says he’s doing it as a favour for a client, with more details to come.’ Which explains the white spaces in the programme and the gaps marked for photos. ‘And there are things about the info that suggests it was cut and pasted from another e-mail. So maybe he’s telling the truth.’

  Truth? No, that’s the one thing that isn’t going on here. Michael is linked to Philip. Michael is linked to my dad. A triangle of three I don’t understand yet. But I will.

  ‘What’s Philip’s last name?’ Funny, that summer we were just Rachel and Philip, no need for surnames to be included.

  Keats pulls her bottle to her lips and refreshes herself before telling me, ‘All I was given was his first name, Philip.’

  ‘Michael lured me to this job, I know he did,’ I decide to tell Keats.

  Her chin does its pointy thing again. ‘What do you mean “lured”?’

  I give her the lowdown:

  – Pretending to know Jed.

  – Interviewing me away from the office.

  – Making my lack of experience sound like ‘hey, that’s no problem’.

  – Insisting I work late based on a lie.

  The last brings a terrible devastating thought to me – has Michael been playing with my head like switching the lights off in the office and blaming it on ancient electrics? Locking the door in the basement when they all went for lunch? But how did he lock me in if he’d left the building? And why would he do this to me? My mind’s a mess.

  But I ask Keats, ‘Did you lock me in the basement?’

  ‘When?’ I tell her. She shakes her head. ‘Nope. Not me. And it’s a newish lock so hardly likely to lock itself.’

  I believe her. Why would she lie to me? I reach a no-turning-point decision. ‘Will you help me?’

  Keats’s gaze drills into me. ‘Why are you putting yourself through this? It’s obviously causing you a lot of pain. Hand in your notice, pack your gear and never look back.’

  She isn’t asking me anything I haven’t soul-searched myself. I ran that summer. I won’t run again. ‘Will you help me?’ I repeat.

  Keats pops her shades on. Flips her hood on. ‘I’ll do it. As long as you don’t get the idea that we’re two peas in a pod, you know, mates.’

  I can live with that.

  ‘Use your digi skills to find out how Michael’s connected to my dad, Frank Jordan.’

  Keats cocks her head, evaluating me. It leaves me uncomfortable. Uneasy. Her words, stark advice really, haunt me. ‘The search for the truth is admirable, but it can also dig up the most unimaginable soul-destroying pain.’

  Twenty-Eight

  It’s a story about the devil in the funeral service programme that makes the breath catch in my throat. The programme’s spread across my desk. I’d confessed to Keats that I’d destroyed my copy, so thanks to her I have another. Michael thinks I’m down here going through more – yep, he gave me more – stupid training videos like an obedient little girl. I’m still trying to understand why he played the Pied Piper to my innocent child to get me here, but if he thinks that he’s tormenting me by making me work so late, he needs to think again. Dumb idiot! He’s given me the time and some of the tools to knit together his connection to Dad and Philip. I’m not there yet.

  Soon.

  A chair jammed between the steel door and its frame keeps it open. Any sound in the tunnel or on the staircase I’ll hear, however faint. The acoustics in this building are a strange thing. Despite the trap door being closed, some of the noises on the upper floors come over loud and clear while others are muffled like voices chattering underwater.

  The website about the sweatshop fire claimed that this former tenement is riddled with secret passageways so maybe that’s why sound carries the way it does. All good haunted houses have them of course. Except this building is haunted by a real woman: Michael’s mother. And that dog, mustn’t forget the dog. Funeral service or not, I’m ready as soon as I hear so much as a whisper, a footstep, the drop of a tear up there. I’ll find a way to hear what’s being said. Michael and his mother will give themselves away eventually. Or perhaps my father will return and they’ll all give themselves away together.

  The first thing I did when I settled the pages of the funeral programme on my desk was to closely study each page. I’m still no nearer to knowing where or when this funeral is going to be. Or who will be there. Except that it won’t include me. My dad was clear that I have to respect the family’s wishes. That’s if, once again, Dad is telling me the truth.

  I’m frustrated by the gaps left for the inclusion of photographs, photos that may well have helped me work everything out. The service doesn’t contain the usual Abide With Me or I Did It My Way but poems, references to plays, readings from books I’ve never read. Whoever commissioned this half-finished document expects the mourners to be a high-br
ow congregation who will soak up every reference. Or perhaps this person doesn’t care whether grief-stricken mourners or bored fringe members of his family at this funeral get them or not. I’m not sure Philip would.

  And that’s when the story about the devil grabs my attention. It’s a reading. A passage from the story Faust by a writer called Goethe, which I assume is pronounced as Goth. Something tells me I haven’t got that right, so I wiki the author and discover he was German and his name is pronounced as Gurta. It seems hard to believe that Philip, who I knew as a handyman-cum-gardener, would know who Goethe was or be familiar with the Faust legend, which appears to be very famous. He never mentioned he was a fan of German poetry or dog-eared European classics, although he did a good line in salty limericks and knew a few snatches of nonsense verse. It’s another puzzle in the death and life and death of Philip.

  I don’t know about Goethe or Faust until Google puts me in the picture. The story’s simple: a guy called Faust sells his soul to the devil in return for the secrets of knowledge and pleasure. He gets to enjoy them for a set period before the devil will return to claim Faust’s soul and he’ll be damned for all eternity. That’s it really.

  I read the passage that’s in the funeral programme, expecting more of the same. But the extract spurs on the icy chill in this underworld room to circle closer and closer to me as I read. I feel an invisible hand on the collar of my jacket, pulling me back, and an unheard voice warning me not to read on. But the story has me in its grip, demanding I continue.

  Faust and the devil join a drinking party in a wine cellar. The drunks want to pick a fight with the devil but he does magic to make them stop. There’s more conjuring at the end when the devil pours wine into holes in the floor and sets the wine on fire.

  I feel sick but not in my belly. It’s in my soul. I know full well what this passage alludes to. No, I won’t go back there! The forbidden memories fight me, fight dirty, use every trick in their nasty book to erupt from the secret place in my heart. They’ve rotted in my memory, poisoned my body, corrupted everything. Now, in this basement, they gush out like the contents of a broken sewer.

  Twenty-Nine

  That summer

  Rachel wasn’t sure why Philip was unhappy about her working in the wine cellar. But on her first day there, her second day at the house, she realised she wasn’t happy about it either. The door to the cellar was off the hallway. It led to a flight of wooden steps that led in turn to a cavernous and rambling space that ran under the house. Row after row of tall wine racks shaded the lights so most of it was sunk in an uneasy and shadowy gloom. The stone walls and floors made the cellar chilly and cold, even while the sun was burning bright outside.

  Of course there were no windows down there. But once you passed the first wine racks there was no sign of the steps or the door either. That, together with the silence and the shadows tinged with garish colours thrown by the bottles, disorientated Rachel. It was easy to feel she was trapped in a grisly fairy tale, locked up in a monster’s underground lair with no way of escape. One of those stories that parents decide they won’t read to their children because it might give them nightmares.

  At the end of the cellar was a desk where she set up her notebook and pen.

  Rachel wandered from row to row along the racks, counting the wines, dividing them into reds, rosés and whites, Spanish, French and Italian. In boxes littered around were job lots of wine that Danny had bought at auctions and Rachel fished out the bottles and arranged them on the racks. There was something curious about this collection. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  She shivered slightly when she heard the door above open, a piercing shaft of light appear and the sound of footsteps on the wooden stairs. When she realised it was Philip with Ray the dog in tow, she felt relief but couldn’t understand why. Philip was uncharacteristically sombre.

  He picked up a bottle of red. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘Fine. Although I haven’t seen much of Danny this morning, so I’m not entirely sure if I’m doing the right thing.’

  Philip sighed. ‘I think he’s on one of his building sites today.’

  ‘My job here is a bit strange.’

  In the half-light, Philip’s face remained in the shadows. ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I don’t think he drinks wine. All these bottles are covered in dust. They look as if they’ve been dumped here. Funny behaviour for a wine connoisseur.’

  Philip put the bottle down. ‘I know. I think he’s pretending to be a country gentleman and country gentlemen keep wine collections. It’s a bit of a joke.’ His tone suddenly changed and he burst into a warning. ‘Listen, Rach, I don’t want to freak you out or anything but you might decide that it’s not a good idea to be on your own down here with Danny.’

  Rachel gave a light laugh. But it wasn’t a convincing one. ‘I don’t know what you mean. He’s a friend of my dad’s. He’s my employer; I can’t tell him where he can and can’t go in his own house. What are you suggesting – that he’s a bit handy with women or something?’

  Philip picked up another wine bottle and studied the label. ‘No, I’m not suggesting that at all. It’s just I don’t think it’s a good idea. Tell him you can’t work down here. Tell him you’re claustrophobic – he’ll believe that. He thinks all women have a phobia of some sort or another, except Dannyphobia of course.’

  Rachel became angry. ‘Stop it, Philip, you’re frightening me. There’s no way Danny’s like that. My dad thinks sex pests should be hung. If he thought Danny had laid a finger on me, he’d kill him, and I mean really kill him. Danny will know that, my dad’s views on the subject aren’t exactly a secret. So please, stop it.’

  ‘It was just a thought, that’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  Rachel said nothing further and Philip drifted back up the stairs to the hallway followed by an unusually quiet Ray.

  But a few hours later, when Danny returned from his building site and paid her a visit in the cellar, Rachel was worried. Danny said nothing as his footsteps echoed on the stone floor and he weaved in and out of the wine racks, casting peculiar shaped black shadows on the back wall where she sat making notes.

  Then he was standing right behind her. It startled her slightly because she hadn’t heard him move. The lack of natural light in this underground world suddenly somehow bothered her. Why that was, she couldn’t say.

  ‘How are you getting on, Rachel?’

  Her answer was uncertain. ‘Good thanks.’

  Danny was uncomfortably close. ‘You’re all right down here, are you? I mean, to be honest, this cellar gives me the creeps a bit. You’re not scared of enclosed spaces or anything?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe a little.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Okay. Look, do the best you can down here and then we’ll find something else for you to do.’

  ‘That would be good.’

  There were a few agonising seconds before he walked away, the stairs creaking and moaning beneath him. When he opened the door to the cellar, Rachel heard Danny shout, ‘What are you doing loitering in the hallway? And I thought I told you to get rid of that bloody animal.’

  The door slammed shut so Rachel didn’t hear Philip’s reply.

  As the days passed, Danny’s visits to the cellar were less and less frequent. On one such afternoon visit, he admitted to her that he didn’t even like wine and was thinking of selling his collection and converting the cellar into a gym.

  ‘I suppose the whole thing was my attempt to play the country squire. I’m really into my classic cars, Rachel, that’s what I love. On your final day here, I’ll take you for a spin and we’ll go for lunch in a country pub. Would you like that?’

  Rachel pretended she would. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go home early. You’re wasting your time down here anyway.’

  Rachel grabbed her bag and seized her chance to leave.

  It was the follow
ing afternoon, while Rachel was at her desk in the cellar, that Danny paid her a final visit. He stood right behind her while she sat at the desk writing up her notes. The heat coming off him and his shallow breathing were making her tense again.

  ‘I think you’re about done down here. Let’s reassign you to something more worthwhile.’

  Rachel felt an immediate release in her belly at his words. But she also noticed his voice sounded slightly slurred and the peculiar shadow he cast on the wall in front of her swayed slightly. He rested his head on her shoulder from behind and she caught a whiff of his stale cologne and the equally stale alcohol on his breath, his bristled cheek pressed up against hers.

  Then his arms coiled themselves around her waist like a slimy python and he whispered, ‘I’ve got a four-poster upstairs that needs airing. How about you come and help me with that.’

  She froze. Her legs didn’t obey when she tried to jump up and no sound came out of her mouth when she opened it to scream. She was stiff, caught cold in a hellish moment in time.

  ‘Or are you the kind of girl who prefers it a bit rough on the desk in the cellar? Trapped with nowhere to go. You can tell me, Rachel, I’m flexible.’

  It was only when he forced his hands up her blouse and squeezed her breasts so hard that she was in agonising pain that she finally let out a piercing scream.

  Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

  Thirty

  I fling the funeral programme onto the floor as if I’m being burned alive. I scrunch up in the smallest ball I can on my side on the mattress.

  ‘Make it go away. Please make the memories go away.’

  The first thing I see in the basement the next day is the devil sitting, showcasing his horns and tail as he swings casually in my chair. I shake my head, knowing it’s not real. I’m a bit doped up on BBs and too much CBD oil, off-centre, because it’s the only way I’m going to get through the day without the painful images of the past that spewed out last night crawling back. What does catch my eye is there’s no Keats. Chair empty, computer a blank, shut screen.