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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  I know she’s right, but it’s not easy to break the shackles that hold me to that life-changing summer. How can I walk in my light when it’s overshadowed by the dark clouds of the past?

  Keats draws me from my confused memories with an insistent hushed tone. ‘Are you really being honest with yourself? Is this all about finding out what went on with Philip? Why else are you putting yourself through the wringer over this?’

  Because I let my dad down, I yell inside. Let Philip down. Let me down? But my lips remain sealed. I don’t tell her, and for the rest of the journey, we sit in our own silence.

  ‘Leave the talking to me.’ Keats bristles with confidence, convinced that we can talk our way into Danny Hall’s old country house. Coming from a person who didn’t exercise her right to talk to me for many days, that’s quite a claim. She’s parked the stolen sports car right near the front door as if she owns the place. Scattered around on the drive, nestling near rhododendron bushes, are the current owner’s vehicles. A metallic Merc, a high-end Land Rover and an old saloon that looks like it’s used as a runaround. I can’t look at the house itself. Or the patch of waste land about a hundred yards away where the outline of where walls once stood is still etched into the ground. No scorch marks of what happened remain.

  I’ve spent the last ten years trying to erase it from my memory and now it’s looming over me. I’m seized with panic.

  ‘Keats, let’s go. This is stupid. They’ll think we’re criminals come to do an inventory of their valuables. They’ll call the cops who’ll quickly figure out that this car doesn’t have your name on its driving documents.’

  Keats ignores me, keeping her thoughts to herself. She’s out of the driving seat before I can call her back and walks slowly round to the passenger side, which she opens and gently pulls me out.

  Keats flicks her fingers through her hair, which I assume is her attempt at looking respectable. ‘Relax. No-one’s calling the feds. We’re two posh gals come to look at the place where I used to live. What could be more natural than that? Just leave the chat attack to me.’

  She strides up to the door so I have no alternative but to follow a little behind.

  Keats rings the bell and while we wait for an answer, I plead. ‘Please, let’s go.’

  ‘Shut up.’ The tempo of her voice changes when the door opens. ‘Oh hi.’

  For one terrible moment, I expect it to be Danny at the door. Thankfully it’s a middle-aged man who’s obviously a city type of some sort. His casual clothes look like luxury items. He glances at our sports car and then at us. ‘Yes? Can I help?’

  Keats sounds like one of those upper-class women who think the royal family is a little vulgar. ‘Darling. I wonder if you can. You see, I resided in this house for a while with my Uncle Danny when I was a little girl – such fond memories…’ She pulls me closer. ‘As my wife and I were in the area, I just wanted to give her a little sneak peak of where I once lived.’

  Our guy is confused. ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes, we’re lesbians. I do hope that’s not a problem.’

  The poor man is obviously becoming worried we think he’s homophobic, so he answers, ‘No, no, of course not.’

  ‘Can we come inside?’ Keats pulls what she clearly thinks is a sweet face.

  He hesitates. ‘It’s a little inconvenient at the moment. Perhaps another time?’

  Keats pouts with disappointment. ‘Oh please. We’ll be no trouble, just a quick whisk round so I can show Harriet where I enjoyed so many happy days and then we’ll be on our way.’

  He looks over our shoulders and down the drive, probably worried there’s an armed gang lying in wait while we bluff our way in. ‘Well…’

  Keats doesn’t give up. ‘We’re newly married and at that stage where you have to know every little thing about your spouse – sickening really.’ She takes my hand and squeezes.

  ‘I suppose it’s all right.’

  Keats gives a little trill of delight. ‘Oh thanks so much! That’s so super of you! I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Oliver.’

  ‘Oh, love that name! I’m Lauren and this is Harriet.’

  The guy stands aside and Keats leads me in, letting my lame hand drop while she follows our host through a door that leads off the hallway. Keats calls out. ‘Oh! This is the drawing room. I adore what you’ve done with this.’

  Oliver is confused again. ‘We haven’t done anything with it actually; we liked it as it was. In fact I’ve lived in the village for a long time and when this house came on the market, I grabbed it.’

  ‘That’s what I meant. You’ve kept it as it was. Harriet! Darling! Come and see the drawing room where Uncle Danny taught me how to play bridge.’

  I haven’t followed them into the drawing room because I’m still in the hallway, inert. My eyes fixed on one place only.

  ‘Darling? Are you all right?’ Keats’s head is poking around the drawing room door. She comes out and follows my eyeline down the hall to a wooden door. ‘Oh yes. You want to see the… the old servants’ quarters, isn’t it?’

  Oliver reappears. ‘No, that’s the cellar. The previous owner used it as a wine cellar but wine’s not really my thing. I say, is your wife all right? She looks a little unwell. Would she like a glass of water?’

  Keats is solicitous. ‘Are you all right, darling? You do look a little peaky. Yes, a glass of water would be divine. Could you put a little lemon in it?’

  When he leaves the hallway, Keats whispers, ‘Do you want to go into the wine cellar?’

  I don’t. I want to get out. Coming here was a terrible mistake. My voice is barely audible. ‘Oliver’s probably calling the police.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We’re supposed to be lesbians. Lesbians don’t burgle houses.’

  What the hell does that mean? I scowl at her, but Keats isn’t looking at me.

  She’s staring down the hallway. ‘Is it important – the wine cellar?’

  What will going down there prove or solve except to rub salt into my still-bleeding wounds? But I’ve come this far. Keats puts her arm around my waist and guides me down the hallway to the cellar door. She fiddles with the handle and the door wings open, creaking on its hinges. Inside is complete darkness. My body temperature plummets.

  Keats runs her hands along the wall, looking for a light switch. In a hush I inform her, ‘Other side. It’s on the other side.’

  When the light comes on, a wooden staircase greets us, leading down to a cavernous cellar. I don’t remember the cellar being so big, but in those days it had row after row of wine racks. Now they’re all gone. There are some bikes leaning against each other and a few items of garden furniture. Nothing else, except the flagstone floor and ancient stone walls. Keats seems uncertain but she guides me down the steps as if I am an old lady, and we stand together in the cool air in the middle of the wine cellar.

  As soon as my feet touch the cold hard ground, my hand feels the outline of the funeral programme in my back pocket. That touch has me spinning back in time.

  Thirty-Four

  That summer

  Neither Danny nor Rachel could see the door to the cellar opening behind the wine racks but they both heard it together with the anxious bark of a dog. Philip called out. ‘Rachel? Rachel? Where are you? What’s going on?’

  For a moment, Danny looked up in alarm, then back down at Rachel who he was still gripping with his stubby icy fingers. He leant into her face. His voice was quiet but savage. ‘You dumb bitch. What did you have to make a noise for?’

  Philip’s feet clattered down the stairs. As if to punish him, Danny raised his hand and struck Rachel across the face so she tumbled off her chair. Clasping her cheek, she hurriedly jumped to her feet but she was in too much shock to run or shout.

  Danny grabbed her hair and forced her back into the chair. ‘Shut up. Say nothing, leave the talking to me. I’ll sort this out.’

  Only when Philip appeared from behind a wine rack, follo
wed by Ray, did Danny loosen his grip on Rachel and stand up straight. ‘What do you want? Rachel and I are just sharing a private moment here – Isn’t that right, Rachel? Now, why don’t you clear off and prune some roses, like a good little boy?’

  Philip said nothing, but his chest rose high in harsh breaths. He took Rachel by the hand and tried to help her out of her chair. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  For a moment, Danny watched him do it before he sneered, ‘Is this your Sir Galahad, Rachel? I’d be hoping for something with a little more in the way of polished armour than this puss.’ Danny’s voice went up a notch with significantly more bite. ‘I suppose you’ve been hanging around in the hall again, have you, Philip? Is that how you get your jollies? Listening to other people get theirs? Or are you more of a guy-on-guy kind of shining knight? Yes, I reckon that’s it.’

  Danny grabbed Rachel’s arm, shoving her back into the chair. Before she could say or do anything, he cuffed her head, making her cry out this time in pain and shock.

  ‘Sit down, you little whore, you’re not going anywhere. I’m thinking there’s a little confusion around here about who’s employing who.’

  Danny loomed over Philip. ‘Come on then, Sir Galahad, why don’t you get your lance out and joust with me? Let’s see who’s the real man with balls here.’

  Rachel found her voice. ‘Leave him alone. Philip – go upstairs and call the police—’

  Danny burst out laughing. ‘Call the coppers? Sir Galahad won’t be calling the police.’ He drew closer to Philip. ‘Why don’t you tell Rachel why you won’t be calling the police.’ When there was no answer, he laughed, a sound that echoed around the dank cellar. ‘Go on, boy, tell her.’

  When he got no answer, Danny shoved Philip back against a wine rack. It shook, wobbled, unseating bottles of wine that crashed to the floor. Dark red liquid ran wild over the stone flags. Ray yapped and charged at Danny, grabbing him on the ankle with his little jaws.

  Enraged, Danny growled through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve had enough of you as well.’ Danny yanked the puppy away by the scruff of the neck, drew his booted foot back and kicked the puppy as hard as he could. Ray went flying across the floor. Rachel flew at Danny from his rear. Philip lunged at him from the front. A dazed Ray ran circles around the three of them, barking. They all struggled and fought on until suddenly there was silence.

  Rachel lay on her back from where Danny had elbowed her in the belly. Philip stood unsteadily with a broken bottle in his hand while Ray sat shaking and mute. Danny lowered himself onto the empty chair, holding the side of his head with red wine running through his fingers. Rachel hadn’t seen a blow struck but one obviously had. Danny was clearly hurt but at first sight it didn’t look too serious. Only when the shock wore off and her eyes focused properly, did she realise the red wine on his fingers was actually blood. All Danny’s violence, anger and lust seemed to seep out of his body, along with the blood leaking from the wound over his ear.

  His voice was bewildered and almost childlike as he tried to stand. ‘What did you do that for, Philip? Eh? There was no need for that. No need at all. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.’ He took his bloodied hand away from his temple, raised it at Philip in accusation and choked. ‘Look at that!’ Then he swayed and whimpered. ‘No need, no need for that at all.’ He gradually slumped over Rachel’s desk in confusion before finally, and slowly, sliding to the floor.

  Then he was still.

  ‘We’ve got to call the police!’

  Philip was kneeling down, feeling Danny’s pulse. ‘We’re not calling the cops.’

  ‘He sexually assaulted me. Attacked you. He kicked Ray. It was self-defence, they’ll understand. What’s the matter with you? We’ve got to call them.’

  Philip rose up from his knees and screamed, ‘We’re not calling anyone! Do you understand?’ His voice broke. ‘We’re not calling the cops.’

  Frightened by Philip’s voice, Rachel insisted, ‘All right, but we’ve got to call an ambulance, he’s unconscious.’

  Philip’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘He’s dead, Rachel. He’s dead.’

  Her hands flew to her mouth as she staggered back. ‘But he can’t be dead, we hardly touched him.’

  Philip threw the broken bottle that he was still clutching to one side. ‘Well, he is. And there’s nothing we can do about it. Now we need to decide what to do next.’

  He crouched down again, taking a shaken Ray by his collar. ‘Right, first you need to take Ray.’ Philip’s mind seemed to be ticking over on its own as if he were talking to himself. ‘There are no other staff on the grounds today, so no-one knows you’re here. Here’s what you do. You go back home. You tell no-one you were here today. Ever. You never ever tell anyone. Say to your father that you were ill on the way to work. No, better, that you had a puncture and you couldn’t get to work in the first place. Say you stopped off somewhere on the way back and had a long breakfast but don’t say where so no-one can check. Then you say you went up the woods and did some sunbathing or something. And don’t forget – when you hear that Danny’s dead, don’t forget to be shocked – okay?’

  Rachel listened in disbelief. Perhaps it was that or the whole series of shocks compressed into the previous hour but she suddenly burst out laughing. ‘You’re not serious? I’m not doing any of that. I’m calling the police and I’m doing it now.’

  She was swept forward as Philip grabbed her lightly and tugged her towards him. ‘Do you care about me, Rachel? Do you care at all? If you do, you’ll go home and keep your mouth shut about this. Please, I’m begging you. That’s all I’m asking. That’s all I’ll ever ask of you.’

  Rachel sat astride her bike on the drive in front of Danny’s house. Ray was tucked inside her jacket for the journey home. But he was already looking at Philip and pawing the lining of the jacket with a view to escaping.

  Their voices were quiet and businesslike. Rachel said her goodbyes. ‘What are you going to do with Danny’s body?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.’

  Rachel pushed an escaping Ray back into her jacket and whispered, ‘Why aren’t we calling the police? I don’t understand. I’ll make Danny sound like the most evil man that ever lived. It was us or him.’

  Philip looked over her shoulder into the distance with a wistful gaze. ‘You need to get out of here.’

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Rachel? Rachel?’

  I come back to the cellar as it is now. This place is dead for me, but I can’t breathe down here. No natural light. No air. Can’t find my balance. The echo of my breathing wheezes inside my hurting head.

  In a rush, I tell Keats, ‘I need to get out of here. Now.’

  Oliver’s voice carries down the stairs from the hall. ‘Hello? Where are you?’

  Keats calls back. ‘We’re in the cellar, Oliver – we’re just coming.’

  Keats has to lead me up the stairs; without her support I’m going to tip over. She takes the glass of water Oliver offers and drinks it herself before announcing, ‘Harriet’s feeling a little queasy, so perhaps we ought to go. Thanks so much for your time.’

  Oliver seems surprised our visit is so short but he escorts us back down the hall to the front door. ‘Did you know your uncle, the previous owner, well?’

  Keats laughs. ‘Oh yes, such a lovely man. Everyone loved Uncle Danny!’

  Oliver’s nod by way of an answer is unconvincing. Keats immediately picks up on it. ‘But kids are innocent of course. They don’t know any better. But there were all sorts of rumours about Danny, some of them a touch unsavoury; I expect you heard about them?’

  We’re at the front door. ‘I did indeed after we moved in.’

  Keats drops her posh girl act. ‘Okay. So what were they?’

  Oliver is alarmed. ‘It was just gossip of course, in the village and among the neighbours. Probably exaggerated, no doubt.’

  Keats’s squinting gaze won’t let him go. She looks menacing, as if she’s going to squeeze
the truth out of him if necessary. ‘Please, there’s no need to be embarrassed. What I said about him being lovable isn’t true. I was forced to live here for a time because my parents had a very messy divorce. My mum was his sister. What were the rumours?’

  His gaze zeros in on Keats and this time it’s him who won’t let go. ‘Let’s drop the act. I know you aren’t related to Danny Hall.’ Keats’s mouth surges open, no doubt with plan B, but Oliver hasn’t finished. ‘I let you come in because I thought you might be lawyers for one of his victims looking for historic evidence against him and I’m all for that.’

  It’s me who speaks. ‘What do you know?’

  He switches his attention to me. ‘That he molested and assaulted women, especially his female staff. He was notorious for it. Women locally wouldn’t work for him. Of course, it may just have been gossip. It was whispered nothing came to trial because he paid his victims off. But I have to say, there were some people around who weren’t sorry Danny Hall was killed in that fire. They thought he got what was coming to him.’

  ‘Why did you send me to work for Danny when everyone knew he assaulted and attacked young women?’

  Dad’s pleasure at my unexpected visit doesn’t last long. I’m barely through the door before the question pours out like acid. We’re standing in his immense hallway facing each other, behind Dad a mounted framed photo of him and Mum taken the first week we moved here. Dad lives exactly five miles from Danny’s former house. That summer it would take me thirty minutes cycling carefree from our place to there. Correction: carefree. A word that’s all about not having a trouble in the world has no business being in this tense scene.

  I step closer, air tipping in and out with such quickness my straining body must be leaking. ‘Everyone knew.’ I spit it at this man I have loved so very much. ‘His staff, the local villagers, the neighbours. Even Philip knew. He warned me not to be alone with your old friend Danny.’

  There’s no reaction from Dad. Not a change to the colour of his face. Not a widening of the eyes. Not a tensing of his muscles through his blue T-shirt or his loose washed-out jeans. I suspect he’s been in the garden tending his tomatoes, runner beans and, his pride and joy, his berry bushes and trees. I was once his pride and joy too, wasn’t I?