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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  When his response comes, it’s calm. The gentlest of breezes threading through the raging storm I’ve brought inside. ‘I can see you’re upset. Why don’t we take a drink together in the kitchen and you can tell me who’s been filling your head with a lot of silly nonsense. Then I can put you straight.’ His tone shifts gear, not exactly stern but there’s a stiff belt to it that suggests he’s nearing the tipping point of losing his patience. ‘And if you’ve got any manners, you’ll be apologising to me.’

  With that, he walks with steady long strides to the kitchen.

  I stay in the hall for a while, haunted by the images of Mum around me. I sense her disapproval in what I’m doing, but I have to do this.

  I find Dad already at the table with a bottle of brandy and identical snifters filled half way. Back in the day, when I was young, I remember how he’d take swift drinks of spirits from mugs not fancy glasses. So much has changed about him over the years. Maybe that’s the real problem here; he’s moved on while I’ve remained stuck in time. If he’s guilty, Dad’s doing a great job of hiding it. He keeps his eyes fixed on mine. My defiant body language tells him clearly I’m refusing the drink and I remain standing. Maybe I’m staying out of reach of his razor-sharp claws.

  ‘Now then, where did you hear all these fairy stories about Daniel Hall?’ His clenched irritation resounds in every word. ‘For the record, he wasn’t actually my friend. He was my business associate. Business associates aren’t your friends, Rachel; on the contrary, they’re more likely to be your enemies. Remember that.’

  Unconsciously, I coat a layer of wet over my dry lips. ‘But I thought Danny Hall was your friend. Wasn’t that the reason you sent me to work for him that summer after—?’

  ‘Your mother left us for good?’ The strain heightens the colour of Dad’s face. ‘We met in passing at the golf club one day. He asked me if I knew of anyone young looking for summer work experience. I thought of you because I knew how much of a toll Carole’s death had taken on you. I thought…’ Dad sips once from his liquor. The brandy glistens on his bottom lips as he continues. ‘I hoped that it would do you good to get away from the house. To have space to breathe.’

  A few days ago we were laughing, hugging as he put my life back to rights when all the time it may have been him snapping me, piece by piece, apart.

  My voice is clear, but I hear the fragility in it too. ‘I went to Danny’s old house and spoke to the owner. According to him, everyone knew about Danny and his behaviour, everyone. Are you saying that you were the only one who didn’t?’

  Dad stands, the force of his large body scraping back the legs of the chair against the floor, leaving a noise like nails on a chalkboard. He braces his arms against the table, the length of his veins leaping under the surface of his skin a reminder of the rope that’s helped guard my life and my sanity. He leans forward, not with menace but with a power that overshadows my presence in this room.

  ‘Do you really think for even one moment I would have sent my eighteen-year-old daughter to work for a man with that type of reputation? There’s no way on this earth you would have been allowed anywhere near a man like that, much less go to work for him. Give me strength. I’d have taken a bat over there and beaten the bastard bloody until his bones cracked.’ Dad’s arms don’t look so steady anymore. I realise he’s shaking. ‘Did he attack you?’

  My lips stitch together; I want to deny it. Only Philip and I ever knew. Our secret and the rest. There’s no running away from it this time because I can see from Dad’s horror-struck expression he already knows the answer.

  So I reveal, ‘Yes. Yes he did. Philip was upstairs, heard my screams and stepped in. Otherwise I might have been raped.’

  With one mighty sweep of his arm, Dad knocks the bottle of brandy flying from the table. It smashes and spills, some of the liquid splashing across the photo of Mum pregnant with me that lives on the fridge. It’s the action of that other dad. That dad who struck Michael and warned him, ‘you know what I’m capable of.’ The dad who smashed Jed’s nose. That other violent father I’ve been denying I knew I had.

  ‘You should have told me. You’re my daughter, for pity’s sake. Why didn’t you tell me?’ He staggers back from the table, his palms roaming wildly over the crown of his head. ‘If he were here now I’d kill him.’

  I want to go to Dad. I want him to come to me. His distress is so real. But… but I still can’t understand how a man like my dad, with his ear to the ground, could have missed the rumours and rumblings about Danny’s predatory nature.

  My voice is only a hush. ‘How can I believe you when seemingly the whole world knew?’

  Whether it’s the light or the way he’s holding them, his eyes seem to have changed colour to flint. His voice has hardened too. ‘Sit down, Rachel.’ When that doesn’t happen, he shouts, ‘I said – sit down!’

  I do as he says, perching on the edge. He knocks back the rest of his drink as soon as he’s facing me. ‘I suppose you’ve been talking to Michael, have you? He’s tracked you down?’

  How I manage to hold back the show of stunned amazement at the mention of Michael, I have no idea. That Dad’s admitting to knowing him. Does he know that Michael lured me to the basement? I test my theory. ‘I don’t know who Michael is. I certainly haven’t been contacted by anyone of that name.’

  A scoff is the response I get. ‘I know all about Danny and Michael – all about them.’

  This unexpected twist shatters the breath inside me. ‘Danny Hall knew Michael?’

  Dad settles back in his chair, the hardness of his gaze becoming more solid. ‘I did a lot of business with Danny over the years. I saw him in action, a man a bit too jagged and jaded around the edges sometimes but it comes with the territory. I’m accustomed to it. We did a few deals together, that’s why I was shocked to hear about his death. After that, his son took against me.’

  I’m gasping, I can hear it. I know what’s coming.

  Dad tells me. ‘Michael is his son. Danny had an affair with one of his secretaries and Michael was the result. So when Danny got himself killed in that fire, Michael turned against me because I bought one of his father’s companies.’ Dad lets out a bitter laugh. ‘Do you know why I did it? Because when Danny died, it came to light that his finances were in bad shape, so I bought that particular company to help his family out. A few years later it rebounds back on me when Michael accuses me of buying it on the cheap. Since then, him and his mad mother have been a thorn in my side making all types of threats.’

  Dad looks lost before stiffening again. ‘And you know what really sticks in my craw? After Michael was born, Danny dumped the pair of them for another woman. And you know who it was that helped them out then after Danny died? It was me. I helped them because I thought I owed it to Danny. I didn’t expect any gratitude for it. But I didn’t expect this either.’

  Dad gets out of his chair, large and brooding. He stands tall and erect and seems to have gained a couple of inches in height. He looms over me like Michael’s tenement and jabs his finger in my face. ‘And I didn’t expect any gratitude for all I’ve done for you. But I didn’t expect this either.’ He turns his finger towards the photo of my mum, me nestled within the protection of her body. He looks on the verge of tears. ‘I’m just glad your mother isn’t alive to see you betray me like this.’ He loses the extra inches that he gained; weary. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had enough.’

  The house is suddenly silent when I’m alone in the kitchen. As silent as it was the night my mum died. Everything Dad’s just told me makes sense and fits in with what I know. It explains his visit to Michael. Why he asked to see Michael’s mum. Except for one thing.

  I still don’t understand how someone as savvy as Dad could’ve been unaware of Danny’s brutal reputation with young women.

  My Uber arrives outside Dad’s, so I hurry down the hall towards the front door. I don’t know where my father has gone. It’s a relief to climb in the cab and get away. As
the car sets off down the drive towards the main road, when I look back towards the house, the light is on in Dad’s office at the front side of the house. Dad’s stalking like a caged animal. I tell the cabbie to pull over out of sight and scamper back up the drive, ducking low. When I reach Dad’s office window, I peer inside to see my dad’s on the phone. He’s shouting at someone but I can’t hear what he’s saying through the double glazing that keeps out the winds that blow off the North Downs. Then I hear him. A bellow so loud no glass can be a barrier.

  ‘You know I don’t make idle threats. If you don’t get back on my side, I will kill you.’

  I’m in the back seat of the cab. I’m half concealed in the shadows as I pull out my mobile. It’s time for me to admit that Dad maybe isn’t the man I once knew, if I ever knew him at all.

  The phone line connects. ‘It’s me. I’m ready for you to tell me the information you found out about my mum.’

  Thirty-Six

  Polly, my ex-debt counsellor’s brows shoot up when I walk into her office the following afternoon during my lunch hour. I’ve caught her topping up her lipstick. Attractive colour. A mix of light and dark reds. A touch racy for her but I like it.

  ‘Did we have an appointment?’ She sounds rattled, obviously doesn’t like being caught on the hop. As she tucks her lippy away, her upbeat counsellor routine slips back into gear. She’s the picture of manufactured summer happiness. I don’t mind; I’ll take a touch of any type of happiness I can find.

  ‘My letters,’ I remind her.

  ‘Yes. Of course. I wasn’t sure if you got my message about your paperwork.’

  I’m also here counting the hours before meeting Keats later to find out what she knows about my mother. Staying in the basement office, thinking about the possibilities of what she might tell me, was sending me crazy. So here I am in a safe place to occupy my mind.

  I close the door. Don’t take a seat as I start, ‘I wanted to personally thank you for all that you’ve done for me.’

  Polly’s jolly cheeks pop with an uplifting smile. ‘I’m glad that family came through for you in the end.’

  ‘Yeah, my dad bailed me out.’ It’s an awkward sentence to say aloud. My dad, the conquering hero, feels as if it can only be the truth in an alternate universe.

  I rummage inside my rucksack. What I take out I tentatively and shyly set on the table between us. ‘I didn’t know if you were a drinker or not…’ My explanation slides away.

  I’m surprised that her smile appears to congeal as she looks at the high-end bottle of champagne with the shiny pink bow tied neatly at its neck. ‘This is very thoughtful of you and I thank you for thinking of me, but we don’t usually encourage gifts.’

  That hadn’t even occurred to me. ‘I’m sorry—’

  Polly gently waves away my apology. ‘Gifts are such lovely things but they also belong to what I term “the unnecessary”. Things you don’t have to spend your money on. You don’t want to start your road to financial health with one of those. It’s so easy to find yourself being sucked back under again. You’re going to hate my next two pieces of advice.’ The fingertips of my hand rub anxiously together by my side. ‘Firstly, I want you to watch every penny you spend. Every. And I want you to come back to see me in a month’s time. You took a leap of faith, in yourself, coming to see me, acknowledging you had a problem. Let’s keep that leap of faith going by ensuring your financial recovery continues.’

  I don’t want to read between the lines of what I suspect she’s really saying – your debt was a symptom of something else and until you pinpoint what that is, you’re in danger of ending up in the cash-strapped crapper again.

  Her voice, back to carefree, intrudes. ‘Let me get you that paperwork.’

  I expect to be presented with it in a carrier bag, but Polly has it neatly packed in a black box file, which I take. The burden of my one-time debt feels heavy in my hands.

  ‘There was something…’ Polly says as she opens her desk drawer. No doubt the required ‘How do you rate our services?’ feedback form. But it isn’t. It’s a postcard. ‘I found this stuck to one of the envelopes at the bottom of the pile of your letters. I put it aside because I assumed you wouldn’t want something personal associated with the more challenging aspects of your life.’

  I pick up the postcard, frowning. It’s from New York, a photo of the Chrysler Building lit up in all its art deco glory at night. I don’t know anyone in the Big Apple or remember any of my mates saying they were going on holiday there. It doesn’t surprise me that I missed it in the pile of mail that waited for me inside my front door because I’d gotten into the habit of stuffing unopened letters in the dreaded carrier bag without checking what each one was.

  I wait until I’m outside to find out who sent it. When I turn over the card and read, I become numb to the high wind swirling and slapping around me.

  Michael

  I’m coming to Old Blighty for my sister’s wedding.

  It’s been years, matie. Let’s hook up. Cruise some old

  haunts. Touch base when I’m in town.

  Benny

  Michael. The word grows hideously large and dances off the postcard. Why would this ‘Benny’ be sending Michael a postcard to my house? But I’m making an assumption, aren’t I, that it’s Michael Barrington. What if…? My brain scuttles around for another explanation… What if one of the bastard tenants who ripped my home apart was called Michael? Could be… But what if it’s not? My head pounds as I rewind the years to when I got the house. I see Dad throwing the keys at me, laughing. And he had the key because he said the house had belonged to a friend who wanted to offload it. I factor in the new info I know about Michael – he was Danny’s son. Next logical step is that maybe Danny owned the house? And Michael… And Michael… The next part won’t let me capture it, like a fly playing ‘Dare’ in my face but buzzes off when I reach out to swot it.

  Now not only am I freaked out about what Keats might tell me about my mother, I have another worry too.

  Is Michael connected to my house?

  Thirty-Seven

  Something’s holding me back. Instead of going into the tekkie café in the Georgian square, I stare at Keats through the window as I stand on the opposite side of the street. I’m finding it hard to take that next step. Fear holds me immobile. A fear of being confronted by things I never knew about my own mother. Stuff that may be too hard to hear. I’d left Dad’s upset, brain trying to sift through truth and lies, fired up to mow down more truths including any concerning Mum. But, here I am now, and, God help me, I can’t go past the edge of the pavement where the tips of my feet touch.

  The tangled arguing voices of a young couple at the end of the street draws my attention. The streetlamp illuminates the shine of tears that wet the guy’s face. His distressed features twist into Philip’s, silently pleading with me to leave him, run, Rachel, run. The muscles and veins in my neck pull taut and strain as my eyelashes flutter, eyelids rapidly blink. It’s for Philip, I brave the unknown demons waiting for me in the café that enable me to cross over and join Keats.

  Tears For Fears’ Everybody Wants To Rule The World plays with a melancholic energy inside. A memory at the back of my mind clicks that an Erasure song was playing the one and only time I was here before. This place must have a thing for retro eighties pop. Why I’m recalling this now I can’t figure out. Is it a delaying tactic for what waits for me at the table I’ll share with Keats?

  The place is empty except for Keats and the woman with the blue and white striped apron behind the counter. Keats looks scrubbed-up clean, her curls damp with water or gel and the only part of her usual get-up she wears is the navy bandana knotted under her chin.

  She gives me a quizzical once-over as I take the chair facing her. ‘Why were you peering at me from across the street?’

  She catches me on the hop; it’s not what I expect her to say. Flustered, I respond, ‘I was feeling really hot, so needed five to cool down.’
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  Her blatant expression tells me straight that she’s not buying a word of it. But Keats keeps that to herself. She sucks deeply from her water bottle before taking out her mobile and pulling something up on screen.

  ‘Can you use your digi wizardry to find out anything about my house?’ I ask her.

  Keats fiddles with her mobile. ‘In relation to what?’

  I hesitate for a second. ‘How it might be connected to Michael.’ Then my voice runs along as if speeding on imaginary tracks. ‘I’m not sure if I’ve got this right or wrong, but I need it checking out.’

  Keats nods, then levels me with an unexpectedly frank stare. ‘What do you know about how your mother died?’

  There it is, that gut-blasting uncontrollable internal feeling I was afraid of. It’s akin to the blow I’m dealt when trapped underground. I glance hurriedly up at the over-bright florescent tube lighting. Light means air. That’s what I need. Air. My eyelids hood halfway as a funnel of blessed air, cool and refreshing as peppermint on my tongue, rushes through me. I stay like that for a time, filling my body with oxygen and courage.

  Back in control, ready for whatever’s to come, I tell Keats, ‘She was sick, on and off, for years. Dad took her to a number of doctors who couldn’t diagnose the problem.’ I shake my head with sadness. ‘No-one could fix her. I had to watch her die before my eyes.’

  A dead silence lies between us. Keats, for reasons known only to her, whips out her shades and puts them on. Maybe it’s her way of covering up that she’s as emotionally shot as me.

  She looks down at the screen of her mobile. ‘I’m looking at copies of your mother’s medical records.’

  ‘How did you find them?’