Without making any conscious decision he leapt at the door. It wasn’t a plan, he wasn’t even aware he was doing it until he was in mid-air. Desperation overtook him, it was the survival instinct. His body deciding his mind had no real idea and trying out its own scheme. It didn’t work. The door didn’t shudder, he shuddered. The door didn’t fall, he fell. The door didn’t break, he almost did.
Already feeling bruises decorate his skin, he lay on his back next to Snowbridge and cried out. He yelled from the depths of his lungs. He’d told himself he wouldn’t scream. When he’d first realised his predicament, he’d told himself not to yell as he couldn’t be caught like that. How could he explain it away? How could he make any gallant rescuer understand? He would still be trapped, just as if the door had never opened. But even as he weakened and screamed, he knew it made no difference.
He’d listened to what Snowbridge had told him about this room. He had said it was the most private place he could think of, that nobody ever came down here, nobody would disturb them. The old bastard had leant in and whispered that if they wanted to play a game of hide and seek, it was the best hide in the world. He’d said it with a chuckle in his eyes; like everything else that afternoon, it deeply amused him. And it had amused Trevanion too. It had sounded so perfect for the task. Only now he discovered it didn’t have an escape route. Trevanion lay there and screamed and screamed, and each scream echoed around the small stone room. He knew that not a single one was heard by another human soul.
Slowly those screams abated, each cry becoming shallower in his throat. Until, at last, his mouth opened and roared with no sound. He finger-pinched the bridge of his nose and drew back tears of frustration and pain. Slowly he started to pull himself up, and that was harder than he thought. Maybe it was more than bruising, now he really felt it; perhaps he’d even broken his shoulder against that door. He had landed in Snowbridge’s blood and it had glued him to the stone floor. It was horrible to contemplate just how much blood there was within a human body; he’d never imagined it would create such a geyser of red.
In his worst imaginings, he also hadn’t anticipated the awful stench of a dead man. It hadn’t occurred to him that Snowbridge, before his heart stopped, would empty his bowels and cover his tweed trousers and all around in faeces and urine. He hadn’t guessed how quickly a human carcass would begin to rot. They had only been here half an hour, or maybe it was an hour – it surely hadn’t been longer – and already it seemed as if decay had set in, as if he was trapped in a room with a pile of bad meat.
Trevanion sat up straight and tried to think it all through logically. His clothes were now dirty, covered in the crime – so, he couldn’t just saunter out without arousing suspicion, he had to wait until after dark. There would still be nobody around; Snowbridge wasn’t the type of man to throw a birthday party. The old bastard knew that there wouldn’t be enough people willing to attend. It would be easy for Trevanion to escape once he got out of the room, but how was he going to do that?
Trying to concentrate only on the problem at hand, he stared ahead and pondered. The door had not just shut itself against him. Doors were inanimate objects, they didn’t think, they didn’t make their own decisions. Snowbridge had closed the door after they entered; definitely. Therefore there were two options: either the door had been locked in some way by Snowbridge, or someone else had locked it from the other side after they entered. He dismissed the second idea – nobody knew they were here, they had not been followed down. That meant Snowbridge had done something, that he had locked it. It meant there must be a key somewhere about his person.
Undoubtedly he winced as he contemplated it, but then didn’t hesitate. He rummaged through the old bastard’s pockets. It was a disgusting enough thought at the outset, but some were now little packages of thick black sticky blood. He went through quickly yet thoroughly, his fingers nimble as they hunted the key. He found a gold watch on a chain, so new the mechanism hadn’t yet been started. It was a birthday gift he guessed, though Lord knows who would be so generous to Snowbridge. There was a thin wallet containing four shillings, there was a nearly empty pouch of tobacco.
There was nothing else.
Shaking his head, muttering to himself, he went through again, hunted again, and once again found no key. He looked around. Where could Snowbridge have hidden it? There was himself, the old bastard’s body and an electric light in the room – there was literally nothing else. Perhaps Snowbridge had swallowed it, but why would he do that? Why would he deliberately trap them?
And if he had, how had he done it?
The old bastard surely hadn’t stopped talking, he had just kept blathering the entire time. There was no moment’s pause for him to swallow something as heavy as a key. And besides Trevanion had been staring at him. He hadn’t observed a key turned in the lock, let alone a key swallowed or indeed hidden elsewhere. It hadn’t happened, he was sure – but if that was true, why couldn’t he get out? How was he still trapped with Snowbridge?
He looked at the door. It was just a door. A big heavy door, yes, but nothing more frightening or awful than that. Just a door, surely just a door.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he pressed his hands against the wooden surface. It was heavy, it was solid, but as far as he could see it wasn’t locked. The damned door wasn’t locked. Yet it was shut, sealed, trapping him with Snowbridge, imprisoning him with its master. But the lock didn’t seem as if it had been touched.
Trevanion glared at the old bastard. His features had twisted in the shock and violence of the attack, but now he looked like he was smiling. That’s what his face was doing. Snowbridge stared up at Trevanion with gleaming eyes and a full happy smile. His face was delighted, desirous, as if expecting all his dreams to come true.
Appalled, Trevanion choked and turned back to the door. His hands were shaking but he rested his fists against it and pushed. Illogical, he knew, since the door opened inwards, but he pushed as if he believed the oak was weak enough for his bare hands to break through.
Softly he whispered a prayer for a miracle. After all, it was somewhat miraculous that Snowbridge had sealed the door with no lock and no key. And surely, even after his act this afternoon, he was more deserving of divine intervention than Snowbridge.
He had deliberately waited for Snowbridge’s seventieth birthday. His father had killed himself on his seventieth birthday, and he liked the symmetry. He liked that his revenge would be served up as ice. There was no fear of the old bastard dying beforehand, he knew Snowbridge was too revoltingly healthy to be struck down by any of the agues or infirmities that normally affect the elderly. He knew at the seventieth birthday he could strike to receive retribution for all Snowbridge had done to his father, all he had done to his family.
It was so simple to arrange.
Snowbridge had always had a vigorous interest in Trevanion. It was easy therefore to lead him away, to lure him to a place they could be alone. And Snowbridge had chosen this – somewhere disgusting and dank, bare and horrible, but where they’d never be found. Snowbridge was the happiest Trevanion had ever seen him. He led him down, giggling at his own jokes, laughing at his own witticisms, skipping on his toes in eagerness. His manicured fingers had stroked his younger friend’s arm in affection. Trevanion smiled and kept focused on the task, maintained his concentration, determined not to lose his nerve.
No one saw them as Snowbridge led him through the grounds and down into the basement at the far wing of the house. He was bouncing on his heels, beaming from under heavy eyelids like a schoolgirl as he opened the door, as he ushered Trevanion inside, as he shut it behind them. The good spirits only vanished when Trevanion delivered the first knife-thrust. He managed thirteen in all. The blade sank through his ribs, into his belly, pierced his intestines, sliced open his groin. Snowbridge didn’t yell, his breath seemed caught within him. Finally, the old bastard’s body slipped to the floor after the fifth stab and Trevanion kept striking. He wanted to be sure,
wanted to know Snowbridge was dead, that there was no chance of him ever breathing again.
The death wheeze came, long and hollow, and then Trevanion stood back and regarded the body.
It hadn’t seemed like a smile on his face then. Instead, it had been the perfect image of uncomprehending terror. Snowbridge’s face looked as if the pain of every one of those thirteen blows had twisted into the wrinkles of his skin. Without a doubt it was an expression of horror which made Trevanion smile. Under the naked bulb he had examined his arms and his front and seen not a drop of blood anywhere on his clothing. That had pleased him too. He’d coughed and shuddered and congratulated himself on a murder that was perfectly deserved and perfectly executed.
No one knew he was here. He could leave the grounds without seeing a soul. Snowbridge wouldn’t be missed for a long while, and even when he was it would take an age to find him in this hole of the house. It was all too perfect.
And then he’d tried the door.
Snowbridge was grinning at him – his eyes twinkled in the half-light, his teeth actually gleamed.
The door remained shut.
He yelled at him: “What have you done to me, you bloody fool? How have you done this? This isn’t fair – do you hear me, old man? Do you hear me? This isn’t fair. After all you’ve done to my family, you can’t do this. You can’t keep this damned door shut on me. You can’t! You cannot keep me trapped down here, do you understand? You do not get to keep me!”
He was on his knees beside the corpse. It beamed at him, apparently delighted at the way things had turned out. Trevanion forced his fingers into the pockets again. There had to be something he’d missed, some kind of device to operate that door. Slowly he pulled out the aged, leather pouch of tobacco and poured its contents over the stone floor, let it tumble amongst the blood and excrement – but there was nothing. He took out the money pouch and turned it inside out. Desperately he picked up each of the four coins and threw them to the wall in frustration. They bounced back at him. He grabbed the watch and examined it as carefully as his growing panic would allow.
It was just a watch, hand-crafted with an inscription on the back. He shook as he read the script, nearly slipping back in the blood. There was his name, written in ornate and loving script. Unbelieving, he stroked his finger across it. The old fool was giving him a birthday present, celebrating the occasion by handing a gift to his murderer. It was his name in carved script, followed by the word “forever.” Trevanion felt vomit bubble in his throat.
He caught a scream. What did that mean, “forever”? Had he meant to trap him down here? Meant to lock them in together? Surely not, surely it was just an idiotic inscription. He wouldn’t wish to keep them here for eternity. Why would he? What would be the point? Trevanion was much stronger than him, he could easily force his companion to open the door. Except, what if the old bastard couldn’t open the door? What if he was dead? What if he knew what was to happen, and “forever” to Snowbridge meant just that, forever? But that was ridiculous – nobody would choose to be murdered, just as nobody would choose to be entombed alive.
Yet something was keeping Trevanion trapped down here, something was holding him prisoner. And if it wasn’t the late Mister Snowbridge, what was it? It couldn’t be the door, doors don’t make decisions like that, no matter how strong and heavy and powerful they appear. Doors don’t actually do that – do they?
He chucked the watch to the corner and charged the door again. He pounded his fists. He cried out. He screamed. He wanted someone to hear him. There was no longer any care about punishment, anything was preferable to whatever fate had been arranged for him down here.
Raging, he beat his hands until they bled. His hands continued pummelling after the bones broke, after every punch became another painful crack. Even as his voice weakened and his screams became whines from a raw larynx, he still kept yelling. But gradually his punches flailed and the blood ran in wide slug trails down the oak. He smashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice, banging his forehead before staggering back in agony.
Unbalanced, he stumbled and his skull struck the light-bulb and it swung round the room, shadows dancing.
He looked at Snowbridge and the old bastard was smiling at him. The grin was wider, it had grown. It was moving upwards, pushing his cheeks higher, showing off his glee. Despite thirteen stab wounds, he had never had things as good.
Trevanion wanted to kill him again, wanted to stop the mocking. He wrestled into his trouser pocket and awkwardly pulled out the knife. His hands were broken and he could barely hold it, but he couldn’t stand the way the old bastard was looking at him.
He sunk the blade into one eye and then the other, until they weren’t there anymore. Until they were just blood and gore filled holes on a lifeless, scarred face.
Snowbridge still had his smile though, even with empty eye sockets it was there.
Desperation pounding through him, Trevanion lurched at the throat, meaning to sink the knife in and cut off the head. That day he had punished Snowbridge for all he had done in life, now he was going to ensure he suffered for what he was doing in death. His broken hands lunged forward, but he missed his target. The knife hit the jaw bone and the blade snapped off. It flew upwards sharply and he jerked his head back as it sliced his cheek. The shard of metal kept rising and rising though, before horribly smashing into the light-bulb which exploded. Now they were left in darkness.
There was no glimmer. No hint of light crept beneath the door, none slipped in between the bricks. It was pure, unbroken blackness.
There was him, the corpse of the old bastard and that unopening door.
Trevanion sobbed.
And then from the corner he heard the watch start to tick.
Walkie-Talkie
The walkie-talkie was a particularly sick touch, Scott thought.
Kirk was a sadist, self-confessed and proud. So of course it was his notion to put the walkie-talkie in the box with Chekov when they buried him. It meant they could talk to him, and laugh at him as they listened to his pathetic cries for help.
From the first shovelful of dirt thudding on top of the box, those cries had crackled from the appliance. It was like a life-line to the still breathing world, so obviously the sad loser was going to keep the button down. He’d try to find some compassion in them with his whining tears. No such luck, though. Kirk told Scott it was like sweet, terror-filled, music. He even did a little jig to it in the moonlight.
“Please, God, help me!” Chekov pleaded. “No! Don’t do this to me, I beg you! Please! Listen to me, guys, we can make a deal! I can do something for you! You know I can! You know I fucking can! Think of my uncle, think of who he is! Please, God, help me!”
But now they’d nearly got the hole filled in, the screams seemed to have ceased. The night air was relentlessly warm, and their digging had been hot work. Both men had divested themselves of their shirts. The sweat on their backs testifying to the effort they’d expended. Proving that if they had a task they were committed to, they weren’t the lazy good-for-nothings some said they were. They could get stuff done.
There was a lot of dirt between them and Chekov now, but if the pair held the walkie-talkie right next to their ears, they could still hear him – frightened little gasps, the occasional whimper – but the desperate screaming and begging and calling out and crying for mercy had stopped.
“Ha! Maybe the idiot is trying to preserve his breath,” Scott suggested.
“Like that will do him any fucking good,” Kirk replied with a snigger.
They were nearly done and that was a damned excellent thing as it was getting close to dawn. It wouldn’t do for them to be found on crazy old Yaakov’s farm in daylight. Particularly when they’d just buried his nephew alive.
Scott had never met crazy old Yaakov himself, but he’d heard more than enough wild stories about him. A meth dealer who used too much of his own product and rode around his farm on a tractor shooting at whatever took his fa
ncy with a fearsome shotgun.
Not then the kind of character you wanted to startle early one morning.
It was a ballsy move for them to put the old man’s nephew in the ground on his own property, but that’s the way Kirk said it should be. It sent a message, he explained. Even though the crazy old bastard might not find the box for years (if ever), he’d know his nephew was missing. He’d know that something bad had happened to him. So they could laugh into their sleeves at him for the foreseeable.
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. They were levelling out the soil so it was back almost as they’d found it. All in all, it had been a pretty excellent night’s work.
Suddenly there was a crackle on the walkie-talkie. A burst of static on the airwaves, followed by a pause, and then Chekov’s voice – distant and eerily hollow. “Um, guys.”
Both of them ignored him for a full minute, concentrating on finishing off the job in hand. The rays of sun glistened upon Kirk’s sweat-soaked skin.
Again a crackle and again Chekov’s voice. Surprisingly, it was calm, almost conversational. Scott found it absurd; almost unbelievable that this cheery tone belonged to a man who was going to suffocate to death in an hour or so.
Scott stared at Kirk, glad to have the excuse for a lingering look. He’d been taking surreptitious glances of his friend’s muscles all night long: how taut and tight they were, the way they had gleamed in the moonlight.
Kirk smirked. “You better see if that fucker has any grand final words.”
Scott reached over to where the walkie-talkie lay on a severed and fire-damaged tree trunk. He held it up with a malicious grin that he hoped matched the handsome cruelty of his friend.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
There was a pause, maybe a time delay. The dirt fucking up the signal. “I think there’s something I should tell you.”
Confined Spaces Page 4