Trap Door by Trap Door (retail) (epub)

Author:Trap Door (retail) (epub)
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781913419257
Publisher: Bloodhound Books
Published: 2019-04-12T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Four

‘Bye, Philip, my mister eighteen.’ My voice is soft and full of sisterly love. ‘I’m sorry. Forever sorry.’

I’m back in the storeroom later that night. Back staring up at Philip’s face pinned to the wall. It’s as if I’m staring at him laid out in his coffin, one last moment before the lid slides over, consigning him to earth and dust. There are no more answers to search for here. Thanks to Dad, I know what happened to Philip, why he didn’t die ten years ago, why he did pass only recently.

It still chokes me up to think of Philip being in such a bad way that he chose to end it all. The guilt is still part of me, but the elastic tightness of it is loosening. One day, if I’m lucky in life, it may go away. One day.

I lean up and carefully take down the photo. I could stand here in the dead-yellow gloom of this room and weep until my heart hurt but what would be the point? Regretful tears aren’t going to bring him back. I run a finger over his face and then carefully pocket it away.

I’m here to pack up my gear, never to return. I’ve already written a letter of resignation to Michael, which I’ll post to him tomorrow. As for the strangeness of Keats doing the funeral programme… a sad coincidence, that’s all.

I pick up my things and haphazardly stuff them into my bag. Only the Aran jumper Mum gave me gets the folded treatment. I do a three-sixty stare around. I can’t wait to get out of this room that scares me at night. The whole bloody building gives me the creeps. There are no footsteps above. No mysterious woman weeping or dog keening. I didn’t imagine those noises when they echoed through the building. But now it’s easy to think that possibly I did. Tricks and tics of a very tired and grief-stricken mind.

I make my way to the basement office, pop on the blue lights and clear my personals from my desk. I stare at the walls of this silent space because even the humming of its heart and the blinking bulbs on the digital devices seem to have faded away. In fact, it’s rather like those Westerns where our hero cowboy says it’s too quiet just before the gunfire blasts into town. It’s not only this former sweatshop; the whole city surrounding it seems to be silent as if waiting for something to happen. As if…

A crash above like a tray of drinks being tipped down the main stairs makes my muscles harden and jump. A voice floats down, muffled, full of ripe curses, and although I can’t be sure, I think it’s that of a woman. The weeping lady? Wailing girl? I look upwards in alarm. And something else my mind tries to crush. Curiosity. It grabs me, refusing to do the decent thing and let me go.

I’m beyond the steel door before I can talk myself out of it.

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