He felt chills walking into the stairwell. It had been scrubbed and disinfected, but a few inches of blue and white tape remained, hanging mournfully from the end of a handrail. The concrete floor was darker than it should be – still damp, he guessed. It was impossible to be there without thinking of the lad who had fought for his life here, of the heartless soul who had thought nothing of sticking a knife in and running away.
The other side of that spot, near the lifts, a couple of workmen were just packing up their tools. They noticed Den coming in and one of them said, ‘All done, mate. Want to test it out?’
Den shrugged. He didn’t mind the stairs, but then again, why not?
The stood back as he entered the lift and there was a moment of awkwardness as he stood inside and the guys watched him as they all waited for the door to close. Just as it moved across, he saw the glint of recognition in one of men’s eyes and felt a twinge of panic. If they, like the rest of the world, thought he was public enemy number one, they could trap him in here. Leave him. He wasn’t normally claustrophobic but he started to feel the four walls closing in.
The lift lurched off the ground. Den looked up to the ceiling. There was a small opening, like a trapdoor. Maybe he could get out that way if he needed to. Who was he kidding? He had the upper body strength of a kitten. Come on, come on, don’t stop. He willed the lift to make it to the third floor. The digital display changed to ‘3’ and the lift slowed and stopped with a slight judder. The door opened and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Unsure of his reception at number seven, he rang the doorbell and stood back. Like lighting the touchpaper on a firework.