It’s morning. I begin the climb up my knotted rope to the top of the grill. Fingers finally curl around the bars. A tingling skates down my arms as freezing metal touches skin. My rucksack bangs against my back as I leverage the bottom of my shoes flat against the wall with the knowhow of an acrobat on the cusp of thrilling the crowds. Teeth gritted, I use the force of my feet to shift the grill to the side. Move one hand to clutch the pavement and then the other. Haul my body out. I shove the grill back into place. Almost skip down the side of the building and turn into the front. Nod to The 22 and go inside when I gain entry.
As I speed-walk through the tunnel beneath the trap door, my thoughts turn to the dog and woman – girl? – I heard at night. Upstairs, keening and wailing. A requiem of weeping for the dead garment workers? That’s a frightening thought. I shake it off with an all-over shiver. Reach the steel door and walk inside.
The blue arc lights and their offspring shadows seem even more pronounced today. The static humming beat of the walls a pitch louder too. No-one acknowledges my presence as usual except the zombie who was watching the disgusting video of the woman being attacked. The loathing pours off him. Screw him. Let him look. Let him hate.
When I take my seat, Keats perches his head sideways to look at me through his shades. I stare right back. Does he suspect I was messing with his computer after he went home? Knows that I have a copy of the funeral file? That I printed off the photo of Philip? I imagine the blatant shock sitting uncomfortably, defining the expression on his face. The tension of his compressed lips behind his outlaw bandana. It’s blood red today. A warning for me to keep away? He’ll be disappointed then because I won’t. Not today. I have plans for him.
‘I can’t open it. Only the person who set it up can.’
Sonia’s frustrating conclusion reminds me what priority number one is. Persuading Keats to either open the file for me or give me the password. Yeah, a difficult one from a man I think is persecuting me and probably hates women in the bargain, but I have to believe he’ll help me. I mean, why should he give a flying damn if I see the file or not? I see Philip’s face taped to the storeroom wall, which gives me courage to tackle Keats. Softly softly does it, Rachel.
I start with the inoffensive, the bland. Begin messaging.
Me: How long have you been working here?
He checks his message box, hesitates.
Go on. Talk to me.
As he taps his keyboard, a mini jubilant smile curves my lips, creeping up to my eyes.
Keats: Why?
Me: I’m just trying to find out more about you. You’re obviously a very clever man.
Yeah, the last sucks but so many men love to have their feathers stroked. Zero comeback. My side-eye sees his fingers hesitate over his keyboard.
Go on. Please.
His fingertips touch base.
Keats: What is this??? Are you trying to build a relationship with me here??? Your idea of tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree??? Here’s the thing, I don’t want to build a relationship with you. Okay? I don’t like hangers on.
That’s the cut-off line of a conversation if I’ve ever heard one. Philip’s face stamps back into my mind. I can’t give up.
Me: Maybe we can go out for a coffee or drink sometime to get to know each other better.
Keats: If you’re asking me out I don’t fancy you.
Me: What’s your type?
Keats: Someone with a lot less mouth on them.
Me: I was only referring to us doing something social to cement our professional relationship so we feel easier about working with each other.
This guy’s like a robot, no emotions, no social skills. There’s no other way to do this – I’m going to have to go in for the kill.
Me: I need to apologise.
Keats: For what?
I’m careful and think before I write.
Me: I’ll be honest – I snooped on your computer.
There’s a heavy-duty puff of air behind his bandana.
Keats: I know you did. Don’t sweat it. My fault. I shoulda locked in the main password before I went. Don’t bother trying again. Password protect is in place.
Me: I couldn’t help seeing the funeral programme you’re working on. So sad when a loved one passes away. Are you doing the job for someone? Or are you connected to the family?
Keats sits back. I imagine indecision playing across his features, drawing the blood high into his cheeks. Finally he leans forward.
Keats: Do you want some advice?
Me: Sure.
It’s surprising what you can tell about someone when they think they’ve hidden their emotions on their face. Other parts of the body speak volumes too. His fingers are hitting the keys hard.
Keats: Mind your own business.
His pissed attitude doesn’t deter me, although I don’t message back. I’ve got the whole day to wait. Wait for him to leave promptly at five and follow him. Maybe I can persuade him when we’re away from this dungeon-like place.
The heartbeat of the walls is in sync with my own as the minutes, the hours, tick away.
Finally. Finally, just after five, Keats heads out. I count to ten before following him. I follow on through the steel door. Stumble with a horrified squeal. A puff of fur and tail, in a flash of brown, shoots up the stairs. Or was it a shadow? No, I saw something moving. I’m rocking in shock, unable to move. When I hear a brief scuffle and soft bark, another squeal shoves past my quivering lips. Vermin. I shudder. I imagine them in the walls, in tiny holes in the bottom of the walls, beady eyes, hairy tails, flea-bitten coats waiting for me to go by. Ready to spring on me. I shouldn’t be surprised there are rodents hanging out down here, this being an ideal des res for them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not scared of our ratty friends, it’s just they live a very diseased life that I don’t want anywhere near me.
Hang on, rats don’t bark. I’m frowning as my heart thumps way too forcefully in the hollow of my chest. I think back to what I saw. It was a bit on the large size for a rat too, although there are urban myths of rats as big as cats haunting London’s sewers. Something tells me to rule that out. The mournful keening of the dog in the night bounces in the acoustics of my head, a death march at a funeral.
I rush through the tunnel to the stairs. Look up. Nothing there. Punch my hand against the trap door and peer out and around. Nothing. I think for a moment of the reports of Scrap’s ghost. The heroic dog that had led the way, keened in helpless anguish.
Properly freaked out, I scramble past the trap door, bang it closed behind me and am on the narrow street in three seconds flat. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m petrified.
I feed on natural air, breathing harshly, lacking control. For the first time, I question this quest to find out about Philip. To untangle our crooked past. I step away. Stare, eyes wide, at the Victorian building. It stares blatantly at me almost to attention, shoulders back. This once-upon-a-time sweatshop isn’t scared of anybody. My mind conjures up Philip’s face taped to the storeroom wall. No, I can’t, won’t let him down. Won’t run this time.
The irate blast of a car horn returns me to the street. Only then do I remember my mission to follow Keats. He’s nowhere in sight.
‘Bloody, bloody damn.’ Followed by a stream of ear-blistering cursing.
I’m not giving up, so I walk with speed to see if I can locate him. Then my phone goes off. I shake my head in consternation.
It’s Dad. Should or shouldn’t I take it? I take the call.
‘Rachel, I’m at your house.’
All thoughts of following Keats fly out of my mind.