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. Feel my way down the jet-drenched tunnel. Take the steep stairs carefully until my head’s perched at an angle beneath the trap door. I prise up the door an inch, maybe less, and peer out into the reception area, half lit from the front dormer window that gives out onto the street. There’s nothing to see, of course. I’m not sure why I’m doing this. It’s not as if I’m going upstairs to find out who this woman is, now is it? Is it?

I’m distracted by a noise the other side of the arched entrance doors. I tune my ears to it. A car blaring heavy rock music and from the sound of the engine, it’s a high-performance vehicle. Keys rattle in the lock. Heart racing, I drop the trap. Flatten my back to the damp wall. Wait. Listen. Footsteps inside. A clear distinct voice shouts – not too far away — must be up the stairs.

‘Mum? Mum? Are you up there?’

It’s Michael. Calling for his… mum? Yes, that’s what he said. Is that who haunts the building at night – his mother? Why would his mother be living here? I’m assaulted by a roll call of questions that have no answers. Michael’s footsteps fade upstairs the same time I hear another vehicle stop outside. The pulse of its engine thrums against the wooden step beneath me.

A violent slam of a door disturbs the quiet of the night in the street. The sudden hammering on the main door goes right through me. Pushes me to sink closer to the wall. I imagine the security buzzer being repeatedly pressed as well because whoever’s out there, I sense their volatile impatience.

Michael’s back on the stairs. His voice is strained and something else I haven’t heard in his tone before – fear. ‘Who is it?’

I creep closer to the trap door. My palm lifts it ever so slightly. I see Michael’s spit-polished black designer shoes and jeans-clad legs. The answer to his question is a fusillade of thumping knocks that shake the Victorian door in its frame. Michael’s feet shuffle hesitantly forward. I think he’s looking through the peephole. His feet skip back in alarm.

‘What do you want?’

The letterbox opens. ‘Open the door, Michael, or so help me, I’ll kick it in. And then I’ll kick you in.’

My chest constricts, leaving it hard to find air as I go absolutely still. It can’t be. Not that voice.

Michael opens the door. Another pair of feet and legs covered in grey trousers come in.

It can’t be.

Michael’s legs abruptly jerk up like a puppet on a string, almost on tiptoes, his body swaying. Whoever has arrived has grabbed Michael.

The visitor growls, ‘I want to know what you’ve been saying to my girl. She’s asking questions about Philip’s death. Now why would Rachel be doing that after all this time? Unless you or your mother have been whispering in her ear.’

But it is.

Dad.

What’s Dad doing here? What if…? No, I shake my head in denial. Maybe… Maybe he’s here to give Michael a good telling off, or worse a sound thumping about putting me in the basement. But how would Dad know I’m working here? I’ve never told him the name of my employer or the address of my job. I gaze sharply down the sheer drop of stairs, which seem to be beckoning me to go back. Get your gear and get out. But a magnetic need to find out what’s going on holds me.

I pull apart Dad’s words to Michael. Why does Dad seem so angry that I asked him about Philip’s death? And why would he think this has got anything to do with Michael and his mother upstairs?

Michael says, ‘Rachel? Why would I be talking to Rachel? I’ve never met her, now have I?’

Of course he has; I work for him.

Michael squeals, the noise an animal makes when a predator pounces and takes it by the neck. I don’t hear the blow but the gurgling groan from Michael’s guts means there’s certainly been one.

‘Don’t try to make a fool out of me, lad. You of all people should know how angry that makes me. You of all people should know what I’m capable of. No-one makes a fool out of me, not in public or private. And never, ever, does someone make a fool of me in front of my girl. You’ll find that out the hard way if I discover you or your meddling mother talk trash to my daughter. You’ll find that out for sure.’

Michael staggers across the floor, legs wobbling. Dad’s let him go.

Dad’s voice detonates and explodes. ‘Is your mother here? Does she hang out in this rat hole too?’

My legs are wobbling. In a state of confused disbelief. That can’t be my dad out there. That man who grabbed Michael with a vicious violence that bordered on hate. I don’t want to believe this.

Michael’s spluttering. ‘Mum? No, no. She’s at our place in Spain. Did you know we had a villa there? Just down the road from Malaga, lovely place.’

No she’s not. He’s lying. She’s upstairs. I heard her drop something and swear a blue streak. Why is Michael hiding the fact his mother’s in the building from my dad? And why would Dad know Michael’s mum? And why is Michael denying knowing me? What would happen if I Jack-in-the-box surprised them now by pushing the trap door back and leaping out? I wouldn’t dare.

‘I don’t care about your housing arrangements, you little tramp.’ Dad’s volume refuses to dial down.

‘Why don’t we go up to the office? Have a coffee? Talk?’ Michael’s back in the guise of in-control professional CEO.

Dad’s not interested as he warns, ‘Don’t make me come and find you again, Michael. And tell your mother the same. I don’t care what she thinks about me. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. But if I find out she’s been twisting my tail over this matter, she’ll feel my claws across her face and they’re razor sharp, as you know. As for you, don’t make me break you, Michael. I’d hate to see you end up in the gutter. Do you understand?’

Michael’s voice is solemn and chastened. ‘I understand. I won’t let you down.’

Dad’s gone with a slam shut of the front door. His car bursts into life and he skids off at speed, taking out his anger on the road. When he’s gone, Michael walks partway up the stairs, disappearing from my view.

‘Did you hear any of that?’ he calls out tightly.

‘Enough. You’d better come up.’

The lady from upstairs. His mother. She keeps her response flat, monotone. I don’t know this woman but I’m sure it’s to hide her emotions from her son. But I hear them. It’s funny what you can really see when your vision is taken away. Buried beneath her answer is a cold bitter harshness. Michael disappears up the stairs. There are no more voices. No more words. Mother and son have blended in the hidden secrets of this building.

The basement I re-enter is back to its usual trickster self. The walls’ heartbeat pounds, blue lights blatantly gawking, the digi lights morbidly brighter, the ceiling a visual illusion of being lower. I leave it behind and go into the storeroom. Stare up at the wall. I take out Philip’s photo from my pocket. Smooth it as best I can. Tack it back on the wall.

I’m staying. It’s as if Philip’s ghost has grabbed me by the collar and dragged me back. I won’t leave until I find out what Michael, his mum and… I swallow hard… my dad have got to do with Philip. His death. The death that never was a decade ago. Can I believe anything Dad told me about Philip’s recent self-inflicted death?

Michael has promised my father that he won’t let him down.

I stand back, looking at Philip, and silently promise him that whatever has happened, I won’t let him down either. I could give Michael my notice, leave the job and sneak in here at night to find answers. No. The best way will be to continue working here. In plain sight. Carry on as normal so Michael doesn’t catch a whiff of what I’m really about.

I grab my bag. Climb up the rope. Head out into the night to talk to the one person who might be able to tell me more about Michael.