The smoke coming through the basement and storeroom brushes my face like an evil spirit. That’s what drives me back into gear. On my feet again. I head into the basement in a rush, clasping my phone and its light. There’s a way out of here. There has to be. I scan around. What to do? What to do? I pile desks onto each other, sending silent computers crashing onto the floor, the glass from their screens scattering everywhere. It’s a chaotic scene. I lunge up to the desk at the top. The tower of desks wobbles. Doesn’t fall.
Somehow, I have no idea how I manage it, I’m balancing unsteadily on the final desk. I batter and bang the ceiling with a keyboard. Of course it doesn’t give – it’s made of stone. I chuck the keyboard across the room. Gingerly climb down. I punch and kick the wall.
The smoke gets thicker. I’m choking. Why didn’t I wrap something over my face?
Stop, Rachel. Think. Think. Think. My head’s throbbing. Threatening to explode. My neck tips back as I remember how I found the door to the storeroom. What if…? Teeth gritted, muscles bulging and hurting, I pull and lug the photocopier away from the wall. No! No! No! There’s nothing unusual about this wall. I dip my head with abject soul-destroying defeat. Suddenly my breath stalls inside my aching chest as I see something on the floor.
Drop to my knees. In the light of my phone, I see a large shape with – I count the number of sides – eight outlined on the floor. A hexagon or a type of star. There are lines from the corner of each side leading to a point in the middle. For a moment I forget my terror. I’m curious. What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it before, certainly not in the ground. In the centre is a small piece of wood. I dare to press. The shape springs open like a star bursting open or a monster’s mouth with sharpened triangular teeth. It’s another trap door.
I peer inside. It’s a rectangular boxed-shaped space that leads away under the floor of the basement. A shiver sinks and expands into every pore in my skin. I don’t want to go down there. Down and under. But what choice do I have? I drop into it on my hands and knees. The space is soaked in chills and damp and smells bad. A mental peg over my nose, I crawl along it, followed by wisps of smoke. I reach a dead end.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.
The fear digs its sharpened claws in any part of me it can find without mercy. I’m crippled, can’t move. I’m going crazy. Losing my mind.
Gonna die. Gonna die. Gonna…
I look up, seeking deliverance. I gasp loud and ragged because there it is. Marked with faded paint is another star trap door. I lunge up at it, forcing it open. The passage continues upwards this time. The ancient rungs of a ladder fastened to the sides take me upwards through this cool musty and chimney-like structure. I’m shaking and terrified. My arms and legs hardly work anymore. My fingers barely grip. My heartbeat shakes my whole body in a continuous tremble. But I go up, banging limbs and legs against the wooden panels.
When I reach the top, there’s another trap door. It opens onto a miniature landing and another ladder. This must be on the ground floor of the tenement. I lay my hands on the sides of the landing but feel no heat. No crackling of flames either. But then the way fires burn is a funny thing. I know that from bitter personal experience. This passageway is longer than the others and something shines in the dark distance. I see no way out so I look up.
Another trap door. Another ladder. Another climb. Of course fire goes upwards too. There’s no choice but for me to keep going. I climb through another trap door. It slams shut behind me. There’s no ladder. When I pull on the trap door it won’t open. I kick at it. It refuses to help me. The light from my phone goes out. I’m in the dark. In the skeleton bricks of the building. Trapped.
No light means no air.
No light means no air.
It’s the end of the line. I’m in barely enough space to stand. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to avoid underground spaces and fire. It’s ended with my entombment in a casket-shaped box and a fire chasing me. Doomed, I slump against the side and weep. It’s over, my struggle is over; my whole ten-year battle is over. I never gave up. Not even in the darkest hours did that happen. Never surrendered; buckled but never broke.
My mum’s face suddenly is there with me, the only brightness in this hell dark.
‘Mummy?’
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her being there is enough. Her beautiful face is filled with such happiness, such kindness. I feel curiously light-headed and content. Intensively calm. I’m ready to go, knowing Mum’s arms will be waiting to take me. My head jerks. There’s scratching on the side of the box. At first I don’t believe it. It happens again. It shakes me up so much I bang my head. That’s when I hear it, a dog’s barks on the other side of the wood. It’s Scrap come to save me. Just like he tried to save the sweatshop girls.
That’s stupid. This is real. There’s more scratching. Clearer, more distinct. I push against the wood. It gives slightly. There’s not enough room for me to get any leverage against the wall but I make one final effort with what’s left of my strength and barge against the wood with my shoulder. It swings open and I tumble headfirst into a room on the other side of what must have been a wall. The dog scampers and leaps around my prone body, barking like mad. Then it’s licking my wrist and tugging at my clothes with its teeth. He or she seems to know me, although that’s obviously ridiculous.
When my eyes focus, I understand why the dog’s acting as if it knows me. That’s because he does. Hanging from his collar is a silver tag. On it is his name.
‘Ray,’ I say with astonishment as I sit up.
Ray is Philip’s dog.
For a moment there’s no sense of danger. No fire or smoke. Simply me and Ray hugging, a moment shared between friends who have been separated for too long. He’s a Yorkshire terrier who looks like he’s sporting a brown beard. Still as bouncy but the age is plain in his coat. So it wasn’t Scrap after all, but Ray. What I don’t understand is why is Philip’s dog here? And where exactly is here?
I look around as Ray licks my bruised hands. I figure out this must be where Michael’s mum is staying at night. I come full circle again – why would she have Philip’s dog? But that’s the least of my worries; I need to get out of this burning building. Dancing in a frenzy as he barks, Ray follows me as I run over to the window. Throw it open and fill my lungs with fresh oxygen. Then I prepare to scream with all my might.
I hesitate as I peer down. There’s no-one on the street below to shout out to. What makes my scream die is there’s no sign of smoke or flames flicking and blazing from the building. On the other side of this apartment, a quick scan through those windows shows there’s no sign of fire there either. Perhaps it went out? Or perhaps there was smoke without fire. Michael playing more of his dirty games with me, except this time I suspect I was meant to be knocked out of the game for good with no way of getting out from the basement. He obviously doesn’t know the secrets of this former sweatshop as well as he thinks.
My natural instinct is to hunch low to pick Ray up and get out of here as fast as possible. Michael’s mother could be in this flat somewhere. But it’s silent apart from Philip’s dog and me. A quick tour of the flat shows no-one else is around. I take my chance and search the rooms while borrowing her charger for my phone.
There’s very little in the way of personal effects. The flat has an air about it that suggests someone’s moved in for a while with no intention of staying permanently, almost like a hotel suite. At first my search is determined and savage. I throw things around and rifle through a sideboard in the hunt for information that would bring me closer to Michael and his mother. And Philip.
But there is none.
In the compact bedroom, the wardrobe holds a selection of clothes that are a mixture of smart-professional, some more classy, but all are expensive. A rummage through her bedside drawers draws a blank. I yank the mattress off her bed to see if anything is tucked away from prying eyes. There isn’t.
Ray watches me and looks worried as if he knows that this search isn’t the right thing to do but loves me too much to say so. I look at his soft face that’s rumpled by age but which I remember so well.
He follows me into the kitchen and becomes excited when I take down tins of doggy food from a cupboard and whimpers with disappointment when I put them back. Michael’s mum can’t have gone far. Even the wicked witch of the east wouldn’t leave Ray in here to starve. I conjure up her weeping in the night, Ray’s wailing. Two tortured souls together. Actually, three of us if you count me too.
My hunt loses momentum. So I find out who Michael’s mum is? So what? According to my dad, she was Danny’s secretary with whom he had an affair and then kicked to the kerb. Of course there’s no evidence that’s true. I don’t believe my dad anymore. Anyway, what’s a picture of her going to prove? That Michael has a mother? What’s a name going to mean?
My search grinds to a halt. I pick up Ray and carry him to the front door of the flat. Of course it’s locked. Behind it is the staircase that leads down to the first floor and Michael and Joan’s offices. There’s no way out through there. That means going back the way I came. I hesitate. My arms tighten around this gorgeous generous dog. What am I going to do with Ray? I can’t take him down through the trap door parallel universe that runs through the walls. Or keep him in a locked basement full of smoke.
I place him on the ground and lie on my belly so that I’m eye-to-eye with my tiny friend. ‘Listen, Ray, I’m going to have to leave you here for now. But I’ll come back for you – is that all right?’
He doesn’t seem sure as his tongue caresses the tip of my finger before I scramble to my feet. I collect my phone and open the door in the living room that leads back to the basement. With the light from the room, it’s obvious there’s a simple pulley to open the trap door that I thought wouldn’t open. When I open it, Ray becomes frantic. He barks at me and scampers off towards the bedroom. He howls. What’s the matter with him?
In the bedroom, I find Ray standing over a small photo frame, its glass lying scattered on the floor. I must have knocked it off without noticing during my search. Inside is a photo.
It’s an intimate family photograph with a lush English garden as its backdrop. It’s springtime. Roses are blooming and fresh green leaves hang lazily from trees. At the front are two small boys smiling as if no-one’s told them yet that the world is full of invisible trap doors. One is Michael. The other… My breath sticks way deep in my throat. Philip. The other is Philip. Standing behind them and slightly to the left, with a tenderly and motherly hand on each of the boys’ shoulders is their mother.
Joanie.