The corridor. The door behind him. Just about to be firmly shut. Leaving Mouse stranded in the vast unknown. The boxer’s back. His legs aren’t working properly. It’s like walking through thigh-high mud. ‘Mummy,’ he mouths, wildly looking around, ‘Mummy?’ You need to be with him, need this, he’s so small, so young for this. You thump the wall in frustration.
And so it is. Thank God for that, thank God.
The corridor’s empty. A hum like an engine room is somewhere close. Mouse’s breathing ratchets up, his eyes are wide as he tries to work it out; perhaps there’s a furnace or a lab for strange experiments or a child-sized oven warming up, and stopping at head height are rectangular, filthy cream tiles and above them are scrapes as if enormous crates have been pushed, protesting, into the building’s dark heart. He gazes at the ceiling. Spaghetti lines of black piping run into the distance, ticking and gurgling and transporting goodness knows what. Water? Waste? Blood? He tries to spine his walk, to tall himself up, progressing slowly, so slowly down the corridor. Fire stairs, ahead. Can he do it? Can he climb them? He rubs his arms, feeling his sister’s intent, still wears her finger marks. Up, up the steps, whimpering, barely managing this. To a heavy black door on the next level and he grabs a door handle and can’t quite bring himself to turn it, to dare to see what’s beyond, but, but…
He bends. Peers. A tiny, ripped-off piece of checked shirt, tied to the doorknob. So small it’s hardly there. But it is.
So. It must be all right. Someone’s guiding him here.
Mouse smiles and turns the handle strong.
I am the door.