But she was bored, and realised the lipstick might be a good way to get any attention if anyone was up there. She was still a believer, even now, that they’d be rescued. That this was some weird accident. If they did nothing, it was admitting defeat. She started counting her steps, marking every 50 with a slash of lipstick on a tile by the bannister.
Megan hadn’t noticed Rachel until her classmate had spoken to her first. The two of them were left in the classroom after a lecture on marketing pyramids. It had been so boring and obvious that even the lecturer seemed to leap out of the class at the end to escape it.
“I just don’t understand this,” Rachel said from behind Megan, with a little despair in her voice. She was about three desks back from Megan, who was sitting at the front, trying to squeeze out any bit of knowledge that the incompetent lecturer offered. The girl spoke so quietly she might have been at the back of the class.
Megan looked around, checking the thin, quiet girl was talking to her and not to herself.
“Oh, I think it’s quite obvious once you get it,” said Megan in a superior tone, turning properly to face the girl. “Spread the word to a few people with quality leads, they spread the word to others, and boom-boom-boom, suddenly you’re Microsoft.” She smiled.
The girl looked up from her desk, her eyes a little distant.
“That’s what I mean,” she whispered, releasing a little sigh and the tinniest shake of her head. “I don’t understand why we’re here being taught any old thing you could come up with yourself in five minutes, and look up on the internet in two.
There’s a whole bunch of YouTube marketing videos. I must have watched them all and every one gave you more information, and in a far more interesting way, than the last 45 minutes.”
The girl ducked her head again and started packing up her stuff, as if she was embarrassed about letting her guard down.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Megan gently, without the sarcasm of the last time she spoke. The girl wasn’t just mouthing off. She sounded resigned and disappointed.
“I guess they have to aim it at the lowest level to, well to include everyone.”
Megan knew how the girl felt. Every day she turned up, hoping today would be the day when she actually learned some new information. Something that would help propel her to the dizzy heights of business and the City. Every day she’d go home feeling every hour she’d spent at college was another wasted. Everything lacked substance and ambition. Maybe Dad was right.
“Ah well,” the girl said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m Megan.” A questioning tone that only gently expected a reply.
“Yes, I know. Nice to meet you…” the girl dropped her gaze, and waved her hands as if to take in the whole classroom and the last two months all in one gesture, “properly.”
The girl stood up and and made for the door.
“I’m Rachel,” she said. Then she was gone.
Megan realised Rachel had been there every day, too. Usually early into class like she was, always with her head buried in the work. She’d seen her in the library, at a particular table in the corner that overlooked the only green space in the college. A little square of lawn with what passed for a modern art sculpture plonked in the middle.
But the two had never made eye-contact. She was just an inconspicuous face, invisible among the much larger and far louder characters in the class.
Rachel never asked questions, never volunteered answers either. Megan was sociable with her classmates, at least on the surface. It was the only way she could get through the day.
Rachel appeared to have made a conscious effort not to do so, to make herself invisible. Everything about her said she didn’t want to be there. She didn’t seem to fit in. Like she’d ended up there by accident.
For a week or two, Rachel became invisible again. Megan tried a few times to start conversations, but it was hard to break through small talk.
‘How are you?’ And ‘Nice weekend?’ only goes so far if the person you’re asking only offers ‘Fine, thanks’ and ‘Not much, really,’ in response.
With the other girls, such questions generated a lengthy rendition about shopping trips and nights out and pubs and boyfriends and hairdos and holidays, which wasn’t what Megan wanted either.
But slowly Megan and Rachel began to smile at each other as they came into class. They continued to be the first ones to take their seats. They graduated to sharing raised eyebrows or a subtle shake of the head as a tutor would state something like the importance of good spelling when writing letters and emails, or learning to touch type rather than stabbing at the keys. What next, dress well for an interview?
Megan couldn’t remember when the two had started speaking properly, but a few times she’d sat by Rachel as they both worked overlooking the square.
She began sitting next to Rachel on the concrete bench outside the college - “do you mind if I?” - to eat their M&S sandwiches. After a chicken wrap one day, Megan could stand the distance no more. Rachel was obviously a kindred spirit. She asked asked her if she’d like to join her for a cup of muddy coffee the dispenser churned out in the college canteen.
Rachel didn’t talk much, and kept the conversation formal, talking about the work and the tutors.
But that was okay. Megan had plenty of talk for the two of them. Megan talked about her dad and how he didn’t understand why she wanted to work hard instead of taking the easy option.
She talked about the other girls in the class, sharing bits and pieces of gossip to fill the spaces in the conversation. She talked about the tutors, how they were useless and the two of them together probably already knew everything they were going to learn on this course.
Rachel didn’t share much. She had an ordinary family in Chigwell, with whom she still lived, and didn’t seem to have any ambition to leave. She led a normal life, studying and reading the papers on the weekend. School didn’t work out for me, she said. She didn’t have a boyfriend - nor a girlfriend, Megan learned after a little more prodding - and it didn’t seem to bother her.
One day, over a punnet of tuna and pasta salad, Megan had declared to Rachel that it was her towering ambition to get out of Essex and to work in some high powered City job.
Perhaps she should just get on with applying for jobs instead of being held back by this crappy college. She’d been dealt a raw deal in life, stuck on this course. She’d have to fight harder than most to get what she wanted, but nothing was going to hold her back.
“I don’t belong here,” she said with a mouth full of pasta. “You don’t belong here either, Rachel. What the hell are we both doing here?”
She saw Rachel’s eyes well up before she ducked her head, excused herself, and headed into the building and towards the toilets. When she returned, the redness in her eyes had gone, and she picked up her salad without a word.
“Sorry, Rachel, did I say something…”
“No, no,” said Rachel. “Just having a bad day.”
“Ah, boy trouble or something?” Megan desperately wanted in on her friend’s life. They were becoming friends, weren’t they?
“Yeah, something like that,” Rachel replied. But the salad was finished. It was time to go back to class. Megan took Rachel’s punnet into hers, and threw them both into the bin at the edge of the square.
At four hundred steps up, Megan decided she’d gone far enough. She’d marked seven lipstick marks on her way up, and now it was time to write something.
HELP!
Four people stranded.
Hungry. Thirsty.
400 steps down.
PLEASE!
Reluctantly she wrote her Dad’s phone number.
He’d be worried sick. No, not worried.
Angry.
Many times, he’d accused her of using his house like a hotel. If she came back late. If she didn’t bring back any shopping. If she didn’t call when she was away for longer than he expected.
G
od forbid, if she stayed the night with a boy.
If she did anything he couldn’t control. He wouldn’t let her even consider buying or renting her own place, and refused to guarantee a mortgage for her.
For a moment she considered scribbling out Dad’s number. But whose number would she write?
Did she have any real friends? Or just acquaintances. Dad had stood in the way of her getting to know anyone well enough for her to memorise their phone number. The rest were just names on her mobile. Long out of battery. Not worth being in touch with, anyway.
Megan sat on the 400th step. For the first time, she was properly away from the other three. For a moment, she allowed a rising feeling of claustrophobia. The bin again.
No.
If there was one thing she was going to defeat down here, it was that. There was no choice. She’d push it away, take charge, like she’d taken charge of her career.
And when she got out of here - and she was going to get out of here - she’d go right to Rank and Tudor and slam her revised CV down on the desk of the CEO.
She’d demand a decent job that reflected her talents, her hard work. And the massive achievement of surviving being buried alive for, what was it now, 36 hours?
“Fuck you, Dad.”
She shivered. Considered herself. Her head hurt with the dehydration, her throat was dry.
Her whole body ached from the climbing, but also from sleeping awkwardly, and not being replenished.
She had a period of feeling dizzy yesterday, as her brain came to terms with sustenance shortage. Now her whole body just felt full of dry sand. She felt she could sleep anywhere. Any time. In any place. Her skin was flaky. Her toes and fingers were losing feeling.
The body shuts down, she thought, to protect itself. The brain in particular. A kind of hibernation, she imagined.
She should have stuffed herself with pizza and donuts and bagels before coming down here, like a hedgehog overeats bugs and worms before going into a deep sleep over the winter.
Weird thoughts.
Was that part of the slow process of dying from hunger?
She needed to drink. Desperately.
She pulled out a small perfume pump spray bottle from her bra. She’d kept it hidden from the others. Dad had given it to her.
No, that wouldn’t work. She replaced it.
She looked at her lipstick, now worn down to practically nothing. She looked at the lid. Maybe an inch of canister. Things had got that desperate.
She couldn’t believe she was about to do this. She hitched up her skirt and hoped desperately that Giles hadn’t followed her up.
23
Megan woke up, needing to pee again. She also needed a drink, though she kept that quiet. She was embarrassed and disgusted by what she’d done the afternoon before.
She’d kept it quiet, while Giles had boasted about pissing into his Lucozade bottle. He’d sipped it in front of everyone, scrunched his face with the taste, and then pretended it was okay, really.
“Not quite your Chardonnay,” he’d said. “But better than the piss they served in my local.”
Grinning, he had offered it up to Benny, then down to Megan and Charles. Both had passed. Charles had become quiet in the evening, no longer really engaging with the group. She’d seen him become paler and his eye sockets withdrawn.
Giles was still asleep, as far as she could tell. Benny was staring into space. Of all of them he always seemed the most comfortable.
Megan edged down the steps, taking care to keep to the centre of the staircase so she didn’t wake Charles as she passed.
She took a few more steps, then leaped back and released a shrill scream. Somewhere between a deep intake of breath and a screech. Beneath it, the unmistakable sound of disgust.
“Oh, fuck,” she said, backing up the stairs. “Oh God Benny, oh God. He’s white; no he’s blue. Oh, God.”
She started retching, bent over and heaving. Her back convulsed as she wrapped an arm around her stomach. But there was nothing to come out. She was crying uncontrollably.
“Oh fuck,” she said. “Fuck, fuck, no, no.” She started to kick the wall, flail out, grabbing the back of her head, and pulling into her chest, wildly rocking from side to side.
“Benny, Benny,” she shouted.
“It’s okay,” the man said, trying to get up from where he was.
But it wasn’t going to be okay. Megan was sure of that now as she kicked the steps and resisted the temptation to bang her head against the hard tiles.
She knew it right through to her aching bones and her bruised toes. It wasn’t going to be okay at all.
And the reason it wasn’t going to be okay was that Charles was dead. She tried to push the thought away, but it kept creeping back in.
Charles was the first to die.
It wasn’t the first time Benny had seen a dead body. Not by a long shot. He’d seen a few drug overdoses. Someone was shot dead by a fellow robber at a jeweller’s shop they’d raided. Another time, after a party at his slate, someone just never woke up.
He hadn’t ever killed anyone himself, though he’d roughed a few up. But with the drug overdoses, the fucked-up robbery, he’d been there. That was just as bad.
Benny hauled himself up from his sitting position, using the handrail for support. Clearly, Giles would do nothing. And Megan was panicking so much she was incapable.
In agony, he lifted his leg, and used his stronger one and the handrail to hop down, past Giles, to where Charles was lying. Megan seemed to calm with his presence. She placed her hand on Benny’s back, rubbed it a little, then went up some steps to weep.
Benny knew nothing about taking a pulse, but it didn’t take more than a moment when he came level with Charles to know it wouldn’t be necessary.
The guy’s eyes were closed. His face and hands were as dull grey as the tiles above the bannister. His lips were a haunting muddy blue, deeper at the edges. It had happened in his sleep.
The lucky bastard hadn’t even known about it.
Giles and Megan watched. Benny steeled himself as he kneeled down and reached out to touch the body, which was sprawled out. The side of him felt hard to the touch. It rocked slightly as Benny pushed him with his hands, as if he was trying to wake him.
Poor guy.
More confident now, Benny ran his hands down Charles’ jacket and felt a weight in the pocket. He pushed his hands inside and brought out a small leather notebook, then returned to retrieve a small dark canister. He shook it, then flipped the top and peered inside at a dozen tiny white pills. He looked up at the other two, then placed them back in Charles’ pocket.
He opened the notebook, then shifted around painfully to sit on the narrowing step by Charles’ side. He glanced over the pages, scanning neat handwriting detailing ships and spices, countries and dates. Benny remembered what Charles had said yesterday: This is me. It’s my private work. It’s all I have.
He flicked to the last pages he’d written on.
‘My dear Felicity,’
He closed the book and leaned over, placed it back in Charles’ blazer pocket. He knew Charles would probably have a wallet in the other pocket, but that was enough. What was his was his. Any photographs or memories left would go with him.
Megan turned to Benny, who was still sitting below him. “I don’t know how much more I can take of this. I can’t look at him.”
She pointed at Charles. “He’s the lucky one, he’s out of this. But I can’t sit here next to his body.”
“I’ll take him down. Past the toilet area. Giles will help.”
Giles stood, reluctant, Benny thought.
“Don’t leave me alone,” she cried.
“You’ll be fine. We’ll carry Charles down and come right back up.”
“I can’t bear it,” she said. “Oh, fuck, this is just the worst.”
“Calm down, Meg,” said Giles. “It’s one less person to worry about.”
“Fuck off, Giles.”
Benny watched him smile.
“Help me, you fool,” he said.
“Should we, say a prayer, or something?” Megan said.
Benny thought of the Chaplain at the Programme.
I’m always here if you want to talk. God wants to hear you talk.
God had done nothing for Benny. God was doing nothing for them down here in this hole. God had been wholly absent his entire life.
“No, we shouldn’t,” he said, a tightness in his voice. Then softer. “We know nothing about Charles, whether he believed.”
Benny stood again, using the bannister as support. Giles joined him.
“Megan, we’re going to have to drag him down. I suggest you go for a walk.”
Megan nodded through tears. Turned, and made her way up steps and out of view.
“Put your hands under his shoulders,” said Benny. “Don’t let his head bang off the steps. We can give him that at least.”
Giles did as he was told, though he turned his head away as he grasped Charles’ jacket. Benny began hauling the dead man down the steps. The man wasn’t particularly heavy, and gravity did its job, as the stiff body worked its way down the spiral, with Benny hopping down on one leg.
They’d rest for a moment or two, then heave again. Neither wanted to wait too long for fear of realising what they were actually doing.
They pulled Charles down past the two toilet areas, both of them scrunching their eyes at the stink. At the number two area, Benny insisted they both lift the man, so he didn’t have to be dragged through their waste.
Giles did his best, Benny thought, but he had to use his own strength to do most of the work, despite the sheering pain in his ankle when he was forced to put pressure on it. At least his foot stayed in its socket.
Finally, they agreed he was far enough down. Benny dropped Charles’ legs, and Giles gently lowered the man’s head onto a step. Despite his pale skin, Charles looked like he was sleeping. Half an hour ago, everyone had thought he had been.
Benny pulled out Charles’ hankie, the one from his top pocket, and laid it across the man’s face
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