by Danuta Reah
She didn’t know if the woman used the train every Thursday. She’d usually been there last term, but Debbie hadn’t been at the station in the evenings over the summer – there were no classes. Evening classes had started again at the end of September. She’d certainly seen the woman since then, and she’d certainly been at the station for the past few weeks – three? Four? She couldn’t be sure. Yes, she waited on the platform; no, the rain wouldn’t make any difference, the platform was sheltered; no, she couldn’t be certain she wasn’t waiting on the ramp or the bridge, she hadn’t looked; yes, she had seen a man; no, she couldn’t identify him. Over and over it they went, until at last he said, ‘Thank you, Miss Sykes, you’ve been very helpful.’ Meaning, ‘You haven’t given me much I can work on here.’
He did talk about the article then, about how it was unwise, how she shouldn’t have talked to anybody, about the undesirability of having a high profile when a killer such as this was on the streets, about being careful and about telling them at once if she had any reason to think anyone was watching her. Debbie felt an impotent anger at having to explain and excuse her own actions. She hadn’t done anything!
She left, feeling wrung out and exhausted.
Debbie stayed at her desk until after five, then packed some work into her briefcase to finish at home. It weighed a ton, and as she came to the stairs, she pushed the button for the lift, in case it was already there. She heard a distant clang, and decided not to wait, but headed down the stairs to the basement exit.
She heard the lift clunk to a halt as she hurried down the stairs. She should have waited for it. Then she heard it moving on down towards the basement. Someone must have called it from below. She looked at her watch – five-thirty. She might just make it in time for the next train. She heard the lift doors open below her as she hurried down the last flight of stairs.
It was dark. Someone had turned the lights off, and she didn’t know where the switches were. The open lift doors illuminated the bottom of the stairwell, but the corridor to the exit was in blackness. She felt uneasy in the darkness, and hurried round the corner to the doors. As she reached them, she had a sudden sense of someone behind her, close. She spun round but there was no one there, just the dim shadows. The clang of the lift doors made her jump, and she heard the lift hum into life.
She pushed through the doors and into the alley, where the light of the streetlamp calmed her nerves. Her talk with DS McCarthy had turned her into a wreck. Debbie took a deep breath, looked round her at the groups of people walking down the alley, the lights from the shop windows, open late now for Christmas, and telling herself firmly that everything was normal, she walked briskly to the station.
It was Thursday again, her long day. Debbie had a class from nine till twelve-fifteen, a tutorial group from one-thirty till three and her evening class at six. At the beginning of the term, Peter Davis had tried to put a nine o’clock class on her timetable for Friday morning, but Louise had put her foot down and after some heated discussion he had agreed that Debbie could have her half-day in lieu on Friday morning for the moment. ‘“For the moment”, my arse,’ Louise said. ‘He’s not pulling a stunt like that and he knows it. Just let me know if you have any hassle.’ College rumour had it that Peter Davis used to count his testicles after a meeting with Louise. Debbie was glad to have her on the same side.
She was tired. Term had run for thirteen weeks without a break, and there was still a week to go before the Christmas break. The students were starting to get tired as well, which made them less responsive, more inclined to complain, miss classes, leave work undone. She decided that she’d take her evening class on the ghost tour. She’d check with Sheila, the IT receptionist, that the room would be open so she could take her students on to the long staircase. It would be particularly spooky at night. They’d enjoy that. Then next week, the last class of the term, they could have a kind of Christmas party, and watch a film – did she have a good ghost story in her video collection? She must remember to book a video.
So much to do. She had half an hour before her class started so she could get some marking done. Had she got all her handouts ready for her first class? Her mind felt woolly and unfocused, and the vague depression that had started two days ago was still with her. As she walked along the corridor to her class, she felt that now familiar sense of menace, so strongly that she turned round sharply to see who was behind her, but there were only a few students on their way to classes, and one of the caretakers at the far end of the corridor, checking the fire escape door.
Her lethargy lasted through her morning class, and on into the afternoon. She was trying to get her tutorial group to start thinking about their university entrance. The students, who still had one more year at college, couldn’t see the urgency, but Debbie knew from past experience that if they didn’t get started now, there would be a terrible rush next September. ‘You may not care,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to be the one picking up the pieces and I can tell you now that I’m not picking up the pieces for anyone who hasn’t put in the time this year.’
They were neither impressed nor convinced.
Her energy came back a bit by the time her evening class started. The idea of the ghost tour had been a good one. Even the most disaffected, the eye-raisers, the lip-curlers, became enthusiastic about this assignment. ‘Writing horror,’ Debbie told them, ‘isn’t just about writing a lot of gore. I know’ – she held up a hand to silence some objections – ‘some writers write excellent gore. What I’m saying is you don’t have to, and if you aren’t a very experienced writer, it’s difficult to write convincingly. Let the readers’ imagination work. Let them frighten themselves.’ She read them an extract from Shirley Jackson’s novel, The Haunting of Hill House, the passage where two women huddle in a locked room listening to something not human pounding on the doors in a deserted corridor, and feeling for entry to the room where the women are trapped: … The little sticky sounds moved on around the door frame and then, as though a fury caught whatever was outside, the crashing came again and Theodora saw the wood of the door tremble and shake, and the door move against its hinges … They listened with the intentness of real interest until Debbie finished reading.
‘That’s crap, that,’ volunteered Shawn. ‘You want to see that bit from Scream when –’
‘Not films,’ Yvonne said. ‘I think that was great, that, Debbie, it was really …’
‘What did come through the door?’ That was Nargus.
‘What do you think?’ Debbie was enjoying herself. There was a confused mixture of voices as each one tried to think of something horrible enough, and disagreed with each other’s suggestions. ‘So you see,’ Debbie said, ‘everyone thinks something different was on the other side of the door. Shirley Jackson never tells you, because what you can imagine is much worse than anything else. She just describes what happens and you do the rest.’
‘That’s crap, that …’ But Shawn’s voice lacked conviction now, and Debbie felt she’d got them into the right mood for the ghost tour. She took them to the locations she’d got stories for, trailed part of the way by one of the caretakers, one she didn’t know, who concealed his interest by studying fire hoses and testing the doors of empty rooms. When they got to the highlight, the long staircase, she led them through the IT suite to the old fire door, and pushed the bar down to open it. The door opened on to a landing halfway up the staircase. The spiral stairs ran up into shadows and down into shadows, illuminated by a single light. She took them up to the top, and showed them how the doors, one on each landing, were firmly nailed shut. Then she took them down to the bottom, to show them the door leading out on to the lane that ran behind the building. She put her briefcase on the floor and turned the handle of the outside door to demonstrate that it was bolted and that no one could get in. Then she told them the story.
‘… coming up the steps behind him.’ Debbie finished to a satisfactory silence. Then there was a hubbub of questions, interest, appre
ciation. They went back to the classroom, and she set up the assignment. ‘For next week, please, a first draft of a ghost story, set in a place you know well. I want you to convince me, and I want you to frighten me. OK?’
Just before nine, as she shut down the computer, Sarah Peterson noticed the man in the blue overalls – again! She’d stayed on at college to finish her essay before the deadline. Tomorrow evening was Adam’s party, so she was going to have to work an extra shift at the pub this weekend. Tony, the landlord, had been a bit funny with her when she’d asked for Friday evening off, and she felt guilty about letting him down.
The man in the blue overalls – she frowned, thinking. She’d seen him twice before, when she’d been looking for Debbie. She hadn’t wanted Debbie to know she was waiting for her, so she’d been keeping in the background, and each time, he’d been there. She’d hardly noticed him at first, and then – when there was nobody around, apart from her – suddenly he’d been there. He made her feel – wrong, uneasy.
And now … there he was again. She stayed at the screen of her computer, peering over the top. He was going across to the old fire door. He turned and Sarah ducked behind her screen. She looked round the room. She was the last student. There was just the receptionist tidying up at the desk. Sarah moved round her table, and headed towards the door the man had just gone through. She was going to see what he was up to, just peek round the door, when the receptionist’s voice interrupted her, making her jump guiltily. ‘What are you doing? It’s after nine. You’ll have to leave now, the caretakers will be locking up soon.’
Nine o’clock came and went. The class meandered out, discussing the evening, asking Debbie questions, checking on the requirements of the work. Once again, it was late when she came out, and the caretakers were locking up. She hurried to the staff room and then realized that she didn’t have her briefcase. Where was it? Could it wait till tomorrow? Oh God, it had her purse and her keys in. Then she had a sudden picture, oh, no … of her putting the case down near the bottom of the spiral stairs.
She rushed back to the main entrance where Les was shuffling around with a window pole. ‘Les!’
‘What do you want, love?’
‘I’ve left something upstairs, I’ll be a few minutes, OK?’
‘Don’t worry. We’ve not finished on top floor yet.’
‘Right. Great. I’ll just get it.’ She ran upstairs, and pushed open the doors of the IT suite. The room was unlit, silent and empty. She turned on the light at the far end, and crossed through the pools of shadow to the fire door. It opened, and she peered into the darkness uneasily. She tried the light switch, but the light wasn’t working. She had a feeling she’d turned it off at the bottom of the stairs earlier in the evening. Oh, well. There was enough light from the open door. She nerved herself, then went cautiously down the stairs.
The bottom of the stairs were in darkness. There was a strange smell down there she hadn’t noticed earlier, stale and fetid. She groped around the wall for the light switch, but when she found it, it didn’t work. Her bag would be over by the wall. She felt her way across, was reaching to find it, when a sudden draught swirled round her and the door two landings up closed with a crash.
Debbie was plunged into complete darkness. At first she was just surprised, then her heart began to hammer, and she was terrified. She tried to run back up the stairs, but tripped and fell on the first step, scraping her shin on the stone. The sudden pain brought tears to her eyes, and she stopped, breathing deeply, calming herself. The smell seemed to be stronger now.
It’s OK, it’s OK, the wind blew the door shut. You can open it again. Don’t be frightened by your own stupid ghost stories.
She climbed the stairs more slowly now, a faint light from the grimed-up window helping her to see a little. There was no light on the landing, but she reached out for the door, feeling over it for a handle. None. Of course, it was for getting out, not getting in. She pushed against it, but it wouldn’t budge. She was trapped. Les knew where she was – no, he just knew she’d gone upstairs. He might not even realize she hadn’t come down again and left. She felt her mouth go dry and her heart begin to beat fast again.
Stop it, calm down. Bottom line is you spend the night on these steps.
She took a deep breath, and called. Nothing. Her voice had a muffled sound that made her remember how thick the door was. She yelled again, and banged on the door. Still nothing. She could try going up the staircase and calling there. If Les was on the top floor, he might hear her. Then she realized. She could unbolt the bottom door, get out that way. She was just feeling with her foot for the first step of the flight down, when she froze.
Down below her, in the dark, down below her where there was nothing but the locked door, she heard a sound. ‘Hello?’ Her whisper echoed round the stairwell. There was only silence, then she heard it again, a faint scraping noise. She kept quite still, staring into the dark until colours danced in front of her eyes. She felt cold. Another sound like, please not, like a footstep down in the darkness below her. She was suddenly convinced that something, no, someone, was coming quietly but deliberately up the steps towards her. The blood pounded in her ears and she made a dive for the next flight, falling again but not feeling the pain this time.
Not up. There’s no way out!
Now she couldn’t mistake it. There were footsteps on the stairs below her and that awful smell was in her nostrils. She pounded on the door, shouting to drown the sound more than anything else. She wanted to shut her eyes, bury her head, just wait until it was over. There was no one to hear her. She didn’t know if she was afraid of the supernatural or the real. She felt a gust of cold air blow over her and knew that whatever was coming towards her meant her harm.
Then the door to the IT suite opened and she fell through it against the person who had opened it, grabbing on to him, trying to press her head into him, to hide herself from the thing on the stairs.
‘Deborah! Come on, Deborah, it’s OK, you’re all right, I heard you, you’re OK.’ It was Rob Neave holding her, trying to calm her down.
‘Oh, God, Rob, there’s someone down there, I heard someone down there!’ He pushed her away from him at once and went to the door.
‘I can’t see anything. Are you sure …’
‘Rob, I know, I heard it, please believe me.’ It was important, very important that he believed her. He had a torch attached to his belt and he went through the door, shining its inadequate light in front of him. Debbie followed. He shone it up and down the stairwell, but there was nothing there. He went down the steps into the darkness, as Debbie watched the light of his torch. He said something more to himself than her, then came up again more quickly, carrying her briefcase. His expression was unreadable.
‘There’s no one there now,’ he said, and made a quick gesture to silence her protest, ‘but I think someone was. The door at the bottom – the bolts are drawn.’ Debbie’s legs began to tremble so much she thought she was going to fall over. He said something she couldn’t catch, his voice sounding impatient, but he put his arms round her until the shaking stopped. She pressed her face into him, breathing in the warm smell of him, the cotton of his shirt, his skin. ‘OK?’ he asked. She nodded and he let her go, steadying her with his hands on her arms. ‘Right, I’ve locked the door. Do you want to tell anyone? The police?’ She shook her head. He looked at her. He seemed watchful, tense.
‘It was probably nothing, my imagination, I don’t know, I just don’t want any more …’ She heard tears coming into her voice and stopped. He slipped his arms round her again and pulled her face against him. ‘It’s OK, Deborah, you’re OK.’ He seemed more aware of how frightened she had been and was gentler now, stroking her hair, soothing, saying, ‘It’s OK … it’s OK,’ until she felt herself relax.
She straightened up and wiped her face with her hands, pushed the loosened combs back into her hair, feeling dishevelled and confused. She swallowed and found her voice. ‘I think I’ve missed
my train.’ That wasn’t what she meant to say. ‘I mean … thanks for …’
‘Don’t worry about that. I can take you back.’ He was looking at her, concerned. ‘You need a drink.’ He hesitated as though he was thinking something through. ‘I should put in a report about this.’ He looked at Debbie again. ‘It’ll keep. Whoever it was will be miles away by now. Have you got your things?’
Debbie gestured to her briefcase. Her mac was squashed into the top. ‘Yes,’ she said. Then, ‘Rob? That drink? I don’t think I could face the Grindstone …’ The pub could be crowded and noisy this late, she knew.
‘No. I know somewhere quieter.’ He looked at her for a moment. ‘Come on.’
He drove her to a pub by the river. It was small, shabby and run down, but quiet. She didn’t want to talk at first and sat quietly letting the drink unwind her. He seemed to know how she was feeling and wandered easily through a range of topics that didn’t require much response from her, and gradually she felt herself relaxing. The events of earlier began to fade from her mind and when she found herself laughing at something he said she decided she had recovered. She owed him a drink from their visit to the Grindstone, and he’d already bought a round, so she asked him if he wanted another. He checked his watch. ‘Do you need to be home at any particular time?’
‘No.’ She pictured the black windows of her house. ‘There’s only the cat waiting.’ Then she thought again about the black windows, and the empty passageway leading to the back of her house and it came racing back into her mind – the dark stairs, the sound of footsteps, quiet but clear in the shadows below her, the way she had been trapped. The warmth seemed to drain out of her and her hand shook as she took a quick swallow of her drink. She looked up and met his eyes. He didn’t look away, but lifted his hand towards her and, after a moment of hesitation ran his fingers down her face and round the back of her neck, twining them in the tendrils of hair that hung there. Debbie’s face felt warm and she had trouble finding the rhythm of her breathing. ‘You don’t have to be on your own,’ he said. He leaned forward and touched his mouth lightly against hers, giving her time to draw back, if she wanted to. ‘You can come back with me.’
