01 February 2007
The door was locked, seemingly bolted. He pushed at it, he pulled at it, he kicked his boots at it, he charged it with his shoulder. Nothing, no give, no way out. He looked around the room – it was solid stone, no other entrance or exit. There was only the door, which now stuck shut and solid. They were underground, at the lowest point of this great house, so even if he could claw away with bloodied and bruised fingers until he loosened a brick – what was he going to find? Nothing, no way out. He spun around. The light was above him, the poor and dim light which brought forth more shadow than clarity. He twisted, looking for something, anything that was going to help him. There was no axe with which to attack the door, no matches to set fire to it. His knife would be no good against that thick mighty oak. There was only Snowbridge. Snowbridge who was celebrating his seventieth birthday by just staring at him.
It was difficult for him to recollect everything. He’d been too focused, too concerned with his own plans to pay precise attention to what Snowbridge was doing. He’d seen everything, Snowbridge had been before his eyes the entire time – but his heart had pounded against his chest and his mouth had turned so dry his tongue had nearly paralysed. So now it hurt his head to try and remember, it took effort to pull it all together. They had entered the room. Snowbridge had laughed and closed the door. The younger man had done what he needed to. He’d then stepped back over Snowbridge and tried to get out.
Had Snowbridge locked it? He couldn’t recall. There’d been no turn of a key surely (if so, where was the key?) there’d been no fiddling with the lock. But then why was the door not opening? How had it stuck shut? What force was keeping him trapped down there?
Without making any conscious decision he leapt at the door. It wasn’t a plan, he wasn’t even aware he was doing it until he was in mid-air. It was desperation, it was the survival instinct, it was his body deciding his mind had no real idea and trying out its own scheme. It didn’t work. The door didn’t shudder, he shuddered. The door didn’t fall, he fell. The door didn’t break, he almost did. He lay on his back next to Snowbridge and cried out. He yelled from the depths of his lungs. He’d told himself he wouldn’t scream. When he’d first realised his predicament, he’d told himself not to yell as he couldn’t be caught like that. How could he explain it away? How could he make his gallant rescuer understand? He would still be trapped, just as if the door had never opened. But even as he weakened and screamed, he knew it made no difference. He’d listened to what Snowbridge had told him about this room. He had said it was the most private place he could think of, that nobody went down there, nobody would disturb them. He had said if they wanted to play a game of hide and go seek, it was the best hide in the world. He had said it with a chuckle, as like everything else that afternoon it deeply amused him. And it had amused the younger man too. It had sounded so perfect for the task, only now he discovered it didn’t have an escape route. He lay there and screamed and screamed and screamed, and each scream echoed around the small stone room, and not a single one was heard by another human soul.
He stopped screaming, slowly, each cry becoming shallower in his throat – until at last his mouth opened and roared with no sound. He pinched against his eyes and drew back tears of frustration and pain. He started to pull himself up, and that was harder than he thought. He’d bruised himself as he fell over, maybe even broken his shoulder on the door. He had landed in Snowbridge’s blood and it had glued him to the stone floor. He had never realised how much blood there was within a human body, never imagined it would create such a geyser of red. He hadn’t anticipated the awful stench of a dead man. He hadn’t known that Snowbridge, before his heart stopped, would empty his bowels and cover his suit and all around in faeces and urine. He hadn’t guessed how quickly a human carcass would begin to rot. They had only be there half an hour, or maybe it was an hour – it surely hadn’t been longer – and already it seemed as if decay had set in, as if he was trapped in a room with a pile of bad meat.
He sat up straight and tried to think it all through logically. His clothes were dirty, covered in the crime – he couldn’t just saunter out without arousing suspicion, he had to wait until after dark. There would still be nobody around, Snowbridge wasn’t the type of man to throw a birthday party, he’d know there weren’t enough people willing to attend. It would be easy for the younger man to escape once he got out of the room, but how was he going to do that? He stared forward and pondered. The door had not just shut itself against him. Doors were inanimate objects, they didn’t think, they didn’t make their own decisions. Therefore there were two options: either the door had been locked in some way by Snowbridge, or someone else had locked it from the other side after they entered. He dismissed the second idea – nobody knew they were there, they had not been followed down. That meant Snowbridge had done something, that he had locked it. It meant there must be a key somewhere about his person.
He winced as he contemplated it, but then didn’t hesitate. He rummaged through the old man’s pockets. It was a disgusting enough thought at the outset, but some were now little packages of thick black blood. He went through quickly yet thoroughly, his fingers nimble as they hunted the key. He found a gold watch on a chain, so new the mechanism hadn’t yet been started. It was a birthday gift he guessed, though Lord knows who would be so generous to Snowbridge. There was a thin wallet containing four shillings, there was a nearly empty pouch of tobacco. There was nothing else. He went through again, hunted again, and once again found no key. He looked around. Where could Snowbridge have hidden it? There was himself, the old man’s body and an electric light in the room – there was nothing else. Perhaps Snowbridge had swallowed it, but why would he do that? Why would he deliberately trap them? If he had, how had he done it? He surely hadn’t stopped talking, he had just kept blathering the entire time. There was no moment’s pause for him to swallow something as heavy as a key. And besides the younger man had been staring at him. He hadn’t observed a key turned in the lock, let alone a key swallowed or indeed hidden elsewhere. It hadn’t happened, he was sure – but if that was true, why couldn’t he get out? How was he still with Snowbridge?
He looked at the door. It was just a door. A big heavy door yes, but nothing more frightening or awful than that. Just a door, surely just a door. He pressed his hands against it. It was heavy, it was solid, but as far as he could see it wasn’t locked. The damned door wasn’t locked. Yet it was shut, sealed, trapping him with Snowbridge, imprisoning him with its master – but the lock didn’t seem as if it had been touched. He looked at the old man. His features had twisted in the shock and violence of the attack, but now he looked like he was smiling. That’s what his face was doing. He stared up at the younger man with gleaming eyes and a full happy smile. He was delighted, desirous, all his dreams come true. The younger man choked and turned back to the door. He rested his fists against it and pushed. The door opened inwards, but he pushed as if he believed the oak was weak enough for his bare hands to break through. He muttered himself a prayer for a miracle. After all, it was somewhat miraculous that Snowbridge had sealed the door with no lock and no key. And surely, even after his act that afternoon, he was more deserving of divine intervention than Snowbridge.
He had deliberately waited for Snowbridge’s seventieth birthday. The younger man’s father had killed himself on his seventieth birthday, and he liked the symmetry. He liked that his revenge would be served up as ice. He had no fear of the old man dying beforehand, he knew he was too revoltingly healthy to be struck down by any of the agues or infirmities that normally affect the elderly. He knew at the seventieth birthday he could strike to receive retribution for all Snowbridge had done to his father, all he had done to his family. It was so simple to arrange. Snowbridge had always had an unhealthy interest in the younger man. It was easy to lead him away, to lure him to a place they could be alone. And Snowbridge had chosen this – somewhere disgusting and dank, bare and horrible, but where they’d never be found. Snowbridge was the happiest the younger man had ever seen him. He led him down, giggling at his own jokes, laughing at his own witticisms, skipping on his toes in eagerness. He had stroked the younger man’s arm in affection. The younger man kept focused on the task, maintained his concentration, determined not to lose his nerve. No one saw them as Snowbridge led him through the grounds and down into the basement at the far wing of the house. He was giddy as he opened the door, as he ushered the younger man inside, as he shut it behind them. The good spirits only vanished when his companion hit the first blow. He managed thirteen in all. He sank the knife through his ribs, into his belly, pierced his intestines, sliced open his groin. The old man didn’t yell, his breath seemed caught within him, as if not even seeping out through the wounds. He slipped to the floor after the fifth blow and the younger man kept striking. He wanted to be sure, wanted to know Snowbridge was dead, that there was no chance of him ever breathing again. He heard the death wheeze and then stood back and stared at the body. It hadn’t looked like a smile on his face then, it had looked like an uncomprehending mask of terror. It looked like the pain of every one of those thirteen blows had twisted into the wrinkles of his skin. It was an expression which made the younger man smile. He had stared to his arms and to his front and seen not a drop of blood anywhere on his clothing. That had pleased him too. He’d coughed and shuddered and congratulated himself on a crime that was perfectly deserved and perfectly executed. No one knew he was there, he could leave the grounds without seeing a soul. Snowbridge wouldn’t be missed for a long while, and even when he was it would take an age to find him in this hole of the house. It was all too perfect, and then he’d tried the door.
Snowbridge was grinning at him – his eyes twinkled in the half-light, his teeth actually gleamed. The door remained shut. He yelled at him: “What have you done to me you bloody fool? How have you done this? How have you trapped me here? This isn’t fair – do you hear me old man? Do you hear me? This isn’t fair. After all you’ve done to my family, you can’t do this. Do you hear me? You can’t keep this damned door shut on me. You can’t! You cannot keep me trapped down here, do you hear me? You do not get to keep me!”
He was on his knees beside the corpse. It beamed at him, delighted at the way things had turned out. He forced his fingers into the pockets again. He had to have missed something, there had to be some kind of device for that door. He pulled out the pouch of tobacco, poured its contents over the stone floor, let it tumble amongst the blood and excrement – but there was nothing. He pulled out the money pouch and turned it inside out. He picked up each of the four coins and struck them to the wall in frustration. They bounced back at him. He grabbed the watch and examined it carefully. It was just a watch, hand-crafted with an inscription on the back. He shook as he read the inscription, nearly slipping back in the blood. There was his name, written in ornate and loving script. He stroked his finger across it. The old fool was giving him a birthday present, celebrating the occasion by handing a gift to his murderer. It was his name in carved script, followed the word forever. The younger man felt vomit bubble in his throat.
He caught a scream. What did that mean, forever? Had he meant to trap them down there? Had he meant to lock them together? Surely not, surely it was just an idiotic inscription. He wouldn’t wish to keep them there for eternity. Why would he? What would be the point? The younger man was much stronger than him, he could easily force his companion to open the door. Except, what if the old man couldn’t open the door? What if he was dead? What if he knew what was to happen, and forever to Snowbridge meant forever? But that was ridiculous – nobody would choose to be murdered, just as nobody would choose to be entombed. Yet something was keeping the younger man trapped down there, something was holding him prisoner. And if it wasn’t the late Mister Snowbridge, what was it? It couldn’t be the door, doors don’t make decisions like that, no matter how strong and heavy and powerful they look. Doors don’t actually do that – do they?
He dashed the watch to the corner and charged the door again. He pounded his fists. He cried out. He screamed. He wanted someone to hear him. He didn’t care about punishment, anything was preferable to whatever fate had been arranged for him down there. He beat his hands until they bled. He kept going after the bones broke, after every punch became another painful crack. He kept going as his voice weakened and his screams became whines from a raw larynx. His punches flailed and the blood ran in wide slug trails down the oak. He smashed his head against it. Once, twice, thrice, banging his forehead before staggering back in agony.
His head struck the light-bulb and it swung round the room. He looked at Snowbridge and the old man was smiling at him. The smile was wider, it had grown. It was moving upwards, pushing his cheeks higher, showing off his glee. Despite thirteen stab wounds, he had never had things as good. The younger man wanted to kill him again, wanted to stop the mocking. He wrestled into his trouser pocket and pulled out the knife. His hands were broken and he could barely hold it, but he couldn’t stand the way the old man was looking at him. He sunk the blade into one eye and then the other, until they weren’t there anymore. Snowbridge still had his smile though, even with empty eye sockets it was there. He lurched at his throat, meaning to sink the knife in and take off the head. He had punished Snowbridge for all he had done in life, now he was going to ensure he suffered for what he was doing in death. His broken hands lunged forward, but he missed his target. The knife hit the jaw bone and the blade snapped off and spun away. It flew upwards and he jerked his head back as it gave a slice to his cheek. It kept rising and rising before horribly smashing into an obstacle. The light-bulb exploded and they were left in darkness. There was no glimmer. None crept beneath the door, none slipped in between the bricks. It was pure, unbroken blackness. There was him, the corpse of the old man and that unopening door. The younger man sobbed, and then from the corner heard the watch start to tick.
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