only cold dampness where she’d already cleaned and dry dust where she hadn’t. Then something cool and smooth brushed against her wrist.
She grabbed for it, whatever it was, but she didn’t recognise the shape. It didn’t feel right: it was almost silken against her skin but it was too slender and she couldn’t think what it was. Then she leaned closer and
smelled
it, and now she knew. She swept her arm across the shelf and it clattered into the corner, sending up a stronger waft of that rich, dried scent, the tobacco scent, and she cried out, a despairing wail that made her suddenly think of the bench in the churchyard.
My God
, she thought,
my God …
No. Emma, pull yourself together
.
She breathed in deeply, leaned towards the door and said, ‘Tell me who’s there.’ She forced herself to speak steadily. ‘This isn’t funny. Open the door, now.’
Nothing happened; no one replied. She rattled the handle, then frowned and lowered herself to her knees again. She pressed her face into the musty-smelling carpet, trying to see under the door, and then she
did
see, in her mind’s eye: the boxes she’d stacked against the wall, the paint roller leaning against the skirting, the new clothes rail. She squeezed her eyes closed. She knew exactly what had happened.
There was no one there, had never been anyone there. She’d heard the sound of the radio and that was all because she had done this to herself. It was just her and her own stupidity, and now she was stuck and she had to
think
.
She sat with her back to the door, running her hand across her face. She’d propped the rail against the wall and now it had fallen across the door. It must have jammed behind the boxes. She tried to replay the sounds she’d heard: the scrape and slide of something against the plaster, the duller thud as it came to rest.
And the door handle? She tried to picture the rail somehow catching under it and preventing it from turning, but she couldn’t. She remembered that feeling, the way she’d
sensed
somebody standing there, gripping it from the other side, and she tossed her head, trying to dislodge the thought. Now she really was being fanciful. No one was there; this was a problem of her own making, only that, and she was the one who would have to get out of it.
She’d simply have to push harder, hard enough to move the door and the rail and the pile of boxes that was keeping them in place.
She knew it was useless before she even tried.
She’d been so enthusiastic when she’d carried everything up the stairs. The books had been the worst. The boxes had grown heavier in her arms as the day wore on, until she’d been stopping to rest each one on the stairs partway up. Now they were stacked outside, all in a pile, and they were
heavy
…
No. It
had
to be possible. They couldn’t be
that
heavy, could they?
She reached above her head and held the handle down and pushed backwards with her whole body, trying to brace her legs against the floor. Her feet slid over the worn carpet, but whatever was on the outside of the door
didn’t
slide, didn’t even move. She screwed up her face, but stopped herself. She wasn’t going to cry. It wouldn’t help. She knew that from before; she’d allowed herself to cry at the funeral and then made herself stop and she knew she couldn’t allow herself to start again, because then she
wouldn’t
stop, there’d only be the pit and blackness and despair …
My God, my God
…
The DJ was talking again, some burble that no longer sounded like language. It didn’t make sense any more, nothing did. There was only this narrow room and no way out of it, no way back. She hid her face in her arms, as she had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark.
She shook her head, trying to shake loose the negative thoughts, and pushed against the door once more, as hard as she could, but it was no use. She’d given it all she had and it still hadn’t moved an inch. She curled her hand into a fist
She grabbed for it, whatever it was, but she didn’t recognise the shape. It didn’t feel right: it was almost silken against her skin but it was too slender and she couldn’t think what it was. Then she leaned closer and
smelled
it, and now she knew. She swept her arm across the shelf and it clattered into the corner, sending up a stronger waft of that rich, dried scent, the tobacco scent, and she cried out, a despairing wail that made her suddenly think of the bench in the churchyard.
My God
, she thought,
my God …
No. Emma, pull yourself together
.
She breathed in deeply, leaned towards the door and said, ‘Tell me who’s there.’ She forced herself to speak steadily. ‘This isn’t funny. Open the door, now.’
Nothing happened; no one replied. She rattled the handle, then frowned and lowered herself to her knees again. She pressed her face into the musty-smelling carpet, trying to see under the door, and then she
did
see, in her mind’s eye: the boxes she’d stacked against the wall, the paint roller leaning against the skirting, the new clothes rail. She squeezed her eyes closed. She knew exactly what had happened.
There was no one there, had never been anyone there. She’d heard the sound of the radio and that was all because she had done this to herself. It was just her and her own stupidity, and now she was stuck and she had to
think
.
She sat with her back to the door, running her hand across her face. She’d propped the rail against the wall and now it had fallen across the door. It must have jammed behind the boxes. She tried to replay the sounds she’d heard: the scrape and slide of something against the plaster, the duller thud as it came to rest.
And the door handle? She tried to picture the rail somehow catching under it and preventing it from turning, but she couldn’t. She remembered that feeling, the way she’d
sensed
somebody standing there, gripping it from the other side, and she tossed her head, trying to dislodge the thought. Now she really was being fanciful. No one was there; this was a problem of her own making, only that, and she was the one who would have to get out of it.
She’d simply have to push harder, hard enough to move the door and the rail and the pile of boxes that was keeping them in place.
She knew it was useless before she even tried.
She’d been so enthusiastic when she’d carried everything up the stairs. The books had been the worst. The boxes had grown heavier in her arms as the day wore on, until she’d been stopping to rest each one on the stairs partway up. Now they were stacked outside, all in a pile, and they were
heavy
…
No. It
had
to be possible. They couldn’t be
that
heavy, could they?
She reached above her head and held the handle down and pushed backwards with her whole body, trying to brace her legs against the floor. Her feet slid over the worn carpet, but whatever was on the outside of the door
didn’t
slide, didn’t even move. She screwed up her face, but stopped herself. She wasn’t going to cry. It wouldn’t help. She knew that from before; she’d allowed herself to cry at the funeral and then made herself stop and she knew she couldn’t allow herself to start again, because then she
wouldn’t
stop, there’d only be the pit and blackness and despair …
My God, my God
…
The DJ was talking again, some burble that no longer sounded like language. It didn’t make sense any more, nothing did. There was only this narrow room and no way out of it, no way back. She hid her face in her arms, as she had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark.
She shook her head, trying to shake loose the negative thoughts, and pushed against the door once more, as hard as she could, but it was no use. She’d given it all she had and it still hadn’t moved an inch. She curled her hand into a fist
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