and hit the wood, hard, a resounding blow. What the hell was she going to do? No one was going to come – no one even knew she was here. Even Charlie had gone. She was due at work tomorrow; she had to get out of here before then – she had to
sleep
before then, in her own bed, or she’d be useless. They’d be angry with her.
She took a couple of steps back, then paced forward; moved back, then forward. She thought suddenly that maybe she wouldn’t make it into work at all. She might still be stuck in here, not even able to call them. No: surely that wouldn’t happen? At least, if it did, she would be missed. They’d come looking for her, wouldn’t they?
At the address she’d given them when she took the job: the address in Leeds
.
She made a choking sound, but fought it back. It was bad enough she’d got herself stuck in here; she wasn’t going to sound pathetic too. That would mean she’d given up. It would mean she’d failed.
She had to find something to use as a lever, something to force her way out. She looked around, though she could see nothing. She reached out, touched a cloth she’d left on the shelf,a useless lumpen thing. And there was the bottle of bleach, and a bowl of dirty water. There was nothing else …
That wasn’t true: there
was
something else. She couldn’t see where the pipe had fallen but she knew it was there. She lowered herself to the floor yet again, and had to force herself to put out her hand, to run it over that grimy carpet. When she touched the wood, smoothed by someone else’s hand, she caught her breath.
She bent and tried to slip the stem of the pipe under the door. She wasn’t really sure how it would help, but anyway the mouthpiece –
the thing he’d held between his lips, slid under his tongue
– jammed against the floor. She cupped the bowl in her palm, feeling the old grain close against her skin. The stem wouldn’t fit into the narrow gap. She forced it anyway, and after a moment, she felt the pipe give. It twisted in her hand, almost as if it were a living thing, and then it cracked. She pulled her hand away. The pipe had splintered; it was useless.
Useless
. The shards were sharp. She flung it back into the corner and it banged against the wall and she heard something spatter dryly across the carpet. Then she smelled it, deep and rich in her throat. She had a sudden image of the man she’d seen, looking for his pipe as well as his suit, throwing open the door and finding her instead.
But no one did open the door. No one came.
She realised she was thirsty and she thought at once of that bowl of greying water on the shelf, the scum floating in it, the bubbles of bleach. She imagined being stuck in here so long she was desperate enough to sip the caustic liquid and she bit back a laugh.
My God
.
Her head was beginning to ache. She put a hand to her forehead and realised it was throbbing in time to the music. The DJ was playing something older still now, softer and somehow mocking, and she thought,
I’ll turn that damned thing down
, and she screwed up her face as Buddy Holly began to sing ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’. She sat there, focusing on nothing, thinking of nothing, resolutely forcing herself not to cry.
*
It was the tone of the music that roused her, a subtle change she hadn’t even noticed at first. She wasn’t sure what had been playing before but now the tone was crackly and distant, as if she was listening to an old scratched record, not the constant prattle of the radio DJ and a stream of modern pop songs. She didn’t recognise this. It was Big Band music, a jaunty, endless tune. She wasn’t sure there were any words, but then a wavering voice began to sing, the voice cut-glass, the sound fragile, almost as if at any moment it might break.
She let her head tilt back. The light under the door, low as it was, was fading. The music didn’t fade, though; it swelled around her, and it was
right
, somehow, for the way the house felt.
sleep
before then, in her own bed, or she’d be useless. They’d be angry with her.
She took a couple of steps back, then paced forward; moved back, then forward. She thought suddenly that maybe she wouldn’t make it into work at all. She might still be stuck in here, not even able to call them. No: surely that wouldn’t happen? At least, if it did, she would be missed. They’d come looking for her, wouldn’t they?
At the address she’d given them when she took the job: the address in Leeds
.
She made a choking sound, but fought it back. It was bad enough she’d got herself stuck in here; she wasn’t going to sound pathetic too. That would mean she’d given up. It would mean she’d failed.
She had to find something to use as a lever, something to force her way out. She looked around, though she could see nothing. She reached out, touched a cloth she’d left on the shelf,a useless lumpen thing. And there was the bottle of bleach, and a bowl of dirty water. There was nothing else …
That wasn’t true: there
was
something else. She couldn’t see where the pipe had fallen but she knew it was there. She lowered herself to the floor yet again, and had to force herself to put out her hand, to run it over that grimy carpet. When she touched the wood, smoothed by someone else’s hand, she caught her breath.
She bent and tried to slip the stem of the pipe under the door. She wasn’t really sure how it would help, but anyway the mouthpiece –
the thing he’d held between his lips, slid under his tongue
– jammed against the floor. She cupped the bowl in her palm, feeling the old grain close against her skin. The stem wouldn’t fit into the narrow gap. She forced it anyway, and after a moment, she felt the pipe give. It twisted in her hand, almost as if it were a living thing, and then it cracked. She pulled her hand away. The pipe had splintered; it was useless.
Useless
. The shards were sharp. She flung it back into the corner and it banged against the wall and she heard something spatter dryly across the carpet. Then she smelled it, deep and rich in her throat. She had a sudden image of the man she’d seen, looking for his pipe as well as his suit, throwing open the door and finding her instead.
But no one did open the door. No one came.
She realised she was thirsty and she thought at once of that bowl of greying water on the shelf, the scum floating in it, the bubbles of bleach. She imagined being stuck in here so long she was desperate enough to sip the caustic liquid and she bit back a laugh.
My God
.
Her head was beginning to ache. She put a hand to her forehead and realised it was throbbing in time to the music. The DJ was playing something older still now, softer and somehow mocking, and she thought,
I’ll turn that damned thing down
, and she screwed up her face as Buddy Holly began to sing ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’. She sat there, focusing on nothing, thinking of nothing, resolutely forcing herself not to cry.
*
It was the tone of the music that roused her, a subtle change she hadn’t even noticed at first. She wasn’t sure what had been playing before but now the tone was crackly and distant, as if she was listening to an old scratched record, not the constant prattle of the radio DJ and a stream of modern pop songs. She didn’t recognise this. It was Big Band music, a jaunty, endless tune. She wasn’t sure there were any words, but then a wavering voice began to sing, the voice cut-glass, the sound fragile, almost as if at any moment it might break.
She let her head tilt back. The light under the door, low as it was, was fading. The music didn’t fade, though; it swelled around her, and it was
right
, somehow, for the way the house felt.
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