Bod by Sandra

The door is partly open, and he can see the darkness behind it.

Hello?

No answer. He stands on the wooden porch for a moment, listening. Silence.

The invitation was for 7pm and its quarter past now, so he’s not too early.

Hello? He says, louder and he pushes the door, against the objection of the hinges.

The hallway is cool, and dim and he can see straight through to the kitchen where he can make out the corner of a countertop.

There are no lights. There should be lights, surely. Or if not lights, then candles, the signifier of a convivial evening, but this hallway has the stillness of an empty house. Half-light from the fading day seeps in. The air has an edge of dampness, as though the house has been uninhabited for a long while.

But this was the address. He checks his phone: 34 Readale Street. There is an envelope on the hall table, and he peers through the crinkly cellophane window. Same address.

Did she change her mind? Maybe she couldn’t get away.

He wanders into the living room. Sparse. A sofa, a rug and some books.

The kitchen is functional. He opens cupboards. Four of everything.

Dust. No one has cleaned here for a long time, and apart from the damp, there is no smell. Nothing left behind to rot.

A mistake then. He will leave now, be home by eight, no one the wiser.

He’s almost at the door, when he hears it. The smallest creak of board as if from a movement upstairs. He stays still, listening, but there is nothing more. Probably a rat and his hand is on the doorknob when he pauses.

He has come this far, and looked around downstairs, so why not do a quick search upstairs? It would be stupid to get home and wonder whether, after all…

He shakes his head, the place is empty and cold, she wouldn’t be up there. He opens the door wider, to leave, when there is another, louder, creak.

Hello? He stands at the bottom of the stairs, a hand on the banister, waiting. Nothing. He climbs up slowly, sensing the dust under his feet by the scratch of grit on wood. Its darker now and although his eyes are dark adapted, he switches on his phone light.

The first room is a box room at the back, empty, apart from a few taped up cardboard boxes. Packing boxes.

There is a bathroom, small and empty, and a few unlucky insects float in the watery tomb of the toilet bowl.  

The main bedroom, at the front of the house, is all faded pink rose wallpaper and a fringed stool. The bed is covered with a – what was it called? – the word ‘counterpane’ floats into his mind, an old-fashioned word, but appropriate. This bed isn’t a modern affair, with a duvet, and it has the bleached appearance of an old person’s bed. It reminds him of his grandmother’s house and his mood turns darker. The last person he wants to be reminded of here is his grandmother for Christ’s sake, that old bitch.

Not when he’s arranged to meet her here, the opposite of his grandmother’s wrinkled skin, flaccid and hanging bereft of flesh from her upper arms, swinging as she swiped at him. He closes his eyes a moment to banish his grandmother and conjure her. Sweet, firm, bouncy flesh. As he opens his eyes, he spies a small cupboard door built into the corner. Might as well see.

The narrow white painted door is the width of a half kitchen unit. He expects to see a hanging rail, or shelves, but instead there is a slender spiral stairway rising. It must go to the attic, a bit odd, but probably better than that awkward ladder in his place.

Once again, he turns to go and hears a scrape, long drawn out, as though a box has been moved from one side of a room to another. It came from up there, the attic. He looks at the stairs, so narrow they look more suitable for a child than an adult, but he can fit, he is sure.

He steps in and climbs, soon realising it is better to walk crabwise upward, to present his narrowest side to the space. The walls are white as are the steps and the central pillar. He climbs, one circle, two, three, it is further than he thought but perhaps that’s some incipient claustrophobia making itself felt. He pushes on, a fourth circle

(is it narrower than it was?)

He is starting the fifth when he is properly conscious that the stairs might be narrowing. The walls seem closer. By the sixth, he is sure of it, the wall and the central spine of the stairway are closing in, and as he continues, they get closer and closer

(like a throat)

(shut up)

They’ve become too close, too quickly, before he’s realised it.

(he’s gone too far)

(be quiet)

This is a bad idea, she wouldn’t be up here anyway, what was he thinking? He tries to turn around, but he’s squeezed too tightly against the wall. Ok, so go down backwards, that’s the answer, he doesn’t need to face the direction of travel, after all. He steps backward onto

nothing.

Don’t panic.

(he is panicking)

His pulse increases as does his breathing, and that makes it worse because his breath is so close to the wall, that it comes back at him as though he’s checked his breath for smell in his hand. He tries his foot again, bending his knee as much as he can as his questing foot feels for the stair below. It doesn’t find it; if he hadn’t just climbed up, he could imagine he is hanging

(over an abyss)

He laughs, a half hysterical giggle of disbelief. This is ridiculous! He’s going up a stair to an attic, it can’t narrow like this, no one would be able to get up. Even a child would struggle and what practical use could it be? There wouldn’t be any way to carry anything up or down. He realises he is going to lose it any moment, he is hyperventilating.

Calm down.

He is there for a while as he manages his breaths, like that woo-woo breathwork teacher they had at their last work retreat. In and out. In…and …out. In……….and …………..out. Sloooowly.

Finally, his breathing steadies and he wonders how long he has been here. Embarrassment or not

 (he will never live this down)

he is going to have to call someone. It can’t be Amanda for obvious reasons; she would wonder why he was here. His mind runs through his list of friends.

(friends?)

Quentin then, a miserable bastard but he thinks he can persuade him to keep quiet. His mobile is in his pocket. He tries to move his right arm down, but there isn’t a millimetre to spare. His left arm is down by his side though, all he needs to do is get to his right pocket. He twists and turns trying to manoeuvre his hand over, his fingers grappling across his cotton trousers, feeling the zip then the bulge of the phone, tantalisingly close, just through the material, his fingers and phone separated by millimetres, but he can’t get to the pocket opening, it’s too far.  He is getting hot, grunting and stretching his hand and fingers. But he can’t get to the pocket. Three centimetres and it’s too far; he feels like weeping.

He can’t go back. He can’t turn. He can’t get to his phone.

(he has to go up)

(NO)

Trust that this is as narrow as it will get?

(despite the evidence to the contrary?)

He stays where he is for a while, caught in indecision, climb, don’t climb. Don’t climb and be trapped here forever

(until he dies)

(shut.it.)

Or climb

(and suffer the ever-closing walls, until his head is stuck between two hard walls).

Tentatively, his feet start to move, because even though he hasn’t made a conscious decision, his body has decided moving is the better choice over inaction. The walls are so tight now that he must push and grunt with every step and his heart is hammering so fast, he can see his pulse as his vision throbs.

But the walls seem to have reached their narrowest and his relief is overwhelming that he is able to push on turn after turn.

The walls start to become softer and he’s pushing and fighting his way forward, the walls now flexing around his arms and legs as though he is climbing a large oesophagus, fighting his way up to the mouth. He looks up and sees a brighter light, he is coming to the end, thank Christ for that.

His head is free, at last at last, his head is out of that seemingly endless tunnel, stair, whatever it was. He pushes himself out, shoulders free, then torso and finally his legs, one by one and falls flat on his back. He doesn’t know where he is, somewhere with a deliciously soft carpet, but he knows where he isn’t and its not in there.

Once his pulse, breathing and vision have settled, he looks around. The room is a square, a vision of pinkish red, soft walls and floor. He pushes against the carpet and realises his hand sinks in slightly. It’s not unpleasant, in fact it’s warm in here and somehow comforting.

He stands upright and walks to the one white wall, wobbling over the red carpet, the floor strangely uneven underneath. He must be high up, he has climbed for ages, and he’s eager to look out from this eyrie.

The white wall has gaps, through which chinks of brighter light shine.

He is almost there, when the floor gives a convulsive heave that sends him flying and he is flung against a red wall, but it is ok, he feels fine, the wall is as soft as his lover’s belly.  

He slumps to the floor, but as he tries to stand the floor heaves again and he is tipped backward towards the top of the white tunnel

(NO)

He can’t go back to that suffocating hole.

His nails scrabble for purchase and he feels stuff from the floor slough off under his nails, but its not enough to stop him and back he goes,  the hole wide open to accept him, his face is first, and once in it seems to seize him in a grip of peristaltic strength and haul him in.