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The Room
by Neil Beynon
Nick very nearly walked past without stopping. The corridor was a short one: painted white and lit with cheap, migraine inducing strip lighting. There was only one window: small, opaque and nailed shut. Wooden doors lined the corridor leading to small airless toilet cubicles. It was the panic that made him pause. Nick had been walking in a daze from his last meeting, replaying all the things he’d say given the chance over.
The voice brought his feet to a stop. “Is anyone there?” it repeated.
It was coming from the last door on the right.
Nick paused. He could - he reasoned - still walk on. No one would be the wiser; someone else would be along in a moment to help; this really wasn’t his problem. He started to walk on, his mind shuffling the thought that someone else might see him ignoring the man’s pleas. He stopped. There really wasn’t an option. If he walked on, someone else would walk through the door and hear the man and ask why the hell he was ignoring it. The worry of it was like a knot in the base of his stomach.
“Are you alright?” Nick asked.
“No,” said the man. “I’m not. The damn door won’t open.”
“OK,” said Nick. “Erm…well…hang tight. I’ll go get facilities.”
“Don’t go,” his voice cracked like parched mud.
“What?”
“Don’t go,” said the man. “The light’s gone and I’m stuck and it’s…I don’t like small spaces.”
Nick paused. The cubicles really were tiny; barely enough room to move and this was one of the smallest with no window. If the light had gone then it would be coffin-like.
“I have to go get help,” said Nick. “I’ll be right back.”
“No,” said the man. “Please…they’ll laugh at me.”
Nick smiled. “I’m sure they won’t, this door gets stuck all the time.”
“Could you try forcing it from that side?” asked the man. “Before you call anyone. It may just need some extra force.”
There was no harm in it. “Sure,” said Nick. “What’s your name?”
“Simon. Simon Arnes.”
“Well stand as far back as you can Simon,” said Nick. “If the door gives I don’t want to knock you out.”
“OK,” said Simon. “Thanks.”
Nick leant back then shoved his full weight against the door with a meaty thud, the wood biting, gnawing into his shoulder. He swore. The door did not move at all. Nick stepped back. Examined the wood. It was surprisingly heavy, presumably built to slow down any fire and not to allow someone easy access to the room.
“No joy,” said Nick. “I’m just going to get help.”
“No,” said Simon. “Please. Have you tried the back of the lock?”
“I’m not a locksmith,” said Nick. “If I get facilities then they can get you out of here in no time at all.”
“Please,” Simon replied. “Don’t leave me alone.”
Nick blinked. The man was terrified. Absolutely - balls to the wall - scared shitless.
Nick was not overly fond of the dark either and he could take or leave small spaces but he’d never been as bad as Simon sounded right now.
“Take it easy Simon,” said Nick. “You’re going to get out.”
“Just don’t leave me,” said Simon. “I don’t like the dark.”
“You’re alright,” said Nick. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to take a look at the lock.”
Nick knew that the lock was a simple bar of metal attached, by some unseen means, to a one inch nub of flat steel that you rotated from the inside in order to drop the lock. It should have been very simple for Simon to open again but they were prone to seizing up, jamming open or shut. On the outside of the lock there was very little to get hold of that had anything to do with the internal working of the mechanism. Only a small nodule of metal that looked like it was the back end of the barrel the lock’s handle was attached to. It didn’t really matter that he couldn’t see the nub being turned, the portion of the lock on his side of the door was so small there was no way Nick could use it to open the lock from the outside.
“There’s nothing I can do,” said Nick. “I’m going to have to call someone.”
Silence.
“Simon…?”
“Sure, I understand,” said Simon. “Can you just call them from your mobile?”
Nick felt for the phone in his pocket. He’d forgotten it was there.
“Yeah OK.”
“I don’t want to be on my own,” said Simon. “I think there’s something in here with me.”
Nick had lifted his handset to his ear but stopped.
“What?”
“I think there’s something in here,” said Simon. “I can hear it moving.”
Nick’s first reaction was to laugh but there was something about the way Simon had said it: Simon wasn’t joking.
“It’s probably just your imagination.”
“Maybe,” said Simon. He sounded unconvinced.
“I’m just going to make that call,” said Nick.
“OK.”
“Hello…facilities? Yeah, it’s Nick Cain on the first floor…I’m fine thanks…we have someone stuck in one of the cubicles…the lock’s completely jammed. I think you’ll need to send someone up…thanks. Bye.”
Nick snapped the mobile shut. “They’re on their way.”
“I hate the dark,” said Simon. “It’s like being dead. I can’t even see my own hands.”
“Look,” said Nick. “You need to calm down. Are you standing?”
“Not much room for anything else.”
“True…try and sit down,” said Nick.
“You won’t go?”
“No,” said Nick. “I’m sitting down with my back to the door. You do the same.”
“OK.”
Shuffling from the other side of the door, then a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck.” The word was so quiet Nick almost didn’t hear it.
“What is it?”
“I thought my foot touched something,” said Simon. “It’s probably nothing.”
Nick was pleased Simon was sounding slightly more rational but he didn’t get the impression Simon really believed what he was saying. He searched around for something to say.
“So Simon, where do you work?”
“Here,” said Simon. “Don’t you know me?”
Heat flushed across Nick’s face. He should know the guy. “I’m lousy with names. So what do you do?”
“I’m the IT guy,” said Simon.
A faint and indistinct line drawing faded up in the retina of Nick’s mind, he could not put exact features to him. This man he’d spoken to any number of times was nothing but a charcoal shadow.
“Like it?” Nick asked.
“Not really,” Simon replied. “It’s just a job. Something to pay the bills.”
“Yeah I know what you mean,” said Nick. “Any hobbies?”
“I’m in a band,” said Simon. “I know, I know, I’m too old.”
Nick had no idea how old he was.
“I just can’t give up,” he said. “It’s the only time I feel…me. Silly really.”
“No it doesn’t sound silly,” said Nick. Mindful of the half finished novel sat in his drawer at home, dusted off once a year at Christmas when he retreated from the family.
“What about you?” Simon asked.
“Me,” Nick said. “I’m the go to guy.”
“Eh?”
Nick laughed. “Sore point,” he said. “I’m the guy they go to when they need something doing. My title is something meaningless, I’m Chris’s doer.”
“Nice to be needed.”
“You’d think.”
They laughed.
Simon stopped. “Where are they?” he asked.
“They’ll be here soon.”
Simon’s breathing was a noticeable rasp.
“Simon?” asked Nick, praying he wasn’t asthmatic.
“Nick,” said Simon. “There’s definitely something in here with me.”
“It’s just your imagination.”
“Then who has their hand around my throat?”
Nick slid away from the door. “What?”
“Help. Me.”
Nick slammed his shoulder against the door. Simon screamed.
There was a sound like wet fabric tearing. The door finally gave in, slamming into the sink and shattering it. Nick came down on the door coming down on the basin.
The cubicle was empty.
Nick stared up at the facilities manager looking down at him. Water was spurting over him, turning the dust of the shattered ceramic into a cloying paste. Suddenly the corridor was awash with people staring.
“Where is he?” asked Nick, lifting the door. “He was right in here. Where is he?”
The facilities manager blinked. Then spoke, “Are you high?”
“There was a guy…the IT guy…Simon…he was choking…I…”
“…kicked the door down,” said the facilities manager. “You’ll have to pay for it.”
“You don’t understand,” Nick replied. “There was someone in here.”
“Someone called Simon?” said one of his colleagues.
“Simon Arnes?” asked another.
“Yeah.”
“I think he left,” said the facilities manager.
“No he went on tour with his band didn’t he?”
Nick blinked. He couldn’t have imagined it, he’d had a whole conversation with the guy and the door had been locked.
“How was the door locked then?”
The facilities guy smirked. “We oiled it after the last person got stuck in there, now the damned thing keeps locking when people slam the door. Of course we’ll make sure the new door doesn’t have that problem.”
People meandered off - show over - as Nick tried to clean himself up with paper towels. The facilities guy isolated the water and taped off the broken sink before disappearing with the door to wherever doors go to die.
“Well,” said Nick’s boss, Chris. “This is an interesting situation.”
Nick turned to look at him. “I know what I heard.”
“The facilities guy rang Phil,” said Chris.
“I’m fired?”
“No,” said Chris. “It was close but you’re lucky: I can’t afford to lose you. Not with Dan leaving.”
“Always second place,” said Nick, he did not smile.
“You’re taking a holiday though,” said Chris. “And paying for that.”
“A holiday?”
“You’re working too hard,” said Chris. “That’s what this is all about.”
“You’re right,” said Nick. “I am working too hard.”
“That’s good,” said Chris. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in a few days.”
There’s got to be a better way, thought Nick. I’m dying here.
“I quit.”
“What?”
“I’m done, I’ve had enough,” said Nick.
Chris looked at him. Nick smiled. He’d meant what he’d said and he was enjoying Chris’s confusion.
“Was this just to get out of your contract?”
“No,” said Nick. “There really was a guy called Simon stuck in there.”
“Go home Nick,” said Chris. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“I’ll still be quit.”
“Go Home.”
Nick picked up his coat from his desk, ignoring the stares and the whispers. The lift doors slid open and he got in, at this time of day the sole occupant. He pressed for the ground floor. The doors pinged as they shut.
The light went out, the inside of the lift as black as the inside of his eyelids. He tried opening his eyes a few times just to check he had them open. Cursing he fumbled for the emergency button.
“Hello?” said the facilities guy, voice warped over the emergency radio.
“I’m stuck,” said Nick.
“You again,” said the facilities guy.
“Get me out,” said Nick.
“Be right there,” said the facilities guy.
Something gently put itself down on Nick’s shoulder, a slight addition of pressure from the contact. It was either a hand or a claw. He didn’t really want to know which it was. His hand was still clasped around the emergency button, the facilities guy still there; he could call him as Simon had called him.
“You alright in there?” asked the facilities guy.
In that moment he made a decision. “No,” he said into the radio. “It’s too late for me. You still have time: just run.”
© Beynon, 2010
Neil lives in London splitting his time between a keyboard in Soho (which sounds far more interesting than it is) where he works as a marketer and a keyboard in Abbey Wood (which sounds far more dull than it actually is) where he has fun writing fiction. He blogs more than he should and occasionally he writes bad poetry.