The Trap-Door

By Tommy Dakar

The trap-door takes Kevin Galt from his everyday world of logic and reason into an underworld of fantasy and imagination. Until one day the trap-door ceases to be a metaphor and becomes all too real.
What lurks in the deepest recesses of our minds? What are we all capable of? Are there limits or rules of any kind?
Kevin Galt would be forced to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Dakar
• Release date: Jan 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465868534

Tommy Dakar

Born in England Tommy Dakar now lives and works in Granada, Spain. Author of short stories, novels, novellas and song lyrics he is also a musician and composer. He has worked in factories, on construction sites, in the investigation department of an important bank, as a busker, a shopkeeper and a gardener. He was a language teacher for many years, breaking into translation and bilingual representation. His works have been published to critical acclaim on various literary sites, including Storychord, SNReview, Write this, Write From Wrong, Language and Culture etc He has also been published in Spanish on Palabras Diversas and Ariadna. A collection of short stories, Unzip and Other Compact Stories, has recently been published, along with his satirical novels Balls, and Thick and Fast. The Trap-Door, which is literary fiction, and Falls the Shadow, a dvandva or twin set of separate yet inseparable short novels are also available at Smashwords. He is also working on another novel, due out soon. Here are some links to his published work. A World Apart published on Storychord. (http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/11/issue-17-tommy-dakar-melanie-plummer.html) Also accepted for publication on MondayNightLit. Also published in print form by SNReview, Summer 2011 issue. Bellavista published on Language and Culture (http://www.languageandculture.net/backdrop.html) News of the World published 15th Feb 2011 on WriteFromWrong (http://writefromwrong.com/2011/02/14/fiction-february/#more-636) The Mystery Tour published November 2011 on Write This (www.writethis.com.) La Noche Mas Larga published in Spanish July 2011 at Palabras Diversas (www.palabrasdiversas.com) and Ariadna.com (http://www.ariadna-rc.com/numero51/lab56.htm). And if you are into music, check out Critical Moment (https://criticalmoment.bandcamp.com/)

Book preview

THE TRAP-DOOR

By Tommy Dakar

Published at Smashwords by Tommy Dakar 2012

Other books by Tommy Dakar

Balls. A full length comedy novel

A World Apart and other stories

Chapter 1

Los maestros enseñan a los niños

Una luz maravillosa que viene del monte;

Pero lo que llega es una reunión de cloacas

Donde gritan las oscuras ninfas del cólera.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Teachers show the children

A marvellous light which comes from the hills;

But what results is a cluster of sewers

Where the dark nymphs of wrath cry.

He was lost. The unfamiliar streets were ill-lit and deserted, the red-brick walls damp with menace. He followed yet another road to the end, hoping to recognise something, a spire, a set of traffic lights, a bend, a rise in the path ....... but nothing he saw stirred even the slightest trace of memory. Yet inexplicably he felt he had been there before. Sometime in the past, perhaps, or in a dream, it was difficult to tell. He walked with fists clenched, ears pricked, his eyes straining in the half light to make out possible hidden dangers; something lurking in a darkened factory gate or cobbled alleyway, the flickering shadows of a derelict house or open wasteland. He reached the junction. Left or right? To the right it was difficult to see what lay ahead as the road curved off gradually, losing itself under the weak glow of yellow lamps. Left then, where at least a few side streets offered an escape in case ....

It was cold and the vague threat he sensed in the air mingled with the pervading chill until his muscles ached from the tension.

He walked on, afraid to stop even though he knew he might well be going in the wrong direction. Unknown streets monotonous in their similarity: a school, a factory, a warehouse yard, endless terraced houses punctuated by corner shops or locked up pubs.

He crossed over to avoid a tree-lined section of pavement, and stopped to light a cigarette in the relative safety of a shop doorway. Painted on the side of a huge windowless wall a little further down the road he read the words PEMBROKE & SONS GRAIN MERCHANTS. He must be near the canal. The granary would load and unload the heavy sacks from winches swung out above the barges. He congratulated himself on this deduction by taking a long emboldening drag, and decided to skirt the building in search of the canal.

Just past the main entrance he found a driveway which he assumed lead to the tow path. It was flanked on either side by tall buildings which towered above him and disappeared into the night sky. Cupping his cigarette in his hand so as not to give himself away he entered the opening, trying to tread softly and breathe quietly. He had gone about ten metres or so when he thought he could make something out before him. He came to a halt and listened hard. There was a muffled rustling sound coming from some dark shapes just to his left. Rats? Cats? He tried to penetrate the darkness by screwing up his eyes and peering hard, but he could make nothing out. Should he go back to the main entrance and forget the idea of finding the canal? In which direction would he follow it even if he did find it? Wasn’t the tow path a worse place to be, pitch black in the moonless night and forever diving under the cover of the trees? He started as he heard the sound again. What was it? Was it possible that somebody was there, had already seen him and was awaiting his approach? He took another few tentative steps forward and stared once more into the velvet distance. Damn! Now he could see, or at least he thought he could see, a large metal fence blocking his way at the end of the driveway. Beyond that what appeared to be a make-shift car park, and, if he wasn‘t mistaken, a strip of deeper darkness: the canal.

He turned to leave. Quickly he headed back towards the street. If nothing else he had discovered the canal, and that in itself was a relief, much like finding the river in a jungle. Perhaps if he could discover which way the current flowed he might be able to reason his way out.

Suddenly he heard a cough. Distinctly, only a few paces behind him. His tenseness and contained fear forced him to panic. He ran out of the alley, and fled down the road as fast as he could. He desperately wanted to look behind him to see if anyone was chasing him but he wouldn’t let himself. On and on he flew along the empty streets, taking whichever turning presented itself, blood rushing through his veins and pounding in his head as if he were going out of his mind, his face contorted into an expression of interminable pain as he begged his chest to respond to the wild stumbling pace of his legs. Terror-stricken he hurtled through the night, imagining that at any second a hand would reach out and grab him from behind in an unshakeable grip, this fear pumping spurts of adrenalin into his chest like blood gushing from a severed vein.

He didn’t stop until he was sure that nobody had followed him. Who could have kept up with that mad aimless dash, who but the persecuted could have lasted as long without stopping? He leant against a schoolyard wall and regained his breath. Sweat began to freeze on his brow and the rigidity returned to his limbs as his body cooled down rapidly in the icy night air. What was it that had frightened him so? Had he really heard a cough, or had he imagined it? It could have been a tramp, of course, spilling cheap wine over himself and coughing up phlegm from too many butts. Or a security guard. Or any one of a thousand nightmares it was better not to dwell on. He was alone again now, anyway, of that he was sure, and the task in hand was to get back.

In his fright he had lost all notion of the canal and its position and was no nearer to finding his way. Despondently he carried on. He was tired now and his feet dragged as they lead him on to.... where? Surely it couldn’t be much longer before he came out of the maze into something he knew, a place he had been to before.

An archway appeared in the wall and on entering it he found himself in a courtyard or small square. A light came on automatically, flooding everything in a sharp white light. Shuttered windows looked down into the courtyard, and apart from the lamp his presence had triggered into action there was no sign of life at all. No light at a window, no half-open casement, not even a flower pot or rubbish bin. Another three archways ran off the square, and he was again faced with a ridiculous blind choice. He decided to take the one furthest away because a crack in one of the paving slabs pointed in that direction. It was absurd, he knew, but it really made no difference. He was beginning to get the impression that he would be doing this forever, pacing unmemorable streets and twisting and doubling back and following impulses until, having lost his wits, he curled up in a ball in a gutter and died of exposure.

A new idea sprang to mind. If he were to walk constantly in one direction, to follow a straight line, wouldn’t he eventually leave these dark, narrow streets and come out into the neon bathed world he had left behind? Any compass point would do. There was no moon, so he would have to trust to instinct and guide himself by the rows of terraces, hoping not to be fooled by the gentle curves of crescents or the almost imperceivable deviations in the irregular pattern of the neighbourhood.

For what seemed like hours he continued in that fashion, trying as well as he could to keep a true line, praying that he wasn’t in reality sketching a huge circle as he’d heard people did when attempting to cross deserts.

Not a soul. How was it possible that he should be so totally alone? There were houses and factories everywhere, but at this hour - what time could it be now? -it was like a ghost town. No shift workers, no police, no drunks or prostitutes, a whole world peopled, personed, by him alone. And the silence. The only sound was that of his footsteps, of his breath, of his beating heart. Not one car. No barking dog or booming T.V. No siren to slice the still night air. Just that rustling sound, that cough. It was as if darkness were synonymous with threat, cold with silence.

Fatigue had destroyed the concept of hope and he neared the footbridge with even, measured steps. A few hours earlier he would have snatched at the potential promise of escape, of return, but now he merely noted the facts wearily. It could be the canal, or a railway line, or a main road driving back to the heart of the city. He trudged on mechanically until he reached the flight of metal stairs which would take him up to the bridge. His footsteps rang out rhythmically as he climbed, tolling his presence across the night, but he was too tired to be afraid. He stopped in the middle and looked down. A dual carriageway swept underneath and headed off to where he wanted to be, dipping down to the centre of town through concrete cuttings and underpasses. He contemplated the opposite direction, where the road meandered into a housing estate and presumably out of town and into the outlying hills. The ideal solution would be to get down onto the motorway and follow it to a familiar landmark, but one look told him that was out of the question. It was fenced off as far as he could make out, and he could quite easily injure himself in the attempt. Apart from that it was as deserted as the streets he had momentarily left behind.

At last he knew which way to go, but this long sought discovery was unable to spark off even the remotest reaction. He was devoid of all emotion. He could cross the bridge and steer close to the dual carriageway, or he could go back to the side he had come from and do the same. It would be difficult to lose the road from sight and it was simply a question of persevering, of not giving in to exhaustion or cold or hopelessness. He crossed the bridge, deliberately ignoring the constant dull ache in his calves, with his head hanging heavily on his chest, his arms limp at his side, and descended into the streets once more like one of the walking dead.

Light was seeping into the sky, diluting darkness. Sound returned to the air, and although he could still see nobody, he sensed movement behind the red brick façades. Traffic had started up and hurtled unseen along the motorway. So he had been walking all night! It seemed impossible that he had continued for so many hours without resting, and with that thought his legs suddenly seemed to give way. With extreme effort he dragged himself to a bus stop and collapsed onto the plastic bench. After a few minutes of staring blindly at the ground he became aware that he was no longer alone. On the other side of the street a woman scurried past with something clutched to her breast, and he heard someone pass behind him, though by the time he had sluggishly turned his head to look he or she had disappeared into a side street. The coming day was sapping him of what little strength he had left, and his only thought was to catch a bus to the centre, and from there to take a taxi home. In an hour or so it would all be over. On another occasion perhaps he would revisit those alleys and glass-topped walls with more confidence, but for now he was simply relieved to be out and back into the world he knew and trusted. Dawn had come once more and he clung to its promise anxiously, as if it were about to be snatched away from him at any second.

CHAPTER 2

It had been designed as a monument to logic, a tribute to clear thinking. Constructed entirely of aluminium and tinted glass it rose up above the town casting its wan, curveless shadow over park, shopping mall, river, office block.... It was supposed to resemble some kind of man-made crystal, but in reality it looked more like an ultra modern cathedral, and even boasted a spire of sorts, albeit clockless, which soared crookedly above the main body of the building giving the impression it was at any minute about to tumble into the streets below. On bright summer days it would toss light from its slanted windows like an enormous prism, and lit up on a dark winter afternoon it was a huge illuminated gemstone. It was known in the town as ‘the glasshouse’, leading to the obvious comments about stone throwing, and was considered alternatively as an architectural landmark, both literally and figuratively, or an eyesore to be torn down at the next available opportunity. There were many who relished its simple complexity, its translucent predominance. There were as many who loathed its static arrogance, its insubstantial authority. Despite the controversy there it stood, commanding the skyscape, angular, transparent, yet no less real for its lack of solidity; a homage to reason.

From where he sat he couldn‘t make out the old part of the town. It lay out of sight beyond the financial centre, screened by huge office blocks and imposing banks. That had been part of the problem, of course. Had he been able to see the building he could have orientated himself at once, but down there in the narrow streets and alley-ways it was