Page 86 of Their Cruel Love

33

Razor

This idea of Marcus’ is enough to give me PTSD for some time to come. I am not a climber, but I don’t normally fear heights. I also don’t normally dangle myself over drops when the light is fading and there’s a chance I’m going to end up a bloody pulp on the slopes below. I should’ve thought about this more. The metal bar Marcus found is tied to my waist and clunks against the rock. The rope makes a rough abrasive noise and I imagine the strands being worn through and snapping. The big knots catch as I slip, slide, and lower myself.

Also, my shoes don’t have enough grip for rock. Bare feet would be worse.

The last drop onto the ledge isn’t as bad for me as it must have been for Phoebe, since the rope carries much of my weight.

“Made it!” I yell up at Marcus. “Don’t lose the damn rope.” If the rope gets loose and falls, I’m stuck here. The ledge is a rectangular box chiseled out of the rock to a bit above head height. Leaning carefully into the guardrail, I peer up at the lip. The paling sky lets me see enough to imagine Phoebe clawing her way back up from here. It looks impossible.

There is no point in overthinking this.

I turn to the door.

Metal, as she said, rusted, and the lock is in the usual place for a lock but with an enormous keyhole, which means this door has been here a long time. Hitting it might force the deadbolt from the frame? The hinges and door jamb show it should open inward.

I heft the bar and get to work, praying the repeated clangs are muffled by the rocks and directed out to sea. On the tenth hit, the lock and door separate a little, with the surrounding metal bending.

“Any luck?” Marcus asks.

“Wait. Wait.”

Another three blows springs the door inward, and I shove it further open.

“It’s done! The lock has disengaged from the door! I can swing it inward.”

There is a room beyond the door, of course, and I see nothing past the first yard. The sun is expiring on the other side of the hill, and all I have is a lighter.

The lighter fires up on the second flick. As I slowly advance, I hold it high. A stone table materializes, and I pass it, shuffling, aiming to not crash into anything. I leave my hand touching the stone, slipping along the edge, for balance and toorient myself, but I have to release it if I want to go further into the room.

It’s gone now, behind me.

Without that, the room seems to swell and tilt, the darkness piles in, squeezes down, as if it has a presence, a consciousness. As if it means to conquer me. I hold the lighter at arm’s length, directly ahead and turn slowly.

A metal stairway sways in the gloom, dancing to life as my light paints it. I don’t know how big this room is, or if there are holes in the floor. Or traps.

Why would there be traps? I don’t know but there could be? Paranoia seems essential for survival on this island.

I inch my way further in. If there is an electric light, the switch would be beneath the trapdoor and the stairway must lead to it?

On the basis of that flimsy theory, I climb the staircase, feeling my way, and my hand catches on the edges of rust flakes, finds the corrugations of the treads. There is a handrail to each side. The steps echo beneath my shoes, dust or rust motes drift downward in the faint yellow light from the flame.

If this thing goes out, I’ll have to find my way back to the doorway in near pitch blackness.

How many steps are required to reach a ceiling? Impossible to answer. This room could be any size.

I search each tread before I step on it, afraid it might be missing or weakened by rust and time. How long since this stairway was last used and took a man’s weight? That doesn’t make sense if they’ve been filming here. I know this. I’m still checking them.

Above, the light pools on metal, and my head almost bangs into the trapdoor. While gripping the handrail, I slowly move the lighter around the edges of this square.

My Holy Grail appears—a light switch. I want to kiss it.

Flicking it on is almost as good as sex.

Hallelujah, I cansee.

Fuck, yes. The stairs descend to a floor that seems ten feet below.

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