The Red Room

John Amos Comenius. Orbis Sensualium Pictus: A Facsimile (1659 / 1968): 74.

Have you ever felt like doing it?

Dunno. Maybe. You?

Yeah, a few times. It just seems kind of pointless sometimes. It’s all so much work. And people keep on kicking you in the teeth, and sneering at you … You just feel like you can’t be bothered?

[Silence]

I guess you think I’m being stupid? Like you have to have a really good reason for even thinking about it? And what it’d do to everyone around you too – your parents, and brothers and sisters, and all that.

And friends.

Yeah, and friends. But it’s hard not to sometimes.

As she speaks, her hands toy with a paspalum stem. There’s a clump growing next to the path, and she’s been plucking them one by one, stripping them of their heads, chewing the ends a couple of times, then flicking them over the edge.

Well, there’s the cliff.

Fuck! That’s not very nice! I know there’s a cliff there. We’re on the cliff-path, after all! But I didn’t come up here to chuck myself off.

Why did you come up here?

I dunno. Just to talk, I suppose. You don’t have to be so mean about it, though.

Sorry.

I mean, I know it’s really boring listening to people going on about how unhappy they are, but it’s not all like that. I can laugh at things, too.

Give me an example.

An example? We-ell … I saw this sign written up on a wall the other day. 19 Screw Suicide St. Like an address. That really gave me a laugh.

Why?

I guess I started thinking, why do I have to wait till I’m nineteen to say go screw yourself? Why not sixteen Screw Suicide Street?

That’s not very funny.

Nah. Maybe you’re right. You tell me something funny, then.

Okay, I will. I don’t want to stay sitting here, though. Let’s walk some more.

Okay.

The cliff-path is a ribbon of concrete between the well-fenced houses and the crumbling sandstone cliff-edge. There’s a wooden fence around the outer rim, but every storm erodes its foothold further. In places it’s overgrown with weeds and shrubs, in others clear and open, so one can gaze out over an endless blue horizon.

This is a story about a friend of mine. A friend I knew really well. Sure, he might have had a few problems, but he was okay.

Do I know him?

Yeah, I guess you know him. A little bit, anyway.

So what did this friend of yours do?

Well, he let things get on top of him. He got over-involved with things.

This is a funny story, right?

They have left the path and started to climb round the rocks at the end of the beach, below the sheer face of the cliff. The rocks are green and slippery and a little treacherous, but the tide is in too far for them to follow the safer concrete causeway.

Sure, it’s a funny story. I think so, anyway …

He – this friend of mine – used to wander round the rocks all the time. He liked being near the sea. I guess it reassured him somehow. The sea’s so big and endless, and it’s kind of like an escape route from human beings and all their shit. It’s stronger than we are, even though we keep on pumping filth into it – like through these concrete bunkers here. There’s still no way we can overcome it. All we can do is poison the life in it. The sea itself is beyond us.

So he would wander around down here, thinking these thoughts, and exploring all the little caves and rockpools and beaches all round the bays. It was like it was his domain somehow, like he was the guardian of the shore. He’d wag school just to get down here, to calm down.

He liked it best when it was really rough, when the waves were just pounding on the rocks like crazy, and you could sit up above them, on the cliff, and feel each impact. It wasn’t like the sea was angry, just powerful, like it was enjoying itself wearing out its strength on the rocks, like a boxer practising with a punching bag, sharpening up for the kill.

Other times, on calm days, he’d position himself so that he was staring right out to sea between the islands, where you couldn’t see anything that was developed or civilised, and you could just imagine the whole land clean and green – like an explorer could come sailing in between those islands at any minute, and there’d be no roads, no people, nothing.

He sounds like a bit of a geek.

They have reached the other end of the strip of rocks by now, and are walking across the soft white sand of the beach.

A geek? D’you think so? It sounds pretty right to me, I must admit.

Did he talk to you about it?

Yeah, he did. Quite often, in fact. In fact, you could say all the time.

[A short pause.] Go on, then. I’m still waiting for the funny bit.

Oh yeah, the funny bit …

One day he found a door, a door in the rock. There are lots of cliffs and little bays on this coast, but some of them are only accessible at low tide. Some you can only reach if you’re prepared to swim. This little cove was one of those. And there it was: the door.

There’s nothing especially strange about that! There are lots of boathouses and stuff built into the cliffs around here.

There are. But this one was different. There was just a sheer cliff and a mass of undergrowth on top. You would have had to dig down thirty or forty feet to reach the level of this door if you started from up above, and why would anyone bother? There were no signs of life up there. No houses near enough to make it seem feasible as an extension to the cellar, or an underground staircase.

You couldn’t see the door from up above, either – only from the level of the beach. It was hidden as effectively as something like that could be.

What did it look like?

Oh, like a really solid door. Made of wood, and painted green. It had no handle, no letter slot to look through – and there weren’t any gaps where it met the rock, so you wouldn’t have known if there was a light burning inside.

How could you open it, then?

It had a keyhole – a old-fashioned keyhole for a big long-stemmed key.

Couldn’t you look in through the keyhole?

There was something across it, something that blocked your view – I suppose it was one of those little metal covers you find hinged across keyholes on the outside. Only this one was on the inside.

Wouldn’t that have stopped the key from going in?

I don’t know. I suppose not, since the door was open sometimes.

Open! You mean he saw it open.

Yeah. He saw it open. He didn’t see it opened, mind you. He didn’t see who’d opened it, but one day when he swam into the cove, round the last little tongue of rock that blocked it off from the rest of the beach, he saw the door standing wide open.

Did he go inside, check it out?

He did.

And what did he find there?

Ah, now we come to the funny part …



It’s getting a little late to be out alone on the beach. It was already late afternoon when she had encountered her companion and struck up a conversation. She felt sure she knew him from somewhere. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t think from where. School, no doubt. You see so many faces there every day. At a big state school, the chances of your speaking to anyone outside your immediate peer-group are slim. You may know them by sight, but unless they have some relationship with someone you do know: brother, sister, cousin, friend – you can coexist for five years without ever exchanging a word.

He’d seemed so nice at first. Roughly her age, a bit dark and moody-looking, but really easy to talk to. She found herself opening up, sharing thoughts she’d never discussed with other people. Dark thoughts: depression, suicide …

Now she’s not so sure. They’ve been walking for ages, as his story meanders on, and the light is really going. All of a sudden, she wants to be back in a more populous part of the beach. That is, if there are any populous parts of the beach left by now …

Let’s go back. I’m getting cold.

Just a bit further so I can show you what we’ve been talking about.

I don’t know. Dad’ll be getting worried. I really should be getting back.

Just five more minutes. Just round the corner …

No!

Okay! It’s no big deal. I just thought they’d be lighting a bonfire a bit later on, down the beach a bit, and it made sense to wait for that. There’ll be people there, lots of people, if you’re worried about that. But we can just go on back if you like …

She feels a little ashamed. What is there, realistically, to worry about? [Rape – murder – ritual sacrifice] … Besides those things, of course.

Just five minutes, then.

Not even that. It’s just round here.

They walk around the final spur of rock. There’s a door in the sheer cliff in front of them. It’s standing wide open.



She stops, disconcerted. You knew this was here. You’ve been setting me up all along! Turning indignantly to have it out with him.

There’s no-one there.

You’re scaring me.

Phil … is that his name? Philip? Colin? He told her, she feels sure of that, but she can’t quite remember. They hadn’t needed to use each other’s names.

Come on – stop hiding. Where are you?

This is futile. He must be a real dork anyway, to play these kinds of tricks. Especially now it’s getting dark. Better go back right now.

But how? The waves are lapping round the rocks on either side of the little cove. The water looks deep, and the rocks are far too steep and slippery to climb. How did they get here in the first place? There isn’t anywhere to walk.

They were talking, and she was so absorbed in what he was saying, by that stupid story, that she hardly noticed where they were going. Funny, you get to know the rocks all round the beaches (though she’d noticed how much they could change – a single storm can strip away enough sand to alter all their shapes and contours), but she can’t recall this spot.

He must be here. He was right beside her, talking. He must have slipped away while she was distracted by the door, then somehow concealed himself in the shadows, and then … Where is he, then? With a growing sense of panic, she sees there’s nowhere to hide – not on a beach this small. Nowhere, that is, except inside the door.

The tide’s coming in. Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before – she’d thought it was going out. There was plenty of sand to walk on earlier. Now the water’s gradually creeping in, eroding the remaining space. Where’s the high tide mark, then? Half-way up the cliff? There is a line of seaweed there – no driftwood on the beach. She’ll be pretty wet before it gets that high.

Their footprints are already mostly gone. But there’s only one set behind her! He must have darted off and hidden the moment they crossed round into the cove. How did he avoid leaving any signs? Perhaps he’d climbed round the rock shelf, then nipped into the tunnel the moment she looked around. He must have done. There’s no other logical explanation.

As for her, what should she do now? Swimming’s one option, of course, but that water looks mighty cold, and a swell’s building up out at sea. The waves are already starting to crash on the rocks.

There’s the door. Surely its owners won’t mind if she goes inside? Even if it leads out into someone’s living room, she can say she got stranded down below. There must be some way out – some exit, or else it’d get flooded at every high tide, open or shut.

And yet, it’s so black inside. So forbidding and inviting at the same time, like something you know is wrong, but so alluring: that extra bar of chocolate, piece of gossip, apple stolen from the shop display.

And he’ll be waiting there, too – him with his ‘I’ll show you something really funny if you just walk this way.’

Oh fuck it, I don’t want to swim for it. I’ve got to go inside.

The waves are lapping around her feet as she steps in through the door.



As she foresaw, the red clay floor inside smells strongly of the sea. Obviously it does get flooded at every high tide. And, sure enough, there’s a rough flight of rock steps winding up twenty feet or so inside the tunnel. That’s as far as the waning light extends. After that there’s only the dark. Better than being wet and wave-tossed outside, though, she tells herself defiantly. And starts to climb the steps.

Crash! The sound of the door slamming shut behind her echoes right up the tunnel. She’s only gone a few yards, but already it’s darker and colder than any place she’s ever been in – ever imagined, for that matter.

That psycho bastard must have been hiding in the tunnel, waiting for her to go in, then slammed the door behind her. He must have found a key somewhere. All that shit about his friend! She’d known it was him all along – only it seemed cute, out there in the light, on the beach, trading stories, feeling a bit flattered that he wanted to spend the afternoon talking to her. And now he’s right behind her, coming up to show her whatever sick crap he thinks is funny.

It’s hard to hurry, here in the dark. The steps are rather uneven, and she’s already slipped a couple of times, bruising her shins quite badly. They’re steep, too – getting steeper all the time. It’s more like climbing a rock wall than mounting a staircase, and the voices in her head shouting Hurry! Hurry! He’s right behind you! don’t help.

Are there any openings off this wall? She feels there are – patches of blackness in the dark around her that might be tunnel entrances. Perhaps she can escape him yet if she can just get off these rock steps and into a crevice. He’ll have a torch, of course. If so, why doesn’t he shine it up here? She’d be easy enough to spot, spread-eagled halfway up the wall. Is he really following? She can’t hear anything. No telltale sound of falling pebbles, scraping, panting in the dark. Perhaps he’s just sitting down there, waiting for her to get totally freaked out before he comes up to collect her: Surprise! I’m a psycho killer! Hey, guess what? your worst nightmare just came true. That’s what’s so funny.

Got to get out of here – got to turn the tables somehow. She’s groping on either side of her with whichever hand is free, each time she hoists herself up another step. It feels so precarious up here, so exposed. Heaven knows how high above the rock floor she must be now – almost to the clifftop, surely?

And then, just when the footholds are becoming non-existent, and she’s starting to contemplate sliding back down this crumbling sandstone throat, her hand flaps on emptiness.

It takes her some time to manoeuvre herself near enough, then nerve herself to make the spring for the tunnel. She’s uneasily aware how difficult it’ll be to reverse the process – swing out from that darkness back onto the wall. What if this is the trap? What if this is the one way not to take? The way that leads to destruction?

There’re no noises from down below – no signs of pursuit – yet, what if a hand seizes her ankle in the next few seconds? She knows she’ll scream, lose her foothold, go tumbling down into the dark, down to her death on the rocks below.

That kind of stuff happens, too. There are plenty of stories about how dangerous it is to climb round the cliffs. Every now and then they insist on relating the latest horror story at school assembly.

The worst thing is that you never know if it’s an accident or not. Sometimes people do it on purpose, and that would be what everyone would think about her.

Fuck, I’d give anything to be back home right now, safe and sound, watching TV, listening to Dad going on about politicians and defence funding!

There was that guy a few months before, that kid from her school. She’d never spoken to him or anything like that, but she’d seen his picture on the noticeboard after he was found bumping round the rocks. He wasn’t entirely a stranger to her, though he was a year or so ahead. Actually, maybe that’s why Colin or Phil or whatever he told her he was called looked familiar, because he looks a bit like … Daniel, that was the name! Daniel – West. Yeah. That skinny kid. Waste of skin the other kids had been calling him. Waste …



Releasing her handholds, she lunges wildly in the darkness for the lip of the tunnel.

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Jack Ross: Monkey Miss Her Now (2004)


[28-30/8/01 & 1-5/6/03]

[2943 words]

[Published in Monkey Miss Her Now (Auckland: Danger Publishing, 2004): 117-25.]

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