The girl who never knew

“You’re the girl who never knew,” she said as she scoured the woods for more fallen sticks to throw off the bridge. She’d never played the game before and I was glad that she hadn’t moved so far on from her childhood just yet. As she examined the available fallen twigs for their winning potential, she’d asked about the locked shed at the end of the courtyard to my new flat. The door was old and rusted, but there was a new padlock on it, robust and certain. The landlords were clear that they didn’t have a key and didn’t know what it contained. The way they said it hadn’t invited further questions and I hadn’t pursued it, hadn’t thought about it since the day of signing the interminable papers to get into my new home.

The weak spring sun shone like a runner straining for the finishing line as we walked on through the park and she told wild tales of doorways to dead bodies and vampire cities underground. She was captivated by the possibility of adventure that was locked behind the door that was a part of my home I’d barely registered.

“I think I’d rather be the girl who never knew if that’s what’s behind it,” I said, trying to get her mind on lighter matters. I was glad that this strange quirk at my flat and my own apathy had combined to fire her imagination, but all her stories lead to the death of a father ever since her own had left with a woman ten years my sister’s junior.

“I like to be the girl who never knew, anyway. It’s better not to know and then we can imagine whatever we want. It’s better to believe in magic.”
“I don’t think Steve believed in magic, did he?” she asked, quickly adding as I looked away at the mention of my own equally errant former partner, “But that’s why you’re not a proper grown up and a cool auntie” Her smile seemed apologetic as she moved on to ask about last night’s episode of Dr Who. I seized on the opportunity to change the subject; like her I preferred fabricated monsters to my personal demons. My fresh start was fast turning stagnant for me and any thoughts of the past soured the air further. By the time she’d run out of stories to tell, the sun was starting to lose its battle against the grasping chill of winter.

Later I thought about what my niece said and I realised the wisdom in her words; with the clearheaded perception only a child can offer, she’d caught me out. I hadn’t concocted my own magical opportunity from the situation as I would have done once, or bashed the padlock with a wrench to see what was inside as Steve would have done. I probed my feelings like a loose tooth and was surprised to find that one exposed less of a nerve than I’d expected.

The phrase haunted me that evening; how she’d said so brightly “You’re like a girl in a story.” I turned it over in my mind as I straightened the minor disturbance to my little world that the family visit had created. I chewed on it with my dinner, kept returning to it when I was trying to lose myself in a film on TV. I’d seen it before, some second rate Stephen King adaptation that didn’t scare me and it was all too easy to tune out from it and let my niece’s words keep repeating like an intrusive ringtone.

I had to find the key.

I was still getting used to the new flat, there were more cupboards and drawers than I needed and I still kept forgetting where I’d put things. I worked my way through the small flat and came up empty. I stopped after pulling everything out from under the kitchen sink, and finding nothing but three almost empty bottles of bleach and a startled spider. I shut the door rather than deal with it; the girl who didn’t want to know.

I almost gave up the search. I’d looked back through all the paperwork from my tenancy agreement: just as I’d remembered from the day I moved in, the shed was listed as part of the property, but listed as locked and absent of a key as if it was a feature. It was presented in such a matter of fact way, as if no one would ever ask for it, ask what was held inside. From where I sat in my silent flat, it hardly mattered whether it was filled with discarded and cobwebbed implements or was the gateway to adventure my niece believed it to be. Realising I was just putting off going to bed by letting these thoughts race through my mind; I sent an email to the letting agents on the off chance that they had a key they’d missed, and then another to my niece asking her to write me a story with her usual flourished illustrations as to what she believed lay behind the door.

I went to bed and although her voice – that phrase - punctured my dreams I’d got used to sleeplessness long before that evening. I’d gone beyond weeping over it, and tried to let the cold ache of my emptied heart rest. Although the place was still new enough to me to seem unfamiliar and unfriendly in the dark I closed my eyes and tried the deep breathing my doctor had suggested when I’d begged him for pills. The clock said four am when I finally gave up and went to make myself a drink. As on all my sleepless nights, exhaustion hit my limbs as soon as I left my bed, but I knew the tension would return if I went back to bed. I flicked on the kettle and dropped a camomile tea bag in a mug. I hated it - it tasted like lawn clippings to me - but I kept hoping it would brew up the serenity promised on the box.

I waited for the kettle to boil; my eyes were hot with insomnia and I struggled to get them into focus, scalding my hand as I missed the mug and poured the water on my hand. I ran it under the cold tap, cursing my continual bad luck. As I stood at the sink, letting my hand be numbed by the cold water, I saw it. A key, hanging from the window, too large for the lock on the frame and new like the padlock on the shed. It seemed to glisten in the blue light of early dawn, and brought my eyes into complete focus. I took it down and it felt cool in my hand, soothing the angry raw burn and quieting that voice in my head, repeating over and over on an infernal loop.
I knew it was ridiculous to be so excited about finding a lost key, but holding it in my hand felt like I’d seized some measure of control at last. I pulled on some clothes over the large man’s t-shirt I still slept in and pushed my feet into broken-backed trainers. Despite my added layers, the fresh air slapped me awake and nearly brought me to my senses. Some part of me knew I didn’t need to do this now, but I’d never sleep until I knew what lay inside and I wasn’t yet so used to sleeplessness to recognise the moments of madness it can nurture.

I shuffled down the courtyard to the shed and put the key in the lock. As it turned, I felt a chill at the back of my neck. I thought about the film I’d half-watched earlier, how I’d laughed when the hero had talked about his hackles rising. Then the words seemed stilted, a poorly constructed stock-phrased fantasy and the hollow sound of my laughter in an otherwise empty home had frightened me more. I thought of all the dim-witted horror movie heroines I’d shouted at in frustration as they walked blind to their doom as I looked back at the sway of the curtains against the back door. The dim fluorescent light from the kitchen flickered as I pulled off the padlock and opened the door.

The first thing was the cold, not the fresh chill of the early morning, but a bone aching bitterness which drained my energy. I sat down hard on the stone flags but hardly felt the damp seep into my trousers. Needles of fear pierced my limbs and my hands shook as I leaned forward, mesmerised by the profound black emptiness that confronted me. My breathing became shallow; there was something seductive about the rich intensity of it, like the promise of bare toes on hot sand, I longed to sink into it even as my limbs shook in frigid anxiety.

I tried to clear my head as my eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the shed; shapes shifted under the stuttering light from the kitchen. That carefree afternoon with my niece was far from my mind as I inhaled a sour stench. It was a hopeless smell, sapping my strength like cheap perfume and strong cigarettes in an airless bar. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the yawning black emptiness of the shed, but my chattering teeth fought with the growing heat of nausea in my through and brought me to me senses. I patted my throbbing burnt hand on the ground, searching for the key. It had gone.

The shed was a tiny structure, but the sound of a strangled scream came from a distant darkness. The bleak aria of desolation echoed in my head, increasing to a volume which buzzed in my ears and yet not touching the still silence of the air. I kept fumbling blind for the lost key, unable to tear my gaze from the darkness inside.

I edged away like a crab, unable to stand as I landed a wild kick on the door. It banged against the frame before opening even wider, creaking on its frame as the pitched scream in my head knocked me backwards. I rolled onto my front and moved my hands to my ears in a vain attempt to block the sound. I wanted to turn away in revulsion, my whole body cried out for escape, but there was no running from this. I had to close that door, shut it out. Slowly, I dragged my eyes from the sultry horror to fix on the dying bay tree on the opposite side of the courtyard. I edged forward to gingerly push the doors closed. In my clumsy, prone efforts I lost a shoe and it caught and dragged on the door. I kept pushing, my battered trainer fell inside and I heard it squeak and scrape across the floor as I forced the door closed. I used my feet to keep the doors closed and without taking them my foot from the door I twisted and rolled onto my back. Sitting up I grasped the padlock and ignored the burning sensation in my hand to hold it tight. Working with a new brisk efficiency now I looped the padlock through the barred handles on the doors and as it clicked shut the noise abated. I felt the strength return to my limbs, soothed by the descending mist of early dawn as I stumbled back inside.


I sleep better now; they bring me the pills I’d so craved before whether I want them or not. They tell me they’re helping me, but they’re really just tiny leaden anchors that drive me deeper into my nightmares. Like the dry fallen twigs that made up that afternoon’s games I’d been thrown off a bridge, but the current has yet to carry me to the other side.