There’s always a choice

The bang of the door slamming, echoing through the empty house, only serves to reinforce the emptiness I feel inside. I hang my head and stare down at the doormat, the cheery ‘Welcome to our Home’, so out of place with how I feel about our home. Although it’s not really our home anymore, it hasn’t been for weeks, it’s just, my home, I suppose. My house, would probably be more accurate, a home is full of life and love. This is really just a building, a building full of memories of better times.

There are no tears to be shed now, not anymore, they’re used up, gone. The time for tears is over, beside their graves, surrounded by friends. But now, alone in this house, my house, what would be the point.

A message beeps on my phone, breaking the moment.

“You good? You know there’s always a space here with us, if you change your mind. My folks won’t mind an extra place at the table for the holidays.”

I quickly tap out, “I’m good thanks.”

“If you change your mind let me know. Your choice.”

I nod my head silently, there’s always a choice.

I grab my bag and head up to my room. The posters on the wall seem childish now, even though it’s only been a few years since I tacked them up. When I’d left, I thought that was it, I’d only be home for a few holidays. I thought my life had moved on and I’d left this place in my rear-view mirror.

Sitting on the end of my bed, I stare across the room at my bookshelves. The top shelves are empty, the books gone, taken with me to my new life. Only the dusty bottom shelf remains, the worn, many times re-read childhood favourites. From when my mum would tuck me in and read, until my eyes closed. Then those same books, read years later, secretly under the covers by torchlight. CS Lewis, Dick King-Smith, Roald Dahl. I suppose now I’m a bit like one of the kids in a Dahl book, most of them seemed to be orphans. Although how old do you have to be before you stop being an orphan and become just someone who’s parents died in a car crash. I guess now, I’m the latter.

The kitchen seems somehow emptier than the rest of the house. Dad had his office, off limits, cold and forbidding. The door always closed. But the kitchen was mum’s domain, warm and welcoming, filled with the smells of cooking. A fine layer of dust sits over the, usually spotless, countertop where she had helped with homework and served up pancakes, even if they were occasionally burnt. But absent of her life and spark, the room seems dark and cold. This was the heart of our home, and that heart has now been ripped out.

The fridge kicks in, other than my footsteps, it’s gentle hum is the only sound. I dread opening it. It’s something I should have done weeks ago. Expecting the worst, I hold my breath as I pull the silver handle. But it’s clean, probably cleaner than since it was new. There’s fresh milk in the door, some veg in the drawer, cheese and butter on the next shelf up. On the top shelf next to a pack of beer, is a folded note with my name on it.

“I heard you were staying for the holidays, so I left a few bits for you.

If you need anything, anything at all, call me, or just pop over.

F

x”

I glance at the window, too dark, too late now, I’ll drop over in the morning. I guess her boys will be home for the holidays too. It’ll be good to catch up again, I’ve not seen them, since Mum and Dad…

I grab the beer and head for the sitting room. TV with beer and snacks will have to do for tonight. Dad’s office is on the left as I head down the hall. The door closed, as always. I tentatively lean an elbow on the latch and push, it’s locked, as always.

Flicking through the channels is an aimless pursuit. It’s been years since I’ve watched live TV. Nothing more than endless repeats from decades ago. But the internet is down, I guess the bill went unpaid. My phone has half a bar if I stand in the window, nothing new there.

I stare out into the darkness and finish my beer as the TV drones on in the background, some old sit com, complete with canned laughter. Reflected in the dark window, back in the hall, I can see the forever-locked door of Dad’s office. My memories of him are mixed, he would disappear for weeks on business trips, and when he was at home he was locked in that room. But when we did eventually manage to prise him out of his domain, he was all smiles and laughter, just like a regular dad should be.

His domain, I suppose it’s really my domain now. I pop another beer and go back to the hall. The door is as blank and closed as it always has been. I’ve only ever had fleeting glances inside. Filing cabinets and a desk with four large screens, always blank. Nothing ever left on show.

The lock is different to every other door in the house. There is the same brass latch, but at eye level is a thumb print scanner, just the latest in a long line of complicated locks. Years ago, it was a number pad, I can still remember how furious Dad was when I tried to guess his code and locked him out. He had to get the security team out from work to replace it. It always seemed a little much for an accountant, “Corporate espionage is everywhere,” was all he would say about why.

No chance of a thumbprint now. Even their ashes have been spread to the wind on the hills behind our house, my house. I step back and look at the door, it’s my door now, as is the room beyond, which I’m locked out of. A deep breath, two quick paces, shoulder down, just like in the movies.

“Argh!”

My shoulder feels like it’s on fire. The door didn’t so much as flex. Slumping to the floor I finish the last of my beer staring at the problem, my problem. Even if I decide to sell, I’m still going to have to get in there. Who would buy a house with a locked room?

I snag another beer from the kitchen as I head to the garage, a screwdriver, or crowbar, even a hammer. There has to be something I can use. In fact, there is all of the above and more. If my dad had ever decided to give up the rat-race, he was all set up for a career in house breaking.

Back at the door, I notice for the first time that it fits perfectly against the jamb. Unlike the rest of the house, where they are a little warped, small gaps at the frame. But this, this is like an air lock, not so much as a hair’s width to get a tool in. Half an hour, and two more beers later the wood is chipped and scratched, But the door itself hasn’t moved a millimetre.

Power tools. There were loads in the garage, if I have to cut a hole in the door then so be it. Then I look at the nearly empty beer in my hand, it’s late, I’ve had too many of these and I don’t want to lose a finger. Tomorrow, one way or another this door is going to open.

I add my empty to the others in the kitchen and head towards my room. At the foot of the stairs I pause, staring at that infuriating door. On impulse I walk up to it and jam my thumb on the reader. A beep, then a click, then another, followed by a third. I push down the brass latch and the door swings open.

Flicking on the light reveals, nothing. Nothing at all, the room has been virtually stripped bare. The contents, glimpsed in fleeting moments, is missing; the four computer screens, the filing cabinets, the carpet is still imprinted from where they had stood. The bookcases that line one wall are almost empty, just half a shelf of Dad’s favourites. Some of them so well read that the spines are just a mass of lines.

Only Dad’s chair and the red leather topped captains’ desk he had been so pleased to find a few years ago, remain. I sit in his chair and think of the long hours he spent in this room. Doing what exactly? There are no answers left in here, it’s been stripped clean. By whom? His office must have cleared all his stuff, come in and taken it all, right after…

They can’t do that. This is my house! I thump the desk and stand up. They can’t just come in here without asking! Anger burns like bile in my chest. I’m going to go round there and…

Then it dawns on me, I have no idea who he even works for, worked for. Some corporate entity in the city, the epitome of the faceless business man in a black suit and a bowler hat, just without the hat.

The anger drains away, leaving nothing but the blank feeling that I never really knew my dad. The desk drawers have been cleared too, I pull them, one by one, looking for anything, any clue. A letter head. An envelope. But there’s nothing. Not so much as a forgotten paperclip. All but the top drawer, the wide shallow one that sits above the knee hole, are bare. There’s a yellowing sheet of paper, neatly folded into thirds, with my name on it in Dad’s untidy scrawl.

“If you’re reading this then your mother and I are no longer with you. I’m sorry that we didn’t have more time together as a family. The plan was always to read you in when you graduated, to give you the choice for your future. But if I’m gone then things have moved more quickly than we anticipated and you’ll need to know sooner.

I guess by now it’s been about ten minutes since you opened the door. A few minutes to look through my old books. A few more to search the desk.

Knock-knock.

Love,

Dad.”

That’s it, the rest of the sheet is blank, holding it up to the light there’s nothing. Not so much as a watermark on the paper. Knock-knock, what does that even mean? The bookcases, a smile creases the corner of my mouth for the first time in days. Very James Bond. I work my way along the shelves tapping, listening for the tell-tale sound. Of what exactly, I don’t really know, but at two in the morning after a pack of beer it seems like a good idea. But there’s nothing, it’s just a bookcase.

There’s a loud knock at the front door. It makes me jump, my heart immediately hammering in my chest. It’s the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. No, actually it’s Christmas morning. Maybe it’s Santa Claus?

Through the patterned glass in the glow of the porch light, I can make out two people.

“Who are you?” I call out from the hall.

“We worked with your father. You should’ve been expecting us.”

Knock-knock, not much of a clue, “What do you want?”

“You need to come with us.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice.”