Nine Perfect Strangers

Carmel

‘I’m sure this is all just part of the process,’ said Carmel. She didn’t know why everyone looked so worried. ‘They’re not going to leave us down here for much longer. It’s all fine.’

The time, according to Napoleon, the only one among them with a watch, was coming up to 2 pm, and they had still not heard from any of the staff at Tranquillum House. They had been down here for close to twenty-four hours now.

They all sat in a circle similar to the one from the previous day, when they’d introduced themselves. Everyone looked exhausted and grimy. The men needed shaves. Carmel was desperate to clean her teeth, but she wasn’t especially hungry, even though she hadn’t eaten for coming up to forty-eight hours, so that was kind of wonderful. If appetite suppression was one of the side effects of last night’s perfectly enjoyable drug experience, then she was all for it.

Each of them had confirmed for themselves that the only access point to the room was the heavy oak door at the bottom of the stairs, and that the door was undeniably, irrefutably locked with what looked to be a brand-new gold security keypad next to the doorhandle. Presumably there was a code that would unlock the door, but multiple combinations of numbers had been attempted with no success.

Frances had suggested that the code might be the same as the one given at the front gate of Tranquillum House.

Napoleon said he’d already thought of that but had no memory of the number.

Carmel had no memory of it either. She’d been crying when she arrived at Tranquillum House, suddenly struck by a memory from her honeymoon when they’d stayed at a hotel with a similar-looking intercom. It seemed stupid now. Her honeymoon hadn’t been that great. She’d got a terrible UTI.

Ben thought he remembered the access code for the front gate, but if he did, the number didn’t work.

Tony thought he remembered too, although he remembered one digit differently to Ben, but that number didn’t work either.

Carmel suggested the phone number for Tr

anquillum House, which for some reason she was able to recite, but they had no luck with that.

Frances wondered if the code was related to the letters of the alphabet. They tried various words: Tranquillum. Cleanse. Masha.

Nothing worked.

Zoe wondered if it was meant to be a kind of a game. An ‘escape room’. She told them there was a bizarre craze where people allowed themselves to be locked up in a room for the pleasure of trying to work out how to escape. Zoe had been to one before. She said it was great fun, with multiple clues concealed in what looked like normal objects. For example, Zoe and her friends had to find and assemble the parts of a torch that had been hidden around the room. The torch could then be used to shine a light on a secret message in the back of a wardrobe with further instructions. A timer counted down the minutes on a wall and Zoe said they got out just seconds before the timer went off.

But if this was an escape-room game it seemed it was a very tricky one. The yoga studio was virtually empty. There were towels, yoga mats, stretcher beds, water bottles, headphones, eye masks and burnt-out candles from the night before, and that was it. There were no bookshelves with messages in books. No pictures on the wall. There was nothing that could feasibly represent a clue.

There were no windows that could be smashed in either the men’s or the women’s toilets. No manholes, no air-conditioning ducts.

‘It’s like we’re trapped in a dungeon,’ said Frances, which Carmel thought was melodramatic, but then the woman wrote romantic fiction for a living so you had to allow for an overactive imagination.

Eventually, they’d sat back down, dispirited and dishevelled.

‘Yes, this is all just part of the process,’ said Heather to Carmel. ‘Spiking our drinks with illegal drugs, locking us up and so on and so forth. Nothing to worry about, it’s all fine.’

She was using a very sarcastic, familiar tone for someone Carmel had only just met.

‘I’m just saying we should trust the process.’ Carmel tried to remain reasonable.

‘You’re as deluded as her,’ said Heather.

So that was definitely rude. Carmel reminded herself that Heather had lost her son. She spoke evenly. ‘I know we’re all tired and stressed, but there’s no need to get personal.’

‘This is personal!’ shouted Heather.

‘Sweetheart,’ said Napoleon. ‘Don’t.’ The gentle way he scolded his wife made Carmel’s heart ache.

‘Do you have children, Carmel?’ asked Heather in a more civilised tone.

‘I have four little girls,’ said Carmel carefully.

‘Well, how would you feel if someone gave your children drugs?’

It was true that she wouldn’t want a single drug to cross their precious lips. ‘My children are very little. Obviously Masha would never –’