Page 2 of A Murder is Going Down

(Told you we’d get there.)

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, not really meaning it.

Marianne sits down too, but with her legs tuckedelegantly beneath her. ‘Did he say how long it would be?’ Marianne is still taking deep breaths, but she can manage whole sentences again.

‘You heard what he said – sit tight and they’ll have us out of here soon.’

‘He didn’t say they’ll have us out of here soon,’ Marianne says, which is how I know she was actually paying attention.

‘It was implied,’ I say.

‘Why didn’t you ask?’

‘Ask what?’

‘How long we’ll be in here?’ she snaps.

Instead of asking her the same question, I opt out of this verbal ping-pong and reach into my bag, past my notepad, a bulky folder and a graveyard for broken pens, to pull out my water bottle.

‘Sorry,’ Marianne says, three deep breaths later, either realising that she’s being kind of a bitch or that there’s value in being nice to the only other person stuck in here with her. ‘This is a phobia of mine.’

‘Being stuck in a lift?’ At least it seems like I won’t be called on to saw through an umbilical cord anytime soon.

‘I have a whole stack of books about coping strategies, but they’re very helpfully up in my office.’

‘If you’re scared of lifts, why don’t you take the stairs?’

‘I work on the tenth floor.’

I look at Marianne’s black stiletto heels, lethal compared to my white (okay, off-white) sneakers. ‘Oh.’

‘Besides, I’m doing exposure therapy and it’s supposed to get easier over time.’

‘Ah.’

Another big breath. ‘I’m not sure this is what my psychologist would recommend, though.’

‘Right.’ I’m running out of monosyllables, so I say, ‘I knew someone who got stuck in a lift once.’ Is this a mistake?

Marianne’s head bounces up. ‘When?’

‘A year or so ago.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And were they okay?’

‘She was fine. I mean, her husband died, but she was okay.’

Marianne’s nostrils flare as her breathing ratchets up a notch. ‘Her. Husband.Died? Did. He. Suffocate? Did. The. Lift. Fall?’

‘No, no. Sorry. Her husband wasn’t in the lift with her. He just happened to die while she was stuck, that’s what I meant. The two were unrelated. Like, a terrible coincidence.’ I gabble this out as quickly as I can, before Marianne can asphyxiate. ‘Sorry, I should have said.’

Marianne leans back against the mirrored wall and herbreathing slows. Ten inhales and exhales later (sure I’m counting, what else do I have to do?), she asks, ‘How did her husband die?’

‘He was murdered.’