The building has no fourth floor. The panel goes from 3 to 5. No fourteen either, and no twenty-four. He lives on eight.
One night he came back late from work, gone two, and pressed 8. The lift went up, stopped, opened.
It was not his floor. The corridor was narrower, the walls whitewashed and flaking, the light one of those old yellow globes. The floor was terrazzo, not tile.
He stepped back in. The doors closed and opened again.
His floor.
He mentioned it to the management office. They said that was not possible, the lift had passed inspection six months ago.
He started paying attention. Going from 3 to 5 took about half a second longer than any other two floors. He timed it for a fortnight. It was consistent.
One evening he pressed 3, got out, and went up the fire stairs counting.
Five to six: eighteen steps. Six to seven: eighteen.
Three to five: thirty-six.
He stood on the landing halfway. It was wider than the others. There was a door in the wall.
It had been bricked up and plastered over, painted the same colour as the wall, though the outline showed. The dust on it was twenty years deep.
A metal plate was screwed to the frame, the paint worn off the numeral but the shape still legible. 4.
The door handle was brass, polished pale, without a speck of dust on it.