The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  ‘Knowing what you now know, do you think the nightmares could have something to do with what happened with this… [ruffles paper]… Grace?’

  ‘I’d say so, yes.’ [softly] ‘Definitely.’

  Sixteen

  I dreamed that night, not my usual nightmare, but that I was being chased.

  I ran on the streets of a darkened city, dodging behind parked cars and into tiny alleyways but still I wasn’t fast enough. I flicked off my shoes, shrugged off my coat and ran barefoot, thinking how much faster I’d be in trainers – why wasn’t I in trainers? – as I jumped over a garden fence that ripped at my clothes and scratched my skin. I skirted around houses, darted down side paths and squeezed through gaps in back hedges to throw off my pursuer, and finally I pressed my back against the dirty wall of a dank underpass, the brackish water of a canal sliding right by me while my lungs heaved and the steps of my pursuer rang out on the road above my head.

  I sagged with relief but it wasn’t over. In the way of dreams, I was running again, across a field this time, my heart pounding and my neck tensed for a shot in my back as I strained to reach the cover of far-lying trees. I flung myself under a bush, face-down in the mud and clawed at barbed branches until I was hidden and blood from my shredded fingers seeped into the ground.

  I flattened myself into the earth, something sharp digging into my ribs as my lungs pushed against the ground and I struggled to get my breath but then I was running again: in quicksand this time, my heart in my throat, air rasping in my lungs as I floundered ever slower and deeper, and then I was running through the university halls I lived in with Grace, the familiar smell of the disinfectant and institutional paint in my nostrils.

  I reached my room and jabbed the key in the lock but it wouldn’t turn and it wouldn’t turn and the footsteps were catching me; they were louder and closer and louder and closer and, with a feeling of unsurmountable horror I turned to face my pursuer, and it was Alex. Grace’s Alex with a knife raised to stab me.

  I woke with a jolt, my limbs pinned to the bed and waited for my heart to slow. Yes, there were the shapes of our bedroom, everything in its usual place; Rohan’s bulk exactly where it should be. Gingerly, I moved my head a little to the left and then the right, then flexed a leg and an arm. When my limbs were my own again, I slid myself up to sitting and took a sip of water. The sweat was rank on me; my nightshirt damp, and the terror of being pursued clung to me like fog.

  Why was I letting Grace back into my life? After I’d got rid of her once. What was I? A mug? A complete idiot?

  I went to the kitchen and opened my laptop, hoping to recall my email, but already there was a reply from Grace.

  Thanks so much. Can’t wait to see you. It’ll be just like old times.

  Now I’d have to tell Rohan.

  Seventeen

  I blurted out the news that Grace was coming back over dinner with Rohan. It was a week before he left for New York.

  It had been a stiflingly hot day with no relief up in the attic, despite the fan. I’d taken off my clothes and worked in my bra and pants, laying down another layer of acrylic and, as that dried, turning to my palette to mix the first oil colours with the care of a surgeon preparing her instruments. I’d worked straight through lunch and well on into the afternoon, fuelled only by black coffee and, later, vodka from the drinks fridge Rohan had thoughtfully installed for me in the studio.

  I liked a drink, that was no secret. I liked how it freed my mind; how it loosened the binds that tied me to the Earth. I liked how it made me forget things, and I liked it even more when I was painting: I loved how it stripped me of my day-to-day reality and bent the world into a better shape. Rohan found me in my underwear with the vodka bottle open beside me.

  ‘Should I disturb you?’ he asked, and I turned, surprised to see him there, flesh and blood, in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I’d taken off my watch since the sweat trapped under it irritated my skin. The air was humid and the birds in the tree – now I registered their racket – were agitated, restless – as if they could feel something that we couldn’t yet sense ourselves. I looked out of the window: the orangey-purply sky was shot with white vapour trails. A canvas in itself. The air was ripe with the sense of…

  ‘Seven,’ Rohan said. ‘It’s date night. We’re booked at Mr Ho’s – if you still want to go?’

  He stepped closer to me and ran his hands appreciatively over my bare skin, then pulled my hips against his so I could feel his hard-on, but my head was full of the weird sky, restlessness, Grace and the painting. Rohan’s hands wandered up to and slipped casually inside my bra, sending a jolt of desire through me. He kissed me deeply then pulled away, his hands in the air like he was surrendering.

  ‘That was just a teaser,’ he said. ‘The rest comes after dinner. If you still want to go…?’

  I tore my thoughts back to reality: my husband, date night, Mr Ho’s, and nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course. Let’s go.’

  And so I cleaned my brushes and went down to the bedroom to find something to wear. The concept of ‘date night’ was something Rohan had brought to our marriage and – although I disliked the fact we’d become the cliché of the married couple who needed to carve out time for each other – I was the first to admit it was quite useful in as much as it gave us a chance to catch up properly; it gave structure to our week. Anyhow, I liked Mr Ho’s despite its stiff pink tablecloths. It specialized in Indian-Chinese – a spiced-up version of the classics – and we were regulars. We’d sit at pretty much the same table by the window with the view of the High Street every time, and Rohan would open the menu, turn the pages while rubbing his chin, then close it with a bang and say, ‘Think I’ll have my usual, for a change.’

  This night was no different.

  ‘Have you decided?’ Rohan asked as we sat at our table, and I shook my head, unable to say the names of dishes when all that was in my head was Grace. I put the menu carefully back down.

  ‘Rohan,’ I began, the thing so big in my head now I struggled to find words to contain it. ‘My friend Grace…’

  ‘As in, your university friend? The one you lived with?’ Rohan interrupted.

  I nodded, irritated. ‘Yes, her. Well, I wanted to tell you that she’s, uh, moving back to the UK.’

  And that was it. The genie was out. The secret no longer mine.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ he said with a smile that showed me he had no idea how this would impact our lives. ‘Well, that’s great.’

  I smiled weakly at him.

  ‘So,’ he said, peering at me, ‘how do you feel about it? You’ve never really talked about any of your uni friends. Are you… pleased? Not pleased?’ He moved his shoulders one way and then the other, hands open as if weighing something up.

  I opened my mouth wide but nothing came out so I closed it slowly again.

  ‘Pleased,’ I said carefully.

  Rohan looked at me sideways. ‘You don’t look so pleased?’

  I exhaled. ‘It’s just…’ I stared at him for what felt like the longest time: could I tell him I was looking forward to having Grace around but was also nervous? That I was wary of the effect she would have, not just on me, but on our marriage? That I was scared of how I might change once Grace came back?

  ‘I’ve invited her to stay for a bit until she finds her feet,’ I said carefully. ‘The spare room’s just sitting empty, and you’ll be away most of the time.’

  Rohan had been out when the new bedding had arrived. I’d bought a small chair, too, with a pine frame, that rocked – nothing fancy. It wasn’t The Ritz, but I knew Grace would like it.

  ‘Does she have family here?’ Rohan asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Her parents died. It was quite sad, actually. One got sick – her dad, I think? And the other died within weeks.’

  ‘Very sad,’ Rohan agreed. ‘But yeah – it would be good for you to have a friend around.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, and we lapsed in
to silence for a few moments.

  ‘I’ve never met her, have I?’ Rohan asked. ‘What do I need to know about her? Or should I ask her for all the dirt on what you got up to?’ He gave me a leery smile, though I knew he thought that the worst I could possibly have done would have been to miss a lecture.

  We had to break off then because Mr Ho appeared at the side of the table, order pad poised.

  ‘How are you today, Mr Ho?’ Rohan asked. ‘How’s the family?’ Although he was the owner of the restaurant, the patriarch, he wore, like all the other staff, white shirtsleeves, a black waistcoat and black trousers. He’d told us once that his father used to run the restaurant, and that he hoped to pass it on to his own children, though they hadn’t shown much interest to date – one was doing Media Studies at university and the other was a jobbing musician. It was a source of great sadness to him to think he might have to sell the restaurant when he could no longer work.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ said Mr Ho, so Rohan ordered his food. ‘And what about you, darling? The spicy chicken and cashew nuts?’

  I nodded yes to the chicken. Mr Ho took the drinks order and left.

  ‘So what does this Grace do now? Where’s she been all this time?’ Rohan asked. Underneath the table, his foot found mine and pressed against it. He’d done the same on our first date, and at every date night since.

  ‘She’s a doctor,’ I said. ‘She moved to Australia after we left uni, and she’s been working there ever since. I’m not sure what she’ll do here. Probably try to get a job as a GP. And she also said something about some sort of medical volunteering. She’s the type who likes to “give back”.’

  ‘Oh okay,’ said Rohan, nodding his approval. I could see him thinking: respectable then, not some reprobate. ‘Is she married? Kids?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Okay,’ said Rohan, then he laughed: ‘Should I be scared?’ He laughed to show he was joking but my hesitation must have been more obvious than I thought.

  ‘Mind you, I don’t suppose she’ll be around much,’ Rohan said. ‘If she’s a doctor, she’s not going to have a lot of spare time, is she? Don’t they work seventy-hour weeks?’

  I tried to smile but it came out more of a gurn. I took a sip of water. ‘Yes, I guess.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rohan, squeezing my hand, ‘it’s good you’ll have someone around—’ and suddenly there was a flash and a crack that made me leap out of my seat, followed by a commotion outside as the people sitting at the three aluminium tables Mr Ho had put on the open veranda jumped up, clutching their drinks and moving their plates, and I saw that, finally, after this long run of hot, arid weeks, it had started to rain.

  Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019

  ‘How did you feel when you heard that Abigail’s friend Grace was coming to stay with her?’

  ‘I wasn’t worried at all. Why would I be? I was pleased. Abi had refused point-blank to come to New York with me and I was a little concerned about leaving her alone while I was gone. But then she mentioned that this friend was coming to stay and, honestly, I thought, thank God for that.’

  ‘You were relieved? Why were you so relieved?’

  [Sighs] ‘Look, Abs needs someone to look after her. It’s like she lives her life in fear of some disaster that may never happen. For example, she can’t go to bed without checking that everything in the house is secure: every window closed, the gas off, the door locked and so on. And I don’t mean that in a normal way. It’s like she’s obsessed. No matter how late it is, or how tired she is, or where in the world we are, she’ll do it, or she can’t sleep. I wonder if it’s OCD.’

  ‘I see. She sounds quite difficult to live with.’

  [Sighs] ‘Yes, maybe. But I love her. She’s beautiful – inside and out – and so talented. I have so much respect for her talent. And it’s more than that.’ [Pauses] ‘When I first saw her, she was having a quick smoke outside the gallery on the opening night of her exhibition. She was wearing this sculpted black dress and high heels. I could tell she wasn’t used to the dress or the shoes. And her hair – her crazy hair – she’d tried to tame it with this clip thing but it hadn’t really worked. She was so clearly a fish out of water – so nervous and unsure of herself, but trying so hard. My heart just went out to her. She was – I don’t know how to put it? Swan-like, elegant, fragile. Vulnerable. I just wanted to scoop her into my arms and protect her. And I have done ever since.’ [Laughs] ‘But she’s not the most stable person… she’s… unpredictable. Antisocial, too. She doesn’t like going out. She lives in her head – or maybe even in another dimension. Part and parcel of being an artist, I suppose.

  ‘But, going back to your initial question, I was kind of worried that, with me away, she wouldn’t go out at all. So, when she told me about Grace, I was pleased. I thought she’d be all right. She told me Grace was a doctor, for God’s sake. I couldn’t argue with that. I was actually quite jealous. The older I get, the more I like to reconnect with people from my past and wallow in memories. I pictured them with a bottle of wine, getting out the old photos, reminiscing. I hoped she’d carry on with her painting and not get too distracted partying.’

  ‘You had no reason to suspect anything, then?’

  ‘No. As I said, why would I?’

  Eighteen

  Rohan wouldn’t let me go to the airport with him.

  ‘You know what you’re like in crowds,’ he said, ‘and this is Heathrow we’re talking about.’ He shook his head and laughed, the idea of me at the airport preposterous. ‘Anyway, I’d worry about you getting back home without me.’ He pulled me to him then and squeezed me. ‘I’ll get a taxi and we can say goodbye at home. It’s the best way, and you know it.’

  I accepted the hug in silence and nothing more was said, but the thought of Rohan’s departure had grown like a tumour in the back of my mind, a shadow on an X-ray, silent and threatening, and now it was almost here. I sat on our bed, my spine propped uncomfortably against the headboard, my legs stretching down the duvet, while Rohan packed his last few things. It was barely past dawn and the light from the bedside lamp pooled yellow. Alfie circled the room, unsettled by the early activity as much as by the suitcases. The cab was due any second.

  ‘Passport? Boarding pass? Wallet? Credit card?’ I asked, and Rohan nodded absently, his eyes taking in the sight of me alone on the bed, but his mind already leaving the house, me, our life.

  ‘Glasses? Contact lenses?’ I added, just to remind him that he and I were both still here, together for the last time for a good few weeks.

  ‘Right,’ he said as if I hadn’t spoken, and he closed the lid of his suitcase, pulled the zip around and spun the combination lock. ‘Done. I bet I’ve forgotten something, but – pff.’

  ‘I’m sure they have shops in New York,’ I said, and tried to smile but the effort was too much and tears oozed out from under my eyelashes. I turned away and tried to wipe them without being seen.

  ‘Aww. Don’t cry.’ Rohan kissed the top of my head. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘Don’t go.’ My words were barely audible. It was too late: the scale had tipped; the process begun. Tears leaked and I wiped them with my palms. Rohan sat down next to me on the bed and put his arm around me. I leaned into his body, wishing, wishing, wishing that I could go back in time and change everything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rohan said. ‘You know I have no choice. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  ‘I know. I love you too.’ My face was hot and wet. It was like crying at school with the whole class watching.

  ‘We can talk every day if you like. FaceTime. Or Zoom. Whatever you want.’ Rohan kissed my hair again and got up with a sigh. ‘My cab’ll be here in a minute.’

  He dragged his bag off the bed and let it land on the floor with a thud that surely bruised the house. ‘You know it’s not too late to join me.’ He shrugged on his jacket. ‘
Any time at all. I’ll pick you up. Even if it’s just for a week.’

  I watched him through my tears. He looked handsome, more so than usual. With a tug of jealousy, I imagined him chatting to a lone woman next to him on the plane. He could be quite the charmer while I was… well, I was stuck at home.

  ‘Are you coming down?’ he said, pulling his bag to the door with one hand, his cabin bag held aloft in the other.

  I blew my nose and heaved myself off the bed and followed him as he clattered down the stairs, one bag scraping against the wallpaper, the other knocking against the balustrades. I winced. Outside, his cab hooted. At the door, Rohan turned and hugged me.

  ‘Stay safe,’ he said. ‘Order everything online. Get it all delivered. Use Mum if you need to. She’s desperate to be useful. Oh, and don’t forget to get the tree cut.’

  I breathed in the smell of him, the warm, familiar scent of his skin and the fresh tang of his cologne, and wished I was the type of woman who’d relish an adventure like the one he was offering; I wished I was the type of woman who’d jump at the chance to go to New York. Grace would, but… I squeezed my husband a little tighter, my head on his chest, but already his energy was moving through the door; his mind moving on to the airport, the trip, New York City. His lips found mine.

  ‘’Bye, darling. Have fun with Grace.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and reluctantly I released him with the sense that I was letting not just him, but everything go.

  Rohan carried his cases down the path, and I watched as he opened the boot of the taxi, put the bags in one after the other, then climbed in next to the driver. The window buzzed down, he waved, and the car pulled away. I watched until its brake lights came on at the top of Albert Road, the indicator flicking left. As it turned, I raised my hand and waved, but the passenger window was already closed and all I could see was a reflection of the trees that lined the road, like skeletons on the glass.