The House: The brilliantly tense and terrifying thriller with a shocking twist - whose story do you believe?

by Simon Lelic

  Bart caught up with me afterwards. I was crossing the lobby of our building when he called out to me from the doorway to the stairwell.

  ‘Jack! Hey, Jack, wait up.’

  I heard his voice as though through a bubble. I was moving on autopilot and it took Bart calling out again to bring me to a halt.

  ‘Jack! Hold on, will you? What happened in there? What did they say to you?’

  I turned to look at him. His face seemed different somehow. Everything did. ‘They found out,’ I said.

  ‘Found out? Found out about what?’

  ‘About Sabeen. About Ali. About all of them.’

  Except for the security guard there was no one around us, but Bart checked across his shoulder and pulled me into one of the lobby’s dimly lit alcoves. I didn’t resist.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bart had lowered his voice to something like a whisper. ‘How could they possibly have found out?’

  I shook my head. All I could think about was Sabeen’s mother and father, the disappointment I imagined etched on their faces.

  ‘What did they say, though?’ Bart pressed. ‘Why are you leaving? Did they … I mean, are you …?’

  ‘I’ve been suspended,’ I told him. I’d said it almost as a question, but voicing it made it seem real. I’d been suspended. I would probably – definitely – be fired. And that made me think about my own parents. What would my mother say? My father, I knew, wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t have to.

  ‘Fuck,’ I announced suddenly. ‘Just … fucking … fuck.’

  Bart smiled at that – I suppose at the spectacle of me swearing. He was trying to be encouraging – I recognized as much even then – but nevertheless it was the wrong thing to do.

  ‘It’s not funny, Bart.’

  ‘I’m not laughing, Jack. I’m just –’

  ‘You are laughing. You’re smiling even now.’

  His face went deadpan. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I honestly wasn’t laughing at you. I’m just trying to get my head around it, that’s all.’

  Now I laughed. Bart was trying to get his head around it.

  ‘How did they know, though?’ he repeated. ‘Did they tell you how they found out?’

  I gave another raw little snort. ‘They mentioned a concerned neighbour. They said they couldn’t go into specifics. And it’s bullshit anyway because the whole point is they didn’t have any neighbours. That’s why I put them there.’

  ‘So … what? You think Mr Yazdani and the others were making that up? That they found out some other way?’

  In truth, until that point, I hadn’t been particularly concerned with how they’d found out. I’d been thinking more about Sabeen and her family, about what would happen to them now. And, yes, about what would happen to me. It hadn’t even crossed my mind by that stage that I might be subject to criminal proceedings. Losing my job – getting fired: that was bad enough for me.

  Bart was waiting for me to answer. I was about to shake my head again, to insist I had no idea, when it struck me the answer was staring me in the face. Literally.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ I said.

  I knew for a fact I’d covered my tracks when I’d set up Sabeen and her family in their new home, so there was no way I could have been caught through something I’d left showing on the system. I briefly considered Ali’s phantom immigration official, but if the Home Office really had been involved in the discovery, Mr Yazdani and his cronies would have told me. They had no reason to hide behind a lie. There was always the possibility some neighbour had stuck their oar in, precisely as Mr Yazdani had claimed, but it was like I said: Sabeen and her family didn’t have many neighbours, and none that would have had any cause to complain. And besides, Sabeen and the others – they were careful. To the extent half the family rarely ventured out. If somebody from their community had dobbed them in, it would have taken someone peculiarly vindictive. And, personally, I’d always held the belief that people in general do their best to get along. It’s only when they feel threatened that they lash out, and no one from Sabeen’s family had the temperament, or any reason, to threaten anyone.

  No, the way I saw it, the explanation was right in front of me. Bart was the only other person in the world who knew about Sabeen. I hadn’t even confided in Syd. And here he was now, quizzing me on what I knew about how the department heads had found out. I mean, for Christ’s sake, he was more interested in that than the fact I’d just been suspended.

  He was looking at me, pretending he hadn’t heard right. ‘What did you say?’

  I faced him fully. ‘I said, why don’t you tell me?’

  That smile again, more pointed this time. ‘You think I told them?’

  ‘You’re the only one who knew. You’re the only one I trusted.’

  ‘Seriously, Jack. I know you’re pissed off right now, but think for a moment about what you’re saying. What possible reason could I have for going behind your back?’

  ‘I can think of dozens of reasons, as it happens.’ There’d been talk recently of a spot opening up at the pay grade above ours and it was possible Bart was positioning himself for the promotion. But that was tenuous to say the least, and I had enough sense even at that point to recognize that for Bart any such manoeuvring would have been completely out of character. In fact, if I’m honest, there was really only one possible explanation that had come to mind. ‘Maybe you were just pissed off at me,’ I said. ‘Jealous, even.’

  ‘Jealous? What on earth would I be jealous of?’

  ‘The house, for example. Syd.’

  ‘Syd? What the fuck, Jack!’

  Bart’s outrage, in my mind, seemed only to validate my accusation. His relationship with Syd was something that had been needling me virtually since the day I introduced them. I’d never quite shaken the feeling they were sharing a joke at my expense behind my back. It was little things: glances they shared, expressions that passed between them. I’d always tried to dismiss the way I’d felt as paranoia, but it’s like I said before, right? Just because you’re paranoid … And quite honestly it felt good to finally voice the suspicions I’d been nurturing. To be on the attack, too, when so far I’d been wholly on the defensive.

  ‘I’d expect you to deny it,’ I said. ‘But I’ve seen the way you look at her. I’ve seen the way you sidle up to her when you think no one else is watching.’

  Bart was doing a good impression of being too flabbergasted to speak. ‘Sidle up to her,’ he managed to echo. He glanced around him as though in search of some assistance. The security guard had taken an interest in us, but the lobby otherwise remained empty. I suppose that’s one thing I can be grateful for now: that as I stood there making a tit of myself, there was nobody else around to watch.

  ‘I came down here to see if I could help,’ Bart said. ‘You know, to lend a bit of moral support. I didn’t expect to be fucking accused. Of losing you your job. Of trying to steal your girlfriend. I mean, Jesus, Jack!’

  I think I must have realized at that point, at least on some level, that Bart’s outrage was genuine. That yet again I was in the wrong. And I must have known too that if I was going to rescue our friendship, I would have to start trying right then. I couldn’t unaccuse my friend. But Bart knew what I was going through. He knew me well enough not to take what I’d said to him too seriously. Sure, even if I were to apologize he’d be pissed off at me for a while, and would probably still feel genuinely hurt, but we’d fallen out before and got past it. I had no reason to suspect that this time would prove any different – if only I could set aside for a moment what was left of my misplaced pride.

  The security guard had moved out from behind his desk. At most I had another ten seconds, after which I’d be escorted from the building and Bart would disappear back upstairs. Time enough to say sorry, though. More than enough time to make my choice.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to Bart. ‘But if this is what your moral support looks like, frankly you can stick it up your arse.’

  S
ydney

  I got the drugs from a guy I know at work. I suspect Jack will worry about me talking about this because he wouldn’t want me to get myself in trouble. Plus, I suppose, there’s the idea that my taking drugs makes me unreliable. Except, the way I look at it, what type of person would come across worse: someone who took drugs and owned up to it or who pretended they didn’t and was later found out? And they will find out, I know they will. Jack’s friend Karen? She’s probably found out already. As for me getting in trouble, I’m fairly sure that horse has bolted too. Besides, a caution for possession: if that’s as much as all of this amounts to in the end, I’ll be laughing all the way to rehab.

  So, yeah, I scored, when for four whole years the thought of doing so hadn’t even crossed my mind. OK, OK, so it had crossed my mind but only the way a memory might. Or, actually, a worry.

  Again – as with my mother’s visit – it was after what happened to Elsie. In fact I’d just come from the hospital, where for several hours I’d watched Elsie lying immobile on her bed in exactly the same position as when I’d visited the day before. I was at my desk, pretending I was thinking about something else, when I noticed Howard (not his real name. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead, etc. etc.) loitering on his own near the coffee machine. And I just got up. And I walked over to him. And I said, hi Howard, how’s it going, and before I knew it I was sixty quid poorer.

  In my defence I didn’t use right away. Not for almost a fortnight. It was only on the day Jack was hauled into his boss’s office that I finally succumbed. Again, not because of Jack’s job. The timing in that sense was purely coincidental. Or not, actually, but you know what I mean. And you see, that’s why it is important I admit to this. That I lay my coke-encrusted credit card on the table. Because it was partly due to the drugs that I reacted the way I did when Jack got home. And it’s definitely because I reacted the way I did that Jack, afterwards, went straight to the Evening Star. So that’s on me too, is what I’m saying. I fucked up. Again. And Jack’s day, which hadn’t begun well, was about to get a whole lot shittier.

  I got an email. That’s what started it. As Jack was at his desk, unaware that his boss’s hand was priming itself to settle on his shoulder, I was sitting on the lid of our toilet staring at the screen of my iPhone. The shower was running and the bathroom mirror was already dripping with mist but I still hadn’t even shed my pyjamas. I think I had my toothbrush in my mouth too. I did, because I remember the toothpastey drool that hit the screen of my phone after it fell from between my parted lips.

  I hadn’t recognized the sender. I only opened the email at all because Jack’s name had been the subject line. And the attachment had displayed automatically. There was no message, no writing of any kind. Just the picture that had sent me blindly groping for the toilet seat.

  The photograph was one of Jack. Smiling. Leering – in a way I’d never seen him doing before. And beside him, with a look in her adoring eyes that conveyed way more than any line of text could have, there was a girl planting her lips on his cheek. A woman, I suppose you could have called her. Barely. She looked foreign. Like, Mediterranean. Middle Eastern, maybe. As well as kissing him she was clutching Jack’s arm. Clasping it. And the two of them were heading through a doorway I didn’t recognize. Into an apartment, it looked like. A bedsit? Which got me thinking that maybe it was one of Jack’s. One of the ones he’d allocated – just as the girl was probably one of Jack’s as well. Someone he’d saved. Someone who felt they owed him. Someone, basically, as grateful and as gullible as me.

  For some time I sat there too stunned to think.

  Jack. My Jack. Doing … this.

  I stared for another moment at the photograph and then I hurled the phone – Jack’s leer – against the towel rail. It hit a towel (surprise, surprise) and didn’t break, not even when it landed on the hardwood floor. I kicked it as it rebounded towards me and it skid-spun under the washing basket and cowered against the skirting. Fucking prick. Fucking cradle-snatching, two-faced, two-timing prick. I spat my toothbrush into the sink and wrenched off the shower, not caring about the water that soaked my sleeve. I stood there for a while adding to the steam, glaring at the shower curtain as though it were him. My mind started racing through all the things I felt a sudden urge to do, all of which culminated in a vision of something breaking. The mirror behind me, my toes against the side panel of the bath, Jack’s jaw. If my phone had been in my hand I would have called him, would have started by perforating his eardrums. I needed to do something that would feel that gratifying, something as pure a release as a scream.

  And that’s when it came to me. The memory of that little package I’d tucked away in one of my old handbags. Fuck Jack, fuck being used, fuck fucking sobriety. After resisting for so long, the alternative was suddenly way more appealing.

  When Jack got home I was sitting on my yoga mat. Still in my slightly damp pyjamas. My hair a frizzy disaster probably, from all that steam. Toothpaste drool like a slug-trail down my front. My anger hadn’t diminished. Instead, thanks to the half a gram or so of slightly urine-tinged coke I’d consumed (in my more discerning days I would have had words to say to Howard but I wasn’t presently in any mood to be fussy) it had become more focused. Honed, like that kitchen knife we were only vaguely aware at that point had gone missing. I had no idea what the time was. Too early for Jack to be home on any normal day but as this wasn’t turning out to be a normal day I wasn’t all that surprised to hear him come back. I’d go as far as to say I’d been expecting him.

  ‘Syd? Are you at home? Why’s all your stuff here?’ Jack’s voice calling from the hallway.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t move.

  ‘Syd?’

  I heard him head into the kitchen. After he failed to find me there, he came back along the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. I felt a surge of revulsion as he drew near.

  ‘Syd? Are you in there?’

  After the pounding of his feet his voice, outside the door, was oddly hushed. I guessed he must have assumed that, as I wasn’t at work, I must have been ill.

  His smile when he saw me sitting there was half frown.

  ‘Syd? What are you doing in here? Are you OK? Listen, I … something’s happened. At work.’ He gave me a look then. I could see the guilt but it was masked behind regret.

  I tossed him my phone. Threw it at him, really. He was so surprised he only just caught it. And I think that’s when he noticed the little make-up mirror beside me. The dusting of powder, the rolled-up banknote. The state of me, basically. The fire in my broad black eyes.

  I stood and pushed past him. By the time Jack reacted I was already halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Syd?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘Syd, what the …’

  I heard him trailing after me. I went straight from the bottom of the staircase into the living room and couldn’t resist slamming the door.

  I was by the window when I heard it open again behind me.

  ‘Wanker,’ I spat, spinning, and Jack recoiled as though I’d slapped him. ‘You lying, arrogant wanker!’

  ‘What the hell, Syd? What have I done?’

  He was still holding my phone. The screen, I noticed, was blank.

  ‘Look at the picture, Jack. Look at the picture and then you tell me.’

  ‘What picture?’ Jack stared dumbly at my iPhone. He hit the home button, swiped the screen with his finger. ‘It’s locked,’ he said, looking up.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ I marched across and snatched it from him. I swiped, jabbed in my code. Got it wrong, jabbed again. Harder this time, slower. The picture appeared and I held it two inches from Jack’s nose. He recoiled as though I’d meant to hit him, then gradually his eyes began to focus. His face became a portrait of confusion, so perfect it must have been practised.

  ‘Amira?’ he said.

  I barked out a laugh. ‘Amira. How exotic.’ I sniffed, wiped my nostrils with a knuckle.

  Jack had somehow taken h
old of the phone. He was studying the picture, pinching and zooming, and the movement of his fingers looked to me like a caress. I flung out a hand and knocked the phone from his grip. It hit the granite surround of the fireplace and the screen – finally – shattered.

  ‘Jesus, Syd!’ Jack was left holding thin air. He was looking at me now as though I was as cracked as my iPhone.

  ‘Get out, Jack. Get the fuck out of this house.’

  ‘Syd. Seriously. I don’t know what you think that picture shows, but I promise you it’s completely –’

  ‘Get out! Get out or I swear to God I’ll throw you out!’

  Which sounded so ridiculous I’m surprised Jack managed not to laugh.

  ‘She’s just a tenant! Someone who came to me for help. Although she didn’t, her sister did. This thing at work I was trying to tell you about, it –’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Jack! I don’t want to hear about your little harem. Although, actually, I’m curious: was the sister not young enough for you? Is that why you ended up with her?’ I flicked my chin towards the carcass of my phone.

  ‘Ended up with? I wasn’t sleeping with her, Syd! I wasn’t sleeping with anyone! I was just …’ Jack paused all of a sudden and whatever had come into his head caused it to tilt. ‘Where did you get it anyway? That picture. Did you …’ He straightened, as though sensing he had cause to be affronted. ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘What? No, I haven’t been fucking following you!’

  ‘So where did you get it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how I got it. All that matters is what it shows. Don’t tell me you’re denying that’s you.’