‘Possibly not. But I have a lot of experience of these issues so possibly I can. I’d say something else too. You can’t betray anyone by honestly telling me what’s in your heart or in your head.’
I don’t know what he means by that. Whatever, it makes no difference. I’m not coming back but I still say, ‘I’ll think about it.’
Doctor Wilson escorts me back through the building and out onto the doorstep.
As he opens the door, I face him. ‘I used to feel like I was frozen in time. Couldn’t move forward.’
‘Used to?’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘You said “used to”. Has something changed?’
‘Goodbye, doctor.’ I take a step outside. Turn back to him. ‘Sometimes I think I’m living someone else’s life. That this isn’t the life I was meant to have.’
Before he can answer, I scurry down the street like an escaping thief.
Chapter 9
People rush past me as they leave the tube station, their feet moving in that well-known London rhythm. I can’t get home fast enough. Compared to them I’m sluggish; the muscles in my legs appear to have been replaced by stones. I’m tired. God, I’m exhausted. An invisible hand has pulled my plug. It’s not work that’s wiped me out, it’s the farewell letter I found.
‘To whom it may concern.’
It’s the last thing I think of before I mercifully find sleep and the first to greet the start of my day. I can’t give the man the rest he’d begged for. Maybe it’s my own brush with trying to end my life – or whatever that traumatic incident was – I don’t know, but I can’t leave my invisible roommate alone. Obsessive. That’s what one of my past therapists called my personality. Once something takes root in my head I can’t let go. It grows and grows until I’m sure my mind’s not my own. Now I’ve got a dead man queuing up with all my other problems.
It’s been almost a week since the mouse incident. Martha came to my room to apologise and to assure me that Jack would never do the horrible thing I was accusing him of. Funny, she seemed to have her eyes wide open about her husband’s infidelity but not much else. I’d let her say her piece, hadn’t argued and had shown her to the door. I hadn’t seen Jack and that’s the way I want to keep it. As long as he doesn’t try any more stunts we’ll rub along fine.
Another commuter brushes, none too gently, against me. I pick up my pace as I move down the high street. Turn the corner onto the street where my new home awaits me. As I get closer, I see Martha and Jack’s neighbour pruning roses in her front garden. I haven’t seen her since our unforgettable meeting when she’d accused me of laughing with Martha and Jack about her garden. Jack claimed it was the rambling of a mad woman. I can’t help wincing. Mad is such a nasty word. A label that sticks for life.
What is clear is there’s certainly no love lost between her and my landlord and lady.
What if…?
I walk with renewed purpose to reach her.
She stops clipping and gives me the evil eye. The corners of her mouth sag with sour displeasure. Her summer trousers and earth-smeared shirt are baggy against her small frame and, despite the warm weather, she still wears her woolly hat with the knitted flower. Age has taken its inevitable toll on her face, but there’s no sign she’s lost her marbles, as Jack so eloquently put it, in her sharp brown eyes.
‘I’m Lisa,’ I introduce myself, rustling up a lengthy smile.
She doesn’t smile back. In fact, there’s now a twist to her mouth and brows that communicates her irritation.
An insistent meow takes me by surprise. I look down to find a tiger-striped, well-fed tabby wearing a collar and silver name tag rubbing itself against the woman’s leg. There’s another tabby behind, the pattern of its fur blotched and swirling, snatching its paw back and forth as it plays in the dirt.
‘Betty.’ My new neighbour addresses the cat attached to her leg. ‘Stop being such a mummy’s boy.’ Her voice is full of affection. ‘Go and play with Davis.’
Betty and Davis. Ah, Bette Davis. The cat’s name ends with an ‘e’ no doubt. The cat purrs as it slinks away, curling itself up on the flagstone tiled path as if the idea of frolicking in the dirt is too scandalous to contemplate.
‘What do you want?’ the woman says, glowering, her eyes narrow.
‘I’ve just moved in next door.’
A grunt of disdain comes from the back of her throat. ‘One of their lot, are you?’
‘Their what?’
‘Friends.’ She spits it out like it’s the most poisonous word in the world. I’m surprised the roses don’t wither and die. ‘I thank you kindly, missy, for having the good manners no doubt your mother bred in you to take the time to say good day, but if you see me again, I would appreciate it if you just went on your merry way.’ Her pruning scissors click shut by her side.
‘No.’ I rush to enlighten her. ‘They’re not my friends. I’m just renting a room at the top of the house.’
The skin on her face relaxes, sagging further, as she takes her time assessing me anew.
‘Well, if I was you,’ she growls with volume, no doubt hoping it’s loud enough for her neighbours to hear, ‘I’d have a bottle of holy water on hand to deal with the evil of those two.’
I lower my voice, hoping that will be enough for her to take the hint I’d rather not draw Jack and Martha’s attention to me speaking to her. ‘You don’t get on with them?’
Bette is back, caressing its owner’s leg. ‘I think you mean they don’t get on with me. I’ve lived on this street for sixty odd years, since I was a little girl. This house belonged to Papa and Momma and one day it will be passed on to my grandchildren.’ Her mouth does its familiar twist. ‘Although, the way my Lottie’s bunch have been eyeing me lately, it seems like they’re willing me to meet my maker any day now. Cheeky bloody young people. Told Lottie she should’ve taken the strap to the lot of them years ago. If they’re not careful I’ll leave it all to Bette and Davis.’
I can imagine how that will play out in her family. A mega court battle, feline versus human.
‘Umm… I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Because I didn’t throw it,’ is the snap response. Then her creased face lightens up as she gives me a crafty smile. ‘That’s what we told the boys back in my day. I might’ve loved a good old dance at the Palais or in Soho but I was not fast and loose with the elastic of my knickers.’
My lips twitch at that. This lady has real character. I like that.
There’s now a twinkle in her eye. ‘The name’s Patricia or Patsy. Never Trish though. Knew a Trish once; had a voice like a foghorn and a devious character that should’ve sunk with the Titanic.’ She glares back up at the house. ‘She would’ve fit in with those two like three monkeys stuffing their faces with bananas on a branch.’
‘Patsy.’ I decide to get chummy with her. ‘What happened between you and Martha and Jack?’
‘I’ll show you.’ She moves briskly towards the front door.
I can’t believe my luck. I quickly follow with the cats purring close behind. She leads the way through a hallway that’s full and fussy with a wooden wall table and Victorian-style coat and hat stand, walls jam-packed with family portraits and more modern photos of smiling children, no doubt who grew up to be adults who can’t wait to get their hands on her house. We end up in the back and it’s not a kitchen, like next door, but a cosy conservatory bursting with summer light. Patsy opens the French doors and gestures with her hand at the garden. It’s an eye-grabbing confection of flowers of all colours, butterflies and bees. The scent of the blooms is strong. A blue and grey mosaic table with matching chairs sits by the door and in the far corner is a bench shaded under a fig tree. What a serene place.
But why has she brought me here?
Seeing the question and frown on my face, she moves close to me. Whispers, ‘Even the trees in the garden have ears.’ She points with a crooked finger and winks to the fence that borders Martha’s and Jack’s.
‘I’ve pl
ayed in this garden since I was this high.’ She places a hand just above her knee. All her fingers appear slightly bent; a classic symptom of chronic arthritis. ‘A couple of months back, his lordship in there shows me street plans that claim – claim – the bottom of my garden belongs to their house. These so-called plans show that their garden doesn’t stop at the bottom but includes a considerable stretch of land all the way along the back, past all the houses, right to the bottom of the street.’ She scoffs. ‘What do they need more garden for, eh? He’s out there all hours of the day and night, doing what? Their garden’s a bloody disgrace.’
I think of Jack grabbing my hand roughly as I tried to go into the garden on my first visit to see the room. Martha claims he’s just a touch territorial. But is it more than that? Has he got something to hide?
There’s a tremor in Patsy’s voice now. ‘The bastards took my back fence down one night when I was away visiting my daughter for the weekend. Cowards.’ Tears glisten in her eyes. ‘The police said there’s naff all they can do about it. I’m not like the others on this street who have caved in.’ I can almost hear the creak as her back stiffens with resolve. ‘They are not getting away with it. I’m taking them to court, all the way to the Bailey if I have to.’
I don’t have the heart to tell her that the Old Bailey tries murder cases.
‘My lawyer, my nephew, is here at this very moment writing up the notes on our meeting on his laptop. Well, he’s not my nephew really. I’ve been a friend of his grandmother’s since we were young girls out on the town. Which reminds me, I need to make him a nice cup of tea before he sets off.’
That surprises me. I hadn’t sensed anyone else was in the house.
As she potters around the kitchen I commiserate with her over her troubles. And I do feel huge sympathy for her; it can’t be easy losing part of your home. However, I must focus on what I came to speak to her about.
‘Do you remember any of the people or families who lived next door?’
Patsy tips a spoonful of fragrant tea leaves into the teapot. ‘Course I do. There were the Latimers, Morrises, Patels.’ A solitary bony finger rubs against her lips as she searches her mind. ‘Ah yes, the Warrens. Christ Almighty, the kids were like wild animals. Should’ve been behind bars at London Zoo. The Peters. The Mitzes. Or was that across the road? I get a bit mixed up sometimes.’
Before she gets into a proper muddle I ask, ‘Do you know if they had a tenant in their house before I came?’
Patsy looks confused as she stirs the tea in the china teapot. Her expression settles as her mind ticks over my question. ‘I think there was one. Yes, a man. I didn’t see him much…’ Her voice trails away as her threadbare brows surge together.
‘I remember seeing him from my bedroom window, roaming the garden like a prisoner walking the yard. You know, like he had the troubles of the world pressing down on both shoulders. Never caught his face.’ Her tiny teeth worry her bottom lip as she puts the lid on the teapot.
My jubilation at finding out there was a previous tenant nosedives when the older woman adds, ‘Mind you, Queen Bee in her brass castle had blokes coming in and out of her place like it was Piccadilly Circus. All times of the night as well. It only stopped when she got her hooks into that dumb toy boy she parades around on her arm.’ Her tongue clucks in disgust. ‘Fancy a woman her age taking up with a young lad like that. Her fanny better be topped up with Botox because getting between the sheets with her isn’t going to be a pretty sight.’
I can’t stop the laughter gurgling out of me this time. It feels good. So good. I can’t remember the last time I pushed my head back and roared with joy.
Patsy beckons me close with the crook of her finger. Her breath warms my cheek. ‘There definitely was a man there. Already living there when she dragged that Jack indoors with her. I don’t recall when he moved out.’
So Jack had been lying to me. Why would he do that? If a tenant had killed himself in the house Jack wouldn’t get into trouble with the authorities. What was he covering up? Did it have something to do with the garden? Question after question swirls with the destructiveness of a hurricane in my mind. One after another, backing up, demanding an instant answer.
Faster, faster, faster.
Breathe. Just breathe.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Three, four…
I can’t slow down. Can’t. The sharp teeth of desperation sink into my nerves. Where are my pills? Bollocks. They’re in the house. In my room. Sweat beads along my hairline. Vertebra after vertebra freezes until my spine is a column of ice. The bottom of my feet hurt along their familiar lines of pain. I’m shaking. Trembling. Seams falling apart.
Patsy stares at me, wide-eyed with concern, the same way that Mum does.
A man’s professional voice breaks through my suffering from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’ve written a comprehensive account of…’ He abruptly stops as his gaze finds me. ‘Lisa?’
Seeing him should tip me over the edge. Instead my control slips back into place.
‘Alex?’
Chapter 10
The problem with the past is sometimes it has a nasty habit of headbutting its way in to your future. Me and my once-upon-a-time boyfriend stare at each other. It’s uncomfortable. Neither of us knows what to say.
Patsy’s inquisitive gaze darts from Alex to me, back to Alex. She makes no comment except, ‘I’ve made a lovely pot of white tea, Alex. My friend always brings me gorgeous white tea back from Sri Lanka. When you’re ready…’
Bette and Davis prowl excitedly after her as she leaves us alone.
We just stand there, staring. I’m drinking him in. God knows what thoughts are going through his mind as he assesses me. Alex is neatly turned out as usual – slim-fitting charcoal suit, black tie, snowy-white shirt. I wonder if he still wears odd socks.
‘Don’t want to be a member of the herd,’ was his cheerful explanation.
Alex breaks the booming silence. ‘Lisa, what are you doing here?’ There’s a wow-wonder sound in his voice, as if he thinks I’ve been conjured up by a magic trick.
I wrap my arms protectively round my middle. ‘I live next door.’
I have no idea why I’m telling him this; we’d finished nearly six months ago and that’s how I wanted to keep it.
We’d met by pure chance at the end of last year. He was part of a team from a high-powered city bank representing a Russian client with very deep pockets who was doing business with my firm. I hadn’t noticed Alex at first; I was too busy doing my usual practice of working myself to the bone at my computer. He came to my attention on his third visit when two of the women who worked beside me decided to rope me into their ‘look at what’s just waltzed through the door’ whispered gossip-fest.
‘Nice buns, hun,’ Cheryl had remarked with all the lip-licking yumminess of eating the best meal in town. ‘He’s only thirty, I hear.’
‘And that height,’ Debbie cooed, no thought to being a married woman. ‘I wouldn’t mind climbing that. What do you think, Lisa? Would you let him become your tree?’
I’d tried to ignore what I considered to be two grown women tittering away with the hormonal overload of adolescent schoolgirls. Besides, my number one rule at work was to do exactly that – work. Colleagues were acquaintances not friends. Friends inevitably drifted away. They never said it, but it was there after a while, imprinted in their disbelieving eyes. Your weirdness we can do without. But the women wouldn’t leave me alone until I was forced to look at wonder man.
I surprised myself by being riveted. It wasn’t his looks, his bum, his climb-me quality. It was the way he threw his head back, ever so slightly, and laughed. I have a weakness for men who love a laugh. Laughter makes you forget, puts your troubles behind you, at least for a time.
Later that day, lunchtime, we’d taken the lift down together.
‘I’m Alex,’ he surprised me by saying. ‘You’re one of the software crowd.’
I blushed hot and deep
. Men didn’t notice me; my neck-to-toe clothing put them off. Who was it who said you needed to put something on display in the window to get a man’s attention? Well, my window had the blinds down and curtains swished across.
Somehow – who knew how it happened – I ended up showing him one of the more memorable lunch haunts. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when he insisted I ate with him, the corners of his eyes crinkled with smile lines as he persuaded me. Over two plates of hummus, baby spinach salad and warmed, wholemeal pitta bread, we’d got to know each other. And that’s how it had started, to Cheryl and Debbie’s open-mouthed, catty astonishment: three months of dinners, cocktails, movies, Alex teaching me to laugh again. Of course, I knew that the problems would start with taking things to the next level: discovering each other in bed. At the age of twenty-five I’d never laid my body bare to a man. It was my secret shame I kept hidden for my eyes only. Nevertheless, I decided that Alex was The One.
I force myself back to the present. That night is what makes me push past him and stride out of Patsy’s house. And walk away. I don’t need to be told that he’s my neighbour’s lawyer who is helping her get back her slice of England’s green and pleasant land.
‘Lisa,’ he urgently calls after me from the front door.
I shut his words out as I shove the key into Martha and Jack’s lock. Slam the door. Wish I hadn’t when I remember the last thing I need is to alert the landlords that I’m back. I remain where I am, listening. Then I hear the door to Patsy’s front door close.
I’m glad that Alex didn’t come after me, I convince myself. Then why do I feel so achingly bad?
I rush upstairs, down two of my pills and lie on the bed.
The first thing I hear when I enter the house two days later is raised voices. Or rather a single voice. It doesn’t sound like a man or a woman, it simply sounds like cutting anger. I can’t make out what’s being said, being shouted. I don’t want to either. I grew up in a home where there were never any open displays of anger. No confrontations. If my parents had an issue they needed to discuss – never problems, Dad insisted, always issues – they would close themselves in his study and talk it through. Even the worst disturbances of my childhood were conducted in hush-hush tones.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 7
