Crack!
The vicious sound jumps me back to the present. That was the slap of flesh on flesh. That bastard had hit Martha. I waver, not sure what to do. I could go storming along the hallway, fling open the door to the kitchen and rip his head off. Or… I think and think. Confronting Jack could make things worse for Martha. Also, do I intervene when I’m living in their house? How far do you get involved in the personal lives of others when you’re a guest – albeit a paying one – within the four walls of their home? Because this isn’t really my home, it’s theirs. Their space. I’m the interloper here.
Still, I feel crap about my decision as I tramp up the stairs. What does a cultured, elegant woman like Martha see in a violent Neanderthal like Jack? I bet he was all sweetness and light at the start of their romance, whispering sweet nothings, bombarding her with gifts. Then, as soon as he’s got a ring on her finger and has his boots well and truly planted in her super expensive house, he shows his true thuggish colours.
I reach the top floor and my steps drag. After the incident with the mouse and its bloody finale, I think I can see and hear the little grey bastards everywhere, so I want to give advance warning to them that I’m coming. A loud knock on the door, stamping my feet on the floorboards, that sort of thing, so they run for cover if they have the nerve to be around. I’m still on the fence about Martha’s explanation that Jack didn’t put the mouse there to freak me out.
I turn the handle and cautiously remain on the threshold, watching. My blood thrums wildly through my veins as I check out the room. Everything seems to be in its place. No odd sounds. Still, pulse quickening, I go on an intense search of every nook and cranny. I straighten with relief when I find nothing out of the ordinary. Or, as Mum would put it, everything’s ship-shape and Bristol fashion.
As I walk towards the bed there’s a strange tearing sound behind me. My terror alert dials frantically up to ten. The air shakes out of my slack-jawed mouth. My gaze kicks sideways to the door. I want to run. Get out of there while I can. I don’t want to deal with whatever this is.
My breath lodges in my throat as I turn ever so slowly. Look down at the floor. I frown. There’s nothing there. The noise comes again, drawing my attention to the wall on the far side, under the skylight. My gaze quickly goes up. Ah, there’s the problem. The finger of damp that had once pointed towards the wall has expanded and now looks more like an outspread and webbed hand. The damp from the rain has caused the white lining wallpaper, near the dormer window, to peel back and flop partially down. Underneath is beige-coloured wallpaper with the imprint of a tiny raised flower. The type of showy stuff modern telly makeover shows insist is a no-no.
Bloody Jack! He’s supposed to be some kind of handyman, isn’t he? He should know better than anyone how destructive water can be to a property. Perhaps he’s hoping he’ll have driven me out by the time the top floor starts to collapse.
I could go downstairs and tell Martha this time. No, she wouldn’t want to see me after what I heard happening downstairs.
Instead I try to fix it. Well, temporarily at least. I jump up and try to slap the paper back into place. Dismal failure. As it flops back down it unpeels even further. Suddenly the hairs stand to attention on the back of my neck – there are black markings on the wall.
I step closer. Peer harder. Is it writing? Yes, it is.
Neat handwriting. Black ink. It’s smudged in places by the damp and some has disappeared on the back of the lining paper. But it’s clear enough. Or at least it would be if it were in English. It’s in a script. Alphabet would be the correct term, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve seen it before, although there’s something familiar about it. There’s an ancient quality to the shapes and the lines of the letters.
Is this the work of the man who wrote the farewell letter?
I hurry to retrieve the letter from under my pillow where I keep it with my scarf. Once I’m facing the wall again, I hold the letter up to compare it. Both sets of handwriting look like dead ringers to me. I’m no language expert, but the pencilled message at the bottom of the letter looks like it’s written in the same language as the writing on the wall. I realise the writing on the wall triggered my memory of this line in the letter.
The wallpaper is cold, almost wet, to my touch as I gently peel the rest down. I can’t help but hold my breath – the writing goes right down to the skirting board. I step back slightly, the same way I do when I view a great piece of art in a gallery to properly view the line, tone, colour, background and foreground. I can’t tear my eyes away from the writing. It’s like the graffiti of a condemned prisoner awaiting execution in his death-row cell. Is this what this room became to my nameless man? A cell? A place where the only freedom was through death?
I’m chilly and sweaty at the same time. Cold and heat. I can’t stop shaking. I reach out to touch his words… snatch my hand back. What if I accidentally rub some of the writing away? Lose a vital part of the story?
I make myself turn my back. Get practical. I need to move fast here. At the rate the rain’s coming down, this find could all be gone in hours. I’m rather like an archaeologist whose dig has uncovered something important while the diggers are waiting to move in. Or, perhaps more likely, a detective whose crime scene is about to be disturbed.
I go back downstairs. Leave the house. Walk and walk in the now spitting rain until I find the high street. It takes me about ten minutes of checking the names on the fronts of shops until I find the hardware store. I leave armed with a box containing a lightweight folding ladder, adhesive and a door chain. The box is awkward to carry but I manage to get it back to the house.
I don’t stick the wallpaper back into place straight away; instead I pace. I need to get the writing translated. What about an app on my phone? I spend the next hour going through all manner of language apps but nothing suits my purpose.
I know I’m becoming too obsessive but I can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. I pop a couple of pills to slow my mind way down as I think. Who can I ask to be my translator? Who do I know who might recognise this language? I scroll through names.
I slump on the bed when I realise who’s the obvious person to ask.
Hell! I don’t want to ask this person, but what choice do I have?
Chapter 11
Amy’s ‘Back To Black’ is my go-to, get-me-to-sleep music of choice tonight. I dance round and round the room, the sassy rhythm pumping loudly through my earphones. I soak up the breathless beat, my jim-jams tugging against my skin as I flail my arms and legs in all directions, willing my body to exhaustion so once I hit the pillow I’ll sink into a world of blank oblivion.
When the music ends, I stretch and arch my back, a light sweat coating my face. Run my fingers through my short cut. Weariness shakes inside me. Good. I allow a small smile to curve my lips. Not giving the tiredness a chance to flee, I skip over to the door to check my new chain. Test the handle. Safe for the night.
In the dark I tie my leg to the end of the bed and then fall onto my back. And wait for sleep to claim me. I focus on breathing.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Three, four, knock at the door…
I stare at the writing on the wall. Hypnotised. Can’t look away. The author has a strong hand. Each letter energetic; bold strokes. Such funny shapes. Such jagged, edged lines. A patchwork woven in the deepest black ink. I reach out to touch its upright, elegant beauty. I gasp as it starts to grow. Big and threatening. Its lines stretch into long, long legs. Its shapes swell into mouths with sharp teeth that transform into gigantic knives. It jumps off the wall, out at me. I scream. Try to run away. Too late. A blade slashes me in the back. I fall. Agonising pain rips through me. I beg for mercy. The knife is a huge needle now heading for my face…
I slam upright in bed, breathing horribly. I jam my hands protectively over my face. Nothing happens. My hands fall cautiously back in welcome relief. Just another crappy dream. At least I’m still in the room, leg tied to the bed.<
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Something brushes against my cheekbone. Instinctively my hand comes up to wave it away. Maybe I imagined it. There’s a funny, low-level irritating sound that my ears don’t like. I ignore it. Something dive-bombs against my forehead. Something crawls in my hair. Another in the inside of my ear. Panic grips me as I desperately wave my arms madly around and jump off the bed. Except I cry out in pain as the top half of me tumbles upside down to the floor, the rest of me still tangled on the bed where my foot remains tied.
I pant and pant as I lunge forward; I shift on my bum until I reach the end of the bed. With shaking, desperate fingers I untie the scarf. Jump up. Now I hear them. A buzzing roar all around me. I can’t see them as I stand alone in the dark. Shock holds me in place. I cry out as they twitch against my face, back in my hair, up the legs of my pyjamas.
One squiggles and buzzes on my bottom lip. I knock it off with fury and spit in the air. I hate creepy-crawlies, with their legs, hair and wings. My terror rises. I need to get out of here. Now.
I don’t even think to put the light on as I rush to the door. They’re there waiting for me too. Buzzing, touching. Are they eating their way into my skin?
Open the door. Get the fucking door open. NOW. My hands pat against the wood, searching for the handle. I find it. Turn. Nothing happens. I frantically pull. And pull. It won’t budge. Why won’t it open? I don’t understand. It’s a door; its function is to open.
I turn around. Lean my tense back flat against the door. There’s nothing for it – I will have to face the horror in my room.
Click. I switch on the light.
Disbelief locks me tight.
Swarming. Round black bodies; manic-moving wings swarming all over the room. A black cloud turning this way and that. Disgust heaves in my belly. I fight not to chuck up. How did they get in here? Is this the latest dirty trick from psycho Jack? It’s that thought that makes me calm down. I refuse to let him run me out.
I woman-up. Face the door and see the chain. In my panic I’d completely forgotten that I’d bought it; no wonder the door had refused to open. I reach for it, but my hand freezes. If I open the door, screaming for help, that will give Jack a smug satisfaction I won’t let him have. Not again. He’ll see me practically on my knees begging for help. Screw that!
I drive the terror down somewhere deep and stare dispassionately at my new roommates. I suspect they’re nasty blowflies which means there’s something dead in the room. I can’t stop the ripple of chilling dread that shivers all over me, bringing goosebumps to the surface. I know what I have to do. I’m going to have to find the dead thing.
My gaze darts around the room; I’m thinking where it might be. Chest of drawers? Wardrobe? Under the bed where the mouse had hidden? Desk? That’s when I notice a few flies bursting out of the small fireplace. Now I know where they are coming from. There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to rush right into them.
I don’t think about it, just do. I gag as their bodies bombard me as I drop to my knees in front of the fireplace. I push back the lid on the fireplace.
I screech as the dead body of a pigeon falls out. I fall back on my bottom. The flies are going crazy. The dead bird is a sickening sight. Much of its body appears plucked of its feathers, its colour the ripe pink of rot and… maggots. My gag reflex kicks into gear again. I cover my mouth as I stumble to my feet. I get the skylight open so they can literally start buzzing off. Next, I take the carrier bag from inside the small basket bin. I put my hand inside it. Slowly, as if walking a tightrope, I approach the repulsive pigeon. The only way to get rid of the flies is to remove the dead creature that is giving birth to them.
Hand cupped inside the bag, I swoop down and pick up the bird through the plastic. It feels so cold. So dead. I tie the mouth of the bag and head for the door. Release the chain. Open the door quickly and close it. I take the stairs with quiet, determined steps. Reach the front door. Once I’m outside I dump the pigeon in its plastic grave into the bin.
I rock back on my bare feet as the cold night breeze, laced with my shock, settles over me.
I go back inside the eerily quiet house and am in my room in less than a minute. The logical part of me admits that decaying pigeons is an everyday hazard of open chimneys. In that scenario this will have nothing to do with Jack. But inside, I suspect it’s him.
This would be the moment most would pack their belongings and go. Allow that bastard Jack to have them fleeing in the night.
Not me.
I look over to the wall where the writing is.
I won’t go.
Chapter 12
Iflinch when I enter the pub in Soho the following day. The light isn’t muted and warm, but bright and loud like the mainly sparky young crowd inside. It’s too packed, music and chattering voices competing to be heard. I almost do an about-turn and leave. Then I spot Alex propping up the end of the bar. He spots me too. I gather my resolve and remind myself why I am here.
He’s not his usual, smiley self. Definitely not happy to see me; I can’t blame him after I turned my back on him the last time our paths crossed at Patsy’s. Mind you, it was him who dumped me not the other way around.
I walk over to him and have no alternative but to get close and personal with the press of bodies close by.
‘How are you keeping?’ I start with a safe question.
His response takes me to a place I don’t want to go: ‘I’m sorry about the way things ended between us. I should have handled it differently.’
‘I don’t think there’s any good way to end a relationship. You’re either into someone or you’re not and you decided you were definitely not into me.’ Blatant bitterness is my tone. Instantly, I wish I could drag it back; I’ve never been good at dealing with being hurt.
He looks incensed as his face inches closer to me. ‘That’s not fair. Given the situation, what the hell was I meant to do?’
‘Seriously? You want us to start singing “Reviewing the Situation”?’ I seethe in a rush, conscious of the people nearby. I draw in a deep, deep lungful of air. What’s the point of getting pissed? I’m not here to be railroaded by the past.
‘I need you to do me a favour, if that’s possible.’ I congratulate myself on my renewed calm.
He remains wary and alert. ‘Of course. If I’m able to help you I will.’
‘You speak a number of languages, right?’
‘Yessss.’ He strings the word out along with suspicion.
I plonk my bag on the bar and pull out my phone. Open it and slide it across to him. ‘Can you read that?’
It’s a photo of the line in pencil at the end of the farewell letter. Alex picks up the phone, his brows twitching together as he inspects it.
‘It’s Cyrillic…’
‘What?’ I rack my brains. I don’t ever remember hearing of a country called Cyrillica or Cyrillicland. Learning languages at school was a bit like enforced torture. My shtick was numbers, not the written word.
His gaze darts momentarily at me, then back to the screen. ‘It’s Russian.’ Ah! ‘I’ve been speaking it since I was a kid. My grandmother is Russian. It’s her belief that every child in my family should learn it or she thinks it will be lost. She’s probably right.’ He wears the ghost of a smile, openly displaying his affection for his grandmother. They must be close.
I’m fascinated. We’d never progressed to the stage of talking about our families. Along with a grandmother he must have a mum and a dad. Does he have brothers and sisters? Of course, Patsy had told me that she was a friend of Alex’s grandmother’s and considered him to be an honorary nephew. I can’t keep the longing from my eyes as I glance at him. Quickly, I avert my gaze and stare down at the phone. I need to keep my emotions at bay; well, at least from Alex.
‘Can you read it?’
‘Yes.’
A sharp breath of frustration escapes me. He can be a bit literal; sometimes he needs a bit of a nudge. ‘I know you can read it. Can you tell me what it says?’
>
‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He’s embarrassed but smiling. I like his smile a lot. Wish I could freeze him in this moment, wrap him up and take him home.
‘They’re lines by the Russian poet Etienne Solanov. He was a friend, a sidekick, of Pushkin’s.’
I think of pretending I’ve heard of him but decide against it. I’ve barely heard of Pushkin. ‘Who was he?’
Alex knows of course. ‘He was a minor poet who enjoyed a reputation for a while as “Russia’s death poet”. You know, if you were going off to war or in a condemned cell or considering suicide, you kept a book of his poems on you to pass the time.’
‘And what happened to him?’
Alex laughs. ‘He had an affair with someone’s wife to provoke her husband into a duel and then allowed himself to be shot by the outraged guy. I think he was twenty-six at the time.’
‘Well, I bet he was a wow at parties. What does it say?’
Alex studies the lines. ‘“Others may wait for their candles to be blown out. I’m merely blowing out my own”.’ Alex looks at me. ‘Blimey, that’s bleak.’
Was my farewell man talking about his own candle? Blowing his life out? I keep my dispiriting thoughts locked away.
I choose safer ground instead. ‘How do you know so much about this poet’s work?’
‘My grandmother is a big fan. She’s got his entire collection in Russian as well.’ His expression becomes wistful. ‘She would read it to me when I was a teenager.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a good relationship with her.’
His face glows, no doubt wrapped up in memories of him and the woman he obviously loves so well.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 8
