‘Gran came to England with practically nothing. Found herself in the East End. She worked in the rag trade on very poor wages, but when she tells me about her life she never complains.’ His voice fills with quiet emotion. ‘“All good things come to those who wait”. That what’s she used to tell me.’
All good things come to those who wait. His beloved grandmother was wrong. In this life you can’t afford to wait. Sometimes you have to go out there and snatch it.
‘Can I ask you to translate something else for me?’ I tentatively ask.
‘No problem.’
I choose the words of my request carefully. Plunge in. ‘I wasn’t able to bring it with me. It’s in my room.’
‘Woah.’ He stops me. ‘Are we really going there again?’
‘Going where?’ I’m dumbfounded. What’s he rattling on about?
‘If I go there – your room – where’s it going to lead? We’ll end up in bed and I don’t need the drama.’
Room. Bed. Drama.
Comprehension hits. Is that what making love with me was? Drama?
My head rears back in rage. ‘You know what, Alex, when your gran was teaching you all that fancy poetry she really should’ve left a slot to teach you some manners. I’m not interested in your body, got it? The Russian I need translating is not written on my duvet.’
His hand flashes furiously in the air to underline his gritted words. ‘Lisa, I can’t get involved in all this craziness again. The weirdness. The mad behaviour.’
A bucket of ice-cold water would’ve been warmer than the irate words he throws at me. ‘Don’t call me that.’ I’m upset now, trying my best to cling on to my temper. ‘I. Am. Not. Crazy.’
‘I’m not saying you’re mad…’
Mad. Mad. Mad. It marches through my head, an unwanted occupier I can’t get rid of.
‘Is she mad?’ Mum’s trembling strained voice had asked the doctor while I was in the hospital after the accident. I was in a semi-conscious state, Mum having no idea I could hear all the hushed talk around me. I’d wanted to bawl my eyes out. Sink and disappear forever into the mattress beneath. Destroyed. Devastated. That’s how I’d felt. That’s how the man in my room must have felt too. I can’t cope with Alex pushing it in my face now as well.
I grab my bag. ‘Alex. Sod. You.’
I’m gone. My anger and me push past people. Someone bitches at my back at my rudeness. Sod them too. The cooling air outside hits and I rapidly suck it in, my chest rising and falling with an ocean of unwanted emotion. I completely forget about my mission, my intent only to get away.
His hand catches my arm. I pant heavily. Alex turns me to face him. The street bustles by us, so he steers me to an empty corner next to a packed sushi bar. Our gazes clash, dive away from each other. We both shuffle our feet, back in the uncomfortable zone.
I speak first. ‘I didn’t mean to kick off in there.’ I swallow. ‘I know I’m not your usual run-of-the-mill girlfriend, but I am who I am and refuse to apologise for that.’
His palm in the air stops me. ‘I’ll come over and read it for you.’ His expression darkens. ‘From what Aunty Patsy has told me, your landlords seem to be fully paid-up members of the psycho club. A proper pair of nasties.’
‘It’s Jack who’s pulling the strings. Martha’s a deluded, older woman enthralled by a young, tasty pair of buns.’
‘No time like the present. Let’s go.’
He starts walking off. My fingertips touch his arm with enough pressure to make him stop. Now for the really difficult bit. The part where he really will think I’ve lost the plot.
‘I’m not allowed any visitors, apart from my parents.’
‘I don’t understand. How are we going to do this?’
I nervously wet my bottom lip. ‘I’m going to have to sneak you in.’
My phone rings just as I reach the entrance to Piccadilly Circus. I step away from the heaving tourists taking in the delights of London.
It’s Dad. A groan escapes me. I suspect he’ll be checking up on whether I’ve been to seen Doctor Wilson.
I make my tone bright and breezy. ‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’
He clears his throat; never a good sign. ‘I’m fine, as is your mother. Just a quick call to remind you that we’ll be visiting you on Wednesday.’
I suck back the curse that’s ready to bolt off my tongue. How could I have forgotten that we’d agreed on them coming to visit?
‘Dad, work’s really hectic this week. I’m so busy. I’m really sorry but we’re going to have to rearrange.’
I am living in a dream world if I think Dad is going to let me off the hook. He doesn’t disappoint. ‘Your mother is looking forward to seeing you.’ Pause. His voice is soft. ‘We both are. Call it a parent’s indulgence; we need to see you with our own eyes.’
I consider verbally fencing with him until I get my way, but there’s something in his voice. Something that I’d last heard from him as he whispered to me, holding my hand, in the hospital – guilt. I gulp down the sorrow whelming in my throat. That my wonderful father should feel guilt about me trying to kill myself, if that’s what I’d attempted to do, something he had nothing to do with, that I had done alone, fills me with grief. It’s not fair. Not fair that parents suffer when their children bring about their own suffering.
Sometimes I want to snatch that terrible day back and start all over again.
‘Of course, Dad. Can’t wait to see you both.’
After the call I head down the steps of the Underground station. I pass a large poster advertising a new computer. Its strapline is ‘the writing on the wall’.
How am I going to get Alex into my room?
Chapter 13
I’m making an instant latte in the kitchen when Martha glides in. I’ve never seen a woman walk like that before, as if she’s barely touching the ground. She’s wearing a fifties-style summer dress: pastel green with small strawberries dotting it.
‘Lisa.’ Martha gifts me with one of her radiant smiles. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you because I want to ask you something.’
Before I answer I scan her face to find evidence of Jack hitting her, but she’s so heavily made up I can barely see her skin. Then again, he might not have hit her in the face. This is my chance to quiz her about it. Tell her what I heard. Provide female solidarity. But I don’t.
‘What do you want to ask me?’
‘I saw a fly, one of those nasty ones.’ A visible shudder goes through her. ‘Sometimes we get dead pigeons stuck in the chimney. Poor things can’t get out, die and… well, before we know it one of the rooms is filled with flies.’ Her fingers flutter in the air like fly wings.
So I had been wrong. Jack hadn’t put the pigeon there to torment me. Maybe he was finally leaving me in peace.
I perk up. ‘There was one. I sorted it out. I didn’t want to trouble you by saying anything.’
Her neck stretches. ‘I want you to be happy here. I’ve been asking Jack for the longest time to put mesh wire on the chimneys to stop the birds falling in.’ She sighs. ‘I suppose he’ll get around to doing it in his own good time.’
She takes out a packet of oatcakes from the cupboard, smiles and heads for the fridge.
Maybe it’s her back being turned that gives me courage. ‘Why do you stay with him?’
Her arm freezes inside the fridge. Then she moves, taking out a tub of fat-free cream cheese. She won’t meet my eyes as she picks out a dinner knife and small plate from the dishes and cutlery drying by the sink.
‘Have you ever been in love, Lisa?’ Martha finally asks as she places the plate on the island. Her voice is tender and calm.
I’m lost for words; it isn’t how I expect her to respond. But I give her the truth. ‘I’ve only had the one boyfriend. It was a disaster. I like him… liked him. He decided I wasn’t the right woman for him.’
Head still down, Martha opens the tub of cream cheese and starts to spread in small, controlled swipes. ‘I contacted
Jack the Lad, the handyman with a van, to do some work for me. Oh, how he made me chuckle.’ A tinkle of laughter floats from her. ‘Call me an old fool, but he made me feel sweet sixteen again. All tingly inside, bursting with energy.’ I know the feeling well; Alex had made me feel the same. ‘When women get to my age, the world writes you off. I want love just like the next person.’
‘I heard him strike you the other day.’ I surprise myself with my bluntness. I could’ve been more gentle. Taken my time to build up to the moment. But how do you build up to a moment of vicious violence?
Martha looks at me now. ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken.’ The fear in her eyes tells a different story. ‘Maybe it was a sound from outside. Or kids mucking around on their way home from school.’
If she won’t admit that her husband is an abusive pig what do I do? I can’t make her say it. Maybe it’s too painful to talk about with a virtual stranger. I’d felt exactly the same during my initial session with Doctor Wilson and all the other we’ll-fix-her-therapists that I’d seen over the years. Dragging a terrible trauma out into the open is like ripping your guts and heart slowly, agonisingly, out of your body and placing them on public display in all their gory ugliness. Once they’re out you can’t pretend they’re not there. You still might deal with them but they aren’t going away.
‘If you ever need to talk, Martha, I’m here. And if you can’t face calling the cops I’ll do it for you.’
As I turn to leave, her palm cups my arm. I wince slightly as one of her nails scratches my skin. ‘Thank you.’
Then I remind myself I am dealing with my own troubles. This time I’m going to get the answers so I can put them behind me.
Forever.
I turn into the avenue where I now live. A couple of kids skateboarding in the middle of the road are enjoying what has been reported will be the last of the summer. No one else is out and about. It’s not the kind of street where neighbours hang over fences to chat or sit out on the front soaking up life.
My phone goes off.
‘Alex?’ I’m surprised to hear from him. We’d agreed I’d make contact when the time is right. It’s been three days.
‘Bond. James Bond.’ Alex uses his best Sean Connery imitation, which is a bit crap really. I can’t help smiling. He continues in character. ‘I can slip into the evil organisation run by arch-criminals Martha and Jack by scaling the walls or abseiling from a helicopter.’
I laugh out loud at that. He always knew how to press my funny button. It was one of the things that attracted me to him. I miss it. Miss him.
‘M, Miss Moneypenny and Pussy Galore are out to lunch.’ The joy disappears as I get serious. ‘Why are you calling?’
‘I’m driving over to Aunty Patsy’s and thought it might be a good time to do the deed.’
I shake my head. ‘Now’s not a good time. I’ll call you, OK?’
Pause. Then: ‘Fancy popping over to Aunty Patsy’s in about twenty minutes?’ He coughs. Well, more a nervous clearing of the back of the throat. ‘Maybe we can have a cuppa and a chat?’
Thought I was too weird for you? Too mad? I don’t say it.
‘I’ll call you.’
I end the call. The last thing I’d expected was for Alex to try and resurrect the past. Maybe he wants to be friends? I think on that as I reach the house. No, there can be no friendship between us; not the lasting sort. He’s seen my body and knows my night-time secret which will always be unspoken between us.
There’s no sign of Martha or Jack so I head to the kitchen and pour a small glass of orange juice. When I look out of the window, into the garden, I see Jack right at the bottom. I peer closer. He’s talking to someone. Maybe Martha… No, it’s a man. I can’t see the guy’s face but he’s wearing light-blue jeans and a heavy jacket. Jack passes something to him. The man looks furtively around as if worried someone might see them. Like me.
I quickly step to the side, out of their line of vision. I’m curious. What is Jack doing out there? What’s with him and the garden?
I head for my room. Dump my bag on the floor as soon as the door is closed and head over to the window to observe the garden from my high vantage point.
The dormer window is open. That’s odd; I didn’t leave it open. Has Jack been in my room again? Or maybe I’m mistaken and I did leave it open? Truth is I can’t remember. Keeping a safe distance, I peer out. There’s no sign of Jack or his visitor. They’ve either left or been obscured by the heavy trees at the back.
Well that’s the end of that.
It’s chilly so I pull the dormer window, but there’s a piece of old material stuck in the frame that stops me doing so. I wear an expression of confusion; how did the material get there? Probably blown there by the wind.
The window isn’t going to shut with the material in it so I pull it away. It’s damp and greasy to the touch and there’s a faint whiff of cat’s piss. Only when I pull harder do I realise what it is. A cat’s tail.
Startled, I jerk my hand back. Paralysed, I stand there not sure what to do. I can’t leave it out there. Grimacing, I touch the tiger-striped tail again, tighter this time, and drag the body into my eyeline. It’s clearly dead. Its paws are tucked under its body and its eyes are wide open as if in terror or shock. Its jaws are slightly apart and there seems to be some kind of foam smeared around the mouth. The animal isn’t stiff so it’s not been dead long. Now it’s lying on my windowsill.
I know at once this is Jack again. There’s no way this cat could have climbed up this high and put its tail in the window frame before deciding to die a natural death. The foam around the mouth suggests it ate something rotten or poisonous.
I grind my teeth in disgust and horror. Fear too. Because I know enough about life to be able to see that someone who’s willing to do this to a helpless animal will also be willing to do it to a human being. I’m determined to stay in this room but for the first time I’m really scared, even more than when Jack came up for his ‘party’.
Then it gets worse. Around the cat’s neck is a collar, an expensive one in embroidered leather. There’s no address and name tag attached. Suddenly I know who the cat is. I should’ve recognised her from her tiger-print coat.
It’s Bette from next door.
Chapter 14
Jack’s pulled off a double whammy. He’s sent a warning to the neighbour about what will happen to the other cat if she doesn’t back off in their dispute over the garden, while sending a warning to me about what will happen if I don’t move out.
I leave Bette on the windowsill and hopelessly sink onto the bed. What should I do? It would be disgustingly cruel not to tell Patsy what’s happened to her beloved pet, but at the same time I can’t face being the one to tell her. And there’s another thing. I’m living with Jack and Martha. Patsy is going to immediately draw one of the same two conclusions I have: that this is their latest demonic chess move in their tug of turf war and she might suspect I’m in on it. For a moment it crosses my mind to give Bette a decent burial somewhere and say nothing.
But I know I can’t do that. I’m not like that. I’m not cruel. I’m not Jack.
I find an expensive scarf from among my things and gently wrap Bette up in it. I take it next door. On the way, I meet the cat killer in the hallway. He looks at me sourly. I’m glad to see the reddening bruise on his face. Hope that was Bette fighting back. ‘Why you staring at me like that for?’
I let rip. ‘You know what? You’re a murdering bastard.’
His jaw drops south. ‘You what?’
I rush past him and out of the house because I know if I don’t I’ll hit him again and again. Give him a taste of the same medicine he dishes out to Martha. I don’t hesitate at Patsy’s door; I know if I do I’ll turn around again and run away.
She opens with a bright smile and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Hello, Alex’s Lisa.’
I open my mouth. No words come out.
Patsy goes breezily on. ‘I’m glad you called actually because I
was thinking about you today. I do remember something about the fellow the Devil and his mistress rented a room to next door.’ She pulls the door wide. ‘Why don’t you…?’
Her gaze zeros in on the scarf cradled in my arms. The blood drains out of her face as she gazes at me. Then back at what I hold. The cat is well covered – I made sure of that – but part of its tail is sticking out of the side.
‘What’s that?’
Patsy doesn’t give me the chance to answer as she flicks the scarf back, revealing her cat’s still face.
‘Bette,’ she shrieks, her arms shooting into the air and shaking in horror.
Patsy clutches her head in grief, and then, with the care of a mother for her newborn, takes her cherished cat from my arms. Patsy seems to shrink; her face changes colour and her lips quiver but no words come out. She holds her adored cat as if it’s a sacred object for a few moments before going back indoors and closing the door.
I’m not sure what to do. The poor woman is in shock and I want to help. And let’s be honest, although I know she’s going to be devastated, I want an opportunity to ask what she remembers about the old guy next door. Perhaps I am cruel after all. I stand for a few moments unsure what to do before a decision is made for me.
There’s screaming like a banshee from within the house before the door flies open and Patsy emerges carrying a heavy walking stick. It’s pointed at me.
‘Get off my land!’
‘But Patsy…’
I don’t get a chance to finish, explain or offer condolences, as she takes a swing at me with the stick and it just misses my face. She’s not Patsy to me anymore. She chases me out onto the avenue and I make my escape across the road. But it’s not me she’s after as she marches up the drive to Jack and Martha’s. Patsy’s screaming threats at them before she even reaches the door, swinging her walking stick as she goes.
She hammers on the door with her stick and pushes the letter box open. ‘Come on, come out, I know you’re in there! You pair of utter bastards, killing a defenceless animal! What kind of scum are you?’
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 9
