Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  And now this.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She used her hand to lift her hair out of her eyes. ‘I think you’re working too hard. You should spend more time at home with me and the children. You don’t need to be doing all these hours really. I sometimes think you prefer working to us. Is that true? Do you prefer working to your wife and children? My best friend is more of a father and husband than you are.’

  She’d given him the perfect opportunity. Go on, tell her. He planned to say what the real problem was that evening when they got home from the Heath and those tired children were safely tucked up in bed. It was simple really. Look, there’s something I need to say… He was absolutely going to do it. But then he’d absolutely been going to do it the previous weekend. And the weekend before that. And he knew deep down he wasn’t going to do it now, or later either. He was too weak to do the right thing and too weak to stop doing the wrong thing. He was no different to his grandfather, the man who pretended to have been an officer in the Russian Imperial Guard, a war hero who fled his country after the revolution. When really Granddad was a draft dodger who’d run away to the West to avoid getting killed in Russia’s war or anyone else’s.

  The children got fed up with the kite and raced back to see what there was to eat. The youngest grabbed John’s leg so she could lean over and peer at what was on offer on the blanket. His wife had lost interest in whether he was alright and working too hard because she was tending to the children. He rubbed his face with his hands and lay back on the grass to catch the sun. The girl sat on his belly to eat a sandwich.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t need to do anything at all. Perhaps everything would sort itself out on its own. Things usually did. Perhaps his wife would get fed up with him working all the time and find someone else. She’d get a lawyer and force him out of his house so she could move her lover in. The children would grow up blaming their mum for their ruined childhood and hate her new guy. In the eyes of the world he wouldn’t be a pathetic man who couldn’t make decisions; he’d be a tragic hero instead.

  Or perhaps his family would be wiped out in a terrible accident and he’d be the lonely man by the graveside with the flowers and the tears who recited snatches of the Russian poetry he loved so much. Obviously, he didn’t want them dead; that wasn’t what it was at all. It was just that he wanted the whole problem to disappear and sudden death was one way it could happen. He really would be a hero then. No one would blame him for seeking solace in the arms of another woman. There was plenty of poetry around to justify that.

  Or perhaps those things wouldn’t happen but everything would still work out anyway.

  But in the end it didn’t matter.

  He was convinced the best thing was to do nothing and to see what happened.

  Chapter 18

  Alex stops reading. Neither of us says a thing. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m not jumping about my room with excitement. Farewell man has spoken to me again. Fed me more information about his life to help me solve the puzzle of his death. Then I realise what I am experiencing. A huge wave of disappointment. I wanted the writing to tell me so much more. Answer all the questions after I had read the suicide – farewell – letter. What was his name? What mistakes had he made? Who are the innocents he mentions?

  I finally speak, a whisper really. ‘He didn’t say what his name was.’

  Typical Alex takes it all in his lawyering stride. ‘Well, it’s your typical Russian drama. Married couple plus kids, all seems to be brimming with rosy happiness on the outside, inside it’s bloody turmoil. Whoever wrote this must’ve been writing a play. A very tragic, Russian one, which, from what I know, is the only kind there is.’

  ‘It’s tragic alright,’ I answer quietly. ‘It’s no play; it’s all true.’

  Alex’s face scrunches up in confusion. ‘How did you figure that out?’

  Now I have a decision to make: do I show him the farewell letter or not? The letter is so smothered in pain and regret, so private it seems like a betrayal to share it with someone else. How else, though, am I to get Alex to understand why I need to do this?

  He’s surprised when I go to my bag. I take out the letter and pass it to him.

  He stabs me with his very troubled eyes when he’s finished reading. ‘What’s this?’

  It gushes out. ‘It’s a suicide letter, although I prefer to see it as a farewell. The day I moved in I found it stuffed down the back of the drawers in the bedside cabinet. The Cyrillic writing at the bottom is what I showed you in the pub. It’s the same handwriting as on the wall. The same man. He’s trying…’

  The words go on and on, tumbling and tumbling, delivered in an awkward fashion that suggests I have no control. And from the dawning horror on Alex’s face, maybe I don’t.

  He finally stops me with an adamant hand in the air. ‘Did you say this was a suicide letter written by a man who at one time lived in this room?’

  Quickly I nod. ‘But Martha – well Jack really – insists that no one else rented this room before me.’ I gulp. Swallow. ‘I think he killed himself here—’

  ‘What? In this room?’ Alex is horrified.

  ‘Yes. I need to find out why he did it.’

  Alex passes the letter back to me with his fingertips as if it’s impregnated with the worst type of disease. The way he’s staring at me I know what he’s thinking.

  I explode. ‘Don’t you dare say I’m bonkers.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. This is spooky. Disturbing. A man takes his life by his own hand where we’re standing, leaves a suicide letter and writing on the wall in a foreign language, and you expect me to carry on as if we’ve just read a page from The Guardian.’

  Frantically, I wave at the wall. ‘There must be more writing on the wall. This is only the start of it.’

  To demonstrate my point I start peeling the next section of lining paper, which doesn’t reveal any more writing. It must be there. I can’t stop.

  ‘Lisa, stop it.’

  Alex’s commanding order makes me stumble back. I’m hyperventilating, racked with shakes. Although the room’s cold my skin feels like it’s on fire.

  ‘This is creeping me out,’ Alex says.

  Alex heads for the door and is striding down the landing before I can call him back.

  ‘Please, Alex, help me find the rest.’

  He storms over to face me. ‘There probably isn’t any more. The poor guy probably topped himself before he could write any more. Why is this so important to you?’

  I seal my lips shut. Then: ‘I want you to help me find out who he was.’

  He tuts with utter frustration and goes downstairs. I don’t go down. Remain at the top. Alex is swallowed up in the half-dark, a shadow opening the door and leaving my life. Jack insists the tenant never existed, so how am I going to figure out who he was?

  As I walk back upstairs I hear the ping of my phone. It’s a text from Dad reminding me of his and Mum’s visit. I don’t answer. Instead, I lightly smooth down the lining paper covering up the writing of a dead man.

  My parents sit on one side of the room, I on the other. Mum holds a mug of sugarless tea while Dad nurses a glass of brandy. They arrived for their agreed visit promptly at four, kisses and hugs at the door as usual. We’ve been talking, back and forth, in this strange, rapid chatter, especially Mum who has ended practically every sentence with a nervy cough. Talking about all those safe topics: my work, the weather, the state of the nation.

  Now we’re faced with a silence we all know too well. A moment of quiet where they are carefully sorting through what they really have come here to speak to me about.

  It goes without saying that the last thing I need at the moment is a visit from my parents. As far as they’re concerned, I’m effectively on suicide watch now. In the same way a criminal is always a criminal in the suspicious eyes of the world, a suicide risk is always a suicide risk even if you never were in the first place. So when people say ‘So how are you in yourself at the momen
t?’ what they really mean is ‘Have you tried to top yourself lately?’ So I let them come and hope it doesn’t last too long.

  My dad arrived carrying flowers from their garden while my mum brought a basket of fruit. Probably someone told her at church that fruit is good for suicidal people. Perhaps it is.

  My dad breaks the silence. ‘So how are you in yourself, Lisa?’

  I know that my dad has my well-being at heart, that he loves me and only wants the best for me, but I’m tired of these questions. Each one is a needle poking all my vulnerable places, some of them places I’ve only recently allowed to come out of the dark.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I know what the next question is going to be, so I add, ‘I’ve been going to see Doctor Wilson.’

  That cheers Mum up. She wears an expression of blessed relief. ‘I’m so pleased. I’ve been so worried about you.’ She coughs lightly to settle the quivering emotion she lays bare in the room.

  It’s at moments like this that I am ashamed of thinking they have been lying to me about the past. About the accident when I was five. I am so lucky to have them. Maybe it’s time for me to quit the past and stare, face forward, only at the future.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mum. I know you and Dad have only been trying to help me.’ My head drops down. ‘I must be a big disappointment to you.’

  Mum’s answer is stern and strong. She puts her cup down. ‘Never let me hear you say that. Since the day you came into our lives you have been our greatest joy.’

  Since the day you came into our lives. That’s a strange way of putting it. Surely a mother would phrase it as something like ‘The first time I held you in my arms.’ Stop it! Stop it! There you go again, reading things into things that aren’t there. Or as Shakespeare put it, ‘Nothing is but what is not’.

  ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’ Dad says with a certain amount of pride in Doctor Wilson’s abilities.

  ‘He has an easy manner and we talk,’ I concede.

  ‘He had a practice in California back in the nineties.’

  My dad obviously thinks having a practice on the West Coast of America proves what a cracking shrink he is.

  ‘Do you think it’s helping?’ Mum’s question is so full of hope it’s painful to hear.

  I decide to say something that is going to be hard for me to say and for them to hear. ‘We talked about whether I tried to kill myself or not.’

  There. Out in the open. The source of a bad smell has finally been found.

  Dad looks like I’ve sucker punched him and Mum, poor Mum, has the complexion of someone who’s about to thrown up.

  Dad recovers quickly, using his former doctor’s voice. ‘And did you?’

  I’m honest with my parents for the first time. ‘I don’t know. I was stressed, life speeding so fast I found it hard to keep up. I wanted everything – everything – to slow down, stop even, but it wouldn’t. The bad dreams were back, and the sleepwalking. I turned up to work looking like one of the walkers from The Walking Dead.’ My gaze beseeches them to understand. ‘I wanted it to stop. Stop.’

  Mum must sense I’m on the verge of tears because her loving arms surround me. I hang on to her for dear life. Breathe in her comfort and security, the type that has been missing from my life for so long.

  ‘We love you, darling,’ she croons into my hair. ‘Never forget that. We love you.’

  Dad quietly adds, ‘You could have come to us at any time. We’re always here for you.’

  Gently I move out of Mum’s arms so that I can see his face. The strain and struggle of a lifetime is stamped across it. I get up and go to him. Sit down by his side and lean my head against his shoulder. His arm hooks me close.

  ‘Do you remember that time we came up to London when you were ten?’

  I nod against his shoulder.

  ‘And we decided to go to Harrods? You kept saying you were bored, that you didn’t want to see old ladies’ clothes and old ladies’ knickers.’

  ‘Edward!’ Mum rushes in, scandalised.

  Our laughter rings through the room. God, it feels so good, for us to be enjoying our circle of three as a family again. If time could freeze this is what I’d want it to look like. Me in the middle, Mum and Dad either side. And we’re smiling, eyes laughing, making the best of our life on this earth.

  ‘Then you got lost,’ Dad continues. ‘We were both frantic. Next thing we know there’s a store announcement asking for the parents of Lisa Kendal to come to the information desk.’

  What I had never told them was that I’d been found in the beauty department looking through the make-up. It was one of the assistants who had spotted me running my fingers through the face powder testers and then smoothing each shade on to my arm. Our conversation has never left me.

  ‘Where are your mum and dad, beautiful?’ she’d asked, crouching down so she was at my level.

  My mouth had dropped open in astonishment; her face was the most perfect thing my young eyes had ever seen.

  I ignored her question and pointed to the powders. ‘I’m trying to choose the right colour for me.’

  The dazzling smile she gave me was as perfect as the rest of her. ‘Now, why would you want to put any of these on your gorgeous skin?’

  ‘Because of these. I want to cover them up.’

  I rolled up my summer dress sleeve and presented her with my scars. I waited for the inevitable ‘Oh you poor thing’ or ‘Scarface’ as some of the girls at school taunted me. But this goddess did none of that. Not even a sharp intake of breath.

  Her smile grew. ‘Honey, beauty is only skin deep. It’s on the inside where your true beauty lies. And here.’ She took my small hand and laid it over my heart.

  I should’ve made her words my theme song. Let them guide me through the difficulties of life. Probably would’ve saved myself heaps of heartache along the way.

  ‘You know why I was so proud of you that day?’ Dad says, bringing me back into the room. ‘The man at the information desk told us how brave you were.’ He kisses me softly. ‘You’ll always be our brave little girl.’

  A thrill of pure happiness and belonging runs through me. This means so much to me. For so long I’ve believed I was the worst thing to happen to them.

  We sit there together chatting, sharing memories and laughing when Mum asks, ‘Don’t you think it’s a touch strange he never got married? I mean, he’s such an attractive fellow.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ I respond.

  ‘Tommy Wilson.’ Ah, she’s got her gossip claws into the good doctor. On the whole Mum disapproves of gossip, however, every now and again she can’t help herself. ‘Oh! You don’t think that he’s… well, you-know-what?’

  ‘Gay?’ I supply. ‘It’s not a banned word, Mum. Plenty of liberated gay guys out there, and if Doctor Wilson is gay what’s the problem?’

  Dad leans away from me and frowns at Mum. ‘Can we leave Tom out of this conversation?’

  ‘I’m just saying, dear. Didn’t you say he was quite the ladies’ man when you were at medical school? Very charming, very dapper and quite the dancer, wasn’t he? And, of course, I suppose it helped that he was a student of female psychology. He probably knew the right levers to pull when he went out wooing the girls.’

  It’s difficult to imagine the good doctor as a babe magnet. My dad seems to think so too; he’s wearing the stony face of the century.

  But Mum doesn’t catch on to his expression and adds, ‘Perhaps he’s never met the right woman or had his heart broken and renounced the fairer sex for a life devoted to the service of others. I prefer to believe the latter of course; it’s so much more romantic. Mind you, there was that time with that flighty piece—’

  My dad snaps, ‘Can you stop it with this silly nonsense, Barbara? You sound like a soppy schoolgirl.’

  My mum looks shocked. I am too. I’ve never heard Dad let rip at Mum in such a fierce manner. He isn’t one of those men who believes that a man is the head of the house. He prides himself o
n having a real partnership with his wife.

  Mum glares back, her dander well and truly up. ‘Don’t you carp at me like that, Edward Kendal. Tom’s not just your friend, he’s mine too, ever since he helped us during Lisa’s accident when she was little—’

  Her mouth slams shut. A tense, anxious look travels between my parents.

  ‘What?’ My question is sharp and blunt.

  Dad gets to his feet. ‘We really must be going.’ He looks across at Mum. ‘Mustn’t we?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mum’s on her feet too. All the joy has drained out of her. She probably doesn’t realise that she’s self-consciously wringing her hands.

  They are already heading out of the room and towards their coats near the front door before I can speak.

  ‘Doctor Wilson helped you during my accident? When I was five?’

  That look criss-crosses between them again. This time Mum appears on the verge of tears.

  Dad shakes his head. ‘Your mother is getting mixed up with one of the doctors who treated you in hospital after it happened.’ He takes my mum’s arm before I can ask anything else. ‘Now, we must be off or we’ll get caught in the rush-hour traffic.’

  The wall is back between us. A wall built of brick after brick cemented with lies. Dad is lying; I can tell by the way he won’t meet my eyes. I was right all along. Instead of the anticipated elation I’m gutted with grief. Why won’t they tell me the truth? I want to scream at them, but Dad has already opened the front door and is escorting my shaking mother into the street towards their car.

  Stunned, I remain rooted in the doorway as their car roars off and they leave me and the lies behind. I want to go after them, to demand the truth. It won’t do any good though; Dad will stick to his story. During his time as a doctor he’d no doubt learned all the ways to deal with human suffering by shutting off his emotions. Why should his reaction to my suffering be any different?

  What finally gives me the strength to move is remembering the lines in the farewell letter I found in the spare room: