Because he was to blame.
He flicked a light on in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything he needed was there. Green rubble bags that didn’t burst open when they were full, mops, cloths, brushes, brooms, detergents, bleach and steel wool. He was going to have to do a fingertip search of the whole house to make sure he found all the evidence of what had happened and eliminate the lot.
The simplest thing to do would be to use petrol, splash its noxious liquid everywhere – on furniture, clothes, books, photos, toys – and burn the place down. But that wasn’t an option; the only way ahead was lying and acting because he owed people and he was to blame.
Blame. His legs gave way, tumbling him into the wall. Bile snaked up his throat and he repeatedly vomited onto the floor. He couldn’t go on like this. Tears flashed into his eyes, trailed down his cheeks.
Or perhaps there was another option.
He went back to the cupboard under the stairs. Found the coiled rope. He picked it up and stared at it before putting it back. It would come to the rope one day. But for now there was lying and acting to be mastered first.
He started in the dining room. Total chaos. The table was at an angle where it had been pushed aside. Chairs were overturned. Food was scattered on the floor, trodden into the rugs and smeared down the walls. Broken plates and cutlery had ended up in the strangest places, as if they’d been arranged there deliberately. There was an upright glass, still full of orangeade, on a top shelf. And toys of course. They were everywhere.
He stood for a moment with his green rubble bag hanging open in his hands and let it slip through his fingers. He couldn’t do this now and there was no hurry anyway. No one was coming; it could wait until tomorrow. He had as long as he needed.
He walked back through the abnormal silence to the morning room and sat down on the piano stall. The piano was open and it was obvious someone had been playing it earlier because there was a house rule about keeping it closed when it wasn’t being used. It must have been his son. His adored son was a promising piano player.
Lying. Acting.
Without thinking, he touched the keys and played Rachmaninov’s ‘Prelude in C Sharp Minor’, and it was as if his son sat beside him. It soothed his tormented soul. Why did this piece always end up on English people’s list of favourite works? Only a Russian could understand these notes and what they meant. English people didn’t know anything about music. It was true he wasn’t actually Russian, having been born in England, but his father was. The blood and heritage of Mother Russia ran through his veins too. They understood. They understood what blood and death meant; their history was soaked in it.
His phone began to ring. As the notes died away, he pulled it from his pocket and answered.
‘I’m sorry, not now. Something terrible has happened but I can’t talk about it at the moment. I’ll call you sometime.’
Lying and acting already. But he didn’t need to.
Her voice was both alluring and mocking. ‘Yes, I know something terrible has happened and you know who’s to blame for it, don’t you?’ She waited a few moments before delivering her killer blow. ‘You are.’
Chapter 23
Mine and Alex’s breathing crackles in the room, rushed and ragged, stung by the impact of what he’s just finished reading.
We look sideways at each other. It’s me that starts. ‘So taking his own life has been something he’s thought about before.’
Alex slowly nods. Blows out a long path of unsteady air. ‘That wasn’t easy reading. I nearly stopped part way through.’
I turn back to the writing, frowning, hiding the hope in my heart. But I dare to say it. ‘The food, broken plates—’
‘Glasses on the floor,’ Alex takes up. ‘Do you think that’s your birthday party?’ He assesses me closely. I can still hear the doubt in his tone.
There’s an ache deep inside that so wants this to be true. But… ‘I don’t know.’ My features scrunch up as I think hard.
‘No way do I want to burst your bubble but food and smashed plates and glasses could be anything.’
Alex is right. I start pacing, my arms wrapped with hard tension across my lurching middle. I’m frustrated. Wishing the writing ignited a memory. It didn’t. Nothing from that time is real. The only reality plays out in my howling nightmares.
He softly offers: ‘Do you want my opinion?’
I keep pacing as I nod.
‘OK, this is how I see it from what I read.’ He turns to face me fully. ‘The year is 1998. So the date corresponds to when you reached five years of age, and say you had a birthday party.’ He waits for confirmation from me, which I give.
‘When he comes back the house is a mess, like a tornado has been through the place. He keeps blaming himself to the point of thinking about suicide.’
I wince. That word is so vicious.
Alex continues, ‘This looks like a classic scene after a breakup. They had a row beforehand that got physical. The house ends up in chaos. After he leaves for work, she packs her and the kids’ stuff. They leave. In retrospect he blames himself. Wished the row had never happened.’
‘But what about the lying? The acting? Why use those particular words?’ I unfold my arms and stalk over to him. ‘Odd choice of words to use for a row.’
Alex’s fingers rush through his hair. ‘When I trained to be a lawyer I did a stint in a chamber specialising in divorce cases. This one particular client was trying to stop his wife divorcing him, insisting she had only recently left him. That meant that his wife had to wait years before starting divorce proceedings. It turns out he’d been lying and acting to all his family, friends and us; she’d left him a year and half ago. He’d been pretending to everyone that things were normal, that she was still living in their family home.’
Alex gives a who-knows shrug. ‘I suspect that’s what our man here meant. He was going to have to act and lie to everyone that everything was OK. Do you know why our client did it?’ He didn’t wait for my answer. ‘He was too embarrassed, scared of people finding out that his marriage was over.’
I still won’t let it go. ‘What about the woman he wrote about at the end? The one who calls him? He seems surprised that this mystery woman already knew what happened in the house, whatever that may be.’
‘Who knows what was going on in his home?’
I scoff. ‘Whoever this woman is, she hardly sympathises with him. In fact, she comes across as a really nasty bitch.’
‘Maybe it was a friend of his wife’s? Someone from her family?’
I have a sudden urge to cup my palms round Alex’s so-kind face. He’s the type of guy I would’ve loved to spend the rest of my days with. Leaning my head against his shoulder for comfort and strength.
Now I may be about to spoil the ease between us.
‘I need to find out everything I can about this man—’
His brow hitches up. ‘And you want me to help you.’
‘You’re a lawyer, so you have access to all sorts of stuff. You can find documents related to this house.’ I’m not on my knees begging but that’s what it feels like.
The silence is intense as Alex thinks on what I’ve asked him. ‘Alright.’ A smile bursts out of me as Alex continues. ‘Don’t forget what our deal is. If this has nothing to do with you, you must leave this house.’
‘Aye aye, captain.’ I salute him, standing to attention. Then I remember something else. My gaze roams across the walls. ‘What you read tonight sounds like the end of a story. I think there’s more writing here. A middle part to this story.’ I turn to Alex hopefully. ‘Will you…?’
‘I can’t.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’m already late for my firm’s function. It isn’t going to go down well with the boss if I’m a no-show.’
The room seems to disappear as we look deeply at each other. I know what’s going to happen next. So does he. We kiss. No pressure, no tongues, a simple, sweet touching of the lips that’s over in seconds. Neither of us explores w
hat it means. Some things are best left gift-wrapped and never opened.
He heads for the door without really meeting my direct gaze. I lead him back downstairs. At the door I ask him a question:
‘The other day Patsy was going to tell me something important, then she saw her cat in my arms…’
‘You want me to ask her?’
‘That would be so good of you.’
He opens the door and tells me, ‘In the meantime, don’t search for more writing. Let me try and find out what I can. You, on the other hand, get some rest. Build your strength back. I’ll be in touch.’
Then he is gone. As soon as I’m back in the room the writing on the wall beckons me. There’s that pull again. An uncontrollable need to lay my palms flat against it and lean in. The bond is so strong it borders on frightening, something almost beyond my control. I hastily step back.
I’ll put the lining paper back up in the morning.
‘Get some rest’ was Alex’s advice.
I can’t do that. I know I’m getting close to the truth.
I lie in bed. I hear the house calling me again.
For once in my life I’m glad I will myself not to sleep.
Just after midnight, Martha and Jack arrive back, laughing and talking. He sounds boozy, a bit worse for wear.
The stairs creak at 1am. My landlord and lady are heading upstairs. God knows what they’ve been doing downstairs all this time. Having naughty sex across the dining room table? No. I can’t imagine Martha letting him muck up her glam look. For that matter, I can’t see Jack getting into anything that means the disintegration of his man bun. Their bedroom door closes.
The house is silent at 2am. I’m ready.
I leave the room. Travel on light feet in the dark. I head for my crappy lease-rules loo downstairs. I do what I need to do and pull the old-style chain. The outhouse – let’s not pretend it’s anything else – practically shakes with the gurgling whoosh of water. The noise of the tank takes over with what sounds like the chatter of a thousand bubbles. I’ve long past the stage of resentment at being denied access to the grand bathroom upstairs. It is their house; they’re entitled to their privacy. The strange thing is I’ve come to enjoy this, the most inhospitable room in the house. There’s something elegant, model-like, about the long, curved pipe that leads to the tank. I love the sturdiness of the walls. The window that gives a peep into the forbidden garden.
And that’s why I’m really here now. The garden.
I’m dressed like a robber in the night in old black trousers and a pullover. I have my hair in a cap and I’m armed with my phone with the torch facility ready to go. The window’s permanently locked which explains the fragrant odour but I already know that any generic window key will open it. And I’ve got one from a store. The only slight problem is the size of the window, but that’s one advantage of being slight: you can squeeze through things.
I climb up onto the toilet seat. Unlock the window. Push it outwards. It fights back. I’m not giving up. Finally, with a drawn-out, squeaky groan, it opens. I push some more, then it sticks at an angle. I can’t risk using more force in case the whole frame crashes on to the open ground outside. I turn myself sideways and try to wriggle through. Getting out is fairly easy but there’s a drop with nothing for me to hold on to. Using the toilet wall as a springboard, I push my feet hard against it. I’m through and land in a tangle on a rotten wood-decking contraption that gives way when I land on it. Presumably that’s another of Jack’s half-finished and uncared for bodged jobs.
I hurry away from the house and hide behind one of those mini greenhouses that you buy in garden centres and put up yourself. The plastic is torn and flapping. There’s nothing inside. I wait for a minute or two in case Jack has heard the noise although what my excuse for coming out of the window is going to be, I don’t know. But he doesn’t come. I make my way down the garden. Switch on my phone’s light.
The garden is dense. What shocks me is that it’s uncared for, unloved.
‘He’s a touch possessive of the garden. Grows all sorts out there.’ That was Martha’s explanation as to why Jack had grabbed my arm when I’d tried to go out there. She’s right, there’s lots growing in the garden, but Jack’s so-called green fingers aren’t taking care of anything out here. Large fruit trees with weedy apples and pears. Bushes that might have a fine display of flowers if they were pruned, watered and fertilised. Brown water-starved patches of grass, overgrown paths, a derelict washing machine and a rusty bike with one wheel missing. This garden looks like it’s cursed. Only the fences on either side look like they’re being kept in order. I suppose I should be grateful there are no long mounds of earth with crosses on them either.
Is that what I’m looking for? A grave? The writing on the wall and the farewell letter written by a man now buried in the garden? Even that sounds a bit too Hollywood movie to me. Nevertheless, Jack is hiding something out here. This house is in my blood; I’m compelled to find out everything I can about it.
I go deeper and deeper. There’s plenty more junk lying around and more thickets of dense vegetation. Then it changes. It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a completely different garden. Little patches of earth that are watered, weeded, well tilled and have canes supporting happy, healthy and tall plants. My torchlight against the leaves makes them a stunning green. They’re tucked away in this jungle but must be open to sunlight through the day. Nearby are the tools of the trade of a dedicated gardener. Hoes, rakes and shears. There’s a tap with a hosepipe wrapped around it. Unlike the handle and lock on the toilet window the metal tap looks greased and shiny. There are also metal spikes in the ground by the fence with little red lights flashing on them.
Wow! I have to take it back about Jack; he knows how to cultivate a garden.
I stare with wonder, can’t really believe this. Why would Jack hide this captivating oasis away from the world? It doesn’t make any sense. I go deeper and these little groups of plants become more frequent. I take the leaves of one between my fingers. I’m no garden or plant expert but they look familiar. My brain goes into overdrive as I try and try to remember where… Abruptly my hand on the leaf jumps back with the sensation of being scalded. I know what they are. I’ve found the garden’s dirty little green secret.
Cannabis.
Chapter 24
Jack and Martha are running their own mini cannabis farm out of sight in this quiet suburb. Now I see that the man I saw Jack with in the garden the day I found Bette in my room must’ve been either a drug addict or a buyer. I can’t believe this is Martha’s doing. She wouldn’t get her finely manicured nails scratched and dirty tending to these illegal plants, so it must be Jack. Does his wife know about it? Have I solved the puzzle of why these two want me out? Or raised a new one of why they allowed me to rent a room in the first place?
I can’t shop Jack to the cops; if I do that I might not be able to live here anymore. Then I’m back to square one, not understanding why this house means so much to me.
There’s not much else to see on Farmer Jack’s smallholding so I make my way back up the garden. Little red lights, like eyes watching my every move, flicker as I go. I turn off my phone as I get closer to the house. Ferret around for something to stand on so I can climb back through the window. You’d think in this junkyard that would be easy but it’s not.
A shocking white light blinds me. Instinctively, I cover my eyes. Now there’s bursts of powerful lights on the house shining outwards, hanging in the trees, on the tall poles. The whole garden is more a floodlit football pitch for an evening game in the winter.
As I rapidly blink to get my vision back to normal, I hear locks turning on the back door and bolts being pulled back. It’s too late for me to run and hide. The door swings open and Jack appears. He’s rumpled from been woken up. He’s wearing a pair of unlaced workman’s boots and a pair of scruffy boxer shorts, and has naked, hairy legs. He’s got a white T-shirt on and over that a puffy sleeveless green gilet of t
he sort that horsey people use. In his jacket pocket the top of a long knife is clearly visible and he’s swinging a baseball bat in his hands. He stands for a moment, framed in the doorway with the stance of a man determined to defend his property or a criminal with badness in his heart. I don’t know. I do know I’m shivering with fear.
He’s shaking his head with an evil grin of recognition. ‘It’s you, is it? I might have guessed.’
He comes towards me. I’m petrified now. He’s going to beat me, isn’t he? Batter me black and blue until I agree to keep his nasty secret. I think of him bashing the life out of the mouse until its blood and skin are splattered across the floorboards of my room. And now he’s looking at me like a dumb animal. I’m walking backwards, my hands raised in surrender, stumbling and tripping as I go. I think of screaming but I know that will just be a signal for him to lay into me with the bat. I think of shouting out for Martha but I already know how much she’s willing to overlook and I can’t be sure beating me won’t be another thing she chooses to ignore.
He’s right in front of me now with his well-lit face and its malicious grin. He prods me in the chest. I stumble back.
He sneers, ‘Who are you working for, eh? Is it the cops? Collecting a tenner a week in a pub from some bored member of the drugs squad? For services rendered? Is that it? No, I don’t think so, they’ve got rules about working with flaky people like you… I don’t think it’s the cops…’
His prod this time feels more like an attempt to stab. I tumble backwards into a thick bush but bounce back slightly and recover my footing. I turn to run but I already know that the fencing is like Fort Knox and I’ll never get out alive.
He takes up where he left off. ‘Or is it one of my customers who’s decided to cut out the middle man and blow a hole in my fence when my product is ripe and harvest it himself… and you’re here to keep him posted on developments? Yeah… I reckon that’s it. I’ll tell you what; you tell me who this scumbag is and I’ll take care of things from there. If you’re a good girl, I might even be willing to let you pay the rent back, pack your bags and piss off tonight. But you are going to tell me who it is, I promise you that.’
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 15
