Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  I plonk my glass down too and inch to the edge of the sofa. ‘Because it’s not true, that’s why.’

  ‘Do you know what it was like when we got the call you were in the hospital having your stomach pumped?’ Her voice doesn’t tremble; it’s sure of itself. ‘I felt like I was dying. And when I saw you on the bed it was like someone had punched a hand into my chest with the force of a dagger, wanting to rip my heart out.’

  She squeezes her eyes shut in tremendous pain. This is the first time she’s ever really spoken to me about what happened. Really spoken to me. The other times have all been wrapped up in ‘How are you doing?’, ‘Are you eating?’, ‘Let me give you a hug.’ The emotional impact of my actions she’s kept locked quietly away.

  It’s in this moment that I see. Out of all of us in the family, Mum has always been the person to keep her feelings carefully hidden, as if to say that’s what mums do. Mums keep everyone together, must never fall apart. The real backbone of the family.

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ I cry. ‘We’re a family that speaks, eats, loves, but discuss our emotions? Never—’

  ‘Are you saying what happened with the overdose was our fault?’ Now she does sound like someone’s ripping her heart out.

  ‘No.’ I take a breath. Calm it down. I open my mouth, close it again. This is so hard to say. This isn’t Doctor Wilson or Alex I’m talking to, this is my mum. The woman who took me into her arms during my years of screaming nightmares and awake-sleeping in this house. The person who massaged my scars when the skin grew tight. She deserves words that are frank and true – to a point – but don’t pierce her. I don’t want my mum to be broken.

  I start. ‘I haven’t felt like “me” for many years. And that’s because I don’t know who “me” is. In the night, things, images, come to me that tell me there’s a missing chunk of my life. I know it’s got something to do with my fifth birthday.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve come down when your father’s not here?’ That voice of hers is now the pure legal secretary she was when she met Dad. ‘Because you’re hoping to browbeat me into telling you whatever lies you want to hear? Is that it? That’s not worthy of you, Lisa. I’m disappointed. I’d have hoped you were better than that.’

  I won’t let up. ‘Does Doctor Wilson know what happened to me on my fifth birthday? You said yourself he helped during the accident when I was five.’

  ‘As your father and I clarified at the time, I misspoke.’

  ‘Then why is the photo of Dad and Doctor Wilson missing from the wall? And before you ask how I know it’s Doctor Wilson, he has one in his office where they’re not mucking around with surgical masks on their faces. He displays it on his desk the way someone does of a photo of their much-loved family.’

  She looks at the ceiling, as if seeking God for divine strength. ‘You’re going to remain here, young lady, until your father gets home. Then, we as a family are going to decide together what help you need to get. Obviously going to Doctor Wilson hasn’t done the trick—’

  I’m on my feet. ‘I’m going to find out Mum. I’m already well down the road. I know full well there was no accident in Sussex. I know where the…’ I bite back my words. I don’t want her to know I’m living in the house. ‘I’m well down the road to slotting all the pieces of the puzzle together.’

  In a way, I admire my mum. She’s being loyal to someone or something. I suspect she even thinks she’s being loyal to me by hiding what really happened but she’s not. I can’t understand why she can’t see that. Or maybe she’s been living with this lie for so long, she’s ended up believing it herself, like cheating spouses who’ve told so many lies they don’t even know what the truth is themselves anymore.

  Mum’s face looks haunted. I’m sure she wants to tell me. But she can’t.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you’re well down the road towards, Lisa. You’re heading for a complete breakdown. It’s not me thinking that, although I’m your mother, and I can feel it. But both your father and Doctor Wilson are medical men and they can see all the symptoms. They’re trying to help but you won’t let them. Why can’t you come back here, where we can help you, keep you safe and make you better? Why are you so determined to drive yourself off a cliff? Don’t you know what’s at the bottom of it?’

  I’m sick of this. ‘I don’t care what’s over the cliff as long I land on the truth.’

  I head for the door with Mum and the tang of cloves and gin following close behind. I wrench the door open and step outside.

  ‘Lisa! We’re only trying to help you!’ Her eyes carry the signs of heavy-hearted despair.

  I go off like a firework. ‘You’re not helping me. Can’t you see that? You’re driving me mad. You’re killing me, your own daughter. You’re slowly killing me!’

  As I accelerate away, I can see in the rear-view mirror Mum standing in the driveway. She seems so alone. I don’t know what she does next because I stop looking. I harden my heart.

  She’s made her choice and I’ve made mine.

  Chapter 26

  As I’m sipping water from my bottle in the car at the traffic lights, my mobile pings.

  I check out the text.

  Alex.

  Meet me at Aunty Pats’.

  I drive over to see him at Patsy’s straight away. I barely get my bearings straight as Alex ushers me quickly into her house. I feel strange. I can’t explain it. It’s as if I’m not there. I’m floating; my feet don’t seem to be touching the ground. There’s a low buzzing noise, as if all those death flies who invaded my room are deep inside my ears. I know I’m stressed out from the visit to Mum but I shouldn’t feel like this.

  Alex’s mouth is moving as if he’s underwater; I don’t hear a word of what he’s saying. His mouth keeps twisting into odd shapes, growing large, taking over his face. An immense wave of tiredness washes over me and stays. My legs aren’t working. I tip over into the hallway wall, gasping for breath. What’s happening to me?

  The alarmed expression on Alex’s face says the same.

  ‘Lisa? What’s wrong?’ His mouth is back to the shape and size it should be. His comforting hand touches my rigid arm.

  ‘I’m OK. I’m alright.’

  Of course I’m not, but the last thing I need is him giving me a you-need-to-get-help speech, a duplicate of mum’s earlier on. Maybe I should get a T-shirt printed with the slogan ‘SOS. I Need Help’.

  Somehow, I manage to get my act together and stand straight. I hesitate for a second to ensure I won’t make a fool of myself by falling. Move away from the wall. Abruptly, an alertness blooms inside me. I feel incredible, on top of the world, can’t get enough of the air around me. The colours on Patsy’s hallway wallpaper are vivid and strong, jumping out, begging to be caressed. I don’t understand any of this; one minute I feel like a drunk and the next, turbo-charged.

  I brush it off, saying, ‘I’ve had a long drive back from my parents and just feel wiped out is all.’

  Alex’s concerned look becomes penetrating. ‘Lisa, maybe you should go home – your real home – and crash for a couple of hours.’

  ‘I need to know what you’ve found out.’

  He’s not happy with my response and takes me into the lounge. I halt when I see Patsy sitting in an old armchair, cradling Davis protectively in her arms. Protection against me, the neighbourhood cat butcher. Her stare is red-hot, slicing into me with an accusation about something I haven’t done. I want to tell her about Martha and Bette’s tag. Best not, especially as I’m not sure that’s what I saw. Anyway, the last thing I need is a re-run of the whole incident; I feel crap enough as it is.

  ‘Hello, Patsy,’ I greet her awkwardly. How else am I meant to do it? She thinks I offed her cat.

  She’s still wearing a woolly hat. Royal blue this time, with a bright-red knitted flower. Patsy makes a big drama of snubbing me and switching her harsh gaze to Alex. ‘Can you tell her that only my friends call me Patsy? I’m Mrs Hawkens to her. Not that I’m going to a
llow her to speak to me.’ She ends on a huff, which makes Davis purr in discomfort. She scratches behind his ear, settling him, whispering, ‘Don’t you worry, darling. I won’t let her get you like she got our much-loved, much-mourned Bette.’

  I know I’m feeling weird but this is really weird. Being in the home of someone who refuses to acknowledge me. I look sideways as if it’s Alex who needs medical treatment.

  He has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I’ve told Aunty Patsy that you didn’t hurt Bette…’ The older woman snorts. ‘That you could never do such a thing.’ Another snort, louder this time. ‘After I’ve spoken with you, she may decide to tell you something she knows that may or may not help you.’

  I jump in, straight at my neighbour: ‘Was it what you were going to tell me the other day when I came over with…?’ My voice dribbles away when I catch on that the end of the sentence is about Bette. Don’t go there.

  Patsy flinches, no doubt seeing her poor cat wrapped in my scarf. ‘Can you remind this person not to address any words at me?’

  I can’t help it; this situation is beginning to hack me off. Why doesn’t she simply tell me what I want to know? Enough with the cat and mouse games. Cat and mouse? Bloody hell, I’ve had enough of them to last me a lifetime. This overwhelming urge comes over me to go over there, grab her by her woolly hat and shake and shake her until she tells me what she knows. My hands cave into furious fists by my sides.

  Calm the hell down. Where is this need to punch someone’s lights out coming from? I might have my problems but one of them is not being violent to old ladies. Violent to anyone for that matter.

  One, two, buckle my shoe.

  Three, four…

  That’s better. Feels easier now.

  I address Alex. ‘Please tell Mrs Hawkens I will be eternally grateful for anything she can tell me.’

  Patsy, clutching Davis, gets up. ‘Alex, when you’ve finished talking to this person come and get me in the garden. I’ll then decide whether to tell her what I know.’

  Patsy holds her nose in the air as she passes by me. I’m surprised she doesn’t make the sign of the cross to ward off my evil presence.

  ‘You look like you could do with something to eat,’ Alex tells me.

  I don’t remember eating this morning. I should be hungry; I’m not. I’m running on an unnatural mix of bone weariness and energy. At the back of my mind I pop in a reminder.

  Note to self: not eating is a trigger sign for you. Get something down you soon.

  ‘Alex, tell me what you found out.’ The hope is apparent in my voice. Please let what he has discovered help me.

  We take a seat on the sagging sofa that has a crochet throw on the back. Its flowers match the ones in Patsy’s hats. Ah, Patsy’s a knitter. There’s no evidence of wool or needles in the room. I imagine her sitting by the roaring fire in winter in her armchair, cats contently curled in the warmth by her feet, needles clacking away. Did young me sit by the fire in the twin of this room, next door?

  Alex plonks his rucksack onto his lap and settles in. I sit anxiously on the edge of the seat. He takes out his phone, fiddles with it and then scoots over to show me what’s on the screen. I don’t immediately understand what I’m looking at.

  He sees my frown and fills me in. ‘This is a photo of an electoral register for the house at the start of the millennium, the year 2000.’ Usually I’d huff that’s he talking to me like a kid; I know what year the millennium was. But I’m not offended; I want him to spell it out.

  ‘How did you find this?’

  He gives me a crooked smile. ‘Let’s just say we lawyers have our ways.’ He turns back to the phone. ‘Up until 2000 the name on the electoral roll was John Peters and his wife.’

  John Peters. I dig deep in my memory. There’s nothing. The name doesn’t spark anything in me. I don’t even know any Johns.

  Alex brings up another photo. ‘Now this is a copy of the census of 2001. It was an important one because it marked two hundred years since the first census in 1801.’

  On any other day I might have been up for a history lesson. My irritation obviously shows on my face because he raises his brows as if in apology and carries on.

  He points. ‘This shows the names of the household members. The only name written on it is Martha Palmer.’

  ‘That’s Martha…’ I straighten with tension. ‘What happened to John Peters and his family?’

  ‘They’ve obviously gone. Remember in the second part of his writing, where he talked about his wife taking the children, leaving him?’

  I’m impatient. ‘Where would they go?’ Suddenly, I’m on my feet marching towards the door.

  Alex hastily lets go of the phone and strides purposely behind me. His hand snakes out and draws me back before I can enter the hall. ‘Where are you going?’

  The hyped alertness is back, with determination this time. The words grit through my teeth. ‘I’m going to ask Patsy point blank what she knows about the family who were next door—’

  ‘No,’ he snaps. He takes in air before adding, calmer and quieter, ‘You leave charming Aunty Patsy to me. If you go out to her now she’ll likely chuck Davis at you.’ He assesses me closely, leaving me feeling uncomfortably naked and bare. ‘You seem a touch jumpy. Not yourself.’ He doesn’t need to add ‘again’.

  I don’t need to see my face to know it changes to something ugly. ‘How do you want me to feel, Alex? Of course I feel like I’m falling apart at the seams. How would you feel’ – my finger stabs him in the chest – ‘if you thought your whole life was a lie? If you’d just been to see your mother and knew she was holding something major back from you?’

  The air pumping from my lungs is ragged, a muscle in my cheek ticking and ticking.

  His hand loosens around me. ‘Let’s sit back down because I found out some other interesting stuff.’

  I let him lead me back. The silence between us as he retrieves his phone is prickly.

  ‘This is the land registry.’ He shows me another form. ‘As you can see, the house is now in the name of a company called MP. I’m assuming that means Martha Palmer, your current landlady, in the same year, 2001.’

  ‘So she’s owned that house for sixteen years?’

  He hesitates, putting the phone down. ‘It would appear so. The census of 2011 shows that by that year, her husband, Jack, was living there as well. The strange thing is that it also shows that the previous owner of the house, John Peters, was living there too.’

  I’m stumped. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Alex shrugs. ‘Neither do I.’ Alex lets out a long sigh. ‘Maybe his family leaving was the reason the house was sold in 2001. John Peters and his wife got a divorce and went their separate ways.’

  I’m trying desperately to analyse it all. Intent on getting it to make sense.

  I say slowly, more for my benefit than his, ‘John Peters owns a house with his wife and children. He then sells the house to Martha. Then, years later, Jack is now living with her in the house. And also John Peters. Why would he go back there?’

  ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the legal profession it’s that people can live the strangest lives. Maybe he went back because he knew he could rent a room from Martha? If she was trying to cover up his being there why put his name on the census?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ says another voice, joining us in the room.

  We look over to find Patsy standing in the doorway, minus cat. ‘I was still on speaking terms with the Devil and his disciple next door, back then. I bumped into him with the census ready to mail at the post office one day. Told me that Lady Muck was too busy to complete it, so she palms the job off on him. He must’ve been the one to put John’s name on it. Maybe he didn’t realise he shouldn’t have. Let’s face it, my big toe has got more sense than that boy.’

  ‘Did you know this John Peters and his family?’

  She squints, no doubt getting ready for her I’m-not-talking-to-you spiel. My temperat
ure starts rising.

  But she surprises me. ‘I did. Lovely family. He adored his wife and kids.’

  ‘Why did they move away?’

  She shakes her head with sadness. ‘I wish I knew.’ Her tone changes to slightly peeved again. ‘You asked me if I knew who the man was in that room before you. It was John. The reason I didn’t tell you before was I wasn’t sure. What I will tell you is I rarely saw him. He hardly ever came out. The glimpses I got into their front room… I never saw him there either. Or in the garden, except that one time. I sometimes think he lived day in, day out, year in, year out in that room, all on his own. No company. No one to speak to.’

  Davis’ meow draws her attention. ‘Ooo, it’s his dinner time.’

  She hurries off, but I know she’s escaping really. Recanting the past had brought tears to her eyes. Or was she holding back another secret, like why was she scared of Jack the day of Bette’s death when he mentioned the cops?

  ‘There’s one more thing you need to know about John Peters.’

  Alex’s grave statement makes me turn around. ‘What?’ I walk up close to him.

  ‘His family’s original name wasn’t Peters but Petrov. It’s a very common Russian surname related to the name Peter. So, his family maybe wanted to appear more English when they immigrated here, so changed it to Peters.’

  Finally! A light-bulb moment. ‘Are you saying…?’

  ‘That the man who wrote the suicide letter and on the wall is likely John Peters, who at one time owned the house. Patsy has just confirmed that.’

  I grab Alex’s hand and drag him towards the hall. He’s flustered. ‘What are you doing?’

  I look at him in astonished disbelief. ‘We’re going to my room, of course. To find the remainder of the writing so you can translate for me.’

  He snatches his hand briskly away and looks really, really annoyed. ‘You need to calm down.’