Doesn’t he get it? We need to solve this puzzle. I’m becoming frantic, not understanding why he’s not moving. My bearings are off again; now my head feels like it’s tipping off my shoulders.
‘Don’t tell me to sodding well calm down.’ My shout bounces about us. I’m seething. ‘Women are tired of men telling them to calm down. You might be frightened of your emotions. I am not. All I need to know is: are you prepared to help me?’
He folds his arms, as stubborn as I am. ‘I can help you, believe you me, but only after you get some food down you and sleep and—’
‘You know what, Alex? I don’t need you. Stay the bloody heck away from me from now on.’
I’m out of there before he can say another word.
This can’t wait a moment longer. I will find the missing part of John Peter’s story if I have to tear my room apart.
John Peters. John Peters. John Peters.
The name bounces from one corner of my brain to another as I enter the house with manic determination. Who the bloody hell needs Alex; I’ll discover the rest of John’s writing myself. Haven’t I been searching for years on my own? I refuse to consider this might be a fool’s errand, that there’s no more writing on the wall. There’s a missing part – parts? – of the story, I know there is.
The strange sensation has gone, leaving me feeling almost in control. Almost. There’s a fatigue hovering over me that won’t piss off. I hold on to the bannister as I take the stairs. I’ve lucked out because there’s no sign of the landlords.
I’ve spoken too soon because I run into Jack as I turn into the first-floor landing. He looks a mess, clothes dirty, probably been doing his dodgy handiwork about the house. But that man bun of his is done up like he’s the belle of the ball.
‘I need to have a word with you,’ he says, stepping closer. He stinks of turps.
‘Sorry, it will have to be later, I’m in a hurry.’
I brush past him and ignore his cry of ‘Lisa!’ I’m not in the mood for whatever he has up his filthy sleeve. Mercifully, he doesn’t follow as I head eagerly to the stairs leading to my room.
John Peters. John Peters. John Peters.
The name gets louder; my feet pick up their pace. I reach the landing. Face my door. The anticipation is so high about what I may find, I worry my grip on control may slip away again. I get my breathing in order.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
I’m ready. I hope that John is too.
I reach the door. Open it.
I rock back on my heels in stupefied shock. Disbelief. Outraged horror.
My room is painted completely black.
Chapter 27
The walls, floor, ceiling, skylight, the window frame…
No! No! No! The walls. I lose awareness of what I’m doing, of moving. The next thing I know, my curved fingers are madly clawing for the paper on the walls. Except they hit cold, hard brick. There’s no paper. The lining paper has gone. This can’t be real. Isn’t really happening. I’m in the midst of another crazy dream or I’m awake-sleeping. My eyelids slam down as I try to calm my racing breathing.
One, two, buckle…
The rhyme falters. I try again.
One, two, buckle…
My eyes snap open. Oh God, this is real. My trembling hand covers my quivering mouth as I spin helplessly around. The wall by the window is black. The wall near the bed is black. By the door… black. Black. Black. A shiny-gloss endless ebony black.
John’s writing is gone. Gone.
Such overwhelming grief shatters me I almost crumble to the hideously painted black floor.
Moaning, I slap both hands into the wall nearest me, trying to rub the paint away. Rub. Rub. Rub. It won’t come off. It’s stuck fast. In a daze I stare at my palms, as if I expect to see them covered in blood.
Rage, as dark as the room, consumes me. If that weed-growing bastard thinks he’s going to get away with this, he’s living on another planet. I storm from the room, march downstairs and find Jack whistling in the kitchen, making a mug of tea.
‘How dare you,’ I throw at him with all the force of my anger.
He’s wearing that sickening, sly smile of his. ‘I did try to tell you before you went marching up with your prim nose in the air that the room’s been decorated.’
‘Decorated?’ I’m yelling and intend to continue in that manner. ‘Who gave you the right to go into my room and change anything? You don’t have the right.’
He’s dead serious now. ‘Right? First off, it’s our room in our house. Second, if you read your lease properly it says, as clear as the nose on my face, that the landlord can make any cosmetic changes they like.’
He had me there. I’m furious with myself. ‘I want you to somehow get that paint off. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.’
He picks up his mug and sips. ‘No can do, sweetheart.’ He has the audacity to grin. ‘Thought you’d be pleased that I’ve fixed the skylight. Although I told Martha we should leave it for a few days, but the missus says to get it out of the way.’
Suddenly I’m still. So very still. ‘Martha told you to do this?’
He takes a big gulp of his tea as he narrows his gaze at me. ‘What’s your problem? The skylight’s been fixed. It’s what you’ve been pestering me about since you got here, isn’t it?’ He tips his chin arrogantly up. ‘You know what you can do if you don’t like it?’
I nearly snarl, catch it back. Don’t give the moron the satisfaction.
I decide to kill him with kindness. With the utmost pleasure and brightness, I tell him, ‘I’ll be here for the full six months. I’m sure you’ll get used to it.’
I turn on my heels and leave. As I climb the stairs there’s a name in my head. It isn’t John Peters, it’s Martha Palmer.
There’s only one reason she’d order her husband to paint my room black – to drive me out. The mouse, the death flies, Bette… it’s all been Martha. Good grief, she’s wearing that poor cat’s name tag around her throat like a medal of honour. Isn’t that what serial killers do? Take trophies of their kills? She’s the one calling the shots in this house. I should applaud her really for her stellar act that sucked me in, playing the poor put-upon wife. She’s done a pitch-perfect rendition of ‘We girls gotta stick together’.
I sense something cold and calculating about Martha that leaves me in dread.
I keep to my room that evening. Don’t eat. Don’t drink. No Amy, either. The black walls seem to have made my room shrink. Usually I adore the colour black. It has a range that not many people understand. This black that surrounds me smothers. It’s as bottomless as my despair.
‘Did Martha do this to you too, John?’ I ask the room as I lie on the bed. ‘Is that why you took your life? Because she was trying to drive you away?’
No. Whatever made John say farewell to the world I really believe had nothing to do with Martha, the cat-killing freak. His writing laid bare something much deeper, more hurtful, that hurtled him over the edge. What was it?
Now I may never know because his writing, his story, is gone.
Chapter 28
The violent hammering on the front door the next morning drags me from my sleep. Desperately I look over at the walls. Groan. Still funeral black. The walls seem to have inched further in, turning a once spare room into a tunnel to hell. Is that how John Peters got to feel about this room? A hell on earth?
I reach for my water bottle, desperate to wet my unnaturally dry mouth. With lacklustre movements of my hand, I unscrew the lid. Tip it towards my lips.
The enraged shout I hear bellowing downstairs stops me drinking.
‘Where’s my daughter? What have you done with her?’
It’s my dad. It takes a few moments before I can process what’s happening. What the hell is he doing here? And how did he find me?
Heaving myself out of bed, I hear Jack respond. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. Now clear off, there’s a good boy, you’re on private pr
operty. Oi, where do you think you’re going?’
It sounds like there’s a struggle on the doorstep. My distorted mind makes the dark walls close in even more as I stagger towards the door. I’m unsteady on my feet, shaking my head, trying to clear my mind. If Dad sees me like this there’s no accounting for what he’ll say. I climb down the stairs, feeling more like I’m sliding. At the bottom I rock back on my heels and stop. Count and breathe:
One, two, buckle my shoe.
Three, four, knock at the door.
The noises from downstairs grow louder.
No more time to count and breathe; I need to get downstairs. Now. When I reach the hallway, I stop in the heart of the house on the rug, alarmed by the scene playing out before me. Dad is trying to barge his way past my landlord, but Jack is having none of it, using big hands to push him farther backwards.
When Dad sees me over Jack’s shoulder, he shouts, ‘Get your things together. You’re leaving this place. We’re taking you home.’
I’m too stunned to say anything.
Martha appears and sashays past me to stand behind her husband. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Lisa’s father and if you don’t let me take my daughter away, I’ll call the police.’
Martha looks him up and down. Her voice is calm. ‘If you don’t get off my doorstep, I’ll call the police.’
Once again, Dad attempts to push his way past Jack, and once again he fails.
He’s frantic. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my daughter.’
Martha turns, giving me a curious look. ‘Do you know this man?’
I’m embarrassed, in the same way you’re embarrassed by your parents when you’re a teenager. ‘He’s my dad.’
‘Well, you’d better go outside and sort this out. And can I remind you,’ she pointedly adds, ‘that your parents are allowed to visit, but only with prior agreement from me and Jack.’
Head hanging, I walk past Jack and out of the house. The door’s pulled back, but not all the way; I’m sure Jack and Martha are eavesdropping with delight behind it.
I cry out as Dad seizes me by the arm and drags me down the drive to where his car is parked. In the passenger seat is Mum, her face the picture of parental distress.
‘What the hell is going on, girl?’ Dad’s still yelling, his fingers digging into me. My dad is never, ever violent. ‘Have these people hurt you? What are you doing here?’
I’m lost for words. I’d considered various possibilities that might occur when I came to the house with the mason’s mark but never that my parents might track me down here.
I try to sound calm and outraged at their intervention but I’m aware it’s not coming off. ‘I’ve rented a room here, that’s all. It’s more convenient for work. Now please, go away.’
‘Don’t lie!’
I feel a sting across my cheek. For a moment, I’m unsure what’s happened until I realise he’s just slapped me. I’ve never been struck by either of my parents before and I can’t believe it. His face is contorted with fear and hatred and I’m genuinely afraid of him for the first time in my life. At the same time, there’s a cry of distress from the car and the passenger door flies open and Mum rushes over and tries to separate us.
She’s clearly been crying. ‘Edward! Edward, what are you doing? Don’t hit her.’
Dad takes a couple of steps back. He looks as shattered as I felt lying on the bed.
‘I’m sorry, Lisa. You know I’d never hurt you.’ His voice becomes a controlled quiet that sounds harder than any shout. ‘Get in the car. I’ll go and collect your things.’ He’s already turning.
‘Don’t you dare.’
I set off after him but Mum grabs my arm and holds me back. We struggle briefly but she’s surprisingly strong and I’m surprisingly frail. I can’t get away.
She twists me roughly to face her. ‘Lisa, darling, what’s going on? What are you doing in this house? Why aren’t you living in your own home anymore?’
I’m about to tell her the story about moving closer to work but I haven’t got the heart because she’s so upset.
‘Lisa, you’re not well. You look terrible, my beautiful angel. You have to come home with us now.’
My dad thrusts the door of the house back. I’m surprised that Martha and Jack make no attempt to stop him. No words are exchanged. Perhaps they saw him hit me and don’t want to interfere. Or perhaps they’ve just realised this is the perfect opportunity to get rid of me without resorting to the courts. What a stroke of luck for them.
Dad takes the stairs two at a time and he dashes up to my room.
‘Lisa? Are you listening?’ Mum gets my attention again. ‘You don’t look like you’ve been eating, sleeping.’ She sounds tearful, urgent. She wraps her arms around me.
I lean into her, suddenly drained to the core. So tired. The kind of weariness that makes me want to lie down in a park somewhere and go to sleep.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
It seems so much easier to say I’ll go with them. To say goodbye to this house and its secrets that will probably be bad for me anyway. To abandon this hunt that is slowly destroying me.
The cat killer and the cannabis grower now stand outside the house with blank expressions, watching me and Mum. Dad storms out, carrying a sports bag that’s bulging with my things. I’m shivering although it isn’t cold. Dad throws the bag into the boot of the car and then takes me by the arm. I allow him to ease me into the back seat. When he gets into the driver’s seat, for a few moments he tilts his head back in what looks like relief. The key turns in the ignition and we set off.
For a moment, I share my dad’s relief. But then I look out of the rear window of the car. Not at Martha and Jack, still standing outside, but up at the house. The large windows that hide their secrets from me and the outside world. The brickwork that seems to grow darker, more forbidding, every time I view it. The mason’s mark remains the same. My touchstone to find the past.
In some deep recess of my memory, and my soul, I’m that five-year-old child again being driven away from this house. What am I doing? I can’t go, not now. I have to stay and see this through, no matter how weary, crushed and frightened I am.
If I don’t, I won’t be able to go on. That road leads to vodka and pills and…
I struggle with the door handle. Mum screams and grabs hold of me to stop me climbing out of the moving car. Dad’s shouting over his shoulder but I can’t hear what’s he’s saying. The car judders and veers off the drive before we reach the avenue.
I jump out, away from my mum’s loving embrace, and head back towards the house. I fall into a patch of stones and grass. It’s damp and cold, and I slither towards the front door like a pilgrim seeking salvation. Mum’s sobbing won’t stop.
I look up. Dad stands over me. He makes no attempt to drag me away. Instead places my belongings on the ground beside me.
His voice is calm and collected. ‘Very well, Lisa. Have it your way. We’ve got other options to save you and don’t you forget that.’ He turns to go but then he adds, ‘We’re only doing this because we love you. You know that, don’t you?’
I want to speak, to reassure him, but my mouth won’t move. His feet crunch on gravel as he walks back to the car. The door slams, displaying his true emotions. My beloved parents drive away. And I hurt. Hurt that I’m causing them so much gut-wrenching pain. But they could stop all of this if they told me the truth.
It’s perfectly quiet now. The birds are singing. Truth is I could lie here forever, staring up at the blazing blue sky, inhaling the carefree summer air. I want to get up but don’t feel like I can. I don’t know how long I lie there. Probably only a minute or two before a figure stands over me. It’s Martha. There’s no sign of Jack.
She gives me a grin of recognition. ‘You’re a fighter, Lisa, I’ll give you that. You’re just fighting for the wrong things. You should have gone with your parents. If they’d let me know they were coming instead of turning up carrying o
n like football hooligans, I would have helped them.’
‘Is that why you…?’ I hold back on confronting her about painting the room black. It might provoke her into escalating her malicious deeds against me.
Martha tilts her head in a way that makes the sun no friend to her face, exposing the lines and creases beneath the layers and layers of make-up. ‘Why I what?’
‘Why you let them in?’ The lie comes quickly.
She offers me a hand to help me up but I don’t take it. I struggle to my feet on my own. Martha shrugs and goes back into the house. When she’s gone, I pick up the bag with my unsteady fingers and walk the short distance back to the house with my eyes fixed on my special key in the mason’s mark.
My mind’s fixated on something else though.
There’s only one way my parents could’ve found out I am living in the house.
It should be warm, but the summer breeze feels like shards of ice digging away at my skin as I stride with manic purpose towards Doctor Wilson’s studio the next day. I’m determined to have it out with him. He shopped me to my parents. Told them where I am staying. So much for sacred doctor-patient confidentiality. I revealed my deepest secret to him and he… How could he do that to me?
At least I had a good night’s sleep. Nightmare free, no awake-sleeping. Maybe I’m getting better and haven’t realised. Yeah, and the Beatles will be getting back together. I’ve taken a few pills to steady my nerves. I walk, my legs feeling like they belong to another person, through the upmarket streets of Hampstead in my own bubble. My mind won’t rest about what Doctor Wilson has done.
A high-pitched giggle from a child skipping along beside her mother, who’s pushing a stroller, turns my head. And that’s when I see her. Coming out of Hampstead tube is a woman dressed in a tailored black suit, unbelievably thin heels and an elegant black striped straw boater hat tipped at a jaunty angle. She carries a classy handbag, gliding with the grace of a model heading to New York Fashion Week’s catwalk. At first I think, wow, that woman is the spit of Martha. But she holds herself differently from the Martha I know.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 18
