Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  She has the same stamp of elegance as my landlady, however this woman breeds arrogance. Her head’s up; she cuts her eye at passers-by as if they’re not worthy to be walking the streets of North London with her. I drop into a shop doorway and pretend to look into a window as this vision of don’t-touch-me-chic floats by.

  My breath roughly stills on my tongue. It really is Martha.

  Quite why I am so shocked to see her here, I’m not sure. There’s no law that says my landlady can’t be in this part of London or looking more like a model than ever. But it isn’t that. I’m not used to seeing her looking like she owns the place. Usually she doesn’t even look like the woman who owns her own house, never mind Hampstead.

  I step out and watch her walking away. There’s no reason I shouldn’t call out and say hello; I don’t have a problem with her. Instead, I observe her turning left onto a side street, one I have come to know well in the last few weeks. The small street is a shop-free zone. Is she visiting?

  Then I wonder…

  I pick up my pace. Follow her. Martha turns into another side street and it’s the same one I came down a few minutes ago. I discreetly observe her scanning the houses and cottages. Looking… for what? Her designer bag is stiff by her side as she finds the building she’s been searching for. Martha goes up to the door. I have to be careful now. I duck down and scamper along behind the crowded parked cars until I’m about twenty yards away from where Martha is looking with contempt at a brass plate over a buzzer. No doubt about it now. She is indeed paying a visit.

  To Doctor Wilson.

  She jabs the buzzer. No answer. Martha hits it impatiently again and leaves her finger there for about five seconds to make her arrival extra clear. The door slowly opens. I can’t see who’s there but I assume it must be the good doctor. She tilts her head back and talks as if to a servant, and a few words are said back, but I can’t hear what they are. Then the door swings open wide. Martha steps inside. The door closes behind her.

  I stand up and shake my head in disbelief. It’s not that I can’t believe she’s seeing a shrink. Who isn’t? What are the chances of her therapist being the same one that I see? Too much of a coincidence? And what about the fee? Doctor Wilson doesn’t come cheap. A grand just to give Wilson a ring, never mind actually climb up onto his couch. Where’s she getting that kind of cash? Handyman Jack is neither handy or much of a man; he never seems to have any work on, and the house is falling to bits for want of ready cash to fix it. Plus, Martha has told me that one of the reasons I’m in the house is because Jack needs the extra money.

  I’m so lost in thought that I almost don’t notice Doctor Wilson’s door swing open again a couple of minutes later and the unlikely couple emerge onto the street. I duck down behind the bonnet again. The two of them walk past where I’m hiding.

  As they go by, his words are clear to me.

  ‘You should have rung first. I don’t like being put on the spot like this.’ His voice has the backbone of steel. Surely a psychiatrist wouldn’t use such a harsh tone with a patient?

  Her voice is equally hard. ‘No. I’ll bet you don’t.’

  Their irate voices become tangled, fade as they drift out of earshot. My knuckles are tight in hands I hadn’t realised are balled into fists. Since yesterday, I’ve been raging that Doctor Wilson had told my parents about me being in the house. Now I’m scared stiff he might say something to my landlady, inadvertently or otherwise. That the tenant in her spare room deliberately targeted her house.

  I go back to maybe she’s a patient? Maybe she’s a patient? It goes round and round my mind, a chant I’m willing to be the truth. The alternative… I can’t deal with that. Can’t deal with Martha trying to throw me out. What if she calls Jack and I get back to find my belongings piled up on the pavement? I’ve come this far. I won’t – can’t – let anything stand in the way of me finding out the truth.

  Urgency surrounds me. An overwhelming need to get back to the house and… What? Barricade myself in the room? Carry on as if I haven’t seen Martha with the good doctor? Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Pretend. I’ve mastered the art of pretence.

  I rush down the road, my steps grinding against the hard ground, to keep sight of them, although to what end, I don’t know. It crosses my mind to accidently bump into them and let them see I know what’s going on. That’s plain stupid! You mustn’t let them know.

  I catch a glimpse of them turning onto the road that leads down to the high street. When I reach it myself, they’ve gone. The adrenaline charging through my veins sets my body to shaking. Where have they gone? I peer into the first pub I come to. No sign of them. A café specialising in coffee – not there either. Absently, I pop a pill to iron out my hyperactive nerves.

  Think. Think. Think.

  I backtrack. Check the coffee house again. Ah, there they are. Snug in their own world at a table in the back. They’ll spot me if I go in. From the window I watch. You can tell lots about a person just by looking at them.

  He’s speaking in stops and starts, avoiding her eyes. There’s a sideways twist to her expertly painted lips that suggests anger. She’s out of her chair with such force it makes me jump back.

  Doctor Wilson looks embarrassed by what she tells him next, but says nothing and uses his hands to indicate that she should sit back down. Instead, she snatches her bag from the table. Leans down towards his face. Her words are only for his ears. Her mouth moves so quickly her lips take on the appearance of red worms wriggling on her face.

  Hastily, I move to stand half-turned, gazing into the beauty parlour next door. Click click click. It’s the sound of Martha marching towards the door. A delicate, citrus scent reaches my nose – Martha’s back on the street. I turn completely away. She mustn’t see me. When I look back, they’re face to face on the street.

  I think I hear Doctor Wilson say, ‘She was meant to be your best friend…’

  A lorry drives by and I can’t hear the rest.

  Click click click; she’s walking away.

  He shouts after her, ‘Don’t threaten me, Martha. I’m not going to be intimidated. My conscience is clear!’

  ‘You’re not going to be intimidated?’ Martha must be facing him again. I imagine her poised with that staged Hollywood glamour she had that night she came to my room after she and Jack tried to chuck me out. ‘You pathetic little man! I’ll break you like a twig!’

  She’s on the move again. He doesn’t call her back. There’s the sound of an approaching car. It stops. A door briskly closes. The engine growls as the car heads off. I’m assuming she hailed a cab.

  Doctor Wilson starts moving away. I dare to turn around. His shoulders are hunched, and yes, they’re trembling. Is he weeping? I don’t follow him this time.

  What have I just witnessed and heard? A doctor and patient who have become too close? A man who has just revealed my closest secret? Or two friends falling out? Standing in the street won’t help me find out. There’s only one thing to do when I get back to the house: wait.

  Let Martha make the first move.

  Chapter 29

  It’s as if Doctor Wilson is expecting me. We have no pre-arranged session in his diary for today, so when I buzz his studio I expect it will be his medical secretary who will bar my entry with the advice to make an appointment.

  Surprisingly, it’s the man himself who opens the door, just like he did for Martha. ‘Lisa, did we have an appointment?’

  He doesn’t appear fazed by my appearance. I suppose in his profession he’s had all sorts in all conditions turning up on his doorstep.

  I’m ushered inside and we’re soon both sat in his consultancy room. I take the chair on offer, not the couch.

  As he reaches for his notebook, I tell him, ‘I’d rather what I have to say stays between us, not recorded in your book in black and white.’

  Doctor Wilson’s hand hovers over his trusted tool of the trade. ‘This is a professional visit?’

  I stretch my fingers again
st my thighs in pure anxiety.

  ‘How do you know Martha Palmer?’ I immediately go in for the kill. He needs to understand from the word go that I’m the one running this session.

  He doesn’t disappoint. ‘Who?’

  So, we’re playing that game, are we? He can’t hide the sudden colourless quality of the skin round his mouth or the rapid blinks of his usually detached eyes. For the first time, I see the toll listening to and living others’ problems has taken on him. It’s a strange thing. I’d expected to become more stiff with tension, but instead a measure of calming control cloaks me, like the good doctor is on his couch and I’m the one taking notes.

  My gaze is steady. ‘I saw you with her—’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He’s blatantly annoyed now.

  ‘Why was she here?’

  He recovers his control, blank expression back in place, relaxing back into his chair. ‘I understand you went to see your mother and made some very serious allegations against her and your father.’

  ‘If I recall, you were the one who advised me to speak to them. To ask them about what really happened the day of the accident.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  He’s not using his notebook, his prop for controlling our discussion, but that doesn’t stop him thinking he’s the one in control here. The one sitting at the high table asking the questions.

  He’s so wrong. ‘You didn’t answer my question about Martha.’

  Doctor Wilson gives himself time to think. ‘If you must know she’s a long-standing patient of mine. I’ll be breaching confidentiality if I tell you more than that.’ He drums a fingertip against his thigh as his gaze narrows. ‘Martha seems important to you. How do you know her?’

  I nearly laugh then. The gall of this man is unbelievable. ‘I know what you did. What you told my parents—’

  ‘That you are living in a place they know nothing about? Yes, I told them.’ No apologies are offered. His neck stretches as if to see me better. His gaze becomes soft. ‘I wouldn’t normally behave in such a way. Remember, your father is my friend who I’ve known for many years. Lisa, how would I feel if something happened to you and I never informed them where you now live? They believe you’re living in your home.’

  I can’t fault him on his loyalty. I’ve struggled with loyalty to my parents for so many years, knowing that I’m keeping the truth about the years I’ve spent looking for the house, my past, from them. Knowing I won’t take their word about what happened in my childhood.

  Doctor Wilson cuts over my thoughts. ‘Your father was, understandably, very upset when I told him you were living somewhere else. Did they find you at your new address?’

  My head lowers. ‘It was ugly, really ugly. Our dirty washing aired in public for all the world to gawk at. Mum will have hated that. They treated me as if I was a child again. You know, ordered me to my room without any supper until I’d mended my defiant, naughty ways.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  My head jerks up, my gaze dead centre with his. No, doctor, I’m not letting you ambush me.

  ‘John Peters. What can you tell me about him?’ I throw it out there. I don’t expect him to know anything about Martha’s former tenant, but hey, you don’t get if you don’t ask.

  The concern is back on his face. ‘John who? I can say, hand on heart, that I am not treating anyone called John Peters.’

  There’s no sign he’s not telling the truth. I’m not giving up.

  ‘What did you tell Martha?’

  His mouth works, no sound coming out. Then: ‘I don’t understand. What could I have told Martha Palmer?’ His brows shift together.

  ‘She called you pathetic.’ I purposefully say the final word with as much disdain as I can muster; I want a reaction from this man. Nothing happens. Emotions are frozen cold in him. ‘Said she’d break you like a twig.’

  It’s as if I haven’t spoken. ‘I ask you again: why are you obsessed with Martha?’

  I don’t answer; instead I drill my hardening stare into him, desperately trying to find ways to see if he’s lying. In his eyes, the set of his body, the poise and posture of his hands. I see nothing, except a man concerned with my well-being. Do I believe him though? His business is emotion. Getting people to deal with the vast range – betrayal, rage, stress, love, the rest – is the bread and butter of his job. He’d be the master of knowing when to hide it in a situation such as this.

  Then I realise: ‘We’re agreed that you told my parents where I’m living?’

  ‘I have no reason to lie to you.’

  ‘How did you know where the house is?’

  His head rears back slightly. ‘What? But you told me, Lisa. You gave me the address.’

  I rewind back to when I revealed my secret in this very room. Did I tell him?

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ He confronts me with my doubting thoughts.

  ‘Believe you?’ I could laugh or cry; either would work. ‘Believing in those closest to me seems to be at the heart of my problems, don’t you think?’

  He moves, ever so slightly, forward. ‘No, I don’t. I believe the person you don’t believe in is yourself. Your distorted dreams are a product of you not being able to grapple with the truth of what really happened to you on your fifth birthday. This John Peters and your fixation on Martha I believe to be part of your unstable condition. And do you know what else I believe?’

  The weight of his soft voice pins me to the chair even though I’m desperate to rush to my feet and get out of there. I don’t speak. Can’t snap my gaze from his.

  ‘The only way you will find peace with the past is with long-term care. The type that I cannot give.’

  That makes me move with a quickness that has the chair rocking back on its legs. The image of what he’s suggesting leaves me chilled, raging in turmoil, hardly able to stand straight.

  He remains seated, his tone even calmer than before. ‘You’re going to break, Lisa; any day now. I’ve seen the type of breakdown you’re heading for many times. One day you’ll find you just can’t get out of bed. Or you’ll be going about your everyday business and suddenly fall apart. You’ll shatter into a thousand pieces, wondering if you’ll ever be able to put yourself back together. You need to get help now before it’s too late. I can recommend—’

  I don’t give him the chance to say more. The images he’s painted are a horror story I can’t go back to. Is he right? Am I having a breakdown?

  I hungrily reach for the bottle of water on the bedside cabinet. As the coolness soothes my dry throat, I know I should eat. How can I when I’m devastated? My heaving thoughts and the flashing images in my head twist into the tightest knots.

  Martha murdering the cat.

  Martha wearing Bette’s name tag with her best fifties-style cocktail dress.

  Martha with Doctor Wilson.

  Doctor Wilson telling my parents my deepest secret.

  Cannabis plants.

  Bette.

  Martha.

  Doctor Wilson.

  Dad.

  Bette.

  Black. Black. Black.

  Leave me alone. Leave. Me. Alone.

  I squeeze my hands over my head, trying to get rid of tortured images of the puzzle. I feel like sobbing my guts out. But what good would that do? Leave me in a desperate heap, feeling more sorry for myself. And I’m sick of the pity. Of the low self-esteem. Not feeling worthy of this world.

  I slug more water back. It tastes slightly stale but I’ve already got a house rule now not to touch anything in this place that I can’t vouch for. If Martha’s willing to poison a cat you can be sure she’d be willing to poison me too. Perhaps that’s a bit paranoid. But there can be no doubt that nothing would delight her more than for me to be carted out of this house in a wooden box. No doubt the same way John Peters went, despite me finding no record of it.

  As I place the water bottle back, that strange ultra-alert sensation is inside me again. I experience
excitement. No, elation. I sit up with the feeling of being born again. Coming into a world that’s only filled with beauty. That’s when I hear them. The voices.

  They don’t sound like Jack and Martha, I don’t think. I listen more closely. The voices are distinct. It’s a woman and children. Am I dreaming? Awake-sleeping? I know I’m not. To make sure, I put the bedside lamp on. Yes, the room is all bright. I touch the surface of the cabinet table. It’s hard, immovable beneath my hand.

  This is all real, but I can still hear the voices coming from the dining room as if they were in this bedroom with me. Then there’s something else. The blackness of the walls become the queen of colours, exuding power and mystery. How didn’t I see this before? Its awesomeness. Its absolute right to be in this room. The walls move in and out with rhythmic elegance as if they’re breathing. I get out of bed and lay a hand on the in-and-out, in-and-out wall. It’s solid but wraps itself around my hand like soft plastic. How does it do that?

  I was warned. I was warned that if I carried on down this path, I would go crazy, and now it’s finally happening. Voices in the dining room and breathing walls? I’ve gone over the edge and I don’t know if I can find my way back to a world where there are no voices in the dining room and walls that remain still. My breath balloons in my chest as the black changes colour to imperial purple, glittering like diamonds. I should be scared out of my wits; instead I’m fascinated.

  I moved into this house hoping it would talk to me. Now, it is. It’s come alive. I’m just not sure what it’s saying.

  I open the door to my room, step onto the landing and put the light on. That will alert Jack and Martha that I’m moving around but I don’t care. Outside, everything seems to be out of proportion and distorted. The long length of the staircase belongs in a palace or an ocean liner. It twists and turns and narrows and widens, like the stairs from one of those creepy black and white German horror films. The walls are breathing in and out and there are all kinds of soft noises. That’s the house saying something I can’t hear. But above it all, I can hear the voices in the dining room and I have to go down and see who it is and what they’re saying.