Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  My heart lurches. It feels so good to see the writing again. My lifeline. What I mentally hang on to in those increasingly frequent moments of doubt.

  ‘They painted my room black,’ I finally confess to Alex.

  ‘What?’ He comes to stand beside me, ignoring the writing, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on me.

  ‘Jack said that Martha told him to do it. I’d been badgering him to fix the skylight, which he did. But he painted the room black too. She told him to do it.’ In a quieter voice I add, ‘Martha murdered your Aunt Patsy’s cat too.’

  Alex looks wild, like he wants to punch someone’s lights out. ‘Lisa, you can’t go back to that house. These people are dangerous.’

  I growl back, ‘Don’t you get it? I’m never going to be normal—’

  ‘Who the heck is normal?’ He’s mad now and not afraid to show it. ‘What does normal actually mean? It’s a bloody myth, that’s what it is. You know what my grandmother said to me once? “You young people think you’re meant to be happy all the time.” She was right. Life is full of ups and downs. The sooner we get used to that, the sooner we can rest easy in the skin of the life we’re in.’

  I stare at him sadly, the fire in me gone. ‘My only up has been finding you. Other than that, it’s been down, down, down.’ Grief cracks my voice. ‘I can’t live like that anymore. Only the secrets in that house can lift me up.’

  I wobble on my feet. Alex catches me.

  ‘Sleep now, talk later.’

  The smoothly made bed sucks me in. I feel the mattress sag and then the warmth of Alex’s body as it curls around me. Almost in a panic, as if I’m frightened he might disappear, I twist into him, tuck my head into his chest and hold on to him with a strength that says I don’t want to ever let go.

  He soothes me with a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Don’t think, honey, just sleep.’

  I don’t think of my scarf, just sleep. My body relaxes. The fuzzy fog thins in my mind.

  Sleep.

  Sleep.

  Sle…

  I wake in a dark room. Anxiety and panic kick in. I don’t know where I am. Then I remember. The warmth of Alex’s body is missing.

  It’s his soothing voice that makes me ease back. ‘You finally back in the land of the living?’

  He’s sitting, with his legs stretched out, in a modern-style chair that reminds me of a tulip starting to close.

  ‘Can you put up the blinds, please?’

  As he does this I get out of bed. Stand. Test a step to ensure I’m steady. I walk over to the writing on the wall. Sit in front of it and cross my legs. Alex does the same. I can’t help noticing he’s wearing his trademark odd socks: one red with flying pigs, the other white with penguins on.

  I don’t feel brilliant, but better, more myself. ‘Please tell me what you found out.’

  ‘I started looking into John Peters. Digging up information about him. He was a highly regarded trauma surgeon.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ My back stiffens with anticipation.

  He leans his elbows on his knees and rests his chin in the cups of his hands, his gaze shining with alertness. ‘One of my firm’s clients was one. She saw her job more as a critical specialist, someone who needed to be quick on their feet, assess a situation and then be able to treat a patient who had multiple types of injuries. Terrible physical assaults, car crash victims, that kind of stuff.’

  He leans back. ‘John Peters taught at one of the large teaching hospitals. The strange thing is, after he moved back into the house as Martha Palmer’s lodger, he quit his job.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  He shrugs. ‘I wish I had a crystal ball. Maybe the job took its toll. He must’ve seen stuff the average person wouldn’t want to witness in a million years.’ He squints. ‘Is any of this jogging your memory?’

  If only Alex had been there at the house last night when the door to my memory crashed open. I don’t care what anyone else’s opinion is – I know that’s what happened. If I’d been in possession of this information then, maybe I would’ve seen John Peters too, started to piece together who he was. How he’s connected to me. The sensation brewing within me must be what is meant by ‘so frustrated I could scream’.

  I don’t scream. ‘What else did you find out?’

  ‘His wife is called Alice. She was a stay-at-home mum. In the first section of writing’ – he points to it on the wall – ‘he describes his wife as being beautiful and fragile. I couldn’t find out anything else about her.’

  ‘What about his son and daughters?’

  Alex sighs. I feel bad for him; I’ve brought a load of trouble to his door. ‘I could probably find out more about them. You know, names, what schools they went to—’

  ‘Why are you saying probably?’ There’s also a reluctance embedded in his tone.

  He uses his hands against the floor to swivel to face me fully. ‘The thing is, Lisa, I don’t think you’re well. Your behaviour since you turned up at Aunty Patsy’s and then on the high street has been erratic. You were pacing and talking to yourself outside the tube for heaven’s sake.’

  I’m angry with him and let him know it. ‘Who do you think you are?’ I scramble to my feet. ‘The conduct police? The only thing wrong with me is the people who claim to love me the most are hiding my past from me. They’re the ones who need medical treatment.’

  ‘The bad guys aren’t your parents but your landlords. Martha and Jack painted your room black, for heaven’s sake.’ He looks like he wants to do serious damage to someone. ‘Killed Aunty Pats’ cat and, I suspect, did a wagonload of other stuff you haven’t told me.’ I can’t keep the guilt from my eyes. ‘I know that your parents tried to take you home.’

  That surprises me. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Aunty Pats saw it all go down from the comfort of her perch behind the net curtains in her front room.’ He’s pleading now. ‘Don’t go back there. This has gone from weird and creepy to bloody dangerous.’

  I’m defiant. ‘Let them do their worst. The only way I’m leaving that house is with the truth walking along right beside me.’

  I’m raving, can’t stop. In fact, don’t want to stop. Everyone’s against me and now Alex, my beloved Alex, is too. I should’ve known better. Isn’t this what happens to me all the time? I make a commitment to another human being and they let me bloody down. Tears stain my face. I ignore them just as I ignore Alex as he rushes to his feet, somehow sensing I’m leaving. The strained expression on his face tells me he doesn’t want me to go.

  I swipe up my bag, wrench open the door. Then his calm words stop me.

  ‘You remind me of my brother. For so long he refused to accept our help, help from those outside our family who could assist him. Make him better. It got to the stage where it was almost too late. If you carry on like this, Lisa, I worry it will be too late for you with no way back.’

  The terror of his prediction hits me hard. I see me guzzling down vodka, gulping down pills like a kid with no rules at her fifth birthday party. See me in a hospital room, white from the walls to the floor. Hear the sound of my mum’s sobs, those of a ghost who can’t find eternal rest. I see Doctor Wilson, emphatic in his diagnosis that I’m falling apart. Martha with Bette’s name tag on, displayed like her most prized possession. I see young me in the back of a car staring back at a house with a key in a circle as its mason’s mark gets smaller and smaller.

  I close the door.

  Chapter 32

  The cooling air outside sends me off balance again. A tipsy-drunk sensation. I’m disorientated, not sure where to find transport back home. Is that what the house has become? My home? No, home is a place where you feel safe and secure, not afraid to put your head down at night. Certainly not somewhere where the walls of your room are coated in the glossiest black. Unless you’re a goth.

  I stop at the first bus stop I come to. The bus comes along a few minutes later and once I’m on board I figure out it’s going to the wrong
destination and the wrong way. Once I get off, I walk and walk from nowhere to nowhere. As I drag my feet along, passers-by look at me. Some are kind enough to ask me if I’m alright. Why do English people ask you if you’re alright when you’re clearly not?

  I turn a corner and recognise where I am. Camden High Street. I spot the yellow light of a cab office. A woman behind a metal grill, munching a burger, asks me where I want to go. After I’ve told her she tells me to sit down and someone will be along in five minutes.

  A portly middle-aged driver comes in, dangling car keys, and smiles at me. He leads me outside and I get into the back seat but tumble on my side when the car pulls away. The driver looks over his shoulder at me.

  He’s concerned. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘No. I mean yes.’

  ‘You’re not pissed?’

  If only alcohol was my problem, that would be easier to solve. ‘No, I’m not drunk.’

  He’s probably worried I’m going to be sick in his car. He turns on the cheer, with a constant stream of banter, when it’s clear I won’t be messing up his car: how awful the traffic is, what bastards cyclists are, how violent London is becoming and how he’s fed up with customers who run off without paying when they reach their destination.

  I want him to shut up but that seems so unkind to such a friendly man so I say nothing. I begin to recognise streets out of the window and I feel an immense sense of relief. He turns down the avenue and we come to a halt.

  I tell him, ‘It’s a bit further on, by the white van.’

  We pull up outside the house with the mason’s mark. The driver turns around. ‘That’s ten pounds fifty. Call it a tenner.’

  I find my purse. Hell! I’ve only got five pounds and loose change. I should’ve taken an Uber where the fare is docked from my credit card.

  ‘You’ve got no money.’ It’s not a question but a statement.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  With an irate twist of his mouth he holds his hand out expectantly.

  ‘But it’s not on me. Wait here a minute, I’ll go inside and get it.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Oh no, not another one…’

  I scramble out of the car. Have I got money upstairs? But in the end, it doesn’t matter. When I take my first few faltering steps, he drives away without his money.

  It takes an age for me to walk up the drive. I stand in front of the house and stare at it, in particular at the mason’s mark on the wall that led me here in the first place. So many secrets in this house. So much to answer for. But if I’m mentally blasted and blown, I might not find out what they are and I’m running out of time. It only needs a little more work and I’ll be there. I’m convinced of that. I can’t afford the luxury of going to pieces. This is my last chance to find the truth and nothing’s going to stop me.

  When I walk through the front door, I think Martha and Jack are out. It’s quiet. I call their names to make sure before heading for the kitchen. The fridge is divided into mine and their sections. My section is empty; after Bette who knows what Martha might do to my food. I steal some of theirs. I don’t want to eat – even thinking of it makes feel sick – but I make a gigantic ham sandwich, pour mayonnaise on it and find pickles and other bits and pieces to spice it up. I sit in the dining room where the chairs and cabinets were running around during my episode and force-feed the snack down my throat. It makes me light-headed but I come to my senses a little. I haven’t been eating, and that hasn’t done me any good. I pinch one of Jack’s beers and that helps too.

  Then I realise. Jack and Martha aren’t here. I can seize my chance. Or maybe they are lurking around, but I’m going to seize it anyway.

  Carrying Jack’s beer, I walk into the living room and stand in a corner trying to soak up the vibrations or whatever you want to call it, I don’t care. I shut my eyes tightly and try to feel the past. I open my eyes. I remember ‘the cabinet’ coming in here with the ‘woman at the door’. It’s mad; of course it is. But it’s true at the same time. This is where the woman was screaming on my fifth birthday. I’m sure of it. I walk out of the living room and try the door to the morning room. But it’s locked. I consider kicking it in, but I’m not even sure I’ve got the strength to do that.

  I go up to the middle floor and begin trying doors. The room that serves as Jack’s den is open and I go in. Even before I cross the threshold to find the shambles inside, I know there’s nothing in here for me. Their bedroom next door is locked. Martha has her own, private room and, surprisingly, it’s not locked.

  The curtains are drawn. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of clothes, wigs, perfumes, make-up and photos of a young Martha looking impossibly glamorous and attended to by adoring men. She exudes power in these photos. Hypnotic and mesmerising, even in a simple snapshot, never mind the carefully composed ones. I don’t know why but I look under her bed and immediately wish I hadn’t. I know it’s not real but the eyes of a dead mouse are staring at me. And I hear screams. Was a woman screaming in here? Children screaming? A man?

  Suddenly the room reeks like a sewer. I feel an invisible stranglehold on my neck. I’m suffocating. Can’t pull in breath. My vision’s wavering. Fading. It’s not real. None of it’s real. I haul myself to my full height and get out of the room. On the landing I lean against the wall, panting heavily as a chill envelopes me. What happened in there? Is Martha’s private kingdom connected to my past? Maybe I should go back… I approach the door again, this time with trepidation. Reach for the handle… My trembling hand flies back. I’m scared to go back in. So scared.

  I have an idea. I hurry down to the dining room. I try to re-enact the chairs scampering around from the night before. Then I imagine the knock at the front door and the cabinet going to answer it. I hear the screaming from the living room and I hurry back upstairs and will myself into Martha’s room. I cringe, am terrified again. I close my eyes.

  Remember. Remember. Remember.

  Mouse eyes. Woman. Woman at the door. Children. Man. Screaming. I’m almost physically sick this time when I rush out of the room and slam the door. Something evil happened in that room. Something terrible. I can’t work it out but I know something happened in there. Something terrible that laid my life to waste before it had even really begun. I sit on the stairs that lead up to my room and try to think things through. But I’m out of ammo.

  I hear a key in the front door. Firm footsteps in the hallway. The scent of Martha’s spiced apple fragrance drifts up as the low screeches and groans of old wood signal her coming up the stairs. I stiffen like a thief caught in the act.

  Martha’s wearing a pair of jeans; it’s the first time I’ve seen her in them. Black, probably designer, slim-fit to show off every line, curve and muscle. I can’t see if she’s wearing Bette’s tag because of her high-necked blouse. I wonder if she knows I know?

  ‘I hope you’ve had a chance to see a doctor about…’ Her low statement doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to; we both know what she’s talking about.

  ‘What I’ve had time to do is think about the scene I saw downstairs. In the dining room.’ Her green eyes shutter slightly as I speak. ‘The front door.’

  ‘I worry about your sanity,’ she says with pity.

  I’m wrung out; nevertheless I manage to pull some strength from somewhere and stand on the step looking down at her.

  ‘During whatever happened yesterday,’ I tell her with feeling, ‘nothing seemed real, except one thing.’

  She’s curious. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I remember now. There was a person at the front door. Do you know who that was?’

  Martha tries the whole pity routine again, but it won’t wash this time. ‘You’re seeing things. Need help.’

  I shake my head against her accusations. ‘It was you. I saw you at the front door, Martha.’

  I tie my leg with three knots that night because I’m worried what will happen if I awake-sleep and leave the room. Where I might end up. The black paint makes the wal
ls and floor blend into each other. I’m in a cloud of dark. Feel like I’m levitating on the bed in the night. I want to sleep but I’m frightened of shutting my eyes. Of the screams in my nightmares that I’m sure will become my own.

  Martha’s not only trying to drive me out; somehow she’s connected to my past. Connected to my nightmares of what happened in this house.

  There’s nothing to fear. The chain’s on; the chair’s secure against the door. I close my eyes. Do my breathing exercises to a new set of words:

  ‘It was you. I saw you at the front door Martha.’

  ‘It was you. I saw you at the front door Martha.’

  Chapter 33

  Iawake to the sound of vehicles pulling up urgently into the drive outside. The morning light streams strong through the skylight. I wonder who can be visiting the house. The only visitors my landlords have had since I arrived were Mum and Dad trying to force me to come home. Perhaps in other circumstances I would get up and look to see who it is. But these aren’t other circumstances and I couldn’t care less. A car door bangs. There’s a scattering of voices. I recognise one: Dad.

  God give me strength.

  Can I even be bothered? I’m exhausted, spent, finished. I turn over in an effort to get some more fractured sleep. But I’m interrupted by a knock at my door.

  ‘Wakey-wakey; you’ve got visitors.’ It’s Jack.

  ‘Tell them to go away.’ And you can sod off too.

  But he won’t so I’m forced to untie my leg, get up and open the door.

  He looks serious. And oddly troubled. ‘You’d better come down before they come and get you. I’d take your bag if I was you.’

  Why do I need my bag? I’m seized with fear. My Dad’s brought the police. I anxiously try and remember whether I’ve done anything illegal in the past couple of days when things have fallen apart but I can’t think straight. If I have, I’ll need Alex to support me but I don’t want to ring him because he might think this is the final piece of evidence that I need serious professional help.