Surgeon
Lover of life
Those are the simple words written on my birth father’s gravestone in the cemetery in North London. My parents remain in the car giving me some respectful space as I stand by John Peters’ grave a week after discovering the tragic secrets of the house. The wind is high, playing wildly across my face as I stand in this sad place. I’m not sure how I feel about him. He was my blood, the man who helped me come into this world. But he was also the man who failed his family by allowing a pretty face to turn his head. I will never be able to forgive him for denying me the opportunity to stand at the gravesides of the rest of my family. Wherever they rest, I wish them peace and love and no more pain.
I haven’t brought any flowers. I don’t wear mourning black. What I have brought with me, I leave on the grave.
His farewell letter.
Inside the car, Mum and Dad give me a collective concerned look.
‘I’m OK,’ I assure them. ‘I feel ready to look forward to the future.’
They share a long look with each other.
‘What’s going on?’
It’s Dad who hesitantly tells me. ‘The house was never owned by Martha Palmer. She always thought it was hers, but your father had the final laugh on her. You dad had it registered in the name of a business called MP.’
Alex had told me almost the same thing, except he’d assumed the business belonged to Martha. Martha Palmer. MP.
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Mum says, ‘The house belongs to John’s next of kin. That person is you. Marissa Peters.’
Chapter 44
Four months later
Iwatch as the removal firm packs up the contents of the house and stores them in the large van outside. I don’t want any of it. A local charity shop is taking the lot and is grateful for it. I put the house on the market and now a young family will be moving here in a week’s time. I’m glad. I want it to be a family home again, ringing with the very special sound of children laughing and playing.
Jack’s long gone. All evidence that the garden was once a cannabis factory has disappeared. I helped him cut and pull out every last green leaf of illegality. I don’t know where he is now. Don’t want to know.
‘Lisa.’ Alex is framed in the doorway as he calls my name.
He’s been with me every step of the way when I’ve needed him. As a friend, nothing more. And what a friend! I couldn’t have asked for better.
A huge grin transforms my face as I walk towards him. It slides off when I see his grim expression.
‘What’s the matter?’
Alex pulls me inside and out of the way as one of the removal guys carries a chair outside. He calls to the man: ‘Can you tell your people to take a half-hour tea break?’
‘We’re on the clock,’ the man reminds him.
‘Any additional costs, please just add it to the bill.’
The man nods as Alex carefully closes the door. He tugs me gently into the heart of the house where the fancy black and red rug remains on the floor.
I look at him, not the rug. ‘What’s going on?’
He hesitates before starting. ‘Have you noticed this rug before?’
I don’t feel embarrassed to tell him. ‘I’d stand on it. Here in the heart of the house. I can’t explain it but it would help me get my bearings straight. Sort of make sure I was grounded.’
Now he looks pained, like he doesn’t want to say anything. But he does, and he points. ‘Can you see these patterns that are the border?’
I nod, completely perplexed.
‘Look at them closely. They’re not patterns but writing—’
‘Cyrillic writing,’ I cut in, my heart banging. I don’t feel steady on my feet for the first time in a long time.
‘They’re names,’ he continues in a soft hush. ‘Alice, Leo, Tina—’
‘Marissa. Me.’ My tearful gaze hits Alex. ‘Do you think my dad – birth dad – had this custom made?’
‘It looks that way.’
We stand there in a respectful, mournful silence as if gazing down at my family’s grave.
‘All these years I’ve been to untold therapists who have given me all kinds of diagnoses – obsessive, a bully victim, PTSD, plain loopy – when, all this time, I’ve suffered with the most human ailment of all: a broken heart.’ I breathe in deeply. ‘Can you give me a minute?’ I ask in a distant voice.
Alex doesn’t answer. Instead, a few seconds later, I hear the click of the door closing.
Tears roll from my eyes as I get down on my knees and rub my palms reverently across each name. Then I trace my fingertip across each beautifully embodied letter. It’s like I’m back facing the writing on the wall. I feel like I’ve found my family again. No wonder I was so drawn to this rug. All the time my family were waiting for me in the heart of the house.
I curl into a ball and cry.
Epilogue
It’s evening as I stand across the street and look at the house with new eyes. All its secrets are clear to me now. Well, those that relate to me. The family who bought the house have moved in. Faint yellow lights are in a window upstairs and in the lounge below. I see a small child zoom across the window downstairs and then is gone. I imagine the child playing and laughing; that’s what the house was made for. Happiness and love, walking arm in arm, sitting at the dining table or the breakfast bar, sleeping at night.
The house is back to standing tall and proud, its walls back to the colour of welcome. The ivy rests, a portrait of peace in harmony with its stone walls. As for the mason’s mark, it’s not my key anymore, nor will it ever be. It belongs to another person now. Another family.
I take one last look at my spare room at the top. Its window is shut to the world, darkened shadows the colour behind it. I hope the walls are back to white, its floorboards scrubbed clean. A light pops on. A boy’s face appears at the window. I hope he’s happy there. A slither of apprehension turns in me; let’s hope John Peters has left no more calling cards behind.
I turn my back forever and walk quietly away.
I move towards the table in the restaurant where he waits for me. I’m wearing a low-cut blouse and short denim skirt that proudly display my scars. No one looks at me, no one stares.
Alex jumps to his feet when I reach the table.
‘Good to meet you, Lisa,’ he greets me, along with his trademark wide smile.
‘It’s good to meet you too, Alex.’
We’ve made the decision to try the dating game again. Go back to square one as if we’d never met each other.
As soon as I sit down, I say, ‘There’s something you need to know. I have scars on my body. I got them when I was young, in a childhood accident. I sometimes have nightmares, but not so many these days. I like to tie my leg to the bed at night because sometimes I sleepwalk, which I call awake-sleep because I always recall what’s happened.’
‘There’s something you need to know about me,’ he counters. ‘I like to wear odd socks.’
‘I’m a bit obsessed with Amy Winehouse.’
‘I love Russian poetry.’
We catch each other’s eyes and laugh.
About the Author
Thank you!
Thank you for reading SPARE ROOM. I hope you enjoyed it. We had a total ball writing it!
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All About Dreda
Dreda wrote five books before partnering up with Tony Mason to continue her writing career. Dreda scooped the CWA’s John Creasey Dagger Award for best first time crime nove
l in 2004. Since then she has written eleven crime novels. She grew up on a housing estate in the East End and was a chambermaid and waitress before realising her dream of becoming a teacher. She is a passionate campaigner and speaker on social issues and the arts. Dreda has appeared on television, radio and written in a number of leading newspapers including The Guardian. She was named one of Britain’s 50 Remarkable Women by Lady Geek in association with Nokia and is an Ambassador for The Reading Agency. Some of Dreda and Tony’s books are currently in development as TV adaptations.
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