The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  I don’t know how much later it was when I finally laid down my brushes and came down the stairs – my mind on the coffee I so sorely needed – and suddenly there was Rohan, standing in the hall in his jeans and a sports jacket, and looking as surprised to see me as I was him. I hadn’t realized he’d be home from the airport already; I hadn’t heard the door. My body swayed as I held onto the bannister.

  ‘Rohan?’

  ‘Who else were you expecting?’ he said, looking around with a laugh. ‘Your lover?’ He frowned and sniffed. ‘Does he smoke? Or have you been…?’ Both of his eyebrows shot up.

  I tutted. ‘No. It’s Grace. I told her not to, but I think she sticks her head out of the window. It’s not enough, is it?’

  I took in the suitcase on the hall floor, the keys Rohan had put on the side table, and the pile of unopened post he had kicked away. Rohan moved to the bottom of the stairs, his eyes glued to me the whole time.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  I walked down towards him, still dazed, still not quite part of the real world, still tired, in need of sleep. Rohan scooped me in his arms and squeezed me to him, breathing deeply with his face in my hair, then he kissed me long and hard on the mouth.

  ‘I missed you, gorgeous wife,’ he said as he pulled away and, in his beard, I picked up the scent of outside, of aircraft, of travel, of New York. His breath smelled stale but I imagined mine wasn’t great either. I breathed into the palm of my hand and my nostrils flared.

  ‘I missed you too. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the door,’ I said. ‘I was…’ I pointed vaguely up.

  ‘No problem. I have a key.’ Rohan was laughing at me, but he held me by my shoulders and stared into my face. He touched the earring I wore in my right ear without comment, then traced my cheekbone with his thumb.

  ‘You look tired,’ he said. ‘And you’ve lost weight. I can see it in your face.’ His hand slid down my body, hesitating on my rib cage, then over my waist and hips, then he squeezed my bum playfully. ‘You have.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe. I haven’t weighed myself. Anyway, look, I was about to make some coffee…’

  ‘I could murder a coffee. Let’s go,’ he said but, at the kitchen door, he stopped, and I walked straight into the back of him. He turned around. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  I pushed past, my mind on the coffee. ‘What do you mean, “what’s going on?” Nothing “happened”.’ I got the coffee jug from the machine, moved some dishes to one side so I could rinse it out in the sink, and prepared to set it up for two.

  ‘But, Abs. The mess.’ He went over to the bin and wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t you clear up after yourself? And where’s Grace? Is she still staying?’

  ‘She’s gone to see some friends this weekend to give us some space.’ I smiled, aiming for ‘beguiling’.

  Rohan grimaced. ‘Oh, shame. I was hoping to meet her.’ He looked around. ‘Anyway, doesn’t she do any housework either? It looks like a bomb went off in here.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said, quickly gathering dishes and moving them to the counter near the sink. I bent under the sink and took out the surface spray and sprayed it on the counters, then found a cloth, wet it and started wiping. ‘I’ll sort it out. You unpack, and when you come back down it’ll be good as new.’

  ‘But Abs…’ Rohan said. He bent down over Alfie’s dish. ‘Have you even fed him today?’

  ‘I haven’t been down. I was painting all night.’

  Rohan picked up the food bowl and examined the crispy, blackened remnants of a meal we could both see was eaten long ago. ‘When did you last give him wet food?’

  I shook my head, a stab of shame piercing my heart. ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘Because this looks really old.’

  ‘He’s got dry food,’ I said. ‘And water.’ And that was true. But something cold clasped at my heart: I hadn’t seen Alfie for a while. Where was he? When had I last seen him? I tried to search my fuddled brain but it was like trying to make sense of candyfloss. Again, I was sweating, shaking slightly. Painting always took it out of me, but never as much as this series was doing. I was a dishrag. When the coffee was done, I poured us each a cup, feeling Rohan’s eyes on me as I slipped a snatch of whisky into mine.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  I pulled out a chair and sat at the table while Rohan adopted his customary position leaning back against the counter, his body open to the room.

  ‘So – how’s it going with Grace? Is it nice to have her staying?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. She’s working, so she’s out every day, but, yeah.’

  ‘What’s her job?’

  I explained about the GP work and the volunteering. ‘As long as I’ve known her, it was always her plan to save lives; to help people,’ I said.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Rohan said. ‘But I’m glad it’s just us now. I missed you.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said.

  Rohan’s eyes slid to the whisky bottle and then back to me. ‘So the painting’s going well?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry the house is a bit of a tip. It’s just… I’ve been really focused, and I have a lot on with Grace here. Double the work.’

  ‘Doesn’t she help out?’

  ‘She does what she can. But, you know, she’s out saving lives and I’m home so, yeah, the housework tends to fall on me… I don’t mind. It’s nice to have the company.’

  I saw Rohan bristle. ‘Sure. But, I mean, you could ask her to help? I’m sure she could – I don’t know – empty the bins or feed Alfie,’ he looked hard at me and I squirmed, ‘if you asked her to?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about Alfie. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘So, can I see the paintings?’ Rohan looked so eager it made me shy.

  ‘Later?’

  ‘Okay.’ A silence fell. I watched Rohan’s eyes roam the kitchen. Now I looked properly, I saw that things had become really bad. Why hadn’t Grace said anything? She must think I’m such a slob. I resolved to get everything shipshape by the time she came back. Rohan broke the silence.

  ‘Do we have any plans this weekend?’

  I shrugged. It hadn’t occurred to me to make any plans. ‘What about your mum? She must surely have lined something up for your grand homecoming?’

  Rohan coughed. ‘Well, actually, she did mention a lunch tomorrow. You know what she’s like. She said “kebabs and biriyani”. Are you up for it?’

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d have to be up for it. When Meena summoned, there was no choice.

  ‘Sure,’ I said flatly.

  ‘Don’t you want to come? I thought it would be nice for us all to get together.’ There was an edge to Rohan’s voice; an unspoken sentence: since you missed the last dinner.

  I sighed. ‘It’s just that I’m on a roll painting and I don’t really want to stop. And you know how those lunches go on. You know, all that family gossip and in-jokes and me sitting there pretending I know what you’re talking about.’ I paused. ‘It’s a good chance for you to tell them all about New York.’

  ‘Don’t you want to hear about New York?’

  I felt as if Rohan and I were an engine misfiring, the two of us trying but failing to connect. Was it my fault? I was out of practice socially; lost in my head; knocked for six to have found him in the hallway.

  ‘We can go out on our own tonight if you like,’ he suggested. ‘Date night?’

  I laughed, but then I saw his face. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Good idea.’

  Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019

  ‘So, you said earlier that you first started noticing changes around the time the topic of your secondment to New York came up.’

  ‘Yes. Well, in the weeks leading up to my departure.’

  ‘And we’ve established that you felt there were adequate people around to help Abigail if s
he needed it, so you went off to New York without worrying. And then you came home after four weeks away. How was she then? Did you notice any changes in her?’

  ‘Yes. The first thing I noticed was how much thinner and more tired she looked. She’d lost a lot of weight off her face, and her skin looked grey. She looked… gaunt.’

  ‘Unwell?’

  ‘I guess. But she’d been painting, and I get that she forgets about eating and sleeping when she’s painting. She doesn’t really go outdoors or anything. I guess I’d forgotten how pale she can be.’

  ‘So, you weren’t overly worried?’

  [Sighs] ‘I’m her husband. Of course I was concerned. But, as I said, I realized it was part of the “process” of creating her work, and I hoped that a few days spent with me keeping an eye on her would put her back on the right track. And don’t forget that Grace was staying with her. She said she was a doctor. At the back of my mind it was always there that if things got bad, Grace would say something, or do something, or call me.’

  ‘I see. And you mentioned earlier that Abigail hadn’t been looking after the house, either? Was that unusual?’

  ‘Yes, it was unusual. She’s no domestic goddess but things are usually pretty nice at home. You know: clean. Tidy. I was surprised to see how bad things had got. But, as I said, she was painting.’

  ‘I see. And anything else?’

  ‘Well. There was what happened to the cat.’

  Thirty-Nine

  We went to Mr Ho’s.

  ‘Unimaginative, I know,’ Rohan said somewhat apologetically after he booked, ‘but the food’s good, and we can walk, so I can have a drink too.’

  It was still blustery as we walked down towards the High Street, my hand small and cold inside the warmth of Rohan’s big paw. He gave my hand a squeeze as our feet hit the pavement in rhythm: two of my small steps to each one of his. The last of the trick-or-treaters were out now – teenagers at this time. They moved in little gangs – nylon capes swirling around short skirts, black tights and platform heels; splashes of garish make-up – fake teeth, black eyes and dark red scars – as they zig-zagged to the decorated houses. I’d had a few vodkas at home and I had to hold consciously onto the thought that they were just costumes; that ghouls and vampires weren’t circling us, hungry for blood. The streetlights bathed everything in yellow light and the wind buffeted our faces, whipping my hair into Medusa snakes.

  ‘You should see the decorations in New York,’ Rohan said. ‘Makes this look laughable. God, for days now, the Upper East Side’s been absolutely covered with some really ghastly stuff. Ghouls and headless monsters and things that cackle and flash when you walk past. The Americans have got it down to a fine art.’

  ‘Sounds awful,’ I said.

  Rohan inhaled deeply. ‘But nothing beats the smell of a British autumn, does it, babe? Bonfires, fireworks and hot takeaway chips. Always takes me back to bonfire night as a kid. Can you smell it, too, or is it just because I’ve been away?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said but, really, I felt the wind was hostile; against us, pushing us back, making our walk more difficult. It swirled around my nose and forced me to breathe it in. Let me in, it said, trying to get inside my body and I refused as long as I could, denying it access until I had to gasp.

  ‘Do you remember that night we came here in August?’ Rohan said once we’d taken our seats at our usual table and given our drinks order. Now he’d shed his coat, I saw he’d made an effort with his clothes, wearing a shirt I hadn’t seen before in that navy that he knew I liked. His beard was neatly groomed and he smelled fresh and clean. Shame licked my insides as I touched my old sweater self-consciously.

  I flicked through the menu, although I knew what I’d have. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant, but I wished Mr Ho would change the tablecloths from the cloying pink that made it look so dated. It was like one of those ads that used to pop up at the cinema before the main film, crackling and old-fashioned.

  ‘It was so hot that night,’ Rohan said. ‘Do you remember? It felt like the summer would go on and on.’

  ‘Was that the night it rained?’ I said. ‘I remember thinking that thunder sounding like the world had split in half. Everyone jumped.’ I shivered and Rohan took my hand across the table but then Mr Ho arrived with the drinks.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said. I was never sure if his abruptness was a language thing, or just his manner.

  ‘I’ve been in New York,’ Rohan said.

  ‘New York? You find nice Chinese food there?’

  Rohan laughed, his big, social laugh, and rubbed his hands together. ‘Maybe. But never as good as here. How’s the family?’

  ‘All good,’ said Mr Ho, clearly not willing to say more tonight. It was quite busy; several tables had been pushed together to accommodate a large and loud party of women in tiaras and feather boas – a hen night, or a birthday, maybe, since I couldn’t see any of the usual hen paraphernalia.

  I ordered a bottle of Chianti. Mr Ho opened it at the table, then poured me a splash to taste. I swirled it in the glass and breathed in its scent, before tasting it and nodding.

  ‘It’s good,’ I said to Mr Ho, who gave me the slightest side-eye: as if he would serve bad wine. He poured me a glass and placed the bottle on the table.

  ‘You want a straw with that?’ he asked, and there was a heartbeat of a shocked silence before he burst out laughing. ‘Joking! What can I get you to eat?’ We ordered, and he left us.

  ‘It seems like so long ago. So much has happened,’ Rohan said and I looked at the familiar wedding ring on his left hand; pictured it in New York, seeing things and touching things I had no idea existed. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been in New York for a month already.’

  ‘I know, right.’

  ‘That was that night you told me Grace was coming,’ Rohan said. ‘So tell me how it’s been. What’s she like? Has she changed? Gone all Aussie? G’day! See you this arvo!’ His accent was dire.

  I shrugged. ‘It’s the same as it used to be, really. I guess we never really threw it about too much when we were at uni, so… yeah, similar.’

  ‘But what’s she like? As a person, I mean?’

  ‘Hard-working. Driven.’

  ‘Cute too?’ Rohan laughed. ‘It’s hard to see her face on Instagram.’

  ‘She doesn’t really post pictures of herself,’ I said, wrong-footed that he’d checked.

  Rohan laughed. ‘Jealous?’ He leaned across the table and stroked my cheek. ‘Don’t be. I was only teasing.’

  I took a swig of wine. Would she be his type?

  Maybe.

  ‘So what do you guys do in your spare time?’ Rohan asked. He leaned over and stroked my cheek again. ‘Sorry. I feel like I’m interviewing you! Have you been out anywhere?’

  ‘We went to the old flat. There was a woman there. We could see a bit but we didn’t get to go inside.’

  ‘Amazing. How was it?’

  ‘Older.’

  He smiled. ‘Now you’re used to a house, I guess any student flat would look pretty crappy.’

  ‘It wasn’t a student flat as such,’ I prickled.

  ‘Whatevs.’ He held up his hand, palm towards me. ‘I never saw it. I’m not arguing about it.’

  ‘So, anyway, yeah, we’ve been busy,’ I said.

  ‘She saving lives and you painting.’

  ‘She may work in an emergency setting but she’s still only a GP. It’s not as if she’s a paramedic or anything.’ I huffed. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I can explain to you how wrapped up I’ve been in my painting. I only really see her in the evening. We have a few drinks and cobble something together for dinner, and we watch TV till we fall asleep. I often work most of the night, too, while she gets her beauty sleep.’ Was that clear enough? She’s not that amazing.

  ‘Has she seen your work?’

  I grimaced at the thought. ‘She saw the first two but none since.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’
t want her to see them till they’re all done.’

  ‘Fair enough. And you said they’re not of anyone in particular? I’m intrigued.’

  I squeezed my hands in my lap thinking of the dark clouds; of Grace’s distorted underwater face; of her struggling where I’d locked her under the canvas; of her face ripped apart; and of the dark, dark places I expected to take her next.

  ‘Yeah. They’re just a woman.’ My body twitched and my hand jerked up so I planted it on the wine glass and lifted it to my lips. ‘It’s a series,’ I said carefully. ‘The subject is young at the start, and then she grows up.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rohan said. ‘Sounds good. What’s the style?’

  ‘I can’t really explain it. But dark.’

  Rohan nodded. ‘I don’t want to push you, but I’d really like to see what you’ve done.’

  What was the harm as long as he didn’t know it was Grace? ‘Sure. Later.’ I took a deep breath. ‘So how’s New York? What’s it like?’

  So Rohan started telling me about the apartment and his office and the people he worked with and the deli on the corner that made the most amazing sandwiches and how delicious the baloney was, and I tuned out. In my head I was thinking about the seventh portrait – a feeling was coming to me now and I was getting an idea of what it might be: a slideshow of images ran through my head, shifting and moving: colours, shapes, patterns and a sense in my chest of restriction, of panic and fear. Blood. There would also be blood.