The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  ‘Abs? I said I think you’d like New York,’ Rohan said, and I realized I hadn’t been listening to a word he was saying. ‘Why don’t you come back with me? What do you think?’

  I flattened my lips and shook my head. ‘I can’t… I’m sorry. I just need to finish what I’m doing.’

  ‘You could paint there. As I said, I have amazing views from the apartment, and I’m so close to all the galleries. God, you should see how the river changes colour as the sun comes up. It’s beautiful.’

  I closed my eyes with a little laugh. He just didn’t get it. I couldn’t paint anywhere outside our house; outside my attic. The force for these paintings came from there, and Grace was a part of it. What would I paint in America? What would flow into my soul over there? A big blank.

  ‘I’m not painting a river.’ I picked a little at my food, pushing it about the plate.

  ‘Are you okay? Are you tired? Do you want to go home?’ Rohan asked when the silence had stretched too far. ‘We can get this boxed up.’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ I took a bite of food. ‘It’s fine.’

  Rohan sighed and put his fork down. ‘Abs, what’s bothering you because… I can’t get through to you. I’ve been so excited to come back and see you. I’ve been counting the days but it’s as if you just don’t care. This is supposed to be date night, for Christ’s sake, but…’ He shrugged and sat back in his seat. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  I gave a little laugh. ‘It’s just… “date night”. It’s such a cliché. So parochial. Middle-aged. Grace would die laughing if she could see us doing this.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Rohan said. ‘It gets us out together, and that’s a good thing, right?’

  ‘It’s forced romance,’ I scoffed. ‘As if you can force romance. Like, everyone here probably sees us and thinks: oh, he’s brought his wife here to get her “in the mood” – they’ll have their perfunctory once-a-week marital shag when they get home. Grace wouldn’t be seen dead on a date night,’ I snorted. ‘It’s ridiculous when you think about it. Isn’t it?’

  Rohan was looking at me in a way I’d never seen before. ‘I’ll get this packed to go,’ he said.

  Forty

  As if determined to prove Grace right, I made a move on Rohan when we got home. We’d walked down Albert Road in silence, the weight of his disappointment lying on me like a lead blanket. I was a failure, useless, a disappointment to my husband.

  Inside the house, he went straight to the kitchen to put the food in the fridge while I took off my coat slowly in the hallway then, when he came back out, I slid my arms around his ribs, pushed myself up against him and kissed him, lightly at first but then harder, but he remained impassive, his lips rigidly closed under mine; his hands resolutely by his side.

  I stepped back with a sigh of frustration; failed again. Pathetic. ‘I’m really sorry about dinner.’

  Rohan ran a hand through his hair and I saw now that he looked shattered, his eyes small, and ringed by dark circles, his skin feathered with fine lines and I remembered that, of course, he’d flown overnight from New York.

  ‘We’re both tired,’ he said. ‘You’re right. We shouldn’t have tried to “force romance” tonight. Let’s just go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Agreed. Tomorrow’s another day, and it will be better.’ I pushed down the thought of the family lunch I’d have to endure. ‘Thank you. And darling? I’m glad you’re back.’

  Rohan raised an eyebrow then turned to fetch himself a glass of water. ‘Still doing your checks?’ I nodded. ‘I might not be awake by the time you come up, so good night,’ he said and went on up the stairs while I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and let my head fall into my hands. How had the date gone so wrong? I felt as if Rohan and I had been struggling all day for a way to reconnect; each of us scrabbling to strengthen the bonds that held us together; scrabbling but failing. I had the sense that the ties of our marriage were loosening; that they’d stretched until I was floating, barely tethered, in orbit around Rohan, lost, and failing to make contact.

  It was easy to blame him for taking the job in New York, but was this actually my fault? He’d said how much he’d been looking forward to coming back and I could even picture him on the plane as it hurtled towards London, whisky in hand, knee jiggling with excitement. I could see him telling the check-in staff that he was flying back to see his wife whom he hadn’t seen for way too long; I could see their indulgent smiles. Rohan wore his emotions like a dog: if he was happy, if he was excited, everyone knew it.

  And, in contrast, I hadn’t even realized what time he was due back, let alone heard him arrive. Any decent wife would have been waiting – my insides shrivelled with shame when I remembered how I’d waited on the stairs for Grace’s arrival – or even gone to the airport to meet their husband. A part of me that I didn’t want to acknowledge could picture Rohan scanning the Arrivals hall for the sight of me there to greet him; of my face lighting up when I saw him, tired and crumpled, for the first time in weeks.

  But I was painting, I told myself. I mustn’t forget that. I was deep inside my head, lost in the inner world in which I saw things on the canvas of my soul. Day-to-day things suffered. It was just how it was. I had to tell myself that because to consider the alternative – that Rohan and I had little to say to each other after just four weeks apart – was too awful to bear.

  I looked despondently around my fabulous new ‘show’ kitchen – the kitchen that stuck out from the house like a sore thumb for its modernity and that looked – at the moment – in a worse state than any student kitchen. As I stared at the grease marks and splotches on the pristine counters, I knew exactly what I could do to make amends – at least, to show willing. I would clean, not just the kitchen but the whole house.

  I started with the bins, emptying them all and bagging up the rubbish, and that alone gave me a sense of release, as if the rubbish itself had been weighing me down. I loaded and ran the dishwasher, washed all the things that wouldn’t fit into it by hand. I cleaned the counters, emptied the fridge of everything that was stale or mouldy. I cleaned inside the fridge, taking out each shelf and wiping it; I cleaned the inside of the microwave and then I mopped the kitchen floor with bleach that cut through the stickiness I hadn’t noticed till now. I squirted green stuff down the loos, wiped the sinks and mopped the bathroom floor, and then I gave the vacuum cleaner a run-around downstairs. Rohan was a deep sleeper – I knew it wouldn’t bother him even without the jetlag.

  And, all the while I worked, I imagined I could feel the house appreciating it, purring under my hands, breathing its thanks to me, but my mind was on Grace and how things spiralled out of control with her last time – the time she took Tom from me. I’d shown a chink in my armour and she’d wriggled her way in and taken what should have been mine. Rohan already thought she was cute; it stung that he thought she was ‘amazing’ for saving lives. Painting just couldn’t compete. It was solo and self-indulgent. It helped no one, not even those who bought my art at the galleries. They hung it on the wall and then what? They got so used to it they barely noticed it? They showed it off to their friends at dinner parties? And it’s not as if I had the volunteer job to salve my conscience anymore.

  Yeah, that.

  By the time I was done with the house, I’d resolved, again, to be stronger with Grace. I sat at the table and drew up a housework rota. From now on, she would do her share. I was an adult. I was strong. There would be no chinks this time. Rota done, I opened the back door to put the rubbish out and screamed: lying there, dead in a pool of shiny black blood, was Alfie.

  Forty-One

  His head lay at an unnatural angle, his front paws were curled as if he’d been trying to run and his mouth yawned open in a silent scream. Across his beautiful silver neck, a tell-tale line of dark-red blood showed that his throat had been slit. I swallowed down the bile tha
t rose into my own throat. There was no need to touch him: there was nothing I could do for him now.

  ‘Alfie,’ I murmured, as tears sprang from nowhere. ‘My darling Alfie. My poor baby. I’m so sorry.’

  Still, I bent to touch his side and stroked the softness of the fur that wasn’t matted with blood. No purr met my hand. He didn’t arch against me the way he always did. His body was stiff and cold, a stuffed toy; not my Alfie. I turned and dashed up the stairs to wake Rohan. He was fast asleep, snoring loudly.

  ‘Ro,’ I whispered. He didn’t stir.

  ‘Ro!’ Louder this time, but still nothing. I touched his upper arm and he moved against it in his sleep, as if shaking off a fly.

  ‘Darling!’ Then, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw his jar of melatonin capsules on the bedside. Of course. He’d have taken something for the jet lag. I’d have to deal with Alfie alone.

  Back in the kitchen, I found an old towel and a pair of rubber gloves then, gingerly, I picked up the cat’s body, and wrapped it in the towel, wishing with all my heart that Rohan were here to take control – to dig the hole and bury the cat; to say a few words with his arm around me; to give me a squeeze and tell me everything would be okay.

  What had happened to Alfie? Who’d done this?

  I found the spade in the garden shed, located a spot under the oak tree and started to dig a little grave. In the distance, a dog barked – someone else’s pet, alive, warm and well, its heart still beating. The spade sliced through the soil; through earthworms and grass roots. How deep did this have to be anyway? I didn’t want the squirrels digging Alfie up by accident. Soon I was sweating with exertion and I straightened up to unzip my jacket and wipe my forehead. The oak tree branches swayed and the clouds broke, giving me a racing glimpse of the moon. I dragged the towel containing Alfie’s body to the hole and lowered it gently in. I had no flowers, but I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together.

  ‘Rest in peace, darling Alfie. I love you.’

  Then I shovelled the soil back over the body, using my feet to stamp it down once it was levelled. I’d make a cross or something from some sticks in the morning.

  But who would kill a cat? So brutally? Yes, it was Hallowe’en and the neighbourhood kids were out and about more than usual. Yes, those kids were thinking about ghosts and ghouls and death and horror, but I doubted very much that they were responsible for this. In my mind there was only one suspect.

  ‘Don’t you like cats?’

  ‘No. But it’s mutual.’

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

  ‘What did happen with the cat?’

  ‘Oh God. It was awful. He was a gorgeous little thing. His throat was slit. Abi found him one night.’ [sighs] ‘He was her cat. She really loved him.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She was calm. Just dealt with it.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who did it?’

  ‘No. At first I thought it was kids from the local neighbourhood. You know how it is. Group bravado, or a prank gone wrong. I don’t know. But then Abi admitted, a long time later, that she thought it was Grace. Apparently, Alfie – the cat – used to miaow outside Grace’s room at night, which really annoyed her. And then there was a time when Grace had locked the cat in the bathroom. [pauses] Apparently cats didn’t like her.’

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Yes. Grace.’

  Forty-Two

  ‘Oh my God! Abi!’ Rohan shook me, his hand clawing at my upper arm and I jerked awake, not sure where I was; I’d fallen into bed around half past two and slept like the dead. The country road of my usual nightmare was printed on my eyelids, the birds in my head were singing, the wildflowers were as bright as ever, but, when I opened my eyes, there was no disaster, no horror: just the curtains, our bedroom, and Rohan holding his phone as if he’d read that the world had ended. Inside my chest, a knot of grief: Alfie.

  ‘What? What’s up? What time is it?’ I rubbed at my eyes.

  ‘It’s Mum,’ Rohan said and my heart lurched. The only thing that could be worse than Meena interfering in my life would be Meena unable to interfere in my life. I couldn’t imagine the drama, the chaos that an illness or – God forbid – her death would cause.

  ‘What about her? Is she okay?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s fine.’ I sagged with relief. ‘But that lunch? Today? She wants to do it here.’ Rohan moaned and ran his hand through his hair. Even I knew there was no possibility of us refusing. If Meena wanted to come over, Meena came over.

  ‘Abs,’ Rohan said. ‘We have to clean the house, like, NOW!’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘It’s done. I stayed up last night and cleaned it to a state that even your mum will approve of.’ I hesitated, ready to tell him about Alfie, but Rohan interrupted.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes! The only thing I didn’t do was vacuum upstairs because I didn’t want to wake you, but downstairs looks like a show home, even if I do say so myself.’ I even buried Alfie.

  Rohan reached out an arm and pulled me against him, covering my face in big, sloppy kisses. ‘You star. You absolute star. I didn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘You were dead to the world. And I’m sorry about last night. What I said about date night. I didn’t mean it. I like date night. I like going on dates with you.’

  ‘I know. It’s okay. We were both tired. I do love you, you know.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  He pulled me closer to him and I basked in the familiarity of the way our bodies fit together, and then the reality of what was going to happen later permeated my consciousness. I pulled back sharply.

  ‘Hang on. So they’re coming over, but who’s cooking? Am I expected to pull lunch together?’

  Rohan sniggered and kissed my nose. ‘Oh, ye innocent. Can you imagine my mother not cooking?’

  ‘So she’s going to come to ours and take over the kitchen?’

  ‘Sorry, baby,’ said Rohan. ‘You know how she is. And, umm, she’s invited Mili, Jay and Sofia too.’

  ‘Great,’ I said without expression; with the Allerton Circus in town, I’d be lucky to get any painting done at all, let alone tell Rohan what happened to Alfie.

  Meena and Clive arrived just before twelve. Rohan and I had been hovering for the previous half hour, unsettled like birds before a storm.

  ‘Showtime,’ he said, rubbing his hands together when we finally saw the car draw up and my in-laws spill out onto the pavement. The nip of vodka I’d had for Dutch courage was sour on my tongue.

  ‘Ronu! Beta!’ Meena said, making a beeline for Rohan and enveloping him in a hug before pushing him back to arm’s length so she could drink him in from top to toe while I dithered in the background. Behind her, Clive picked his way up the path laden with Waitrose Bags for Life. His jeans were well ironed and his grey-and-white trainers were too retro to be cool. He’d missed a patch of stubble at the corner of his mouth when shaving, the salt-and-pepper bristles a contrast to the smooth pink skin of the rest of his face. I moved around Rohan and Meena to take the bags from my father-in-law.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said, rolling his eyes towards the car and making his way back down the path. When everyone was inside the house, all the bags and tubs stashed in the kitchen, Meena turned her attention to me.

  ‘You shouldn’t do dieting, Abigail,’ she said as she gave me 50 per cent of the hug Rohan had had, brushing her cheek against mine and wrapping me in the familiar smells of fenugreek, cumin, popped mustard seeds and deep-fat frying. She pinched my cheek with yellow fingertips that smelled of fresh onion and gave me the hope that she’d at least pre-prepared some of the lunch. My stomach rumbled. ‘You’re too thin. How are you? The salt worked?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said but my reply was lost as Rohan said, ‘Salt? What salt? Mum…?’ He looked from Meena to me and back. I opened my mouth but Meena said, ‘For the spirits, beta. Like nannima used to do
. Remember? But, look, Mili will be here any minute. I need to get started. We’ll talk about it later.’

  She rubbed her hands together and led the way to the kitchen. Rohan looked at me and licked his lips; when it came to his mum’s cooking, he was like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Meena pointed to three large Tupperware tubs on the table.

  ‘Samosas, aloo vadas and pakoras. These I cooked at home.’

  Rohan ripped the lid off one of the boxes and stuffed a samosa into his mouth. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Ronu! Plate! And put the chutneys into dishes!’ Meena snapped. She was already tying on an apron and pulling out pans. As she clattered about, I swiped a pakora and then a vada. They were still warm, and better than anything you’d get from a restaurant.

  ‘So, how are you, Abigail?’ Meena said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Where’s Dad gone?’ Rohan asked.

  ‘For a walk. His BP is a little raised – nothing to worry about. Doctor told him he should take some exercise every day so he’s walking around the block. Does Abigail look thin to you, Ronu?’

  I widened my eyes at Rohan and coughed to make the point that I was in fact present in the room.

  ‘New York’s great, thanks for asking,’ Rohan said, winking at me. ‘The work’s hard, but I’m loving living in the city. Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘Nay. Good, beta. Do you think she’s okay? I mean, I’ve been worried. Look at her. So gaunt. Just skin and bone. Losing her memory, too.’

  ‘The apartment’s fantastic. It’s got a pool and amazing views of the river.’

  Meena turned to Rohan then, her hands on her hips. ‘Ronu, why don’t you want to talk about Abigail? Is there something you’re both not telling me?’ Hope flashed in her eyes. ‘Is it morning sickness? Like that Kate Middleton when she had to go on bed rest?’ Finally she turned to me. ‘Is that why you’re so thin? You’re vomiting?’