The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  ‘Goodness, Abigail,’ she said, turning to look back at me just as I dropped the vodka bottle from my mouth and hid it awkwardly behind my back. ‘What do you eat? There’s nothing in here. No wonder you’re so thin.’

  ‘Takeaways,’ I said, waving my hand vaguely at the front door. ‘Deliveries.’ The ‘el’ didn’t sound. I took another swig of vodka.

  Meena turned back to the fridge and rummaged about. ‘Well, I’m glad I brought these for Rohan. I thought he’d like to have a home-cooked dinner tonight after all that aeroplane food. And, if not, it’ll keep a day or two.’ She straightened up then put her hands on her hips and looked at me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Now, Abigail. What are we going to do with you? I’m not happy with you here.’

  ‘I’m good,’ I said running my hand through my hair. ‘I was just about to get ready. Really.’ We stared at each other.

  ‘I’m not sure you should be here alone,’ Meena said, ‘but… hmm… Ronu will be back very soon.’ She pursed her lips as she wrestled between wanting to interfere and wanting to go to her bridge night. ‘I’d say come home with me but, as I said, we’re going out.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. Well, you’ve got food in the fridge now. Are you going to be all right heating it up?’ I nodded. ‘Lay the table,’ she said. ‘Make it look nice. Put on something nice yourself. Ronu will appreciate that. And we’ll sort out the energy tomorrow. I need to look up a few things and get some sage for the smudging.’

  I nodded and looked towards the hall and the front door, showing her out with my eyes. Finally, she took my cue and made her way back to the hallway.

  ‘He lands in fifteen minutes,’ she said at the door. ‘Then probably another two hours till he reaches home. Call me if there’s any…’ she widened her eyes, ‘problem. Okay, bye. Mwah.’

  I closed the door behind her, shutting out the wind, the darkness and the rain, and turned to face the house once more.

  Now it was just the two of us.

  With the vodka bottle still in my hand, I blundered up the stairs towards the dead girl’s bedroom and paused at the door. Her things were still there, of course: her bed, her dresser, her wardrobe, the dry, cracked flip-flops she wore around Thailand that last, fatal summer. The old hangers, the child-sized clothes, the wardrobe, the dolls, the flowery curtains: all of it was hers. Grace had put them there to torture me. She’d known what she was doing.

  Outside, the wind snarled around the house and a branch of the oak whipped the window, scratching at the glass as if it wanted to come in. I looked at the room, breathing in the smell of the wallpaper and the wardrobe; the smell the girl would have thought of as home. I threw myself onto the comfort of her bed and drew my knees up the foetal position as I rocked side to side, the pointlessness of my existence hurting more than any blow.

  ‘I wish it was me who died!’ I cried. ‘You were the useful one, the clever one. You were the one who had something to give to the world. What do I do?’ I scoffed at the uselessness of my career. ‘It should have been me who died.’

  Thunder cracked overhead, an explosion that reverberated, and then there was creaking like a hundred wooden doors, slow at first, but gathering in speed and intensity until it was all I could hear, the entire house filled with the deafening roar of tearing and splintering. I flung my arms over my head and ran into the hall, as if getting away from the window might save me as the oak finally crashed down. Seconds later, as stillness prevailed once more, I looked around: the house was still standing. I was alive. I ran to the window of the girl’s room and saw the garden entirely full of tree, the smashed remains of the Wendy House at the bottom of the garden barely visible beneath it.

  ‘Cheers to that,’ I said and raised the vodka bottle to the garden. I sloshed some into my mouth and felt its fire burn inside me. For a moment the wind dropped and the silence echoed. Then, overhead, there was a sound. Something in the attic. A footstep above. I shivered. Meena was right: it was deathly cold.

  I stumbled a little as I made my way clumsily across the landing and clawed at the little door that hid the attic staircase until I prized it open. I bumped against the walls, ricocheting from left to right as I climbed up the narrow stairs, aware all the time that maybe I should be advancing more slowly but, with over half the bottle of vodka inside me, slow and delicate were a stretch too far.

  I reached the top step, crashed through the attic door and there she was: Grace.

  Fifty-Nine

  Tall, beautiful Grace was standing with one hand clasped to her chest among the paintings I’d done of her – among the gruesome portraits that ripped her apart, melted her, drowned her, smothered her and wiped her out. I closed my eyes and the room swayed. Nausea rolled in my gut; the vodka too harsh on my empty stomach.

  ‘Why did you do this to me?’ Grace said sadly. ‘It’s as if you hate me. What did I do to make you hate me?’ Her jaw clenched. ‘I thought we were friends. Together forever. Hey, Abs? Isn’t that what we used to say?’ She gave a hollow laugh and went over to the picture of her face smashed and distorted, the rustiness of the blood I’d used rich on the canvas. Her hand moved up to her mouth, as if she were physically holding in vomit.

  ‘I think you should leave,’ I said.

  She spun around. ‘Leave?’

  ‘I need you to leave me alone. Stop reminding me all the time. Stop holding it over me.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘No, no, no. It doesn’t work like that. Why should you forget? You killed someone.’ She pointed her index finger at me, jabbing at the air.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t speeding… it was an accident. It was ten years ago. I need to move on.’

  ‘How can you move on? You took a life! She didn’t deserve to die!’

  ‘And I didn’t deserve to kill her!’

  ‘Living is your punishment,’ Grace hissed. ‘And I’ll make sure you feel it every. Single. Day.’

  ‘Get out! Now.’ I marched to the door and held it open, but Grace put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  ‘As if you’d throw me out. You need me! You’re nothing on your own. You’re pathetic.’

  ‘No. You’re wrong. I don’t need you. I have Rohan.’

  Grace rolled her eyes and looked exaggeratedly around the attic. ‘Oh yes. Well, where is he now? Where’s he been the last few weeks while you slit your wrists and drink yourself into a coma? Let me see… Oh yes: he’s been in New York.’ The words oozed with spite.

  ‘And did precious Rohan see these paintings?’ Grace flung her arm at the collection. ‘Did he tell you they were good?’ She laughed; a loud, haughty laugh. ‘Well, let me tell you something: they’re rubbish! Worthless! They’re self-indulgent crap! You’re kidding yourself if you think you have any talent!

  ‘It’s like the emperor’s new clothes,’ Grace sneered. ‘No one will tell you how crap they are because you’re so “fragile”. No one wants to “upset” you. Everyone’s walking around you on fucking eggshells. You do know that your darling Francesca only gives you exhibitions because of your wretched husband, and all he does is enable you to churn out this garbage. You’re pathetic!’

  ‘Get out!’ I cried. ‘Get out of my house! Get out of my life! I mean it!’

  Grace rolled her eyes insolently. ‘Like last time? Oh yes, this all seems familiar. Haven’t we been here before? And then all it takes is a little email: Dear Abs, I need somewhere to stay… and you invite me back like nothing happened. You can’t get rid of me. You’ll never get rid of me! Never!’

  ‘I mean it! Get out!’ I screamed.

  Grace shook her head slowly as she started to walk towards the door. ‘I’ll go. But you know I’ll be back. I’ll never leave you. Together forever, remember?’ She laughed again.

  ‘Not this time! This is different!’ I grabbed her shoulders and shoved her out of the door and down the stairs.

  ‘I can come,
and I can go, but you’ll always be a murderer,’ she said, disappearing into her room.

  I spun around, went back into the attic and slammed the door behind me. Before me were the paintings. She was right. Of course they were rubbish. Who did I think I was kidding? As if I could be a famous artist. I remembered how Rohan had commissioned me to paint his portrait, not because he thought I was a brilliant artist, but because he fancied me. So, was it true? Was he patronizing me? ‘Enabling’ me to paint as a hobby? As something to keep me busy while he waited for me to get pregnant? And what of Francesca? The exhibition? The buyers, the press? Were they all in on it, too?

  I touched my finger to the canvas closest to me, the fourth one, and, as I took in the details of Grace’s smashed face, saliva streamed into my mouth and I retched, bringing up the vodka. I spewed the vomit onto the canvas, my bile literally raining down on her.

  ‘Useless!’ I shouted, kicking at the canvas, trying to break the frame, but it wasn’t enough. ‘I’m useless!’ I picked up the canvas and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and bounced, the pine of the frame splintering but, again, it wasn’t enough.

  ‘Why me?’ I screamed, and I grabbed my craft knife and lunged towards the next canvas, stabbing into Grace’s eyes and slicing up her face, then I rampaged on, stamping on the canvases, snapping the frames, slashing the pictures and smearing vomit over what was left. I tipped vodka on them and, had I found matches, would have set fire to them. I rested only when there was just one of my series left to see: the teenage Grace, serene as the Mona Lisa, rising above the trampled remains of the others, as if a hurricane had blown through the attic and obliterated everything that she was. Then I collapsed to my knees and crumpled forward onto the floor, spent.

  Sixty

  ‘Abs! Abs!’

  I opened my eyes to see Rohan’s face sideways, close to mine, his body crouched low and his face puckered with worry. I realized he’d been shaking my arm urgently and his hand remained there, vice-like. I could feel its warmth through whatever it was I had on. Inside my head, someone beat my brain with a hammer. I could picture him, a tiny man with the steel hammer: tink, tink, tink. Somewhere ahead of me, grey and shadowy, there was a memory – Grace? My art? – but it scuttled out of my grasp before I could identify it. The room was dark; through the rainspattered window I could see clouds moving fast; the oak tree’s absence in the sky a glaring blank.

  ‘Thank God! Jesus, Abi! Thank God you’re all right! The tree!’

  I opened my mouth and closed it again, the insides sticky and dry. My face was squashed against the floor; from this angle I could see all the empty bottles, crisp packets, cigarette packets and food packaging that hadn’t made the bin. I closed my eyes. Rohan shook me, harder this time.

  ‘Abi! Stay with me! What happened? Are you hurt?’

  I groaned.

  ‘And, Jesus, your paintings? Come on, let’s get you up.’ He rolled me over, then slid his hands under my shoulders and lifted me to a sitting position. I slumped forward, bile rising, and propped myself up on my hands.

  ‘Are you okay? Where does it hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Jesus, Abi. Just, Jesus. What is this?’ He looked around at the devastation of the attic. ‘Who did this?’

  I stayed still because it was the only way not to be hit by a new wave of nausea. Rohan got his phone out.

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ he said. ‘Whoever did this… I mean, how did they get in?’

  ‘No,’ I croaked. ‘No.’

  Rohan stopped what he was doing on his phone. ‘What do you mean, “no”? Someone did this! We need to get the police involved. Catch them. It’s criminal damage. Jesus. Your exhibition…’ He shook his head, unable to process that there could be no exhibition. ‘Shit. Francesca. We’ve got to tell Francesca.’

  ‘It was me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’ My voice was louder now. ‘They were rubbish. You’re just humouring me. Both of you. How could you let me embarrass myself in public? I’m not a real artist. I’m not talented. I’m useless. These…’ I waved my hand at the destroyed canvases, ‘they were crap.’

  ‘You did this?’ Rohan’s mouth fell open, then his face crumpled. ‘No. Why would you? Why would you think they were bad?’ He squatted down next to me. ‘Who told you that? Who saw them?’ He paused and then his face changed. ‘Grace?’

  I let my head sink into my hands. Rohan shook my shoulder.

  ‘Abi! Who did you show them to? Because these were incredible. I wasn’t lying. I would never “humour” you. These…’ He walked over to the desk and I saw too late that the folder was there, open. ‘These paintings were the best I’d ever seen. Francesca too. She was blown away by them. I can’t believe they’re…’ He closed his eyes and pulled a hand through his hair.

  I struggled to get up but slumped back down as nausea hit me again. In slow motion I watched as Rohan peered at the folder. He was still dressed in the jeans and blazer he’d have worn on the flight. He looked handsome, the man I love, and my heart ached for what we could have been, the two of us and a child. He turned a couple of pages. I couldn’t let him. Next to me on the floor was my palette knife. I reached for it and curled my fingers around the handle.

  ‘What is this?’ Rohan asked. ‘Tributes?’ He looked up. ‘To who?’

  ‘Don’t!’ I cried as I struggled to get up. ‘Stop!’

  But he tilted his head as he looked from the folder to the canvas that still remained, and back again, realization slowly dawning.

  ‘Oh, so you do know who you were painting. It’s her, isn’t it?’ His face softened. ‘This girl. What happened to her? Was it someone you knew?’

  ‘Stop it!’ I cried again. ‘Put it down!’

  But Rohan looked back at the folder and flicked the pages backwards until he reached the newspaper article at the front. His face creased with concern.

  ‘“Girl dies in hit-and-run”? Oh no… Abs. How awful.’

  ‘Don’t do this! Rohan!’ I tried to rise but fell back down.

  ‘Was she a friend?’ His face was open with curiosity. He wanted to know; he genuinely wanted to help.

  ‘Stop!’ I leaned heavily on the wall as I pulled myself to my feet. The room spun and I lurched toward the desk.

  ‘Put it down!’ I shouted but Rohan continued reading. I watched his eyes widen.

  ‘Her name was Grace, too?’ he exclaimed. ‘Grace Shaw? But isn’t that your friend who’s staying…?’ His brow furrowed and his head tilted sideways again. ‘What’s going on? How…’

  ‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Noooo!’

  I raised my arm and brought it down against Rohan’s shoulder with all my strength. We stayed frozen in that tableau for a moment, our eyes locked, then I felt the warm wetness of his blood under my hand and Rohan’s head turned slowly to take in the red stain that was seeping through his shirt.

  I pulled the knife out and stabbed it into his shoulder again and again, weaker each time, until the folder finally fell out of his hand and he crumpled onto the floor. I looked at my husband lying next to the folder.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Then I took a deep breath and plunged the knife against my own chest.

  Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019

  Sunlight beams through the high sash window and onto the coffee table, highlighting dust motes that float in the air. I’m sitting in the armchair again today, the one by the window. Every minute, I glance out towards the driveway, then I turn back to the room and start rocking again. There’s a solace in the movement; it comforts me, like the feel of a cat purring on my lap. Like the feeling of my Alfie on me. But something happened to Alfie – he’s not coming back. The memory’s a shadow I can’t quite grasp.

  It’s quiet here today so I hear footsteps in the corridor before Rohan appears at the door. He’s with Dr Singh, my consultant. They stop on the other side of the threshold and continue to tal
k quietly. Rohan’s been here all morning, talking to the doctor. They’re giving me sideways looks, their eyes flicking to me and back, so I know it’s about me and I imagine Rohan’s asking when I can come home. I put a hand to my chest – it’s still sore, but it’s good, apparently, that I only used a palette knife. The blunt blade couldn’t go deep. Rohan’s arm’s in a sling.

  ‘Very high success rate…’ I hear Dr Singh say. ‘Residential… therapy… psychodynamic…’

  ‘She’d have to stay here?’ Rohan asks.

  I tune out and my eyes flick once more to the driveway. I rock as I watch the cars, each one a fresh cargo of dread that butterflies and prickles in my belly.

  ‘Abi?’ Rohan says and I swivel to see both him and the doctor facing me, concern on their faces. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m waiting for Grace,’ I say. ‘I know she’s coming back. She said she’d never leave me.’

  Rohan and Dr Singh look at each other, and Rohan nods. ‘Okay,’ he says.

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  Acknowledgements

  This book did not come easily. It was only thanks to the foresight, talent and unending patience of my incredible editor, Kate Mills, that it was able to grow into the story you hold in your hands today. Thank you, Kate, for pushing me, for challenging me and for believing in me.

  Thank you to Lisa Milton, Executive Publisher at HQ Stories, for making me feel like such a welcome part of the HQ family and for your ongoing support. Endless thanks to Luigi and Alison Bonomi, whose encouragement, brainstorming sessions and constructive critiques keep me on track, and thanks, too, to the entire team at the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature, in particular Ahlam Bolooki and Isobel Abulhoul, and to Charles Nahhas of Montegrappa Middle East.

  And, of course, it takes a village to create a book. I’m grateful to every single member of the team at HQ and beyond who plays a part in bringing a published book or audiobook to you, the reader: the teams who work so skilfully in jacket design, editing, publicity, sales, marketing and foreign rights.