The House Mate

by Nina Manning

  I suddenly became very conscious that I was in the basement of a stranger’s house and I had just walked in uninvited. My palms began to sweat and my mouth became dry. The wise decision would be to leave. But the monster wasn’t satisfied. Before I could leave, I had to make it to the top of the basement stairs and open the door. Nothing was going to let me get away with not doing it. I could just turn around and go home; come back and try to knock on the front door another day. But as usual, the fear was building into something impenetrable and unfathomable. Opening the door at the top of the basement stairs was the only way everything was going to be okay.

  I took a deep breath and made my way to the bottom step. I looked upwards. Just ten or so steps. I could do this. I would be up and at the door in a matter of seconds.

  Despite my thundering heart and legs that shook uncontrollably with adrenaline, I placed my foot on the first step and walked to the top.

  I felt the sweat on my palms hit the cold metal of the brass knob. I wiped my hand on my jeans and this time I turned the handle. To my surprise, yet again, this door was unlocked. I pushed it all the way, all the while expecting someone to jump out, to tell me I was trespassing and to call the police. I had done it. I could close the door and leave now. But I had already seen a flash of hallway, and I stood for a second as my brain made the relevant connections and translated what it was I was actually seeing. And once it did, a thousand thoughts and images came racing towards me and my head began to spin so much I stepped backwards. I misjudged where the step was and then I was falling.

  35

  Then

  Ever since Olga had arrived in my life and then left so suddenly, things felt like they were spiralling out of control. I knew most of my life was in D’s hands: finances, where we lived, what we ate, where I shopped. I didn’t like it. D could sense I didn’t like it, but it was never really in my hands. I had begun a life with a man who I thought would change my life for the better, only he was very much going to change it for the worse.

  As I lay in bed, I instinctively listened out for Baby Boy. But I couldn’t hear him fussing for me. He was almost a year old now, and in the mornings he was usually chattering away contentedly in his cot. He had never been a whining baby – we had remained too close for that. He received all the nurture when he needed it. He didn’t have to ask for a thing.

  I got up and pulled a long sweater over the T-shirt I had worn to bed and padded out into the hallway; from there I began to hear the small sounds of my darling baby. He sounded happy and for a few precious minutes I thought to myself how nice it was that D had got him up before me. It occurred to me that now he was almost one, perhaps D didn’t feel as though his son posed so much of a threat to him; soon Baby Boy would be weaned and wouldn’t rely on me so much. He was also becoming so much more sociable; perhaps now D could relate to him better. Perhaps this was the start of their relationship forming.

  D had been hurting me less and less. The beatings had ended; he was still rough and pushy, but nothing near how he used to be with me. Perhaps this was a new start for all of us.

  I was sat on the toilet when it hit me, what I had seen in my hazy, just-woken state. It hadn’t really occurred to me that it meant anything. But of course it did, it meant everything.

  I hurriedly finished in the bathroom and raced back into the bedroom and saw that the cot had been stripped of the blankets and toys. Perhaps Baby Boy had an accident and D was washing the sheets. Highly implausible. My heart skipped fiercely and I clenched my fists as I looked around for other evidence. I was stalling for what I knew was coming, what I knew deep down had been coming for a long time.

  I walked slowly down the stairs, feeling my heart thudding so hard I was sure it could be heard in the lounge. My palms were sweaty on the bannister and my mouth was now so dry I wasn’t sure I could speak if I needed to. I rounded the corner in the hallway and began making my way to the lounge. Nothing was going to prepare me for what was coming. As I entered the room, both Fabrice and D looked up at me at the same time as Baby Boy did. He was chewing a rusk; it was spilling all down his Babygro. Neither man had thought to put a bib on him.

  ‘Ahh, here she is,’ D said, and I felt a flicker of relief as I strode towards my son.

  ‘He’s going to ruin his Babygro with all that muck,’ I said with a wobble to my voice that I couldn’t disguise as I bent to pick him up; his sticky hands were outstretched ready to greet me. But D was on his feet and there before me, picking him up. Baby Boy squirmed a little and reached out towards me, his chunky little hands covered in rusk residue. Then Fabrice was on his feet and I watched as D handed the baby to him. Fabrice took out his car keys and handed them to Baby Boy, who could never refuse a jangly non-toy. D explained what was happening. But everything began to slow down and I could barely hear what he was saying to me. The animalistic screams that came from my mouth that I had tried to suppress for so long to protect my baby were now coming out in one long primal sequence. Fabrice moved towards the door, carrying a small holdall, and I lunged forwards to grab at whatever I could. I ended up scratching Fabrice’s face. Then I felt the familiar feel of hands restraining me by my wrists as D pulled me backwards and Fabrice left the room with my darling baby boy propped on his hip. I managed to pull myself forwards with D still clinging to me, and I made it to the window just in time to witness my baby being put in a car seat by a woman I had never seen before. Was she someone official? Was my baby being taken away because I was a bad mother? Then both she and Fabrice got into the car and drove away.

  I collapsed onto the sofa, shaking uncontrollably, too shocked to cry real tears.

  I sensed D hovering in the room and without saying a word to me, I felt him leave.

  By lunchtime, my breasts had begun to harden with the milk that was now redundant. By dinnertime, they were beginning to feel engorged. D had tried to speak to me a few times, but I couldn’t hear him; his mouth was moving, but I could hear nothing.

  At bedtime, as I finally let my weary body rest, I heard D’s words come to me through my half-slumber.

  ‘This is for the best. It won’t be forever – you can still see him. I will bring him to visit you. If you love our son like you say you do, you will do this little job for me. And all will be well.’

  Then he touched me, ever so lightly, on the arm before he left the room. It was the first time in a long time I could remember him doing anything so gentle, and I wondered for a split second if this had affected him too, if he felt pain at our child, who wasn’t even a year old, leaving us both today.

  I touched my stomach where my baby had grown as I clung on to the one blanket I had left of his. I thought of the first baby, the one who had only been able to cling on for a few months, and how D hadn’t shown any remorse when I lost it. Now my second child was gone as well, and D was responsible. Where he had rested his arm for a second, I felt my skin burning because I knew now that the man was poison. And so my body began to fill up with feelings of regret, rage and devastation. They all became muddled into one hardened mass of contempt.

  I had failed my son and I had lost him.

  36

  Now

  I woke at the bottom of the stairs. The light from the hallway was cascading down the steps, illuminating my crumpled body like a spotlight in a theatre. My whole body ached. There was a searing pain through my arm and my ribs. I heaved myself to standing and found that I could just about manage it; my backpack had cushioned some of the fall. I wondered if my phone had been damaged. I needed to speak with someone immediately and explain to them what I had discovered up there in the hallway and how none of it made any sense. I also needed to confirm it for myself. I must have been mistaken. I must have imagined it. Perhaps it was pure coincidence. I pulled out my phone and turned it back on. After a few seconds the apps came to life, ignoring all missed calls and text messages I headed straight into Instagram because that was where I needed to check first. Amazingly, I had missed a couple of posts from M
rs Clean, even though it had only been a few hours since I last checked. My eyes scanned the penultimate post; she was writing with a heavy heart and people were commenting, checking if she was okay. But wait, what was this comment from lucybest65?

  The end is nigh.

  It was a lot of information for me to take in, and none of it really made any sense yet, but the one thing I did know was that I had been duped. Everything that I thought I knew wasn’t true. And the only way I could fit all the jigsaw pieces together was if I went back up the stairs and confronted it head on.

  I noted there were three more missed calls from the same number I had been avoiding. I also acknowledged there were voicemails. This was new. He had never left a voicemail before. I knew I had been running away for too long now, and so maybe now it was time I stopped.

  Instagram post: 21st May 2019

  Hi, guys, sorry about my last post. I was having a contemplative moment. We all have them, don’t we? I’m only human like you, after all. I wanted to thank you all for your lovely, kind messages. They mean the world. It’s just so nice to know that you all have my back no matter what. I feel a hundred times better after reading your kind words. I read every single one of them as well. Phew, I’m exhausted now.

  Thanks for checking in on me again. You really are all fabulous.

  I say it all the time, I know, but I want you to understand how much I appreciate every single one of you and even though I cannot see you, I have felt your presence and you have all been a huge part of this journey with me. I will never, ever forget you.

  Keep on cleaning.

  Mrs C x

  99,656 likes

  hopeliveson Oh no, it sounds like she is having another episode.

  rowandameansbiz Hope you’re okay, Mrs C. Keep on cleaning.

  dennis89 Should we check on her?

  pennyslife No one knows anything about her. She’s kept her identity a secret.

  mechanicmaniac It sounds like a cry for help to me. Someone I know once wrote something similar right before she topped herself.

  dennis89 I definitely think someone should call the police then. Anyone?

  pennyslife You do it if you’re so terrified!

  dennis89 I don’t want to cause a fuss? Or waste police time. I don’t even know the woman.

  workwally But you follow her life on here? What’s the difference between seeing her in real life or through a box on a smartphone app?

  dennis89 Is anyone else worried? Maybe we should wait to see if she replies to any of these messages first?

  lucybest65 Or maybe she’ll be dead by then.

  37

  Now

  I played the answerphone message over and over. But the only words that I could hear were his final words.

  ‘I know where you are. I’m coming to get you.’

  I shuddered at the sound of his voice. It had been years since I had heard him speak to me directly. It still surprised me exactly how it all worked, but he had always been a clever man, my husband. Even though I could not love him in the end. Even when the very thought of him laying a finger on me made my whole body shudder. I went to turn my phone off, but it was no use; he had managed to track me on it. I thought I had been so careful. I thought I would have been able to hide myself away for longer than just a few months. I knew my time was up. It was time to face him.

  But first I needed to get myself back up the stairs and into the main part of the house. At least I would have time to do that before he made his move.

  I put my phone in my rucksack and put it on my back, then I took slow, painful steps until I reached the top of the stairs. I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold and into the hallway.

  There I found myself standing in front of what I had seen the first time I arrived up the stairs.

  Three large monochrome prints: one volcano, one beach and one waterfall scene.

  I pulled out my phone again. I went to Instagram and found my way to the account I was looking for. The account I had been following for so long. I navigated my way into a room that was just off the main hallway. I stood in the centre of it and then flicked to another image on the Instagram feed.

  There was no doubt about it. I was standing inside the house I had been looking at online for weeks. I had followed a trail from lucybest65’s account. I had seen a photo of her in a room looking out over the rooftops at the very building I had just come from. I saw the purple flowers in the window box from there and that tallied up with the flowers on this window. On this building. I couldn’t possibly have gotten any of this wrong.

  This wasn’t lucybest65’s house. This was Mrs Clean’s house.

  I edged my way further into the hallway, all the while my mind was awash with disbelief. I half expected someone to jump out and tell me I had been part of some kind of social experiment. I felt as though I had just walked onto the set of a TV show. The hallway remained disconcertingly quiet. A house this size should have been filled with people coming and going, a loud raucous family like the one I had imagined having myself.

  Before I knew I had done it, I had managed to walk to the room directly opposite and realised I was in standing in Mrs Clean’s lounge. There was the grey sofa in all its glory with the bright geometrical-abstract-printed cushions. I had looked at this sofa so many times on Instagram it felt incredibly surreal to be standing right in front of it. A bit like meeting a celebrity for the first time, having watched them in your favourite movies all your life.

  I looked around the room and felt a shiver across my neck. The difference between seeing a celebrity on television and seeing them in real life was usually the immense sense of disappointment when you realised that they looked nothing like they did on the screens. In real life, you could see the cracks and the lines and the imperfections. I looked around the lounge, the lounge I had seen so many times before on Instagram. And it was as though I were looking at the same picture-perfect image. There wasn’t a sign of life. The living room was totally unlived in. I backed out of the room and headed past the stairway to what I could see was the kitchen at the end of the hallway. On my way there, I passed an open door. I pushed it so I could step inside and realised it was the downstairs bathroom I had seen on Mrs Clean’s feed. I had purchased the very same candle that was perched on the windowsill, which still hadn’t moved or been lit. Again, the room was spotless, like a hotel bathroom when you first arrive. I couldn’t believe anyone could live this tidily, exactly the way she played it out on screen. Absolute perfection.

  But why had lucybest65’s photo brought me here? I needed to know for certain whose house was I in.

  I moved from the washroom to the kitchen, which was the next room on my left. I entered, and immediately I was transported back to the endless days of gazing at the images of this room. It was exactly how it was in the photo, only so much bigger as well. I felt as though I had walked into a well-loved children’s picture book.

  I looked around at the surfaces, which sparkled to perfection. I couldn’t see a speck of dust nor a tea stain; there wasn’t even a droplet of water in the sink. It was wiped completely dry.

  I edged around the perimeter of the kitchen, feeling the smoothness of the surfaces with my fingertips. I stopped suddenly next to a large white fridge. My fingers itched to open it, but even before I did I felt a surge of doubt that suddenly the image I had built up in my head of the perfect Mrs Clean was about to come crashing down on me.

  I put my fingers on the fridge door. Already I knew that my fingerprints would be over everything I had touched. It was no good trying to go back and cover them up. He was on his way soon anyway.

  I pulled at the door and looked inside, expecting to see an empty fridge, to match the empty rooms, but instead I was as greeted with four shelves packed with clear bags, each filled with white powder.

  I blew out a long breath. Either Mrs Clean was developing her own brand of talc, or this house was a drug den.

  My senses were suddenly heightened and on fu
ll alert. I slowly closed the fridge door and stood statue still. I could sense it; a spectre of a human presence. There was someone else in the house. I was not alone.

  38

  Now

  I crept out into the hallway, wondering what it was that my senses had picked up on. A smell or a noise? I could not put my finger on it.

  I realised I could no longer feel any pain in my body from the fall; adrenaline had numbed me.

  Every fibre of my being told me to stop, turn around and walk back out of the door. I had done what I came to do. I had suppressed the beast. But my feet overtook my mind and walked from the kitchen back along the hallway, past the basement door where I should have turned right, gone back down the stairs and left the way I had come in. Instead, I found myself at the foot of the stairs to the next floor of the house. There I stood, holding my breath and looking up. Along the walls leading up the stairs were more tiny abstract prints I recognised from other Instagram posts. I let out a breath and put a foot on the first step. I listened again to see if I could hear anything that would give me a clue whether there was anyone in the house. But there was just silence. Silence and extreme tidiness like I had never witnessed before. By the time I reached the velvet-like carpet on the landing at the top of the stairs, my heart was about ready to pound right out of my chest. There were three doors to my left, which were probably the bedrooms and a large bathroom ahead of me. Then the stairs continued to the right to a final top floor, and if I was right, this would be where lucybest65’s photograph would have been taken, from one of the highest rooms in the house. I contemplated the idea that lucybest65 was a lodger here. But why would she write such awful comments on Mrs Clean’s posts? It made no sense, and I was yearning to know the answers to it all. I ignored the urge to peep my head into any bedrooms on this floor, and instead I took myself to the foot of the next set of stairs, where I was certain I was about to find out who was living here.