Spare Room
Dreda Say Mitchell
Contents
Prologue
Advert
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 Dreda Say Mitchell
The right of Dreda Say Micthell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Praise for Dreda Say Mitchell
‘As good as it gets.’ Lee Child
‘A truly original voice.’ Peter James
‘Zippy, twisty plot…and a bevy of memorable supporting goodies and baddies.’ The Sunday Times
‘Thrilling.’ Sunday Express Books of the Year
‘Awesome tale from a talented writer.’ Sun
‘Fast paced and full of twists and turns.’ Crime Scene Magazine
‘Nothing is but what is not.’
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Prologue
He really meant it this time.
On the bedside table was an unopened bottle of brandy and a tumbler. But he didn’t need the chemical numbness from them or the tranquilisers that he’d taken on all those other occasions when he’d really meant it. In his hands was the letter he’d written explaining his decision. Over the years, he’d written lots of those as well. Some were short and others were long. Some were blunt and curt, getting straight to the point. Others rambled and pleaded for understanding and sympathy from the person who may or may not have been concerned. Many of them were left unfinished when he realised that he didn’t really mean it after all.
But this time, he did. He really did.
He didn’t want to look up, but he made himself look at the length of rope tied above. Below that, the chair. It was all so simple. Climb on the chair. Pull the noose tight around your neck. Step off. A few minutes of pain and panic while the rope did its work, squeezing the life out of you. Most people would be grateful for only a few minutes of pain before they died. And he’d seen plenty of death in his younger days. A few minutes of agony were nothing. And in those final few moments, as you hanged, when the brain was starved of oxygen, he’d read that the pain went and you floated, carefree, drifting away into nothingness. And that’s what he craved most of all.
Nothingness.
In the bowels of the house, the voices raised up again, fiercely arguing. He could hear her screaming and him shouting back. He wished they would stop. Why couldn’t they give him the precious minutes of peace he deserved before leaving this world?
Silence enfolded the house again.
He sat back down on the bed and reached for the bottle of brandy. A couple of swigs wouldn’t do any harm. He didn’t need any Dutch courage this time – the drink was to warm his cold insides. He poured a tumbler full and then stared up at the noose while downing the blazing booze. He poured another. Only on the third glass did he realise what he was doing. Just like all the other times. Drinking himself into a stupor. Anything to avoid actually doing the deed. He slammed the bottle and tumbler down, carefully rested his note against them and stood up.
Swaying slightly under the influence, he strode the few steps to the chair and climbed unsteadily onto it. He gripped the noose firmly in his hands and pulled it over his head. Tightened the knot as if it were a tie. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. Concentrated, trying to clear his head of any doubts and then made as if to step off his chair. He drew back. Then again, nearer the edge this time, one foot dangling in the air for a few moments before again he pulled his leg back.
He choked with despair. Why, when all he craved was nothingness, couldn’t he do this simple thing?
The right thing. The only thing.
The voices downstairs were doing battle again. Why couldn’t they shut up? Just shut the hell up.
He loosened the knot and climbed off his chair. Stumbling, he hurried back to his bed and poured another brandy. He took his note and, with a grim smile, carefully tore it to shreds and put it in the plastic bag that he used as a rubbish bin.
To whom it may concern? What a joke. Anyone who was concerned was long dead or long gone. No one was interested in his explanations or excuses, not even him. He threw the tumbler on the bed and picked up the bottle by the neck. Perhaps if he finished it off, he wouldn’t hesitate when he was on the chair, the way a drunk driver doesn’t hesitate when he gets behind the wheel. He gulped as much as he could take before his throat burned, and put the bottle down.
He took the few steps to the chair and climbed up again. Pulled the noose tight, closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his body as if trying to embrace nothingness.
He stood there inert for a long time before he opened his eyes again. His body was drunk but he wasn’t. He was clear and lucid and tugged at the noose around his neck.
It was all a lie. He didn’t mean it this time and he wouldn’t mean it next time either. He’d rather be among the living dead than do the right thing. Weak, weak, weak. That’s what he was. Weak and pathetic. And it was that weakness that had led to disaster in the first place.
He pulled at the noose that was trapped tight under his jaw. He struggled with the knot, his drunken body swaying. In drunken frustration he tipped over. The noose tightened, cutting into his neck. In a blind panic, he tried to regain his footing but his shoes slipped and slid on the chair. The chair crashed to its side. Oh God. He was suspended in the air, arms and legs wheeling, crying out. No more air going into or out of his lungs. No cries, only desperate choking gurgles. He grabbed the noose in his hands and fought with it. The instrument of his own death tightened around his neck.
In shock, he struggled to grasp the length of rope above his head with his weakened fingers as he tried to haul himself up to safety. For a brief moment he succeeded. His lungs sucked on the precious air. Then the air was no more. His tired hands slipped through the rope, burning the palms and fingers as it went. He fell and the noose jerke
d his head backwards as the slack gave out. His arms and legs twitched as what remained of his life ebbed away.
Then there was only nothingness.
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Chapter 1
My breath catches as I stare up at the house. It’s grand, stately even. Three storeys, probably a basement too. In the late summer afternoon sun its stone walls are biscuit-coloured with a warm cheerfulness. Welcoming. Ivy creeps up its front walls towards solid chimney stacks where a cluster of birds perch, peering at the world. None of them sing. It’s easy to imagine it in a bygone age as the home of a respected Victorian gentleman needing space for his growing family with plenty of room for the serving classes upstairs.
Detached obviously; no Victorian father would want his daughter’s piano lessons disturbing the neighbours or for them, in turn, to hear him dressing down a maid who’d had the audacity to serve him burned kippers.
The avenue is lined with plump green trees that serve as a screen for the homes behind. This clearly wasn’t a showy area back in the day and, even now with its prosperity plain to see, it remains cosy and snug even if some of these houses are now subdivided into flats and bedsits. Spare rooms.
The one thing that distorts my snapshot-perfect picture sits on the drive. A white van. ‘Jack the Lad’ in large print on one side, ‘All household work taken on, no job too small’ written on the other. There’s a mobile number too. Lashed to the roof rack with ropes is a ladder with coloured fabric tied to either end. When the first Victorians owned the house, no doubt ‘Jack’ would’ve been told to park his modern-day horse and carriage at the rear.
Clutching the online letting agency details in my hand with the intensity of holding my last will and testament, I walk across the drive, the gravel pinching and digging through the thin soles of my low-heeled black shoes. My palm is sweating, making the paper damp, some of the ink blurring. As I go, my eyes are drawn to the unusual mark high on the wall above the porch. It’s a large circle engraved in the stone with the impression of a key inside. There’s a date – 1878.
The front door is solid, glossy black with a no-thrills knocker. The blood thrums through me as I knock. I can’t hear any footsteps but after a while I get that unnerving sixth sense that someone is watching me. My nerves calm when I find the tiny, round, plastic twinkle of a spyhole in the door. Whoever is observing decides I am no threat and the door is pulled wide.
‘You must be Lisa? From the letting agency?’
The man is about my age, mid-twenties, but that’s where the comparison stops. He’s dressed casually in faded jeans and T-shirt, his hair loosely pulled back in a man bun. This is a modern man who likes to be noticed, from the pirate-style looped gold earring to the tattoos competing for attention on both arms. Why do people insist on marking their skin? Skin should remain flawless and smooth, only the inevitable passing of time allowed to leave its stamp behind. He’s actually not bad on the eye; the only blip in his square-jawed maleness is the yellowing on his teeth from one too many cigarettes.
‘That’s right,’ I finally answer, keeping my tone hopeful and friendly. I really need that room.
He looks at his watch. Pulls a face. ‘Well, you’re a bit early.’
Would he twist his face some more if he knew I’d been pacing the avenue for the last twenty minutes?
‘Is that a problem? Shall I come back?’
He pulls a face again, this time a bright, nicotine-stained smile, and waves me inside. ‘Of course not! I don’t stand on ceremony here.’
I can’t step inside quick enough. It’s as if I’m coming home. And that’s what this imposing house would become if I secured the room: home.
‘Come into my parlour as the spider said to the fly. I’m Jack by the way.’
He leads me into the hallway, which sucks me in. I can’t stop my eyes widening in wonder. The house seems even larger than it does on the outside. The hall, floored in original black and white tiles, leads down towards what looks like a dining room and beyond that a glimpse of a kitchen. Other doors are shut tight. Rooms that Jack isn’t interested in showing me. Instead, he heads straight for the stairs, which has an ornate wooden bannister and a fussy patterned runner.
A large rug sits on the hallway floor. It is striking, black and red with borders of flowers and what looks like Arabic writing in the middle. It reminds me of the rugs and dust-blown carpets in the Moroccan market I saw when I went on holiday with Mum and Dad in my late teens. I make myself stand on it. Inhale in the heart of the house. That’s what the hallway is – the heart of a house. Don’t believe any of that modern estate agent chatter about it being the kitchen. The heart beats in the space between the front door and the stairs where the house is usually motionless. Still.
‘Are you coming?’ Jack asks, already part way up the stairs.
I step off the rug and follow.
How odd that a young guy like this would be the owner of such a magnificent house. It must be worth millions and then I wonder if it is his. The letting agency didn’t say who the landlord was, just provided a direct messaging box to book a mutually convenient time to view.
‘So what do you do for a living, Lisa?’
‘I work in software for a bank.’
Jack seems surprised at my choice of profession. ‘Software? Bit geeky for a girl, isn’t it?’
Do guys really say lines like that still? I wonder if Jack has heard of the #MeToo movement. I don’t dignify his comment with a response. Alex never would’ve uttered crap like that.
It occurs to me that I’m putting myself at risk being on my own in this house with this man. A stranger. Then I wonder if I’m being a snob. Private education can do that to you. I’ve got no reason to think he’s dangerous. He could be ‘charmless but harmless’ as my mum would say. I try to reassure myself with the thought that the city is crowded with people who have no alternative but to find lodging in strangers’ homes. Besides, the letting agency has a record of my visit.
We reach the first-floor landing. All the doors are closed except one, giving me a peep into what looks like a large bathroom. I’m led along to another flight of stairs, more crooked and narrow this time, no runner or any type of carpet to lead the way to the top of the house.
The stairs creak and groan as we climb.
‘Have you been to view any other rooms?’ he asks.
I shake my head even though I know he won’t be able to see. ‘No. This is the first one that’s caught my eye. Have you had other people viewing it?’
‘A few,’ he answers. ‘Had an actress last week. Seemed nice enough, but let’s face it, acting sounds all fun and glam but it isn’t steady work. No work means no rent being paid.’ He glances back at me. ‘We aren’t a charity.’
I quickly reassured him: ‘My job is permanent and I’ve been there for the last four years. I’ve got references and a police check.’
He halts at the top of the stairs and turns to me. He seems very pleased indeed. ‘A police check? You are keen. I like that.’
I pant lightly as I reach the top of the stairs.
‘There she is.’ Jack points to a door facing us at the end of a very short corridor. It’s painted bog-standard matt white, facing me full on like it has been silently waiting for me all our lives.
My breath holds awkwardly in my throat as Jack turns the old-fashioned handle. He pushes the door wide. Steps inside.
I remain rooted to the spot, an outsider looking in.
‘Are you OK there? You look like you’re freezing.’ He points at the large dormer window on the far side of the room. ‘Do you want me to shut it?’
‘No, I’m fine. I’m shaking off the tail end of a cold.’ I walk inside.
‘I was going to say it’s not like you haven’t got on enough clothes there.’ He smiles good-naturedly at his pointed observation.
No one needs to tell me I look like this year’s latest fashion trend is Frosty the Snowman with my long-sleeved knit dress that stretches from under my chin to just below my knees where it meets a pair of thick leggings. The only skin on display is the top of my feet, hands and face. I should be sweating, but I’m not. I know what else he sees: a woman with short, feathered, layered hair, a long face dominated by large eyes. Zero make-up. Slaps of artificial colour and shades aren’t really my thing. And that’s it really; nothing more than that to see. A plain Jane is what I consider myself. That suits me fine.
‘So, this could be your new humble abode. Nice, isn’t it?’
He’s right, actually. The room is nice. Spacious and cosy was how the advert described it. It’s in the eaves of the house and the ceiling bows from one side to another. It’s awash with natural light; yellow beams of sunshine blaze through a skylight and a dormer window with commanding views down the avenue and over the suburbs of North London. There’s a small ornate black fireplace with a metal plate to stop rubble from the chimney coming into the room. An oval-shaped free-standing mirror. The walls have been freshly decorated with white lining paper and the floorboards are newly painted white too. The furniture is sparse and functional: a double bed plainly clothed, a bedside cabinet, built-in wardrobe, desk and accompanying chair. But I like that. I don’t need much.
This room was made for me.
The only slight problem is it reeks of air freshener. A cloying, sweet alcohol scent manufactured in a factory somewhere. No matter. If the room becomes mine it will be easy to chase away. Still, it clings to the walls of my nose and tastes bitter on the back of my tongue.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 1