I’ve had enough of this. I stomp over to him and slap the signed lease in his face, so he has no alternative but to take it.
Ball him out, that’s what I should do, but I just want him gone. He creeps out of the door and along the landing and down the stairs.
He calls Martha’s name, followed by ‘I thought you were out for the evening?’
I don’t hear her response.
I shove the bolt and ram the desk chair under the handle so Jack can’t make a return visit. I sag on the bed. That was frightening, really frightening. What scares me the most is not Jack but the isolation of being in another person’s home. You take them at face value, on trust as Martha had put it. The reality is I don’t know these people who I’ve rented a room from at all.
I remember the letter I’d found which I’d stashed under the mattress. I retrieve the envelope and sit at the desk. It’s slightly curled at one edge so I guess it’s been hanging around in the bedside cabinet for a while, although it’s not discoloured with age. I take out the letter. I won’t be shocked this time because I know what it is. I read:
To whom it may concern,
This is one of the last things I leave in this room. I’m not going to give my name because it’s not important and it may mean dragging the innocent into the decision that I have made. Enough innocent people have been hurt already. I’d respectfully ask the authorities not to inquire any further into my identity or background. It doesn’t matter. I’m just a man who’s made mistakes and has now decided to pay for them in the only way that seems appropriate, that is to say with his own life.
There’s no need to ask too many questions. They can’t help you or me. I’m gone now. Leave me to rest.
As I am familiar with the fate of pauper suicides, I understand I won’t be getting a funeral in Westminster Abbey. However, I would like to request that a minister of the Church of England is invited to say a few words over me before I’m sent off to whatever rest I’m going to.
I would
The letter stops abruptly.
It’s a suicide letter. A farewell to a life. At the bottom are a few lines written in pencil. They seem to be written in a foreign alphabet but as languages aren’t my thing, I can’t figure out what it says.
Did someone take their own life in this room? Not someone, I correct myself, but a man who refuses to leave his name. Is that why there was the subtle reek of cheap air freshener during my viewing to mask the rotten odour of a recent death? But Jack was clear; there’d been no tenants in the room before me.
I scan the top of the letter again – there it is in black and white: ‘This is one of the last things I leave in this room.’ This room. Unless Martha and Jack purchased the cabinet and the letter was already stuffed down the back. I shake my head; the cabinet looks like a well-loved piece of furniture which has been here for some time, and the letter doesn’t appear to be that old.
Why would Jack lie about there being another tenant before I came?
Adulterer? Liar? There was a lot stacking up against Jack here.
Did no one care for this unnamed man? I run my fingertips across the writing because I care. A lump of hurt knots in my throat. I know what it’s like to be teetering on the edge. In this moment a strong bond develops between me and this faceless, nameless man. I can’t stuff him in the back of the drawer again as if he doesn’t exist. I correct myself – didn’t exist. That would be cruel.
‘There’s no need to ask too many questions. They can’t help you or me. I’m gone now. Leave me to rest.’
I can’t respect his wishes. Can’t stop the questions from coming. Who are the innocents he talks about? How did he hurt them? What were the mistakes that he made? My mind starts racing and racing. Slow down. Slow down. Slow bloody down. I find my pills and take one. Two would be too much. I’m bone-weary, need to sleep.
With a heavy heart I fold the letter and leave it on the desk. I want to find out so much more about this man who took his own life.
I look at the bed and sigh – it’s time for me to face my own truths. Own demons. We all have them.
After I put my pyjamas on – all my nightclothes are long-sleeved, long-legged – I take out my mobile and headphones. One therapist had advised me that one of the best ways to get to sleep is to exhaust the body. Get myself so physically tired that when I lie down the weariness lures me into a world of slumber. The therapist had given me a vigorous bedtime exercise routine, which I’d binned at the first opportunity. I don’t like that type of exercise; it’s so artificial and boring. Instead, I had developed my own way of doing things.
I put the earphones on and push play on the music library on my phone. The tunes of the ultimate North London girl, Amy Winehouse, is my music of choice. ‘You Know I’m No Good’ blasts into my life. The first strike of the drum booms inside my body. I start dancing like a woman possessed, rapidly moving from one side of the room to the other. Her throaty, sexy voice propels me along. I’m sweating, a solitary rhythm beating in my head. I will sleep, I will sleep. I will sleep. By the time Amy stops I’m breathing hard, panting. I don’t want to catch my breath; I need to use it to sleep as fast as possible.
With the beat of the song still strumming in me, I take out my other night-time friend – my scarf. It’s made of the softest silk, plain lilac except for the black thread of patterns at the top. It was a present from mother on my fifteenth. For most people birthdays are special, their day, but I’ve always found them difficult. They’re harder still for my poor parents, faced with a stubborn girl who half-heartedly celebrated. Funny, they had given me such great gifts over the years, but it’s this scarf that stands out. Maybe it’s because it’s a bit like me: not flashy, happy to do its job without standing out.
I sit in the middle of my new bed. Stretch out my legs. I tie the scarf around the right corner of the bed and then double tie it around my ankle. I lie down.
I will sleep.
To whom it may concern.
My leg twitches against its bond. I dare to close my eyes.
Chapter 5
Iwake up. My heart rate picks up as I frown at the ceiling, at the white walls around me. Squint at the morning light streaming through the skylight. Where am I? What is this place? Am I back in hospital? I’m panicked, my gaze roaming as I try to figure it out. Then I remember. I am in the room. My new home in Martha and Jack’s house. I always feel disorientated that first morning waking up somewhere new – a hotel room, a plane, even my old room at Mum and Dad’s.
My eyes slide down the bed to my leg. A huge sigh of relief punches out of my mouth. I’m still securely tied. I check the clock on my phone, sitting on the bedside table. It’s 7:10am. Time to get up and face the world of work. I untie myself, gently fold my scarf and tuck it under the pillow. The radiator gurgles, which I’m assuming means that the heating is coming on. Thank goodness for that because the room is quite chilly despite it being summer.
Note to self: ask Martha or Jack if they can set the boiler to come on earlier. No, not Jack, not after the stunt he pulled yesterday.
As soon as I stand, the heading-south-fast sensation of needing the loo hits me quickly. I squeeze my muscles down below as I shove my feet into my closed fake-fur cuffed slippers in a rush and find my shin-length cardigan that doubles as my dressing gown. I open the door and quickly make my way to the next landing where the bathroom is. Jack had neglected to give me a tour of the bathroom but I recall it was the only door that was open on the landing below.
I’m desperate to go when I enter. It’s very stylish with its black and white chequered floor tiles, art deco style mirror – a sister to the one in the hallway – tan-coloured cabinet with two fluffy towels neatly folded on the top. I can’t see the bath because the shower curtain is drawn across it. Either Martha or Jack have been in here recently because steam clings and slithers down the walls.
At the toilet I reach under my cardigan, start to pull my pyjama bottoms down… and the shower curtain swish
es back. With a cry of alarm, my jim-jam bottoms drop to my knees as I fall sideways heavily into the wall.
My landlord and lady peer at me from inside the filled bath. Martha’s delicate hand holds the shower curtain, hiding their bodies so all I see is their heads, his slightly above hers. They look like Punch and Judy ready to begin their puppet show.
‘I’m… I’m sorry… really sorry,’ I choke out.
My face heats with embarrassment. I should’ve knocked on the door to check that no one was inside. Idiot!
Poor Martha looks mortified, while Jack… He gives me a cold, half-scared stare. I know what he’s pissing himself about – me confessing to his wife about what he did last night. I suspect he knows I’m not going to say a word; I need the room too much.
His wife turns to him. ‘Darling, didn’t you tell Lisa about the bathroom arrangements?’
‘I didn’t think I needed to because it’s all in the lease.’
Second note to self: hit head against wall for being so stupid and not reading the lease.
‘I’m really sorry…’ I start apologising again, totally understanding what Elton John meant about sorry being the hardest word.
Martha’s hand waves my words away. ‘It’s us who should be begging your pardon. I’m sure you can understand that we want our own space in such delicate areas.’
Delicate areas reminds me that Martha and Jack are no doubt in their birthday suits in the bath, and my jim-jam bottoms are still down. Panic sets in as my gaze slams down. I draw in a deep breath of relief; my long cardigan has hidden my flesh. My trembling hand yanks my bottoms back to my waist in what feels like one second flat. Mumbling more ‘sorries’, I can’t get out of there quickly enough.
Despite the pressure on my bladder, I head back upstairs to my room. Once inside I slump onto the bed. My face still burns with bonfire intensity. That must rank in the Top Ten Embarrassing Moments of My Life. And fancy not reading the lease before signing?
‘Never put your name to anything unless you’ve gone over it with a fine-toothed comb and then a brush,’ is the very wise advice that Dad gave me when I got my first job.
I ease off giving myself a hard time. The only reason I had signed it without reading was to get that prick Jack out of my room.
I find the lease folded in the bedside drawer and take it downstairs with me to find a more private toilet and shower room.
At the sight of the loo my spirits plummet. It’s like a modern-day outhouse with an old-fashioned toilet: high tank, flush chain. The sink beside it is cracked. There’s a small, frosted window that faces the forbidden garden. I suspect it was a proper outdoor toilet at one time that had been extended later on as an attachment to the house.
The shower room that’s opposite is a bit of a step up with its contemporary fixtures, but its crammed, goose-pimple freezing, and there’s the slight tang of mildew in the air.
I could complain… but heavily decide against it. I try to see the positives; at least I have a loo and shower room all to myself.
I sit on the toilet and go over the lease carefully. Come to the section I should’ve paid more attention to:
Licensee’s obligations.
Most of it is bog-standard stuff except for:
Use of the toilet and shower room on the ground floor.
No food permitted inside the room. No alcohol.
The only visitors permitted in the room are the licensee’s parents with prior notice to the licensor. NO ONE ELSE is permitted to visit the licensee in the house.
No visitors. Where was I living – in a Victorian boarding house for impressionable young girls?
I am starting to realise that the reality of living in someone else’s home means you have to adjust your expectations. I lean back on to the cold pipe behind me, which makes loud, gulping noises. There’s no point jumping out of my pram about it. I’d signed the agreement. No one had forced me. I resign myself:
Someone else’s home.
Someone else’s rules.
‘Lisa.’ Martha calls my name as soon as I enter the house later that day.
For a moment I get confused and think it’s Mum calling me. I give my head a tiny shake to clear my mind. I can’t hold back an irritated huff. I don’t want to play the dutiful tenant. I’m exhausted from work. My trouser suit is heavy, as if there’s another human wearing it too. All I want to do is crash in my room. And think about the suicide note. I can’t get it out of my head. Can’t stop thinking about its faceless author.
Then I notice something strange in the hallway. I stare in mouth-dropping disbelief. It’s my suitcase and some shopping bags crammed with my belongings. I don’t… don’t understand. What’s happening?
My trousers flick back from my legs, displaying the tops of my feet as I stride through to the dining room to find Jack and Martha sitting at the wooden table. They stare at me like two concerned parents who’ve discovered something illicit in their teenager’s bedroom. Now they’re getting ready for the awkward parental advisory explicit content chat.
They both get up when I come in. Martha seems tired, the skin across her face more stretched than ever, her cheeks a strange colour that the plastered blusher can’t disguise. Jack stands slightly behind her. His wife appears to cower in his presence.
Neither says anything, so I ask, ‘Is there a problem?’
There obviously is. My packed bags suggest they’re going to try and throw me out. But it’s not happening; I’m totally going to make sure of that. I feel like I’m stuck in an alternative universe. Yesterday was all sweetness and light between us, well except for… That’s when I notice the bottle of champagne Jack had brought up to my room – yes, my room – the night before for his ‘party’ sitting on the dining room table. The two glasses, still half filled with stale fizz, are next to it. I tighten my lips.
Martha’s voice is thready. ‘OK, Lisa, I’m going to keep this brief because I don’t want any upset and I don’t see the need for it.’ She looks at Jack for support but the only thing he can offer is his innocent expression. ‘Jack and I have been talking and we feel that it would be best for all concerned if you found somewhere else to live. We’ll refund your deposit and rent; that’s not a problem. But we’d like you to leave. Today.’
I go straight on the attack. ‘Why?’
The anger inside me begins to boil. These two have had the audacity to put their hands on my belongings when I wasn’t here. That’s not on, but I keep that to myself. Turn down the anger to a simmer.
Martha sounds hesitant, almost as if she’s been given lines to read out but hasn’t learned them properly. She looks with sorrow at the evidence on the table.
‘While Jack was trying to repair the skylight in your room today, he discovered these on your desk. We’ve made it very clear in the lease that both alcohol… and visitors, unless they are your parents… aren’t allowed. This is a clear breach of the agreement you signed. I’m afraid we can’t allow you to stay. So, if you’d be kind enough…’
I suspect that Martha knows full well how the champers ended up in my room and who my visitor was. I’m tempted to lay the naked truth before her but she looks so forlorn that I feel sorry for her and decide I can’t. Anyway, I don’t want to burn any bridges unless I have to.
I catch Jack’s nervy gaze. He sharply looks away.
‘The bottle was a gift from a colleague at work when I said I was moving. I brought the two glasses with me and filled one up while I was sorting my things out. It got lost in the chaos when I unpacked so I filled a second. I hadn’t read the lease at that stage, never mind signed one. So, as you can see, this is all a misunderstanding.’
That would be plausible if they’re acting in good faith. But it’s clear they’re not. Or rather Jack isn’t.
Martha looks at her husband again and then turns to me. They’ve clearly decided that she’s going to be doing all the talking.
‘That may be the case, but it’s still a breach of your lease. And anyw
ay, we just don’t think this is going to work out. It’s nothing personal. You’re a very nice girl.’ She hunts for an explanation. ‘We just feel you’re a round peg in a square hole.’
I’m staying; I’m in no doubt about that. But I’m curious to know what’s really behind this. I’m sure there are some dumb girls who are happy enough to jump into the sack with Jack, but I can’t believe he normally responds in such a vindictive way when he’s knocked back. It’s a numbers game for guys like him. You win some, you lose some. Then I remember the look on his face when I asked him to leave my room. I think about what might have happened if Martha hadn’t come home when she did. Perhaps I’ve given him too much benefit of the doubt.
‘Listen, Martha, I don’t care about pegs and holes. All I know is that I’ve signed a lease for six months. I’m going to honour it and so are you. And I’m going to warn you now that I work in an industry with lots of very smart lawyers and my ex-boyfriend is one too.’ Why am I dragging Alex into this? ‘If you decide to break the agreement we’ve signed, I’ll speak to them and I’ll see you in court.’
At the word ‘court’ they both shudder slightly. Martha seems to be nearly in tears. ‘There’s no need for threats, Lisa. Why can’t you see that this just isn’t going to work? There are lots of rooms in London. Why don’t you go and find one somewhere else?’
I’m firm. ‘Because I’ve found this one. I’ve paid a deposit and the rent and I’m staying. Now, is there anything else?’
Jack’s not looking innocent anymore. In fact, he’s staring at me with something approaching fury. He’s obviously not used to women fighting back. Perhaps that’s what living with an older woman like Martha does for him. Gives him the illusion he’s the king of the world.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 4