Neither of them says anything more so I turn to go.
But before I do, I say to Jack, ‘Did you fix the skylight?’ He shakes his head very slowly so I add, ‘I’d be grateful if you could do that as soon as possible.’
I look over at Martha with accusing eyes. ‘Yesterday you talked to me about trust. You said it was one of the reasons my room didn’t have a key. I trust you both.’ Not Jack though; I don’t trust him as far as I can kick him. However, I’m a realist. I need to destroy as much ill will as possible before I exit the room.
I walk out. I don’t hurry to show them they don’t scare me. I collect the bags and suitcase in the hall and take them back to my room.
As soon as I close the door I collapse back against it. The scene downstairs was the last thing I had expected on my second day in this house. But at least I had the measure of Jack now. A spoiled boy who hides behind Mummy’s skirt when he gets his fingers all sticky in a jam.
‘Did they try to kick you out too?’ I whisper to the man who left the farewell letter, as if he’s in the room.
I’d decided to call his last words a farewell letter. Suicide is such a harsh word. The ‘s’ and ‘c’ sounds fall from the tongue like the slices of a knife. His farewell still sits on the desk where I left it the night before. I feel terrible about leaving it in the open. Almost as if I’ve disrespected the last wishes of a man who left this earth in one of the worst ways possible – by his own hand.
I fold it with care and place it gently under my pillow near my lilac scarf.
I also carefully re-read the lease. Read it again. Check my belongings to make sure I have nothing that’s in breach of it, like a visitor hiding in my purse. They’ve got free access to my room when I’m not in it and I’m already expecting Jack to come back and start digging around in an effort to find something else he can use to try and turf me out. But I’m not going to give him the chance. I should really have asked someone to check the lease first before I signed it but it’s too late for that now. Although given the way they both blanched when I mentioned the courts, perhaps they won’t try that route.
I look around the room to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
The damp near the skylight is getting worse. There’s now a patch stretching down the bowed ceiling towards one of the walls. I decide I’m going to keep on at him about that until he fixes it. I’ve got no intention of yielding any ground, although I know he almost certainly won’t mend it. He’s probably hoping that if the room becomes a health hazard that will be enough to drive me out when the cold weather comes.
Wrong again.
I hear whining creaks on the staircase leading up to the landing outside. They stop. Then the whining starts again, followed by soft footsteps on the landing itself. I’m not in the mood for round two with Jack’s predatory intimidation. This time I will scream the house down.
I grab the chair by the desk and jam it under the door handle. I take out the pepper spray and personal alarm I purchased at lunchtime today. My heart is thumping with such an intensity I’m sure I can hear it. My hand squeezes tight on the spray. There’s a long pause before there’s a gentle knock on the door.
‘What do you want?’ I say between gritted teeth.
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you in private?’
But it’s not Jack. It’s Martha.
Chapter 6
Ipull the chair away and unbolt the lock. Hesitantly, I open the door slightly and discover my visitor is alone. There seems to be no reason not to let her in. It’s her house after all. Once inside, Martha notices the pepper spray and alarm in my hands.
She laughs grimly and says, ‘There’s no need for that, Lisa. You’re worried about Jack? Don’t be, he’s harmless. All smoke and no fire.’
I’m slightly embarrassed, although still on my guard, but put the spray and alarm on the mantelpiece. Martha’s barefoot, the illusion of her height from her heels gone. She’s still dressed to impress for a posh evening out in a pricey black number. Perhaps she always is. I don’t know what perfume she’s wearing, but it’s a hint of delicate-sweet, not overpowering.
It’s near twilight; the only natural light in the room is from the dormer window and skylight. It’s quite gloomy. Perhaps because of that, I can see how bewitching she must have been as a young woman. Her cheekbones and forehead make a fine setting for those dazzling green eyes. Martha must have been quite a heartbreaker in her heyday, a real scene-stealer, which only makes me wonder how she ended up with the husband she did.
Martha must be nervous because she wanders around the room inspecting things like a prison warder while I look on. She pauses by the desk as if expecting to find something. She looks up at me, still slightly shaky from the scene downstairs, but then she gives me an alluring smile.
‘Do you mind if we have a chat, Lisa? You know, woman to woman?’
‘Not at all.’ She can ‘chat’ to me as much as she likes, it isn’t going to change a thing; I’m not leaving this house. This room.
Martha sits down in the chair by the desk and crosses her shapely legs.
‘I don’t do this often…’ she warns in advance and gives me no time to respond before pulling out a packet of cigarettes.
I don’t let my surprise show. Martha plus cigarettes is not an equation I would have imagined. She appears too refined for something as dirty as a cigarette to be hanging out of her dainty mouth. Then I witness her smoking – she takes it to the level of performance art. Her red lips pout as she lights up. Smoke rolls and curls up around her so she’s poised with the natural glamour of a star of a noir film from Hollywood’s classic period. A star whose lover has just shot her husband and is worried the FBI will come looking for them. She doesn’t ask me if I mind her smoking or if I want one. I do mind.
But this is her house not mine.
‘Can you answer a question for me?’
‘Of course.’
Smoke obscures part of her face. ‘Why aren’t you just packing your bags and leaving? I would in your position.’
‘I’ve already told you. I’ve signed a lease and I intend to stick to it. It’s not easy finding a charming and cosy room like this. As for the business with the champagne and the…’
She cuts me short. ‘I know full well how the bubbly and glasses ended up here. Jack brought them up, didn’t he? Because he thought I was out for the evening. I’m not stupid.’
I’m surprised she admits this. ‘Then you know I’ve done nothing wrong. Even less reason for me to leave.’
‘I would have thought it was more of one. I wouldn’t want to live in a house where the landlord comes racing upstairs on my first night, armed with alcohol and a condom. Actually, forget the condom, he’s not that sensible.’
I’m stunned by her knowing knowledge of her husband. Why would she stay with a man like that? Doesn’t she feel humiliated?
‘I know my rights. I’m not going to be driven out.’
Martha gets up, goes to the window and throws her cigarette out. When she sits down again, she immediately lights up another. Her hands have a faint tremble now. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
I’m slack-jawed with shock. ‘Of… of course not.’
She stretches the fingers of her free hand. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He’s a great-looking boy. And to be honest, while I’ve got my faults, I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve strayed a time or two in my time. I’m not in a position to criticise anyone else for it.’
‘I. Did. Not. Sleep. With. Him.’
This woman-to-woman chat is too personal and very uncomfortable. I wonder where Martha is going with all this. She clearly doesn’t want to be here discussing infidelity. Her whole manner shows that. I bet Jack has sent her up here with a message of some kind but I can’t work out what it is. It can’t be to order me out. I’ve already made it clear that’s not happening.
Martha seems lost in thought. Then: ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-five.’
<
br /> She nods. ‘I’m forty-three.’ She pauses for a moment before adding, ‘All right, forty-eight.’ And the rest I’m dying to add; she’s definitely a woman somewhere in her fifties. ‘You know, it’s not easy being the wife of a much younger man like Jack. Having the world mistaking you for his mum or thinking your husband is some kind of gigolo. It’s not easy at all.’
I can’t help but cringe, remembering mistaking her for his mother.
‘I can imagine.’
She turns from wistful to hurt. ‘No, you can’t. You can’t even begin to imagine. You know, when I was your age, I had men following me around like dogs. All I had to do was throw a stick for them and they’d go racing after it, barking at the top of their voices. They carried my stick back to me between their teeth before sitting up on their hind legs with their tails wagging and their tongues hanging out. Now…’ Her voice crackles with bleakness. ‘Now, they’re laughing at me behind my back. You can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.’
I feel sorry for her – how can’t I? No wonder she’s injecting chemicals to recapture her youth.
The room is turning dark now. Martha is becoming a shadow.
‘Listen to me, Lisa. I’m not telling you to leave or asking you to leave; I’m begging you to.’ Her tone borders on frantic. ‘Pack your bags and go tonight. I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds downstairs in a bureau; you can have it and move to a hotel if you like. Jack’s a great guy, but sometimes he can be…’ Her gaze flicks up as if the words she needs are floating in the air. She makes eye contact with me again. ‘A bit stubborn if he doesn’t get his way. I don’t want either of you to feel awkward in my house.’
‘So is this your house not his?’ I jump in.
I don’t need to see the heat rising in her cheeks to know my question has got her blood up. She rises to her feet, her features a twist of strain and fury. ‘If you’re suggesting that he’s only with me for my home and money you’re…’
‘I’m sorry, Martha. That was uncalled for. I’m just grateful to have a corner of your amazing house.’
She remains on her feet looking unhappily at me. ‘We’ve been together for four years. Just me and Jack, alone in our house.’
And the man who was in this room before me, I want to add; I don’t.
‘It wasn’t easy letting another person move in. But his work’s been a bit up and down lately, and he doesn’t like taking money from me. He wants his independence. So, we agreed to get a lodger so he has another stream of money coming in.’ Her expression becomes hooded. ‘I’ll be truthful with you, I didn’t think through what it would be like living with a younger woman in the house with my much younger husband.’
God, she looks so vulnerable. Like I’m about to bash her whole world apart.
I quickly stand, but keep my distance. ‘Let me assure you that nothing will ever happen between me and your husband other than the professional relationship between a landlord and his tenant.’
Martha thinks for a moment. ‘It’s not just you, it’s Jack as well. His feelings have been hurt. I don’t want there to be a strange atmosphere between you.’ She waves her palms. ‘Maybe the best thing is still for you to go.’
‘Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere to live in one of the most popular cities in the world? I’ve got a professional job on great wages yet I still can’t afford a place of my own. If I leave tonight I’ll end up in a hostel, in a room crammed with other people. I can’t do that.’ I take a breath. ‘There’s a light at the end of the tunnel for all of us. If it doesn’t work out after six months, you don’t offer me another lease and I leave. Simple.’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do.’ Her tone has perked up. ‘I’ll have a word in Jack’s ear and smooth it all over. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’ The last part was said for her own benefit, accompanied by the balling of her hands. Why was the thought of speaking to her husband making her tighten her hands? Making her so tense?
Martha does that floating walk of hers towards the door. ‘Did you know that this was once a servant’s room? Can you imagine having to work all hours downstairs and then being worn out at night and having to climb all the way to the top of the house?’
I wanted to answer, ‘I know the feeling well; I have to trudge downstairs to the toilet and back again every time.’ I keep it to myself and force my lips to smile.
‘Martha, don’t worry, everything will work out fine.’
Chapter 7
Iwake up in the chilly dark as a sweating heap on the floor, my left leg twisted up on the bed. The knot of the scarf has tightened, the material digging painfully into my ankle. Tears of despair trickle down my face. I feel defeated; the dreams have started again.
Some people get migraines. They know when they’re coming and the only answer is to try and avoid trigger factors and take painkillers. When they kick in anyway, the only cure is to lie down in a quiet place and wait for them to pass. I don’t suffer from migraines; I suffer from cycles of bad dreams instead. Sometimes these cycles last a few days and sometimes a few weeks. After that they stop for a time, often for months or even years so I think that they’re all over for good.
Then they come back with a vengeance. I know when they’re coming and what the trigger factors are, but there are no prescription drugs to help, and I can’t lie down in a quiet place and wait for them to pass because lying down in a quiet place is when they attack.
The reason I’m frightened is because this house has got ‘trigger factor’ written all over it.
I’ve had these dreams for as long as I can remember. As a small child I would wake screaming for my very life and my parents would rush into my bedroom fearing I was being attacked. And I was being attacked, but only in the horror films that were rolling in my head. My parents would gather me close, Dad soothing me, Mum silently weeping. During these nightmare cycles, I suffered in the daytime too. That was partly because I was so tired, but also I wasn’t entirely sure whether what had happened in my childish imagination hadn’t actually happened in the real world. My parents and teachers became so alarmed at my state during these spells that they packed me off to see a child psychologist.
She tried to hide it, but it I saw her puzzlement at my stories of monsters armed with knives, axes, swords, daggers and gigantic needles chasing me round the house trying to kill me. And the pain, God the pain. And the other nightmares, the abstract ones that make no sense at all, filled with changing shapes and colours, closing in on me, carrying death on their coat-tails.
The only way she could find meaning in it was to diagnose me as a disturbed, high-functioning misfit who was probably being bullied. Naturally, she gave my parents and teachers a slightly sanitised version.
My new home is the perfect environment for a cycle of nightmares. By day it’s an imposing Victorian pile, but at night it becomes a slightly creepy Gothic mansion you could imagine a vampire taking a nap in. By day it’s a quiet place where you can rest or get some work done. At night, there’s every kind of noise going on. The woodwork lengthens and shortens, becomes wet and then dries out. That creates creaking that sounds like someone breathing in and out as if the house was alive.
Suicide note.
Jack coming onto me.
Jack and Martha trying to kick me out.
A hostile neighbour.
Martha was right. I should pack and get out.
No. That isn’t an option.
I haul myself back into bed again. Loosen the bond on my leg. Reach for my phone and earphones. Press play. Close my eyes. Sink into Amy Winehouse’s ‘Wake Up Alone’. It’s a profoundly sad song but the melody lulls me, soothes me, cleanses away the terror.
My body starts to unwind, my breathing soft and regular. I’m drifting…
But in the darkness, I sense they’re waiting for me. Those outsized figures, twice my size, outlined in a recognisably human shape. They’re peering in at me through the dormer window and down through the skylight. Hiding behind the c
losed door of the room. But I know they’re there. I see their ghoulish, murdering faces. Knives and needles in both hands. They’re waiting. Waiting for me to fall properly asleep so they can steal their way in and deal out death while I twist, turn, bleed and scream for my mum.
With a startled flick of my head I wrest myself from this half-sleep. The earphones are still in my ear. Still woozy, I press play. Amy begins to caress me again. My body drops into the dead weight of relaxation. I sense I will sleep this time.
The murdering figures have gone. But I know they’re patient. They’ll be back on another night and that night will be soon.
I freeze as the first-floor landing creaks beneath my slippers the next morning. Damn! The last thing I want is to wake up Martha and Jack. Not that I’m scared of them. I simply could do without the aggro of a confrontation with the husband. Although I’m praying that Martha was able to reason with him and he’ll stop bothering me or holding it against me. I wait a moment. No sounds coming from any of the rooms nearby.
I’m wrung out as I travel on tiptoes down the stairs. I don’t know how many hours of sleep I managed to get but it isn’t enough. I feel like a zombie. As soon as I reach ground level the smell of bacon hits me. Someone has been up and about. I suspect it’s bad boy Jack; I don’t associate Martha with bacon, but something a bit more upmarket like smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. I think about peeping in to check the coast is clear… screw it; I am paying good money to live here and am not prepared to creep about like an unwanted ghost. As I walk off, I’m sure I hear a door closing upstairs. No doubt Martha starting her day. Thankfully there’s no sign of Jack in the kitchen. I visit the loo and then take a long much-needed shower. Feeling slightly more refreshed, I make a cuppa, some toast and head back out of the kitchen.
I don’t go back upstairs; instead I walk into the long lounge with its eggshell-blue walls, marble fireplace and large mirror that makes the room appear twice as big. There’s an impressive black piano at the other end. I repeat the same exercise I tried on my first evening here. Close my eyes and concentrate, trying to see if the house has anything to say to me. Then I open my eyes and soak in every feature of the room. But there’s nothing.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 5