The way my gaze jerks away from him tells him all he needs to know.
‘Do you remember anything else that would give you a reason to think that their story is wrong?’
I whisper, ‘No. I just know it is.’
Doctor Wilson places his pen very carefully on his notebook. I steel myself for the mind-can-play-tricks-on-us pitying lecture.
But he surprises me with, ‘Have you discussed this with your parents?’
I instinctively roll my eyes in desperation. I hate eye rolls. Such a dumb expression. ‘How can I? I’d be calling them liars to their faces. I’m not going to do that. They pride themselves on telling the truth even when it’s not in their interest to do so. Honesty is the best policy and all that.’
‘So why would they change the pattern of a lifetime of behaviour with you, the daughter they love?’
I can’t answer that, so don’t.
‘And the farm in Sussex. Do you know where that is? Could the people your family were visiting confirm your parents’ story?’
The strain of this conversation presses on me with the mighty weight of a boulder. I’ve accused my parents of lying when they never lie. And I’m feeling deep in my bones what’s happened at Jack and Martha’s. It’s all getting too much.
Tears are in my response. ‘I remember a farm in Sussex but the people there are dead now. Apparently.’
He sees my distress. ‘Would you like a break, Lisa?’
‘I don’t know.’ I wipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. ‘How long have we got left?’
‘I haven’t got a clock on. We can take all the time you need. Go for a walk in the garden if you like.’
I’m glad for an escape to the garden. I can breathe there. Doctor Wilson is obviously a rose lover because I smell them before I get out of the door. Row after row of neatly trimmed bushes with firm crowns that spray scent like mist from a perfume bottle. They stand on a carefully mown green lawn. I gather myself together. The flowers are all fresh yellows and pure whites like cream. Colours that calm me. By the fence is a fountain with clear running water gliding from some stone classical figures. There’s a bench next to it, which I sit on. Collapse on, more like.
I know I’ve passed through some veil of fire by telling Doctor Wilson that I don’t believe my parents’ story about my fifth birthday. I’ve never told anyone that before. I’ve always been scared of the consequences, of what might happen if I spoke out. Sometimes, I’ve believed their version myself; how else do I explain the scars on my body? Now I’ve said it out loud I feel liberated even though it doesn’t help very much. I want to know what actually happened. Then I’ll be free. And now I’ve come this far, I’m not going to stop trying to find out. There’s no going back now.
When I get back to the doctor’s consulting room, I don’t retake my place on the couch but sit down in the chair that he offered me the previous Saturday. He seems surprised but not uncomfortable.
‘Doctor Wilson, can I ask you something?’
I think he’s probably been expecting this question. ‘Of course.’
‘This accident when I was five, you knew my parents then. Do you remember this accident I had? Do you remember them talking about it at the time?’
I search the doctor’s face. No reaction again. I feel crushed this time.
‘I don’t. Let me explain why I probably wouldn’t. I knew your father at medical school and we’ve stayed in touch since but we were never really close friends, more colleagues. I’ve met him over the years at conferences and professional gatherings but we don’t really socialise together except very occasionally. There have been long periods during our somewhat distant relationship when I didn’t see him at all and your accident may well have fallen during one of those periods. Also, you know what families like ours are like; they’re very private and they don’t like a fuss. That’s the English way.’
‘But you still keep in touch with my dad now? I’m sure he’s checking up with you to make sure I’m coming to see you and to find out how it’s going.’
‘Yes, that’s partially correct. We speak, but it would be a breach of your confidentiality if I told him anything about our sessions including whether you are seeing me or not.’
Even though I know he’s professional to the core, I still ask. ‘Is it possible then that the next time you speak to him you could make some discreet enquiries about this apparent accident and see what he says?’
The doctor is horrified. ‘No, it’s not, Lisa; I’m a psychiatrist not a private detective. That’s out of the question; it would be a gross abuse of my position. If you have any issues with your parents’ version of what happened, I urge you to speak to them.’ He hesitates slightly before adding, ‘Although I will say one thing that might help you. You suspect your parents’ version of what happened isn’t true. However, one part of it is very likely to be true. They say that this accident happened on your fifth birthday?’
‘Yes.’
‘In my experience, when people invent stories they tend to avoid specifics because they can be checked. If they say that this incident happened on your fifth birthday, they’re unlikely to have invented that. It would more likely be a random date.’
That had never crossed my mind before. But I’m not done yet. ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful. Can I ask you something else?’
He looks a lot less eager to help this time. ‘If you wish.’
‘Supposing I told you that my so-called suicide attempt was actually a real one? That if I don’t get any answers to what happened on my fifth birthday, I’m never going to get any peace and, consequently, sooner or later, I’ll be walking off Beachy Head with a bottle of pills in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other? Would you speak to them then?’
Even to my ears this sounds nasty. But then emotional blackmail always is.
‘Are you saying that it was a real attempt to end your life?’ He turns my words back to his agenda. Probably one of the first strategies he learned in shrink school.
But I’m clever too. ‘You know exactly what I’m saying.’
He closes his notebook. ‘I’ve already explained my position on this, Lisa. If you have any questions to ask they need to be addressed to the people who can answer them. And that’s your parents, not me.’
As far as I’m concerned, we’re done for the day. We say our goodbyes at the door. He tries to hide it, but I see the expression flame and then die on his face. He doesn’t want me to come back.
Chapter 16
‘How do I look?’ Martha asks me as I sit in the dining room, following it through with a giddy, girly whirl. Her evening dress is sexy indigo-blue, off the shoulder with slits on both sides to showcase her well-toned legs. She is passionate about going to the gym at least twice a week and it shows.
Since the awful business of the cat next door’s death, I’ve been keeping to my own space, primarily to stay out of Jack’s way, and having my meals in the dining room when I know they won’t be there, but this evening is different. Martha and Jack are going out. One of Martha’s friends is hosting a lavish birthday party. I need to be present downstairs to make sure they leave.
‘You look gorgeous.’
She leans forward and whispers, ‘Jack says I’m putting too much in the window.’ Her leg peeps seductively through the slit.
‘Never you mind what he says, you have the time of your life.’ Martha deserves that and more with the crap he’s putting her through.
Talk of the Devil. Jack shouts from near the front door: ‘Are you ready? We’ll be bloody late at this rate.’
His wife’s radiance dims. ‘Be just there, love.’ Then she reminds me: ‘Remember, don’t lock up or we won’t get in.’
‘Marthaaaaa,’ he screeches.
Martha says goodbye and leaves to join him. I stay put as I hear the engine of the van as it revs up and drives away. Give it two minutes. Take out my mobile. Text:
Ready.
A thumbs-up emoji pings
back.
Anxiously, I wait by the front door. What’s taking him so long? The nerves kick in. What if something goes wrong? What if… A silhouette dims the door outside. I open up quickly and yank Alex in.
‘Steady on, Lisa.’
‘What took you so long?’
He appears flustered and is back to looking suspiciously at weird, mad me. I get in there before he can.
‘You’re not going to bloody well back out?’
‘I know what I said, but this’ – he indicates the hallway and the house with his hands – ‘is… odd. Strange.’
For some unknown reason we’re huddled almost head to head and whispering.
I ignore his comment and turn to the stairs. ‘We need to go upstairs.’
‘This isn’t some suburban, swingers sex party?’ He sounds cheerful and hopeful now.
‘In your dreams.’
I can feel his gaze taking the house in. ‘If Patsy hadn’t told me about the couple who live here I’d say you’ve fallen on your feet. This is an incredible house.’
We reach my room. I open the door. I feel a strange sense of pride at his glow of appreciation as he looks round. The light in his eyes dies when it falls on the scarf on my bed. We’re both stuck in the memory of our last night together.
‘Lisa…’ he tentatively begins, but I’m not dealing with that tonight. Besides, there isn’t time for that.
I swipe up the scarf and bundle it under my pillow, smothering our past; for now, at least.
‘I want to show you something.’
My heart’s thumping as I move towards the wall. Alex wears a cagey expression; he’s worried about my state of mind. Thinks I’ve flipped. I don’t blame him. I might feel the same if someone took me to gaze at what appears to be a blank wall. On the tips of my toes I reach high, tuck my fingers into the wallpaper’s edge and pull. There’s the sucking strain of paper disengaging from brick. Slowly the paper pulls back from the wall and unravels down.
‘Bloody hell,’ a dazed Alex utters as he steps closer to the writing. ‘What is this?’
I can’t tell him it’s a dead man speaking to me, a house revealing its secrets, because he really will call me mad and not take it back this time.
So I go with a partial truth. ‘The rain leaked through the skylight and the wallpaper came down. And there it was.’ I give him my most innocent look.
‘Fascinating.’ He can’t take his gaze off the writing.
I stand next to him. Both of us are caught up in the writing on the wall.
‘Can you read it?’ I finally ask.
He doesn’t answer, instead points a finger and runs it in the air, following sentence after sentence, his mouth moving silently.
I don’t want to rush him, but… ‘Tell we what it says so far.’
He darts an irritated sideways glance my way. ‘Give me a…’
We both freeze at the noise of a vehicle coming closer to the house. I peep out of the window.
Bloody hell. It’s Jack.
Panic punches me in the gut. I start panting. What am I going to do?
‘Alex, you need to hide.’
‘What?’
I need to shock him into action. ‘That’s Jack. He’s back. Might come up. Remember what Patsy said he’s like. He killed her bloody cat.’
But Alex stands his ground. ‘I don’t see why you aren’t allowed any visitors. This isn’t a prison. If you give me the tenancy agreement I’m sure I can—’
The front door slams downstairs.
I plead with him. ‘Alex, please hide under the bed.’
He takes me very gently by the arms. ‘This is not a farce, Lisa. This is your room. You pay good money to live in it. If Jack comes up here don’t open the door. Simple. You have a bolt and a chain to keep him—’
Urgently I place the pad of my finger on his lips. There’s footsteps on the landing below. Our ragged breathing is the only sound in the room.
The wooden boards under the carpet downstairs moan with the tread of feet. The hinges of a door squeak below.
Silence.
Me and Alex stare into each other’s eyes. His shoulders tremble faintly so I know his heart is beating as fast as mine. His palms are warm with sweat as they tighten around my arms.
The hinges protest again. The door closes.
We wait. And wait.
There’s movement again downstairs but the footsteps are closer this time, as if they’re moving towards the flight of stairs that lead to my room.
Please, make him go away. Make him go away.
Silence. But this one’s different; I imagine Jack breathing as he stands at the foot of the stairs.
I let out a huge, drawn breath of air as the footsteps retreat. Go downstairs. The front door slams. Me and Alex continue to stare at each other. I should go to the window… but I can’t let go of the spell I’m under. There’s always been an intensity between us. I can’t name it; that something special, I suppose.
If it was so special, why did you break up? the cynical part of my mind reminds me.
I pull myself free and go to the window just as Jack’s van heads out again. I stay put, not ready to face my one-time lover just yet.
‘Lisa,’ he softly calls.
I spin around, all business. ‘You were about to read what’s on the wall.’
He looks hurts… no, wounded, like his favourite computer game has been taken from him. I sternly remind myself he was the one who dumped me, not the other way round.
We give the wall our full attention.
Alex speaks. ‘I think this is kind of like a diary of events. It begins again with a line from Etienne Solanov: “When you’re not to blame but the blame is yours, eternal sleep will soothe your soul”.’
I’m spellbound again, this time by his voice, as he continues…
Chapter 17
Before
It was the worst possible day to be out on Hampstead Heath. It was spring, the sun was shining and there was a gentle breeze. Flowers were blossoming, leaves were budding and everything around them was a brilliant green. It seemed as if half the population of London was out on the Heath and they’d all brought children with them. Those children were all running around shouting and squealing, being happy and cheerful. John’s own kids seemed bursting with life, full of joy as if they were a part of the nature around them. Even his oldest, the boy, didn’t look as serious as usual that day. John’s own father had decided his grandson was going to be a scholar so he called him ‘the Russian’. The two younger girls were the ‘English ones’ because they laughed and played all the time. All three of them were being adorable that day.
His wife didn’t always match her two daughters’ gift for enjoying life but even she seemed to have caught the mood. While sitting on the blanket that was laid on the grass, she rubbed her bare legs, shielded her eyes from the sunlight and said, ‘It’s enough just to be alive on a day like today, isn’t it, John?’ And he’d nodded without saying a word.
It was all wrong.
It should have been winter. The Heath should have been empty of people. A gale should have been howling and blasting the grass; sleet should have been slashing its way across the skin. The view over London should have been blanked out by dark mists. Or it should have been summer. One of those summer days when the heat is about to break and heavy clouds rise into the sky, choking the sun with darkness, followed by rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning. Children should be scared and running for cover, not running around playing with balls. It was ridiculous.
It was totally wrong.
The two girls decided they wanted to fly the kite they’d brought with them. John tried to smile. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, ladies, I forgot to bring it.’
They thought he was joking. The oldest reminded him. ‘It’s under your arm!’
And so it was. He’d taken it out of the car and then forgotten he was holding it. The youngest girl tried to unroll the string but she couldn’t. So the older girl snatched
the kite and she tried too, before a squabble broke out between her and her brother, who thought he should be in charge, because he was the oldest and he was the boy and he should be flying the kite. At the same time, the little girl said no, she was there first, it should be her. John was forced to break the fight up and launch the kite himself, and to remind his three children that they could all have a go and to play fair with each other.
‘Alright, Mr Kite Flyer, that’s enough. Come and sit down.’
He turned to see his wife putting out the picnic on the blanket. But he didn’t want to sit down. Even sitting down next to his wife felt like a betrayal, a sign that everything was going to be alright. And everything wasn’t going to be alright. And it wasn’t going to be alright for these children either. Maybe if they were a bit younger or a bit older, they would be, but not now. He’d floated that idea to himself over the past few months. They were too young to understand. But that wasn’t going to fly any more than the kite in the hands of that little girl over there.
‘Are you coming to sit down then?’ Her voice was more insistent this time. So he sat down; one more betrayal to add to all the others. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, of course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be alright?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ She looked beautiful but fragile because that’s what she was. Beautiful but fragile.
Even when he’d first started dating her, her best friend had warned him: ‘You’ll find your new girlfriend can be out on the window ledge a little sometimes; you know, slightly overemotional, a bit fragile. Lovely girl, of course.’
It sounded like green-eyed jealousy at the time. He was the handsome eligible bachelor with the exotic Russian roots and she was the girl every guy in college wanted to be with. In fact, it probably was jealousy with her friend. But it was true all the same.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 11