Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Remember the scars you saw on my body?’

  He’s one of the only people I know who doesn’t look away with pity or disgust when my scars come up. Even when we got it on for the first time in bed, he didn’t turn his face away. Didn’t ask me if they would fade with time. Didn’t ask about corrective surgery. Didn’t ask.

  He tells me, ‘I never had a problem with the scars.’ He sounds hurt.

  ‘I know that.’

  The scars weren’t what had pushed him to dump me.

  ‘Do you believe me about any of this?’ I plead.

  ‘I believe that you’re having these dreams for sure, but the rest…’ He spreads his hands wide. At least he’s not running for the hills.

  A little, humourless laugh comes out, leaving a burning sensation in my chest. ‘I know it sounds crazy.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ He becomes very animated, moving his hands, lifting his shoulders, gaze flickering around. ‘It’s just our minds can play so many tricks on us. Years ago, I got really plastered and woke up thinking I’d asked my girlfriend to marry me. I saw the scene in my head, reel after reel, as it had happened. It was real. I was shitting myself – she was lovely, but be my wife? Thank you, no. Turns out I never asked her; it was all part of my drunken illusion.’

  ‘You with a wife?’ I tease.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘I know. Cart me off to the shrink now…’ The good humour drains out of him. ‘Lisa, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s OK. Stop treating me like I’m a delicate piece of crystal. My parents have been doing it all my life.’

  ‘Have you asked your parents about the past? The house?’

  ‘I have and they deny it.’ The seething anger is back. ‘I know they’re not telling me the truth.’

  ‘And why would they lie to you?’

  Now it’s my turn to become animated. ‘I’ve been all over that with my therapist.’ I don’t tell him I suspect that Doctor Wilson is holding out on me too. ‘The man who killed himself and the writing on the wall,’ I carry on. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. Call it a sixth sense, but he has got something to do with my past. What happened to me in that house.’

  When I discovered the farewell letter it was as if another puzzle piece from my past had slipped into place. That’s why I need to find out about the man who wrote it; the route to him is the pathway to my past.

  ‘And you want me to help you find out if there’s more writing on the wall and translate it if it’s there?’ Alex sums up correctly.

  I’m not going to beat about the bush with him. ‘Will you?’

  He leaves me hanging and eats another roll. The adrenaline is up, pumping a hot course through me. If he doesn’t lend a helping hand I don’t know what I will do.

  He licks the sauce from his fingers. Leans forward. ‘Here’s the deal. If the writing’s in your room I’ll help you. If it’s not, I want you to terminate your lease and leave that house.’

  Initially I’m outraged. Who does he think he is to order me about? Does he really think I can up and leave the house after finally finding it? I might as well cut my throat. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘Deal.’

  We shake hands on it.

  ‘When do you want me to come over?’

  ‘The landlords will be out tomorrow night, I think. Martha says they’re off to see Macbeth at the theatre. I’ll call you.’

  I’ve been hunting down a house with a unique mason’s mark on it for years and I’ve moved into it with the notion of trying to work out what really happened there twenty years ago. All on the basis that I remember a few screams and being driven away in a car afterwards. When I was five. It doesn’t just sound nuts. It is nuts.

  I’m not losing my mind, am I? Something really did happen to young me in that house. Didn’t it?

  I stare up at it. The house. The same way I did on my first visit here. Now my secret isn’t mine alone it appears different. Its stone walls are no longer a biscuit-coloured picture of welcoming warmth; they’re blackened by hostility, close-mouthed about the lives of the people – families – who lived here before. The ivy has switched from creeping to creepy, slithering and winding into position to strangle its host. The mason’s mark with the key inside holds my gaze. It’s the only part of the house that remains the same. It’s my lucky charm. The North Star in my memory that guided me here.

  When I open the door my one purpose is to get to my room as fast as possible because I don’t fancy another verbal brawl with Jack about my real home. Then again, what can he do? I haven’t broken any laws. I’d like to see him try to kick me out onto the street. Let him shout, yell, bully, threaten. I won’t be leaving. As much as I try to beef up my courage quota, there’s a seed of fear inside me that won’t stop growing. I’m in plain sight now, my real reason for being in this house known by two other people, and Jack has rumbled that I have my own home.

  Maybe that’s why instead of going straight up I’m drawn to the black and red rug in the heart of the house. As soon as I stand on it, calm seeps up through my damaged feet, fanning out through my body. The warm, welcoming sensation takes me away from all the worries. Through my nose and mouth I flood my lungs with fresh air. I feel rebalanced, resettled, retuned.

  Upstairs, I shut my door and use the chain. I don’t switch on the light. Let my gaze dart around, searching for any more fun and games from Jack.

  Everything’s in order.

  I should eat, but I’m not hungry. I move over to the wall, where the lining paper once again covers the writing, and place my palm against it. That’s what I’d wanted to do when I found the writing: trace my fingertip over every letter, hoping they would communicate with me about the past. I turn to the other walls, almost tempted to take down each piece of wallpaper now. Peel back more secrets. I decide against it. I’ll wait for Alex. I have a strong sense of dread about doing it on my own. Where this feeling comes from, I don’t know.

  I get ready for bed. Run the softness of my scarf through my fingers before binding my leg to the bed. I’m too weary to dance tonight but still need the rhythm of music to change the beat of my body into one ready to sleep.

  I lie down. Put my earphones in place. Press play.

  Amy’s ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’ soothes me.

  I close my eyes and hope.

  Chapter 21

  The following evening, when I get in from work, the house is still. No sounds to indicate anyone else is here. None of that subtle energy people give off that tells you they’re around even when you can’t see them. Good. Martha and Jack are already out. I can’t hold back the satisfied half-smile.

  I head to my room where I text Alex. Twenty minutes later his text pings:

  At the front door.

  I race down the stairs and pull him in. Worry lines crease his forehead and his eyes, and his hair has an edgy pattern that suggests fingers have been dragged through it. He’s not happy to be here. Guilt gnaws away at me. I ruthlessly cut it out. I need Alex to help me find the truth.

  He’s decked out in a formal black suit and tie. He sees my appraisal. ‘I’m expected at a work party organised by a super-important client. I’ve said I’ll be late, but I can’t be too late. So I haven’t got much time.’

  I can’t help suspecting he wants to get away from me as soon as, that he’s doing this out of misguided loyalty to his former girlfriend. You know, Sir Walter Raleigh laying his cloak down for Queen Bess. As we climb the stairs, I remember how things went from great to disastrous with us.

  It was one of those Saturday nights when the tube was heaving and there were so many people spilling out onto the streets of London, I wondered how on earth there was enough space for us to all live in this awesome city. I was surprised at the numbers because it was so cold. The type of weather that chains and locks around your bones. Alex had managed to snag much sought-after tickets to the latest must-see, five-star musical in town. Despite the performance being spectacular, getting to my feet for
the thunderous standing ovation wasn’t really my thing. I wanted to remain hidden in my seat. Alex was having none of it – he’d hauled me up, tugged his arm round my waist and pulled me into the heat of his side. His joy was so infectious I couldn’t help grinning like there was no tomorrow and clapping along. After that we’d hit a bar and knocked back too many margaritas. Unsteady on our feet, we’d weaved our way to his place. I couldn’t believe that this gorgeous guy who loved cracking jokes, who wasn’t interested in digging into my head, who adored living for the moment was mine. All for me.

  As soon as we got into his flat we didn’t hang around; we hit the sack and had sex. The first time we made love, a couple of weeks back, I’d surprised myself by not being nervous and being upfront with him about the marks on my body. I hadn’t been upfront with him about anything else. Nor did I let on that it was my first time having sex. Does that matter in this day and age? Is the word virginity still in the modern dictionary?

  Alex, darling Alex, hadn’t said a word. Instead he’d peeled my clothes off and… it still brings a rush of tears to my eyes now… he’d kissed every scar he could find. Quick, soft kisses as if he were leaving behind a seed of love. Our loving was fierce and sweet. After, I lay curled in Alex’s arms.

  I hadn’t used my scarf the first night we went to bed with each other, praying that I wouldn’t need it. And it had worked. For the first time in a long time, I’d woken to a new day feeling fresh, ready and most importantly, still in bed. The second and the third times were the same. I was silly, of course, I should’ve known better – my life has never been that easy.

  That night the dreams were back. Bad. Gleaming razor-sharp blades transforming into ice-pick pointed needles, shifting shapes, twisting colours, running, running, running. I’d jack-knifed awake, leaking sweat, with Alex’s startled face hovering over me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ A stupid question for him to ask because it was clear I wasn’t.

  I could’ve lied to him – looking back, maybe that’s what I should’ve done – but his reactions to my scars had lulled me into thinking I could tell him the rest. I’d given him a small kiss and got out of the bed and hunted for my bag. I’d faced him holding my one true friend, my scarf. He’d sat up and I couldn’t blame him for the wary expression he shot at me.

  He tried to lighten the mood with, ‘Just so you know, I’ve never done bondage before.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’ I could only be dead serious. No one, not even my parents, knew about this. ‘I have to tie my leg to your bed.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ All joking had fled.

  ‘I sleepwalk sometimes. Have crushing dreams. This’ – I held the scarf up – ‘usually stops me from wandering about in my sleep, but not all the time.’

  The look he sent me: disbelief turning into confusion, finally shutting down. I’d known I’d lost him.

  He’d got up and wouldn’t come near me. I stubbornly refused to explain anymore. If he couldn’t accept me what the hell was I doing in a chilly room that had promised so much unconditional care and love?

  ‘I’ll go and sleep on the sofa. You’ – he waved at me, his gesture including the scarf – ‘have the bed.’

  Bitterness overwhelmed me. Why had I opened my heart to this type of rejection again? I’d cried that night. Really cried, holding my scarf shoved in my mouth to muffle the sound. I wasn’t surprised when he told me with utter politeness the following morning that he wasn’t sure we should see each other anymore.

  I was alone again.

  Once we’re in my room, Alex must sense where my thoughts are because he scowls as we sit on the bed. His eyes drop for a second before he brings them up again. ‘I’m really sorry about that night—’

  ‘Look, Alex, I’ve got enough crap going on here without you dragging me down a very rocky memory lane.’

  ‘My brother, he’s a lot older than me.’ He launches into his story anyway. ‘He was in the army. He came back from the Iraq War a different guy. Nightmares, screaming in the night…’ He presses his fingers over his lips, his cheekbones straining against the skin.

  ‘Alex, you don’t have to—’

  It pours out. ‘That’s why I behaved like an idiot that night. I didn’t want to go through that again. My parents got my brother the treatment he needed but the road to it was pure hell.’ He looks deep into my eyes. ‘I didn’t want a girlfriend with that kind of trauma. I know it’s selfish but seeing my brother like that, day in, day out, left me feeling like I was dying inside. Joel was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, gave me my first taste of alcohol behind my parents’ backs, took me on my first holiday abroad.’ He raises his head. Staggering pain dulls the colour of his face. ‘I know he was ashamed for me to see him like that when he came back. He prided himself on playing the big brother.’ A vehement heat enters his tone. ‘I could never feel ashamed of him. But at the same time, it was an experience I don’t want to ever go through again.’

  I’m stunned and feel so sad for him. I’d thought that Alex was so different, but the reality is he’s just like me. We project one thing to the world but inside there’s hurt, there’s pain, there’s memories chasing us that will never go away. Still, I feel guilt that my demons have dredged up his own.

  I stand up, pushing my own wants aside. ‘Alex, you don’t have to stay.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ He grasps my hand and pulls me back onto the bed. ‘I don’t want you to be offended, but it’s my considered opinion that you need professional help.’ That pisses me off, so I try to butt in but he won’t allow me. ‘I’m not saying what you’ve told me isn’t the truth, your truth. My first concern is your well-being—’

  I’m fuming. ‘Well-being? Why don’t you say what you mean? She’s off her trolley, not the full ticket, bonkers, touched in the head—’

  He grabs my arms and draws me nearer. ‘I know all those words, Lisa. People said them about my brother. They weren’t true. What was true was he needed treatment. Help. The right kind of help.’ His voice lowers. ‘That’s what you need too. The right help.’

  I pull my arms away. Shake my head with grim misery. ‘Don’t you get it, Alex? This house’ – I spread my arms wide – ‘this is my treatment. I can take as many meds as I can for as long as I can, sit in untold, frigid rooms with untold concerned shrinks, but you know what? This house will continue to haunt me to my dying day. I refuse to live like that anymore.’ I need to stop, so I do before emotion tips me into a place I don’t want Alex to see.

  I’m calmer, at least on the outside, when I speak again. ‘I can’t go on like this.’ I stand again and let my gaze roam around the room. ‘Will you help me find more of the writing on the wall?’

  I let out a long sigh of relief as he gets up and begins to tear down the next set of lining paper near the first lot of writing I discovered. I start helping him. We carefully peel down two rolls. A growl of frustration leaves me; there’s no writing there. Bollocks!

  Alex turns to me. ‘What if there isn’t any more? I said that the last time I was here.’

  My head moves in denial. ‘It’s here. I know it’s here. The house is talking to me through these walls.’

  Alex can’t help giving me the arched-eyebrow, that’s-just-mad look.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he suggests. ‘Why don’t I start over there, near the window, and you continue here?’

  That’s what we do for the next few minutes until he excitedly calls, ‘I’ve got something.’

  I rush over. Can’t believe it. I was beginning to doubt there was any more. Together we peel the lining paper down to the skirting board. My breath holds in my throat as it always does when I gaze at the writing on the wall. The handwriting isn’t as bold, the marks of ink weaker, in places wavy, as if the person writing it was trembling.

  I’m too eager to wait. ‘What does it say?’

  Alex doesn’t answer as he reads. Then turns to me. ‘This time there’s a date. 1998—’

  ‘That’s the ye
ar I turned five. My fifth birthday.’ I’m excited. My first real link to the author of the farewell letter.

  ‘What’s your birthday got to do with this?’

  ‘That was the year, I think, that whatever happened to me in this house happened.’ My wide eyes plead with him. ‘Do you believe me now?’

  Alex makes no comment. Instead he focuses on the writing. ‘It’s our old friend, Doctor Death, Solanov, again. The lines taken from his work say: “If you fall in love with a beautiful woman, you’re digging your own grave and the graves of the others who you love”.’

  I’m unimpressed. ‘He didn’t like women very much, then.’

  ‘Maybe he loved one too much and it all went pear-shaped. A lot of men will know that feeling.’

  Alex doesn’t give me a chance to ask if his cryptic comment refers to me.

  He starts to translate.

  Chapter 22

  Before: 1998

  In a daze he rushed along the street, and when he reached the house he expected to see lights on everywhere and to hear the noises he always associated with his family even when they were asleep. But of course there weren’t any lights. No noises. There was never going to be any again.

  He opened the door. Didn’t go in. Stood on the threshold dreading going inside. By rights the racing rate of his heart should push him into a heart attack. Sweet Jesus, he wished it would do it. Do it! Make him not have to deal with what he knows he must.

  He stepped into the house. Closed the door with a quiet click. Put his keys down on the table in the hallway and looked around at the scene.

  The worst was over now. Actually, it wasn’t the worst; that was still to come. He was going to have to start lying now. Lying all the time and forever more. And acting. Carrying on just like before. What man could possibly keep that up? But he knew he had no choice. He owed people. He owed his family. He owed her in particular. He was going to have to do it whatever it took.