I get nasty too. ‘One of your unsatisfied customers belt you across the face, did they?’ The bruise on his face I first saw after finding Bette has faded but I can still see it in the glaring light.
Strangely, he says nothing, his expression one of brief embarrassment. The little red lights become an extension of Jack’s eyes, flickering as I retreat down the garden. That’s when I figure out they are his eyes. They’re infrared beams. I tripped them; that’s how he knew I was in his illicit garden.
Now he’s mocking my accent. ‘Oh Jack, I’ll take you and Martha to court with one of my super-duper lawyer friends I went to public school with. You wouldn’t like that would you?’ And then he adds in his own voice, ‘You posh bitch.’
His piss-take speech is the trigger that reminds me why I’m here, in this house. Nothing and no one, or weed plants, is going to make me leave. Determination stiffening my spine, I stand my ground. Let him push me over and over; I’ll get back up every time.
He sees my resolve in the way I defiantly lift my chin and backs off slightly in surprise.
I tell him, ‘I don’t give a stuff about your poxy little drugs operation. I’m not informing the police and I don’t work for drug dealers. I don’t need the money because I’m way, way better than that. I’m not some junkie with debts to pay. You’re way out of line.’
Now I figure out what he was accusing me of when he discovered I have a house. Asking me what I was really doing in the house. He thought I was a mole to take down or muscle in on his drugs operation. If this wasn’t such a horrible situation I’d laugh my head clean off.
He steps into my space as he rests the bat on his shoulder. Pushes his face into mine. His bedtime breath coats my skin. ‘Out to catch some night air, were you? Is that it? Or are you just the curious type? Because you know what happened to the cat that got curious… don’t you?’
My face invades his space now. Our eyes inches apart. I hiss, ‘Well, you’d know all about dead cats after what you did to Bette.’
His eyes blink quickly and his voice is less angry; in fact, it sounds almost weary. The lethal bat droops slightly. ‘Please, not with the cat thing again. Why would I have killed her bloody cat?’
He’s lost some of his mojo, so I use my fingers to push him back a touch. ‘So, Bette climbed up on the roof, stuck her tail in my window and then poisoned herself? Some kind of suicide as art statement, was it?’ Now it’s my turn to mock. ‘I should’ve kept her body and sent it in for next year’s Turner Prize.’
He genuinely doesn’t seem to understand. ‘I never touched her cat. Why would I do that? I like her cats; it’s the only thing I do like about her. I’d feed them bits of liver when I was watering the plants. You’re mad.’
Either he’s telling the truth or he’s wasted as a failed handyman cum small-time cannabis cultivator because he should be strutting his stuff on the West End stage.
I tell him, ‘Right. I’m going back in the house now. I don’t give a monkey’s about what you get up to in this garden.’
His body language changes. ‘If you need any gear, I’m your man. I’ve got all sorts of modern delights up my enterprising sleeve.’
The bloody cheek! I brush past him. I can feel his hot gaze on me but he doesn’t follow. I stride back to the house but I stop as I go. Because in an upstairs window, a shadowy figure stands in the half-light with her arms folded. Martha looks down at me for a moment and then turns away.
It’s Martha’s perfume that alerts me she’s waiting for me. It’s heavier than her usual delicate, citrus choice, an overpowering scent like a fistful of lilies crushed by the squeeze of a hand. I move my head back to get away from it, but it won’t leave me alone. I am scared. I don’t want to admit it, but how else can I explain the ice-cold adrenaline rushing through my blood? This woman has the power to tear apart everything. Absolutely everything.
I take the final step. Raise my gaze. And there she is, at the foot of the stairs that lead to my room.
Martha’s shiny-red dressing gown makes her pop in the soft glow of the wall light. For the first time I really see it: the sexiness she wears like a double skin. Her head angles at just the right degree to catch the light, perfectly highlighting her strong bone structure – cheekbones, jawline, even the bridge of her nose. The swell of artificial filler has made me dismiss the plumpness of her lips; her mouth is different now, lips slightly apart as she breathes in fragile jets of air. The glow of her green eyes sucks me in. A slice of one of her legs peeps out from her dressing gown. The silver pendant on the black velvet choker snug around her elegant neck winks at me. I had got it so wrong thinking Martha was a stunner only in her youth; she is still a stunner now. Maybe it was Jack who was captivated by her, not the other way around?
‘Lisa,’ she calls me. There’s no smile with her words, which makes me edgy and nervy. ‘I need to talk to you.’
My heart kicks up a beat. I forget all about Jack and his cannabis kingdom because I know what’s coming. I swallow the lump in my dry throat and walk over to her with as much confidence as I can muster.
‘Can it wait till the morning?’
I could slap myself because my question sounds so defensive. Implies I have something to hide.
She still doesn’t smile as her gaze runs over me, assessing me as if she’s checking me out for the first time. Well, that’s how it looks to me.
‘I heard something today that I simply must speak to you about.’ Her words are easy. There’s no tension in them. But I know what’s coming.
I manage to keep my tone equally as easy. ‘Whatever you’ve heard, I’m sure we can work it out.’
Wrong thing to say again! I’m implying that I’ve done something wrong.
Martha wets her full lips.
I know what’s coming.
‘Jack’s informed me that you already have a home.’ Martha carries on, her beauty marred by a puzzled frown. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell us this when you came to view the room.’
Self-assurance flows from me. I have got my story all ready to go. ‘The truth is that I’ve had a few financial knock-backs lately and got myself into a bit of a hole. The money I get from renting my house for six months will sort me out. In the meantime, I needed to find somewhere else to live.’ I can already read the question on her face, so add, ‘I could’ve gone back to my mum and dad’s…’ I do a fake shudder. ‘My parents are lovely but would’ve treated me like their little girl again. Plus, this is my problem and I’m going to be the one to sort it out.’
Martha is silent, the confusion still stamped across her features. ‘I’m going to be upfront and honest with you. When Jack told me, I felt a bit funny. Started thinking, have I got a liar living under my roof?’
‘That was not my intention and I apologise for that.’ Martha does look like she’s got a serial killer in her house. I suppose I would react similarly too. ‘The truth is, I felt embarrassed. No one wants to admit they can’t manage their cash.’
Martha’s poise changes; her leg retreats behind her dressing gown as she stares right into my eyes. Her green gaze can be quite unnerving. ‘You are telling me the whole truth? Are there any other lies?’
Lies. My heart’s back to pounding. Is she trying to tell me something? Putting me in the heat of the spotlight so I confess why I’m really in her house? Stop it, my soft inner voice scolds me. How the hell can she know?
I keep my stare strong and steady. ‘I can assure you that I’m keeping nothing else under my hat. I’m really tired, Martha, I’m going to head off for some shut-eye.’
She surprises me by leaning forward and patting me on my arm. ‘I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Good.’ The other woman finally smiles. It’s sweet and strangely calming. ‘Have a good night.’
And it’s as she goes to lean back from me that the pendant on her choker swings by my eyes. It’s so quick that I can’t be sure, but
I swear there’s engraved writing on the pendant, and something else. A name.
Bette.
I gag and struggle to hold back the bile as I shove the chain with fumbling fingers against the door. Did I see what I think I saw? Bette’s name tag on Martha’s choker? Or were my tired eyes deceiving me? The movement was so quick, the lighting so dim. There was definitely writing on it; of that I am sure. But Bette’s name? I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to re-picture the scene. Martha’s long, fine neck. The tops of her rounded breasts as she breathed and her slightly opening dressing gown. Her heavy scent becoming a mask over my face. The pendant swings by my gaze… I see a ‘b’. Was it real or is my mind now making this up?
My eyes flash back open. The enormity of what I might have just discovered hits like the bricks of the house falling on me. There’s only one way that Martha could have got the cat’s tag: she was the one who killed it. It wasn’t Jack, it was his wife. And the mouse? My mind skids back… Jack’s denial that he hadn’t put the mouse stuck on a trap in my room had been furious. What if he’s telling the truth? There had been that moment when I’d reached downstairs and I’d heard a door shut upstairs, giving him the opportunity he needed to hurry to my room and put it there. But what if it had been Martha? Standing behind the door of her bedroom, the disgusting mouse and trap dangling from her fine, soft hand, listening for me to go downstairs. Then she opens the door, tiptoes upstairs and does her vile deed. And the pigeons and flies? It was Martha, not Jack, who brought the subject up with me, insisting she saw a fly in the house. I hadn’t seen any flies other than in my room. And she’d been all ready with her excuse that pigeons getting stuck in the chimneys are a common occurrence in this house. I imagine her laughing inside her head as she told me, relishing every last moment of our discussion.
And the cat? Did she really kill Bette? My tummy turns over. How else can I explain the possibility that she’s wearing the poor animal’s tag? Did she lure that innocent cat in and poison it with chemicals or rotten food?
I’m finding it hard to take any of this in. My God, to walk around wearing the tag of an animal she’s killed is sick, really sick. Pure evil.
That’s if she did it.
I can’t believe this. I don’t want it to be Martha. She was so patient and caring when I was awake-sleeping. She helped me with gentleness to my feet, guided me with the love of a mother for her distressed child back to my room. Even stayed with me until I felt more myself again. And what about the time I heard Jack hitting her? No, I convince myself again. This is Jack, not Martha. Maybe he forced her to wear the cat’s tag? He’s been abusing her, physically hurting her, goodness knows for how long. Isn’t that what they say? That abused women will stay with their abuser because they’re too terrified to leave, have had their self-esteem literally punched out of them?
But what had I really seen and heard that day when I came into the house and was shaken to the core by the flesh-on-flesh sound of a blow? The closed door of the lounge meant I hadn’t actually seen anything. There had been the raised voices. No. It was a single, raised voice. Now I remember, I wasn’t able to tell if it was a man or a woman because it was so ravaged with rage. And Martha’s not the one with a bruise the colour of ugly on her face. It’s Jack. I think back to us a while ago in his pungent cannabis den in the garden and how embarrassed he’d been when I mentioned the mark. What if it wasn’t embarrassment but shame? Humiliation that his wife’s knocking him around?
I see another possibility right in front of me, as if it’s the writing on the wall: what if it’s Martha who wants me to pack up and go? I shake my head; it doesn’t make any sense. Jack wanting me to go I can understand. I knocked back his advances, he’s ticked off, can’t deal with the fact a woman doesn’t want him in her knickers, so he wants me out. I get that.
But Martha? What have I ever done to her? Is it because she doesn’t want the competition of a younger woman inside her home? Not that there’s any type of competition going on here. Hadn’t Martha admitted she hadn’t factored in the effect of having a younger woman near her husband every day?
‘Did you sleep with him?’
Those were her exact words.
My brain’s foggy. I can’t figure out what’s going on. I put the chair under the door and drag the desk there too. I’m spooked. Scared witless.
Is Jack the danger in this house? Or is it Martha?
Or am I seeing things that aren’t really there?
Chapter 25
Mum looks on with disbelief as I step out of my car the next afternoon. She’s flustered, checking the time on her watch.
‘What are you doing here? You said you were coming this evening. Don’t you recall that your father’s out this afternoon?’ Then her mind works overtime as she visibly frets. ‘Darling, is there something wrong?’
I’ve skipped work for the rest of the day – the excuse of a dental appointment doing the trick – and driven down to Surrey. I kiss Mum on the cheek, offering her immediate reassurance. The scent of cloves clings to her; she’s been drinking her special gin and tonic, where she sticks three cloves into a slice of lime.
‘Something unavoidable has come up this evening and I didn’t want to reschedule my visit here,’ I rattle off. ‘So here I am.’ I take one of her hands in mine. ‘If I’m honest, Mum, I didn’t like the way things ended yesterday. You were so upset.’
She gives me one of those generous smiles I sometimes feel she only reserves for me. Except this time it wobbles at the corners and doesn’t produce that added light in her eyes.
She takes my arm and leads me inside. ‘I was feeling slightly under the weather. It’s this menopause thingy. Mother Nature certainly has some shit in store for us females.’
‘Mum!’ I’m shocked. I’ve never heard a swear word pass her lips ever.
There’s no apology. ‘Well, what would you call periods and the menopause? Shit seems to be the only word to describe it.’
I made the right decision to come while Dad’s not here. When he’s not around she’s different. I get these flashes of what she must’ve been like as a young woman. But I’m not here for a cosy chat. Mum is the weak link in whatever happened in my past, the one who will talk under extreme coaxing if Dad isn’t here. I don’t like pulling this kind of dishonest trickery, but what choice do I have?
The house smells of gin and polish. She’s very house proud and no doubt has been partaking in her favourite beverage while cleaning up.
‘I’ll get you a glass of crushed-ice pineapple.’ She smiles quickly. ‘I know you like your pineapple.’
I want to tell her that I don’t drink it so much these days, being a devoted bottled water girl, but I don’t. I need her to feel as comfortable as possible. Plus, I’ve only managed an on-the-go latte from Starbucks today, so something to wet my lips will be gratefully received.
While she goes into the kitchen, I make my way into the front room. I know at once something has changed. Nothing in this house ever changes, so when it does, I notice at once. On the wall, the photo of young Dad and the two other medical students jokingly wearing surgical masks has disappeared. It’s been replaced by another of our family on holiday in France.
I stand and stare at it as she joins me. ‘Lovely photo, Mum.’
‘Oh, that photo. Yes, it’s a nice one, isn’t it? It was taken in…’ – she looks at the frame – ‘2001. Near Bordeaux. We rented a place near there. I remember you loved it.’
Mum’s recounting a treasured memory, so why is her hand shaking around the glass? She wears the expression of a sheepdog that’s lost its shepherd, the shepherd being my dad who takes the lead in all my questions about the past.
Mum hastily hands me my drink without making eye contact. ‘I’ll go and call your father. Perhaps he can come straight back.’
‘That’s OK. He doesn’t have to be here. I’m allowed to see my mum on her own; it’s not against the law.’
She looks anxious, fluffing her fingers through
her hair. ‘But I know your father’s looking forward to seeing you. He’ll be disappointed.’
‘Well, you can tell him I’m fine when he comes in.’
I take a seat on the sofa, compelling her to do the same on the armchair opposite me. She holds her hands locked between her knees, making her pose look like some type of medieval torture.
On the drive down, I considered laying a trap for Mum by luring her into a false sense of security, wittering on about trivia and then pouncing when she’s unprepared. But now I’m here I can’t be bothered with those kinds of games.
‘2001? That would be three years after the accident on the farm, then?’
She reaches for her half-finished G&T on the coffee table. ‘That’s right, dear. We rented a little place near the beach, I remember…’
But I cut her short. ‘I’m not interested in France, Mum. Not at all; I just want to know what happened on my fifth birthday, down on the farm.’
Her hands wrap tight around the glass, her voice a hush. ‘You know what happened. You had an accident. It was very distressing but thank God you got better; that’s all that matters.’
I expect her to avoid my eyes but she doesn’t. She fixes them on me with a steely stare. Whatever it is that happened, she wants to stick with their story and go down with the ship if necessary. In a way I admire her determination. But that’s no good to me.
‘Since you brought this word into play earlier, shall we cut the shit? There was never any accident on any farm.’ My words become strident. ‘Why don’t you tell me what really happened? Why am I not allowed to know?’
Mum knocks back the remainder of her drink and carefully puts down the glass. ‘We’ve been through this a thousand times, Lisa. I don’t know why you don’t believe us.’ There’s anger, but also fear, in what she says next. ‘Why are you tormenting yourself like this? Why are you tormenting all of us? Do you really understand the pain this is causing everyone?’
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 16