Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Gripping the bannister tightly, I make my way down the stairs one foot at a time to avoid tumbling down these crazy steps. I carry on down the next flight until I’m in the heart of the house, the hallway. The door to the dining room is closed but I can clearly see movement behind it. Wow, what a thrill! I laugh out loud. I’ve got superpowers.

  My attention jerks behind me to the soft patter of footsteps. I look up and Martha’s coming down. Well, not so much coming down as floating down. Really floating. Is she really there? Those big green eyes watch me closely. They’re trying to say something. Telling me to do something. But I can’t see what it is.

  Why can’t this house, these people in the dining room, and Martha’s eyes speak clearly and tell me what’s going on?

  Her voice is soft and sounds like a mother’s. ‘Are you alright, Lisa?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m fine.’

  I resent her interruption. I want to go into the dining room and see who’s there.

  ‘Are you sure? You seem a bit disturbed. Would you like me to call a doctor?’

  Jack’s grumpy voice shoots down from the floor above. ‘What’s going on?’

  Martha looks up. It strikes me as curious that she seems perfectly at home with all the bizarreness going on around me, while at the same time looking exactly like the usual everyday Martha.

  ‘It’s Lisa.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her? Is she murdering cats again?’

  Martha peers at me innocently. ‘Don’t be rude, darling. I found her sleepwalking awhile back. I don’t think this is the same thing. She appears to be having some kind of funny turn and won’t let go of my arm.’

  Jack’s fed up. ‘Haven’t we got her folks’ number as next of kin? Call them and get her shipped out. We can’t put up with her crap anymore. She’s a nutter.’

  Martha looks at me again and says gently, ‘Shall we do that, Lisa? Call your dad and mum for you?’

  I sound like a child about to blow a tantrum. ‘No, I want to know who’s in the dining room.’

  ‘There’s no one in the dining room.’

  ‘There is, there is! I can hear them!’

  I notice Martha is right. I am gripping her arm. With her free hand she takes mine. ‘Alright, let’s go and see who’s in the dining room.’ We walk down the hallway. Martha lets go of my hand and opens the door. ‘You see? There’s no one here.’

  But she’s wrong. There are people here. Except they’re not quite people. Three chairs are scampering around while a tall cabinet is overseeing them and telling them to behave. I’m transfixed. I can’t take my eyes off them. How could I have ever thought the dining room was the most forgettable room in this house?

  Martha repeats, ‘No one here.’

  There’s a knock on the front door. I’m mesmerised by the cabinet walking past us. It goes to the front door and answers. There’s a woman on the doorstep. I can’t see her but somehow I sense it’s a woman. Then the cabinet and the woman go in the front room. They’re talking; I can’t hear what they’re saying. That seems to be how this works. But I can hear what happens next. There’s screaming from the front room, a wounded animal howling in agony. The chairs stop scampering around in the dining room and huddle together in fear.

  I don’t like this anymore. I’m terrified. My clothes are soaked in sweat. Please stop screaming. Stop. Stop bloody screaming. She won’t.

  ‘Lisa? Lisa? You need to snap out of this.’ It’s Martha, who has no business being here.

  I loosen my skin-tight grip on her arm and dash into the dining room. Curl up in a ball in the corner. Plaster my hands over my ears. The screaming won’t stop. Won’t stop. Won’t stop. I’m shaking and sweating like a pig and that won’t stop either. My throat is desert-dry, craving water. And the screaming goes on and on.

  Jack’s there now. ‘What the hell is this about?’

  Martha tells him, ‘I don’t know. She’s having some kind of episode.’

  Jack is curt. ‘Well, call an ambulance.’

  Martha is curt back. ‘No, she doesn’t need an ambulance. Go and get some tranquilisers from your medicine chest. We’ll give her those.’

  ‘Tranquilisers?’

  Martha is angry and grabs his T-shirt below the neck, pulling him viciously close to her. ‘Yes, tranquilisers. You’re a fucking drug dealer, aren’t you? You must have some downers in your fucking collection somewhere.’

  The screaming finally fades away and I can catch my breath again. I’m choking tears.

  Jack disappears. The next thing I know, Martha’s crouched beside me, holding a glass of water with two tablets in her palm.

  ‘Take these; you’ll feel better.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It will help.’

  ‘No, I know what you’re doing; you’re trying to poison me.’

  Martha tries to force the pills into my mouth but I spit them on the floorboards and knock the glass out of her hand. ‘Poison me like you did to Bette.’ I sob, ‘Poor Bette.’

  She puts her arm around me. ‘I’m trying to help.’

  I turn my eyes on her. ‘You want to help? Tell me what happened in this house. That’s how you can help.’

  She goes pale. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ I harshly accuse.

  Martha looks at me in disbelief. I can hear her mind turning over in her head. Then her arms are around me, helping me to my feet.

  ‘Come on, my girl, let’s get you to your room.’

  The last thing I remember is Bette’s tag swinging like an executioner’s blade around her throat.

  Chapter 30

  I’m shattered, the embodiment of a zombie as I lie on my back on the bed the following morning. Well, I think it’s morning; I can’t be sure. I don’t remember sleeping. Recall coming back to my room. I don’t need the unkind reflection of a mirror to tell me what I must look like. Puffed-up bags under my bloodshot eyes, dull, lifeless skin. My limbs ache. I have scratches and bruises in strange places and my mouth is parched. It feels like the morning after a hen night that got out of hand or a half marathon that should have been cancelled because of the heat.

  Flashes of yesterday come back to me. Voices. Chairs. The dining room cabinet. All moving. The screaming? The same screaming that haunts my nightmares. It splinters inside my head right now. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to drown out the terrible, inhuman sound.

  Get out of my head. Out of my head. Out. Out. Out.

  When it leaves I want to curl up into a ball, a spiral getting smaller and smaller until I disappear. What the hell is happening to me? Did any of yesterday happen? Was I awake-sleeping again?

  Then I remember: Martha and Jack were there too. Weren’t they? There’s only one way of finding out. I don’t want to seek them out, but what choice do I have?

  When I get to the kitchen, I take a pint glass from a cupboard and fill it full of water from the tap and bring it to my lips. Then I remember I only drink the bottled water in my room. Never anything from this kitchen in case Martha does to me what she did to Bette.

  As I dash the water into the sink, the back door opens and Jack appears. When he sees me, he looks wary and puts two flowerpots down on the flagstone floor. My hand shakes as I place the glass on the draining board. He carefully locks the back door. He openly gazes at me with deep suspicion mixed with distaste.

  ‘Are you alright?’ He sounds more like a cop interviewing a suspect than a concerned landlord.

  I resist the urge to wrap my arms protectively around my lurching tummy. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘What was going on with you yesterday?’ He sounds reluctantly sympathetic.

  At least I now know that it all really happened.

  I’m not sure what to say because I don’t really know. ‘I suppose I was a touch stressed out. You know, having a bad day.’

  ‘A bad day?’ His brows flip up along with his tone. ‘It didn’t…’

  But he doesn’t fi
nish. Martha’s appeared and she cuts him short. ‘Don’t harass the girl, she’s not well.’

  Jack gives me a dirty look. Maybe that’s what he has to do when his wife’s about: be hostile to me. ‘That’s certainly one explanation. I can think of others.’

  Martha’s not interested in his explanations. ‘Why don’t you go and prune the grass or something?’

  Jack’s been told and he doesn’t look in the mood to give her any backchat and now I understand why. I know who gives the orders in this house. He slopes off, eyeing me while avoiding Martha. The back door bangs behind him.

  I scowl hard as I stare at Martha; it comes back to me that during yesterday’s terrifying incident I accused her of something. What was it? No matter how hard I rack my brain I can’t remember.

  She’s concerned but in the way a strict teacher would be. ‘What was going on with you last night, Lisa? Wandering around the house in a stupor, saying all kinds of crazy things, making all kinds of wild accusations? Acting up like a teenager, drunk as a dockyard sailor? Is that it? Are you a drinker? Or have you got mental health issues?’

  Amid this blizzard of questions, another memory from yesterday comes back to me: Bette’s name tag swinging on the choker she was wearing. When I search her slim neck, of course it’s gone. If it was ever there at all.

  ‘I don’t have a drink or drug problem, Martha.’ Then something occurs to me. My gaze becomes penetrating. ‘Did you try to give me downers?’

  A scowl darkens her face. ‘Downers? I wouldn’t know where to get them. No, I asked Jack to get you some paracetamol.’

  ‘But you called Jack a drug dealer.’

  A thin wan smile crosses her face. I think I can see Bette’s name tag around her throat again but of course I can’t. ‘You were really out of your mind yesterday. The brain can be such a delicate thing. I’m not a psychiatrist, my dear, but that rather sounds like paranoia to me. You should really see a doctor.’

  Like our mutual friend, Doctor Wilson, I nearly blurt out.

  ‘You know what else, Martha?’ I persist. ‘You were swearing at Jack like a trucker. Dropping the F-bomb like it had just entered the English language. The Martha I know wouldn’t do that.’

  Martha shakes her head. ‘Look, Lisa, we’re not prejudiced against people with issues. It’s a very common thing in our troubled times. But you can’t seriously expect Jack and I to shoulder the responsibility for them. You understand that, don’t you? You see what I’m saying? Is it really fair to burden us with your problems when you clearly need professional help? The best place for you is in your own home.’ She reaches for my arm, I suppose to express some kind of physical comfort. I flinch away.

  Martha’s mouth twists as she sees my reaction. ‘Go home, Lisa; call a doctor and get better in an environment that you feel safe and comfortable in.’

  I look her square in the eye. ‘Are you saying it’s not safe for me here?’

  I don’t give her the chance to respond as I turn my back and walk away. There’s no remnant left of the Martha who helped me that night she discovered me awake-sleeping. I know this much: the real Martha is the arrogant, cutting woman I saw with Doctor Wilson. The woman who walks with her chin up, sneering down at the world. I saw her in the coffee house on the high street, talking to Doctor Wilson like he was muck under her shoe.

  All I can do is watch my back and try to stay one step ahead of any future horrors she may have in store for me. Let her do her worst; nothing will make me leave this house.

  Upstairs, I close my door, get ready to go out. I take out one of the water bottles I’ve hidden in the wardrobe. Drink long and deeply, trying to clear my mind.

  It’s like a monster now exists inside me. That intense, walk-on-water, beautiful-world feeling I had yesterday has now flipped to its dark side. Now I’m no longer on cloud nine but filled with anxiety and depression.

  I’m on the high street and walking but it feels like I’m on a treadmill because I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. How can that be? I can feel them, my feet, in the motion of walking – one in front of the other – but when I look around I’m still near the tube station. Panic is rising and rising. My nerve endings are tiny dots of electricity shocking my skin. The bright colours on the street have melted away, replaced by one colour alone – shadow. Shadows that waver and move, sway. I sense people watching me; my lips are moving. Am I speaking? The high street is an ugly place I need to urgently escape from, but my feet refuse to help me get away. Maybe someone like me deserves to be in a bad place like this?

  I’m out of control. Please help me. Someone please help me. Doctor Wilson is right. I’m breaking apart.

  A hand touches my shoulder. I don’t start or jump out of my skin – what a silly phrase! – but I stop pacing. See, I know that hand. It once brought me comfort, made me feel safe. Made me forget all my troubles for a while.

  I turn and face Alex. Unlike my surroundings he pops with bright colours.

  He looks shocked. I don’t blame him. I must appear like the wreck of the century: a haunting scarecrow with short hair and bulging, big eyes.

  ‘Lisa, I want you to listen to me.’ His words are slow, as if I’m an idiot. ‘I’m going to take you to a café across the road. I’m going to order you a double espresso. You will drink it. Then you need to tell me what’s the matter.’

  I don’t respond, allowing him to guide me to the café and a table near the back. Soon I’m drinking the coffee and its full-force caffeine kicks in, shifting me slightly out of this world I can’t control.

  ‘What’s going on?’ His face is so full of concern I want to put my head on the table and weep.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t sleep very well last night.’ I correct myself. ‘My mind was on the go.’ I don’t tell him about the strange incident yesterday. ‘I’m so tired. So tired.’

  He places his palm over my limp hand. ‘Why don’t you come back to mine and put your head down—’

  ‘No. I can’t do that. I have to get back to the house.’ I try to get up. The pressure of his hand keeps me in place.

  His expression is intense. ‘Have you been taking drugs?’

  I know what drugs he means: the type you buy on street corners, not courteously of a prescription from a doctor’s surgery.

  ‘I’m not into that kind of crap.’ I drag my bag into my lap. Fish out my pills, my face going hot with humiliation that he’s going to discover another one of my shameful secrets.

  I hold the pill bottle up like a hand grenade. ‘You want the truth, so here you go,’ I spit out. ‘These are anti-depressants. I’ve been taking them since…’ My lips slam together; I don’t want him to know about the incident cum suicide attempt. ‘For a while now. I take them on a need-to basis.’

  ‘Are they meant to make your eyes dilate like they are now?’

  I want to roar back at him, but my voice is as small as I feel inside. ‘How the hell am I meant to know?’ My tone turns tart with sarcasm. ‘Before I take them I don’t have a conversation with them, asking them to tell me the ins and outs of how they work.’

  Why am I being so vicious to Alex? He only wants to help me.

  His hand slips away, his stare frank. ‘When I saw you outside the station you were pacing and muttering over and over again, “Where are they? Where are they?”’

  ‘Do you think I’m losing my mind?’ Alex, of all people I know, will tell me the truth.

  He leans closer. ‘I think you need to go back to your doctor and get him to either change your level of meds or change the type you’re on.’

  ‘Could you love a woman like me? Really love?’ I don’t know where it comes from; it certainly wasn’t what I intended to place on the table between us.

  ‘Do you want me to be honest?’ He doesn’t hesitate.

  I nod and pray. The last thing I need is rejection.

  ‘I can’t think of love at the moment. It’s trivial compared to what’s happening to you. What I do feel for you is fear. I
’m terrified you’re being dragged into a bottomless hole you won’t ever get out of. And I feel guilty—’

  ‘Why?’ It rings out as a small cry.

  His hands come up; a gesture of hopelessness. ‘If I hadn’t given you the information about this John Peters maybe, just maybe, you might have packed your things and left that shitshow of a house. It’s not safe for you there.’

  ‘I know I probably appear like something out of The Rocky Horror Show’ – we allow ourselves small smiles at that – ‘but without you I’d never have got anywhere near the truth. And I’m getting closer, believe me.’

  His lips purse and a frown stains his forehead. I know that expression; he’s deciding whether to tell me something or not.

  In anticipation I lean closer. ‘If you’ve found out anything else, anything, don’t hold out on me.’

  ‘OK. I’ve found out more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but only after you’ve come back to mine and got some shut-eye.’

  Chapter 31

  I’d never figured Alex for the emotional blackmail type, but here I am walking into the place he rents. It’s the garden flat in a Victorian terrace, a hop, skip and jump away from Camden Market. I’ve been here once before, on a night that had begun with promise and ended so badly.

  He leads me straight to his bedroom. Everything has a place; books on shelves, a rug by the bed, a bed smoothly made, a closed wardrobe with no clothes on hangers on its doors. What captures my attention is what’s on the wall.

  I’m drawn towards them as if in a dream. ‘How did you do this?’

  Pinned to the wall are two poster-sized copies of the writing on the wall from my room, translated into English.

  Alex looks embarrassed, slightly sheepish. ‘One of the secretaries in the office is a tech whizz. She rustled them up in no time.’