I put on some clothes, not caring that Jack might get an eyeful. I take his advice and sling my day rucksack over one shoulder. I’m unsteady on my feet so he offers me his arm as a means of support. I should tell him to stuff his support but instead I take it gratefully. Jack playing the gentleman is something I can’t turn down.
He escorts me out of the room and I shuffle along like a prisoner in leg irons. Then it occurs to me: it can’t be the police because Jack would be shaking like a marijuana leaf in a strong wind, worried his secret garden will be found out. It’s someone else. It’s my dad and someone else.
‘Who is it?’
‘You’ll see.’
When we get to the hallway, my dad is standing there. Martha is reading some paperwork. And next to her is Doctor Wilson. Martha shrugs her shoulders and hands the papers back to my therapist who slides them into a Manila folder. My mind thinks furiously. Why is there paperwork? What’s written on it? Then it dawns on me with a crushing dread. I realise what all this is about.
I don’t remember moving. I lash out at Doctor Wilson, trying to kick him, but Jack holds me back.
I’m surprised at how loud my outrage is. ‘I’m not going anywhere and you can’t make me.’
My dad has his dad voice on. ‘Now look, Lisa, it’s just for a few days until you’re better.’ He turns to Wilson. ‘It’s a very good place, isn’t it?’
I wrench out of Jack’s hold. Fold my arms. ‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not going anywhere.’
Dad’s voice softens in an attempt to persuade me. ‘Well, I’m afraid you’ve got no choice in the matter. Now, come on, no time to lose.’
‘I’m not going. You can’t make me.’
It’s Martha who explains. ‘He’s right, you really don’t have a choice. They’re sectioning you. Doctor Wilson here has signed the paperwork. I’ve just read it on your behalf.’
I turn on her, my eyes blazing with hatred. ‘I know you’re part of this. I saw you at the door.’
‘Of course you saw me at the door,’ she flings back. ‘This is my bloody house.’
Activity outside the front door catches my eye. On the drive are two cars and a private ambulance. Loitering near the ambulance are two guys in green paramedic gear.
I explode. Anger has resurrected me back to life. ‘You’re committing your own daughter? Is that right? On the word of Doctor Frankenstein here?’
My dad does his best. ‘We’ve all seen evidence of your condition, my dear, and I understand your landlords have too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; you’re just not well, that’s all.’ He looks out of the door. ‘Gentlemen, can I have your assistance please?’
The two goons in green come in. I struggle but it’s an unequal fight. Jack helps them out. Fair play to him. He doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. One of the paramedics takes me by my bony wrists while the other grabs my ankles and I’m carried out and gently placed in the back of the ambulance. There are straps inside of it but mercifully they don’t use them.
Doctor Wilson, the bastard, makes his escape in his car while my dad shouts to the ambulance driver: ‘I’ll follow in my car.’
The doors are closed. I can’t go. They’re taking me away from the house. Away. I’m frantic that I can’t raise my head to see the house disappearing. Can’t see my talisman of the truth: the mason’s mark with my special key inside.
‘Would you like something to settle you down?’ one of the men supervising me asks.
‘Sod off.’
He takes it in good part. I suppose he’s trained to.
The ambulance rumbles and rolls for a long time but I don’t know how long. When it comes to a halt, the doors open and I’m in the countryside. We’ve stopped outside what looks like a country hotel but it’s obvious where we really are. There are medical staff wandering round and patients sitting in the sun. I decide to be a cooperative prisoner for now because that will give me more opportunity to escape later, although how is not easy to see. They won’t have brought me to a place you can just walk out of. They’re not stupid. But who has really brought me here?
I keep the fury alive inside me. It’s giving me the energy to think. Clearly this was my dad’s idea. He wants me out of that house for good to prevent me from finding out what happened there. But why?
Is he just concerned for my health? Trying to save me from the awful truth? I hate the final question; I don’t want it to be true. I force myself to think it.
Or is he implicated in it?
There’s no sign of Mum so I’m guessing her conscience wouldn’t allow her to get involved in this intervention. Her conscience isn’t even well developed enough to tell her daughter what she knows. Doctor Wilson is Dad’s helpful sidekick. Is he doing this as a despicable favour to an old friend? Or is he implicated too? His attitude towards me changed when I told him I was living in the spare room in the house.
I’m registered at reception and led to my ‘room’, which is little better than a highly decorated prison cell. A smiley nurse tells me that I can treat the place as a hotel and come and go as I please. Utter lies. There’s an electronic lock on the door and one look at the window shows me that while there are no bars on it there might as well be. The glass looks as if it’s shatterproof and the locks are so secure a burglar at the top of his game couldn’t pick them.
‘This is a great place to rest,’ Dad rattles off, hands behind his back; he’s barely able to look at me. ‘You’ve got your own telly with lots of satellite chann—’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I slash over his stupid words. Who gives a bloody damn about how many channels the TV has access to. ‘Stop talking as if this is a five-star holiday resort.’
He still won’t meet my eyes. But then guilty people find that hard to do.
‘I want to leave here. Now.’
It’s as if I haven’t spoken. Am I invisible now too? ‘You’re going to stay here until you get better.’
‘Look at me,’ I roar, as if I’m the parent talking to the child.
I wished I hadn’t asked because the expression he gives me is of a man who’s been stricken with the news that he’s dying. ‘I love you. Everything I have ever done for you has been with the caring hands of love.’
He heads for the door, leaving me stunned. I don’t disbelieve his aching words. Don’t disbelieve his truth. But it’s my truth he refuses to tell me about. He would rather lock me away than help me. How can he do that? He’s forfeited any right to be called my dad.
When he’s gone, ‘the warders’, as I like to think of them, have their first go at trying to drug me up. It’s sedatives probably, so I only half resist. I drink the cloudy drink but keep the pills under my tongue to spit out when they’ve gone. I don’t blame the staff. To be honest, in normal circumstances, I wouldn’t blame my dad or Doctor Wilson either. I know how erratic my behaviour has been since I discovered the location of the house. Or even before that. But I’m not here on account of any erratic behaviour. I’m here because they want to stop me getting to the truth. When the nurse has gone, I feel sleepy and lie down. I’m actually feeling quite happy. The conspirators wouldn’t have gone to this length if they weren’t seriously worried I was getting near the truth.
Then something hits me that I should’ve seen before. It takes my breath away. The first time Dad and Mum tried to get me out of the house.
How did my dad know where my room was in Martha and Jack’s house?
A sharp knock on the door wakes me. My mouth tastes sour and furry. Whatever was in the cloudy drink has done its work. I suspect the job of the tablet I pretended to take was to dull my senses, sending me into a cooperative, zombie-like stupor. Thank God I didn’t take it.
No medication can obliterate the one question still doing the rounds in my frazzled mind. How did Dad know where my room was? I’ve played it out over and over from all different angles. Martha told him? Jack pointed the way? I told him? No. No. Surely I would remember if I did that, would
n’t I?
As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a woman in her early thirties wheels a food and tea trolley in. I guess straight off that she’s no nurse; she isn’t wearing a uniform. She’s decked out in black jeans and a T-shirt that’s baggy against her body. Her limp, brown hair is pulled back into a facelift-tight ponytail. When she gets close there’s the smell of nicotine wafting from her.
‘What do you fancy from the trolley?’ She sounds bored.
This being an upmarket kind of a place, the trolley is full of tasty treats. Exotic fruits, fancy sandwiches with a variety of teas, herbals included of course. There’s a flash-looking menu too.
I’m not in the mood. ‘I’m OK, thank you.’ My voice sounds rusty to my ears.
She gives me a speculative look from under lowered lashes. ‘You new?’
‘Came in earlier today.’
‘Been in here nearly three months now. They tell me I’m getting better.’ She shrugs. ‘I suppose I don’t want to chuck myself off buildings no more.’
I swallow nervously. As much as I sympathise with her plight, I won’t be stopping here long enough to make friends. She starts wheeling the trolley back towards the door when an idea comes to me.
‘Have you got a mobile?’
Her hands tighten against the trolley handle as she half turns to me. Her eyes widen as she weighs up my request. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed mobiles on this part of the unit.’
I get to my feet. I’m surprisingly grounded. ‘I only want to check on my cat. You know, make sure my friend is feeding him. My poor Henry, he’ll die without me and then I don’t know what I’ll do. There’ll be no point in living anymore.’
Maybe I shouldn’t have said the last part since this woman obviously has a problem living, but pets always tug at people’s hearts.
She folds her arms. ‘What do I get out of this?’
I’m not sure what to say, so she continues, ‘You got any perfume? Haven’t had a decent smelly since I got here. The soap here leaves you whiffing like a car engine.’
Sod’s law! I don’t have any of that. But I can’t let my chance of getting out of here waltz out of the door with the tea trolley.
‘I only just got here, as you know, but I can get some perfume for you. You name it, I can get it,’ I coax.
She mulls over what I’ve said. ‘How you gonna do that then?’
I tap the side of my nose with a finger. She likes that. ‘You leave the how to me. Can I use your phone?’
‘I’ll have to get it from my room on the other end of the unit.’
I take up guard duty position near her trolley. ‘I’ll take care of this while you take care of me.’
She’s gone and back in three minutes flat, but when she hands the phone over she holds on tight when I try to take it.
‘It’s got to be Eternity.’ At first, I’m a bit out to sea about what she’s talking about, then the penny drops. ‘None of that Chanel shit.’
She lets the phone go. ‘Make it quick. They find out, there’s going to be major-league trouble.’
My fingers fumble as I tap the number into the phone. I’m conscious of her watching my every move.
The call goes to voicemail. Damn!
I leave a message in a voice that sounds like I’m chatting away to him.
‘Alex! Hello, darling. Listen, I’ve had to come into hospital for a few days and there’s no one to look after Henry… No, nothing serious, just routine… Look, could you pop next door and make sure my little darling’s not too upset?’
I give Alex a list of fictional Henry’s dietary requirements and try to sound like a mad cat woman while I’m doing it. Finally, I get to the point of the call. I pick up the menu from the tea trolley.
‘Oh, it’s a wonderful hospital. I need some Eternity spray, darling. It’s…’ I give him the name and postcode from the details on the menu before adding in my most carefree voice, ‘Au secours, Alex! Au secours! Maintenant! Au secours!’
Alex speaks Russian and deciphered the handwriting on the wall. I only hope he can pick up on my schoolgirl French and that my fellow patient can’t. I hand the phone back to my new buddy who’s smiling like it’s her birthday.
‘I’m not mad, you know,’ she announces starkly. ‘My baby died last year and I took a turn for the worse. When I wore Eternity it made him smile.’
I suck in a stunned breath. She doesn’t wait around for a ‘sorry’, a friendly smile or a rub on the back. Just wheels her tea trolley out of the room.
I lie back and try to relax. I don’t touch the sandwich because I think they might have poisoned it.
Chapter 34
I’m in that groggy world of half asleep, part conscious, when the door to my room starts opening. My heart lurches with hope now Alex has finally arrived. What a star he’s turned out to be even when I’ve, to my shame, kicked him to the kerb. To finally be liberated from this room. To feel the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair, the taste of freedom, all those things I’ve taken for granted my whole life.
My heart drops to the hollow of my belly when I realise it’s not Alex. Behind the tall nurse is a woman visitor. When my eyes focus, I figure out why I couldn’t tell who it was immediately. It’s the last person I am expecting. Mum.
The nurse’s voice is soft and firm as he explains to her, ‘As you can see, Lisa’s very tired so if you can limit your visit to about fifteen minutes, we’d be very grateful.’
Mum doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even seem to hear. Looking pale and shell-shocked, she appears more like a patient than I do. What catches my gaze most about her lost look is her hair. She’s never said it but I know Mum prides herself on how well and effortlessly her styled hair always turns out. Glossy, alive, each strand knowing its place and order. Now it’s limp, tangled, and, I suspect, unwashed. When the nurse leaves, Mum searches the room before her eyes finally end up on me.
‘So, here you are.’ Her voice is as lifeless as her hair. Her fingers knot together, pressing against her middle as if desperate to hold inner turmoil in.
‘Yes, here I am.’ I refuse to get up. Bitter sarcasm coats my words. ‘Big round of applause to Dad and his very good friend Doctor Wilson. What a dynamic team they make. I suppose you’re going to tell me you had no idea what they were up to? Save your breath. I’m not interested.’
Mum sits in the armchair, back straight. ‘No, I had no idea what they were up to. Your father mentioned it at lunchtime, almost as an afterthought.’ Her tired eyes drop to her clasped hands. ‘He thinks it’s for the best.’
I lie back on my pillow. My lightning-fast response brims with anger. ‘And what do you think? Do you think locking me up in here is for the best? Does this cell look like the best to you?’
Mum closes her eyes for a few moments. ‘Listen, Lisa, I want you to know that everything we’ve ever done for you is what we thought was for the best.’
Best. I am starting to loathe that word. Doesn’t it mean excellent, outstanding, supreme? Is that what this looks like to her? Then I remind myself, it’s one of those cover words that middle-class families like mine hide behind so they don’t have to deal with emotion.
Mum stares out through the reinforced window at the landscaping outside. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s something about her manner that’s a little unnerving.
I wring my lips together. ‘Well, that’s good to know. Thanks for dropping by.’
She won’t look away from the ordered gardens. ‘But I don’t feel like that anymore.’
What? Did I just hear her say…? She has my full, astonished attention.
‘Maybe, when you were a little girl, it was. But not now.’ Her voice brings a new hush to a room that understands quiet so well. ‘You have to understand, when you go down the road we went down in those days, after a while it becomes impossible to turn it off again. One untruth leads to another and you’re stuck with it.’ Her tone hardens on ‘stuck’. ‘You can’t just turn everything on its head
in a day. You understand that, don’t you?’
What does she mean? Untruths? Does she mean…?
Now she looks at me. Her skin tightens with strain, but my God her eyes are on fire with determination. ‘The thing is, you were right. There was no accident in Sussex. There never was.’
Does she expect me to be impressed or jump up, punch my fists in the air and shout ‘Yippee’? I already know there was no accident in Sussex; I’m well past that stage.
‘You’ve left that a little late, unfortunately. Still, thanks anyway.’ My mouth tastes sour.
Mum doesn’t appear to be listening to me and hasn’t noticed the sarcasm dripping off my tongue. Or perhaps she has and doesn’t give a shit.
She has this far away quality to her words as she carries on. ‘We took you to a hospital for a while, a private one. We were only supposed to be looking after you for a while—’
I slam the bedclothes back and am up and out of the bed and crouched urgently down by her chair. ‘What do you mean, look after me?’
Mum won’t look down at me as her fingernails dig into the padded arms of the chair. It’s like the garden is a court of law and she’s testifying, after swearing on the Bible. I want to twist her face to me. Make her see me. But I leave her soaked in the past because the gates of the truth are finally opening.
‘But one month led to another.’ Her measured tone is slipping, shaky. The words fall out of her quivering mouth like hot stones she can’t expel quickly enough. ‘Finally, it seemed simpler for all concerned if we adopted you. Once we’d done that, we had to come up with a story to cover up what had happened and so we told you about the accident. We meant to tell you the truth later, when you were old enough to understand, but we never did. That was unforgivable and I’m really sorry.’
I’ve been waiting for this for so long. Now it’s here I’m not ready. Not quite sure how to react. ‘So, what really happened?’
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 22