I still can’t tell Alex. ‘It was horrible in there.’
‘I know.’ He rubs a gentle, soothing palm over my back. ‘You know what attracted me to you?’
I can’t answer. I’m so choked up that the shake of my head has to be enough.
‘Your face.’
‘Stop having a laugh. I look like I’ve just been turfed out of a bird’s nest.’
He laughs a little. He pulls back and cups his palms round my face. I can’t look at him.
‘You try to conceal it but your face is so full of life. You glow with it so much you don’t need the artifice of make-up. I saw you the first day I came into your office. You stood out.’ He pauses as if he’s having difficulty with his next words. ‘Some people have this thing about them. Call it an aura, I don’t know, but you have it. I don’t want to ever see that dim, burn out.’
My face is so hot you could fry eggs on it. I can’t believe what he’s saying. That there’s something special about me. I’m unique.
The only way I can express my eternal gratitude to him is to lift my eyes and kiss him. We get into it big time in the front of his car.
I’m the one to stop it as I pull breathlessly back. Truth is, I can’t deal with any more emotion, so I simply say, ‘I just want to go home. My real home.’
Alex understands, as I knew he would. He turns the ignition and we drive away from the end of the world. It’s an easy drive back to my house. When we get there, Alex gets out and tries to accompany me in but I won’t let him.
‘It’s alright. I’ve had enough of personal escorts today. I just want to be alone this evening. It’s been a rough few days. I’ll have a shower and go to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.’
He’s really worried. I give him a hug and a lingering kiss. ‘I don’t have enough thanks for you.’
He turns to go. He sounds like an undertaker when he says, ‘Call me in the morning.’
I go into the house where it smells stale and musty. I wait for him to pull away before going for a shower. I don’t hear his car start. Instead, there’s a knock at the door and it’s Alex again.
He reaches into his pocket. ‘I suppose you better have this.’
He hands me an envelope. I look at it and turn it over. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the third piece from the writing on the wall. I’ve translated it for you. I was going to tear it up but I suppose you better have it.’
‘How did you get this?’
He does a nervous cough and breaks eye contact with me. ‘Turns out Patsy has a key to the house dating back to when the Peters family lived there. You know, a spare set with the neighbour in case they misplaced their own—’
‘But when? How?’ I splutter.
Another cough. He meets my eyes. ‘Before they managed to paint the room black. It was easy really. I waited for them to leave, slipped in and found the remainder of John Peters’ story beneath the lining paper behind the wardrobe.’
‘You bastard, Alex.’ I’m fuming. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I tried to after I told you about the electoral roll and census. Because I was insisting that you sleep and rest, you left in a huff.’
I cry, ‘But you’ve seen me since then.’
‘I was concerned for your welfare. I had to judge whether to let you see it or not.’ His tone is as stark as the expression on his face. ‘Read it at your own risk.’
Then he repeats the words he said in the hospital room, this time the truth: ‘Something terrible happened in that house.’
Chapter 36
He walks away, leaving me clutching what I know will be the biggest piece of the puzzle to my past. I start to open the envelope but then don’t for fear that I will be too disturbed to go back to that house. I shower and get dressed for battle. Combat trousers, a black pullover, pumps and a beret for my hair. I go into the kitchen and find a long knife, which I sharpen up on my utility stone, and slip it into a side pocket in my trousers. Then I call a cab.
Ten minutes later, a cab appears outside. I wonder if I’m leaving my house for the last time. Alex is right. There’s no telling what Martha might do but this time I’ll be ready for her. I get in and we set off down my road. At the junction to the main road we stop to let traffic go by. I look out of the window and see that Alex has parked up at the end of the road. He’s been waiting for me. He shakes his head. He wasn’t fooled by me; he knew that I intended to go straight back to the house. I’m desperate for the car to pull away. Because deep down inside, I want to get out of the cab and go and get into Alex’s warm car and be driven away from all this. I put my hand on the door handle and I’m on the brink of getting out when the cab pulls away. I’m too late. But I’m glad of it.
As we go, I blow Alex a kiss.
I walk up the driveway to the house with the poise and movement of a woman whose middle name is confidence. My mojo is securely and firmly in place. No one can stop me now. The house looks imposing today. Chimneys rearing, windows jutting outwards, the gravel on the driveway sharp and pointy with the intent of hurting. Even my special mason’s mark key is half hidden in the shadows. It’s a warning not to come within unless you’re prepared to be swallowed up.
Do your worst. There’s one thing it can’t do: spit me out.
I tense. Eyes are on me; I can feel them. It’s the low purr of a cat that tells me I’m not being observed from Martha and Jack’s house but by someone else. Patsy’s shrewd gaze keeps pace with my every step until I’m standing near her. Davis is as comfy as a clam in her arms. Her arthritic fingers smooth through his fur.
She jumps in fiercely with: ‘You could do worse than Alex, you know.’
I sigh. This wouldn’t be a conversation with Patsy if she weren’t jabbing her finger at me in some way.
‘I know.’ She means well in her gruff way but my focus is elsewhere.
Alex’s Aunty Patsy presses closer. ‘I saw the ambulance take you away. A right song and dance. I hope you’re OK now?’
‘Yeah, I’m good to go.’ Suddenly my mind shoots back to the day I last saw her with Alex. How upset she got talking about John Peters and his family. How she bowed her head and hurried from the room. I was left then, as I am now, with the impression she hadn’t said all she could possibly say. That she was – is – holding back a secret.
I launch into it: ‘What type of man was John Peters? He was a surgeon, wasn’t he?’
Now she looks as if I’ve announced her death sentence. In a heartbeat her hand moves from smoothing the cat to clutching him.
Patsy swiftly heads towards her door. ‘Well, I do have to go—’
‘I lived in that house. Or I certainly used to visit it.’ I elongate my chest as I breath out. Saying this aloud is getting easier, sounding more natural.
Patsy abruptly stops. Turns half around, her mouth an ‘O’. Then her brows wriggle together as she peers hard at me. ‘I remember everyone on this street. I don’t recall clapping eyes on you.’
‘Will you tell me what you know about John and his family back in ninety-eight?’
‘In ninety-eight?’ The date is almost a squeal. Her head shakes with such force it’s a wonder it stays on her shoulder. ‘Don’t remember that year. Yes, I was visiting my girl in Canada—’
‘Why won’t you tell me the truth?’
She swings to face me, her face flushed, expression bleak. ‘Because I can’t.’
Anticipation thrums through me, my heart kicking up with the power and force of a stoked fire. ‘It’s just me and you here. No one else needs to know.’
Patsy’s skittish gaze kicks up to Martha and Jack’s house. That’s when I cotton on that something is terrifying this woman.
I whisper, ‘What are you afraid of? Are they threatening you?’
My mind winds back to the public confrontation over Bette’s death. Jack had angrily challenged her about calling the police and Patsy had sworn blind she hadn’t. In that moment she’d been terrified that Jack had tho
ught she had. What is going on here?
Her gaze settles back on me as her tongue nervously runs along her bottom lip. Davis rubs his head against her chest. Finally, she tells me, ‘I don’t want to end up in the slammer.’
‘Prison?’ I’m confused, stumped. ‘I don’t understand.’
She retraces her steps back to me. For an older woman she’s lively on her feet. ‘It’s him. Tells me that if I open my gob about any of her business to do with the past, he’ll shop me to the police.’
‘Do you mean Jack?’
Patsy rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘Well I ain’t talking about the Pope,’ she snaps. Her face crumbles. ‘I only did it for the pain.’
I resist the huge urge to butt in, knowing she’s finally opening up to me.
Patsy waves one of her hands at me, her fingers bent. ‘The medication my doctor gave me for my arthritis just didn’t work sometimes.’ Her chest heaves sadly. ‘That’s why I miss my Bette so much. She knew when the pain was bad and would jump in my lap and lick my hands, as if she could make the pain go away. What eased the pain was that stuff he grows in the garden.’
‘You mean the cannabis?’
She nods once. ‘When we were still on speaking terms I told him all about my ailment. Told me he had something that could sort me out.’ Her face glazes over with pleasure. ‘Ooh, it worked a treat. And made me happy too.’
The image of Patsy smoking a spliff in front of her fire settles in my mind.
‘Of course, he has me snared in his web because I knew what I was smoking was against the law. When I told him I was taking them to court over the garden he was furious. Said if I breathed a word of what he’s growing he’ll tell them I was his biggest customer.’ Her face drops. ‘The shame if my family ever found out.’
‘You were only trying to help yourself out. Stop your pain. The cops aren’t going to sling you behind bars for that. They’re interested in catching the dealers not the users.’
She cuddles Davis closer, sizing me up. Her voice is a hush. ‘In 1998, one minute John’s family was there, the next they were not. It was so sad that he split up from his adorable wife. Such a lovely lady.’
‘Where did they go?’ I press.
‘The way he told it, she left him for someone else and took the kids with her to Australia. Funny business. But I’ll tell you this. I knew those kids and I used to give them cards for their birthdays. Lovely children. But when I asked John for their new address, instead of saying “No” or “I’d prefer it if you didn’t have it” or “I don’t know it”, he always said he would give it to me, but he never did. About a hundred times I asked him. But he never gave it to me. Strange that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was like he didn’t want me to know where they were living. And come to think of it, I never saw any removal vans turn up when his wife and kids left. They were there one day and gone the next.’
They were there one day and gone the next.
I hang on to Patsy’s haunting words as I push my key into the lock and open the door of the house. I’m afraid the locks might have been changed but if that was Jack’s job, he hasn’t bothered. I walk into the hallway. The house has no lights on at all but I can see down the hall that the dining room is flooded with candlelight. It looks like a cross between a romantic dinner for two and a funeral parlour. Jack emerges from the cupboard under the stairs with a powerful torch.
He shines the light in my face and bursts out laughing. ‘Well, what do you know? Martha! Mad bird’s escaped from the funny farm! Hello, darling, welcome back. Could you hold this light for me? Looks like the fuses have tripped. So, have they drugged you up then? You should have come to me; I could’ve helped out on that front. Ha ha! Listen, babe, I don’t mind a little wacky behaviour but not at night-time. Not when I’m trying to get some shut-eye.’
There’s no sign of Martha. I walk up to where he’s now struggling under the stairs. I take the torch from him and shine it on the fuse box. There’s a shower of blue sparks coming from under the stairs.
Jack sighs. ‘The electrics in this house are shot to pieces. I’d better get you a couple of candles, Lisa. Don’t get spooked in the dark, do you?’
He disappears down the hallway. I walk into the dining room. Martha is sitting in a Victorian chair in the corner. She casts her eyes over me as I walk in and then stands up. She looks bewitching in the candlelight, almost ethereal. ‘So, you really are back?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you think that’s wise? Given your condition?’
Her beautiful face is only inches away from mine. Her eyes are like sparklers in the light. But I don’t back down. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I don’t think you are. Doctor Wilson seems to think you’re very sick. You’re having hallucinations, imagining all kinds of strange things. I expect Doctor Wilson included that in his report.’
I move closer to her so we’re nearly touching. ‘Yes, well, you’d know all about that, seeing as you’re such a good friend of his. Help him with his notes, did you?’
Martha smiles. ‘You’re a fighter, Lisa, I’ll give you that. You’re more of a man than most men I’ve known in my life.’
‘Like Doctor Peters, for example. He wasn’t much of a man, was he?’
She levels me with a stony stare. ‘Doctor who?’
‘Alright, girls, knock it off with the necking. It’s not that kind of house,’ Jack interrupts then titters at his own crap joke.
He’s holding a candelabra in one hand and a bunch of candles in the other.
Martha smiles at me and walks off towards the morning room, taking her own candelabra with her. I wonder if she was once an actress.
Jack lights some candles and then puts them in the ornament. ‘There you go. Take that upstairs with you for now. The lights will be back on in a minute; just a little bit of rewiring required.’
I walk up the second set of stairs to my room. Jack and Martha have been busy, obviously anticipating I wouldn’t be coming back at all. My belongings are in a heap on the bed, no doubt waiting for my dad to collect them from the room he needs no direction in finding.
I shove my belongings to the side so I can sit. I pick up my bag but don’t open it. Instead I inhale, a huge breath to give me strength for what I’m going to do next. Finally, I take out the envelope that Alex gave me and pull out the paper inside. I open it up and begin to read. The light flickers and then goes out again. Deep in the bowels of the house, I can hear Jack shouting and cursing in frustration. I pick up the candelabra, place it close to me and then begin to read Alex’s translation of the writing on the wall.
How long I stay there, still and cold as frozen blood embedded in snow after reading John Peters’ words, I don’t know. A single tear meanders down my cheek. I can’t read it again. Can’t. It makes me want to howl and slam my fists against the black wall.
Chapter 37
Imove to the bottles of water lined up in the back of the wardrobe. Pick up a small one and notice what I should’ve before – the seal is broken. Only an evil mind could dream up drugging another person. I remember how stale the water had tasted one morning; no doubt the aftertaste of the drug. Alex had warned me that at the first opportunity I get I should empty each one down the sink, the toilet, out the window, wherever, as long as they no longer pose a threat to me.
I pick up a bottle and travel across the room to the window. Push it wide and look across at London. I wonder how many people out there are so desperate for somewhere to live they’re considering renting a spare room in someone’s home. The home of someone they know nothing about. A stranger who insists on their rules in their home.
I turn my attention back to the bottle, remembering that Alex told me to get rid of it. I unscrew the lid. Tip it over… straight into my mouth.
I drink the lot. Every last dreg of the stale-tasting water. I nearly don’t. The first thing I do afterwards is sit on the bed and immediately start to regret what I’ve
done. I don’t think I can cope with any more, not after what I’ve just read.
As for Martha… I feel sick even thinking about her, knowing what I do now. Once she found out who I was, that I awake-sleep, have crucifying night terrors, pushing me over the edge was going to be easy. The LSD in the bottle was a nice touch. But she underestimated me. I’m going to use the weapon she used against me against her. If it works.
I know this is crazy. It might be the purest form of idiocy, but the details of what I’ve read now put into perspective what the acid trip made me see yesterday. It pushed me to see the beginning of what really happened all those years ago. Now I need to have my memory jogged, that’s all. The doors of perception… aren’t they supposed to be opened when you drop acid? Or is it the gates of hell? Or both at the same time? I might be risking the horrible effects of a bad trip like I experienced when Alex found me on the high street, but I have to try.
I lie back on the bed and wait to find out.
I think I can hear the pitter-patter of drops on the roof. Has the LSD kicked in? But when I get up and look out of the window, I see it’s raining and start laughing. Perhaps there wasn’t enough gear left in the bottle for it to work, or it degraded or something. But then I realise that the raindrops are a shower of silver glitter – they’re little stars falling from the sky – and I know I’m in business. But then it’s rain again. Perhaps it’s not working but, whatever, I have no time to lose. I hurry to the door. When I open it I get a shock.
Martha is sitting on the landing outside, her back against the wall.
Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Page 24