Spare Room: a twisty dark psychological thriller Read online

  When I was released from the hospital, four months ago, something shifted me in a new direction. I can’t explain fully what it was. Maybe I finally realised I couldn’t go on like this. That’s when I decided.

  I don’t need guidance and help.

  I just need the truth.

  Nevertheless, I’ll visit Doctor Wilson if it will keep Mum and Dad happy, get them off my back.

  We carry on for the remainder of the evening as if nothing has happened. That’s what happens in families like mine: if embarrassment comes calling, invite it inside, permanently disable it and then sweep, and keep it, under the carpet. Our time together ends with a promise from them to visit me in London in two weeks’ time. Only when I get back into the car do I realise something about their upcoming visit.

  I haven’t told them I’m moving to Jack and Martha’s spare room.

  Chapter 3

  Martha and Jack are waiting for me at the front door the day I move in, a carbon copy of what my parents do each time I visit them. The sight makes me nervy as I climb out of the Uber with my single piece of luggage. I wasn’t expecting a greeting party, like a welcome mat to dust the dirt from my shoes before I’m allowed to enter. Of course they would want to welcome me into their home, I reason to myself.

  I’m so jittery it’s a wonder I can move. I’ve spent most of the night tossing and turning, worrying myself to death about this move. I’ve shared a home with other people before, but this will be the first time I’ll be living with the people who own the property. Martha smiles and waves at me while her husband rocks slightly on his heels.

  There’s nothing to worry about. These are good people.

  I paste a super bright smile on as I confidently walk towards them. Martha surprises me with a big hug. Her warmth and delicately scented perfume wrap around me. I’m slightly awkward in her clinging arms, but some of my tension melts away.

  She gently releases me, but doesn’t let go, instead links an arm through mine. ‘Welcome, Lisa,’ she pronounces dramatically, as if she’s live in front of an audience to hand me an award.

  She certainly is dressed for the part. Last week, during my viewing, she was all chic woman about town; now she embodies the host of a very exclusive house party. Cocktail dress, ice-pick thin ruby-red heels and expertly contoured make-up that stops just short of resembling a mask. I wonder if she’s going out. Or whether she’s one of those ‘sleeping beauty’ women who insist on being done up to the max in bed, always on twenty-four hour looks call. Beside her I’m the picture of scruffiness in my faded stonewashes and long-sleeved green plaid blouse, with super short hair on top of my big-eyed owl face.

  She gazes at me like I’m an adored family member. ‘We want you to be very happy in our home. Your home.’

  Your home. It hits me then that I’ll be living in a place that’s not really my own. A place already occupied by the people who own it: two strangers.

  ‘I’m surprised that you were able to give notice so quickly on your old place,’ Jack comments.

  My hand tightens on the handle of my luggage. ‘I’ve been sofa surfing at a friend’s. Finding a place to stay at a decent price is murder in London. You don’t know how grateful I am to have found your room.’ I end with a genuine smile this time.

  I am truly grateful. This move means everything to me.

  Jack quickly takes my case as Martha’s arm ushers me inside. The hallway brims with much more light today so I notice the framed prints and pictures on the wall. I have this insane urge to stand still again on the red and black rug in the heart of the house, but Martha propels me towards the stairs. She lets go of my arm.

  ‘Jack, do the honours,’ she requests softly. There’s laughter in her voice, bordering on that of a giggly teenager.

  I follow him up. Then I hear a high-pitched creak behind. Martha is following us up the stairs. Once again all the doors are closed, including the bathroom this time. There must be a window open somewhere because a cooling breeze licks at our heels as we progress along the first landing.

  My room. I decide to claim it as Jack opens the door. The natural light that bathes it today is overcast. The air is still in the spare room, closing the walls in, making it seem smaller. And that blasted, annoying air freshener still lingers like an unwanted roommate who doesn’t pay their share of the rent.

  Jack wheels my luggage towards the bed and gives me a front door key. Martha remains in the doorway.

  Jack looks at my luggage. ‘You travel light.’

  ‘Yes, most of my gear is in storage.’

  ‘Waste of good money, Lisa. You should bring it all over here, we’ve got room.’ Then he hastily adds, ‘That’s all right, isn’t it, Martha?’

  Martha clucks her tongue at her husband. ‘Give the girl a chance to breathe, she’s just got here. We can talk about storage another time. I’m sure all Lisa wants to do now is settle in.’

  I hastily inform both that it’s fine; the storage deal I’ve got works for me.

  It’s a strange thing but whenever you go to view a house, a flat or a room you never notice the little faults even though you’re looking out for them. It’s only after you’ve moved in that they jump out at you. The previous night there had been a short, sharp summer shower and now I can see drops of water around the skylight and the ceiling around it shows signs of damp. I point the problem out to Jack.

  He studies the skylight for a while as if that might dry it out. ‘I thought I’d fixed that. No matter, I’ll get a stepladder and have a look at it.’

  ‘No rush. Whenever you’re ready.’

  The last thing I want is to give the impression I’m going to be one of those demanding tenants, bitching and moaning about every tiny detail.

  Then I remember. ‘Is there a key for the room?’

  Martha answers, her fingers locking together loosely in front of her gorgeous dress. I notice the ultra-red polish on her nails. ‘None of the rooms in the house have keys. Myself and Jack decided that the only way we can have another person living in our home is on a principle of trust.’

  I should really insist on a key. Surely that’s pretty basic in these types of arrangements? How else am I going to guarantee my privacy?

  But I quickly agree with her. ‘Yes, of course.’ I’m not happy about it but I don’t want to make a big drama about it; I can’t lose this room.

  Then Jack gives me some reassurance by pointing at the door. ‘There’s a bolt on the inside, so you can have privacy.’

  He comes to stand beside his wife. Seeing them side by side, I can’t help but think how odd they look together. All the cosmetics, Botox and fillers in the world can’t disguise how much older she is than him. His tatts and man bun will never be a match for her elegance. Instantly I feel bad thinking such bitchy thoughts.

  Then I remember. I don’t care about Jack or Martha. The only thing that matters is the room. It’s mine.

  ‘There are rooms that are private.’ Martha lists them, tagging on a reminder about the garden.

  Which reminds me: ‘I met your neighbour after I left the other day. An older lady. She said something about her garden…’

  Twin tension stops them in their tracks. Now why did I say that? I don’t want them to think I’m going to be trouble or stick my beak into their business. And it is their business – whatever is between them and their neighbour has nothing to do with my time here.

  Jack recovers first with a loud scoff. ‘Don’t worry about the old bat. She don’t know what she’s saying.’ He touches his temples to indicate she’s not the full ticket. ‘Lost her marbles years back, that one.’

  Lost her marbles… A chill runs through me.

  Martha tells her husband off, very gently. ‘Don’t call her an old bat, Jack. We’re all going to end up at that age one day and I, for one, want to be spoken about with the respect that should be given to an older person.’ Her green gaze twists to me. ‘Still, I’d stay out of her way if I were you.’

  That se
ems to be the perfect point to bid them thanks and goodbye.

  They don’t leave; they remain in the doorway, frozen statues gazing at me. Like characters from Westworld waiting for their circuits and wires to be connected. A confused, uncomfortable sensation creeps over me.

  Then Martha pops on her carefree smile like a light bulb. ‘Anything you need or don’t understand—’

  ‘Ask me,’ Jack cuts in, wearing a lopsided grin.

  Martha playfully punches him on the arm. Then both turn to each other and laugh. Holding hands, they leave me to my new home. I hear the quiet, moaning music of the landing as they walk across it, of the stairs as they go down. Their voices are low with the quality of rustling paper as they whisper back and forth on the way. I suppose it must be a bit uncomfortable for them having someone else in their house. It’s not something I think I could do. How do you relax knowing there’s a stranger within the four walls of your home?

  First order of business is the mirror. I walk over to it and flip the glass around. I won’t be looking at the full-length reflection of my body it provides.

  My phone pings. A text from my dad. He’s been putting me through text hell since my visit. A text last evening to say how nice it was for him and Mum to see me. He included Doctor Wilson’s personal number without comment. I replied without mentioning the number. An early text this morning to thank me for thanking him and the phone number. Again. I didn’t reply to that one.

  I open his message. No pretence lurking behind good manners this time. Only the number.

  I haven’t contacted Doctor Wilson because I’m hoping if I leave it for a few days he might get run over or retire and save me the trouble of having to go to see him. Nasty thoughts, but that’s how much I don’t want to see him. I copy the number into my phone and make as if to call it but then change my mind. Perhaps if I leave it for another few hours, Doctor Wilson will decide to emigrate in the meantime.

  I step out onto the landing, closing the door quietly behind me. I stand there for a few minutes. Soak up what I can see and hear. Some people think that houses can talk to them. I want this house to talk to me.

  There’s very little on the top floor that’s new. The light fittings are chandelier type contraptions with multiple bulbs. They’re made out of what looks like gilt that’s flaking in places. My room’s door is old-fashioned, wood panel with a brass handle. It would brush up a real treat if stripped and varnished. The wallpaper has been there for years and is peeling away at the top.

  I listen hard. But the top floor is silent. It’s got nothing to say to me except that Jack and Martha have let this place go a little. Maybe they aren’t as cash-rich as I thought which explains why they need a tenant.

  I go down the stairs to the landing of the middle floor. I look up and down, close my eyes, smell the air. Listen. I only hear Jack and Martha somewhere downstairs. This house has nothing to say to me. It’s silent. Perhaps another time.

  I can wait.

  Chapter 4

  Istart to unpack and hang things up. Tops are always long-sleeved, trousers full-length, shoes open enough to display the tops of my feet. I have a few private papers I decide to put in the bedside cabinet but the drawers won’t shut properly. I pull them out and find lots of junk has fallen down the back. It includes takeaway menus, business cards for cabs, an old flannel. And there’s an envelope. It’s unsealed with a folded piece of paper inside.

  My ears prick up. I’m sure I hear a creak on the staircase that leads up to my room. I listen intently but don’t hear it again. Stop being such a ninny. I know in old houses the wood expands on hot days and then contracts at night. That’s what the noise must have been. Maybe I should go and check? I half get up, the envelope still in my hand. But I stop myself near the door. Stop being paranoid. You wanted the house to talk to you and now it is – except it’s the language of old wood that you can’t understand. I try to shrug it off, but the gut-wrenching sensation of my first night in a strange house won’t disappear.

  Instead I retreat back to the bed and pull out the folded paper inside the envelope. It’s a letter. Handwritten in a neat and precise professional style. The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold. I see straight away what type of letter this is.

  I jump when the creaking sound is back outside. This time it’s not on the staircase; it’s on the landing near my room. It stops again. My breathing is heavy in the room. A few moments later there it is again. The uneven squeak of something heavy pressing against wood.

  I put the letter back in its envelope and hide it under the mattress. I hurry over to the door. Put my ear up against it. Listen. There’s silence.

  Bang.

  The thud of the knock against the door vibrates through me. I reel back in shock, panting wildly.

  ‘Who is it?’ I can’t keep the trembling from my call.

  ‘Only me.’

  I relax. It’s Jack. I flex my fingers by my side and catch my breath, trying to compose myself. I think about telling him to go away, but then he adds, ‘Just wondering if you’ve got a minute?’

  I open the door – not too wide, though – to see what he wants. But I suspect I’ve made a mistake straightaway. I should have told him I was in bed. He’s in tailored trousers, highly polished shoes, freshly ironed white shirt with a gold chain dangling around his neck. He smells of soap and too much spicy aftershave. He looks like he’s going on a date. Maybe he and Martha are going out. Both of his hands are hidden behind his back.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’

  He produces one of the hands like a magician. He’s holding a stapled wad of paper.

  ‘The lease. You’ve forgotten to sign the lease.’

  He’s right. I was so eager to move in that I hadn’t stopped to think about getting all the legal stuff done and dusted.

  ‘Oh, right.’ I stretch out a hand. ‘If you leave it with me, I’ll read and sign and get it back to you in the morning.’

  ‘That’s alright, I’ll wait. Me and Martha are keen to get all the i’s and t’s dotted and crossed.’

  He pushes the door open with his shoulder and I let him do it because I’m too embarrassed not to. How many terrible things have happened to women because they’re too embarrassed to put their foot down? It’s only when Jack’s in my room that I realise what he’s got in his other hand. In his fist is a bottle of champagne and between his fingers are the stems of two glasses.

  Smiling like a grown-up boy, he waves the bottle at me. ‘Bought you a little present as a housewarming. Can’t move in without blessing your new room. You read the lease, I’ll pour us a couple of glasses of bolly.’

  He closes the door and manages to pull the bolt without me even noticing he’s done it. I could say something but decide the best policy is to get the lease signed and him out of the door.

  I sit down, wilting, on the chair at the desk while Jack sits on my bed. He bounces up and down on it.

  ‘Comfy!’ He pats the bed as his tongue snakes out, wetting his lips. ‘What you doing over there? Don’t be shy, come and sit with me. Woah…!’ The champagne cork rockets upwards and scuffs the ceiling while the fizz gushes over the floorboards.

  I stay where I am. Jerk my widening gaze down to the lease. My hands are shaking and I’m scared stiff. Jack doesn’t appear so charmless and harmless anymore. I remember the touch of his rough flesh against my skin.

  ‘Where’s Martha?’

  ‘Martha?’ He repeats it as if I’m talking about an alien. ‘She’s gone out. Don’t worry about her; no one wants her at a housewarming party anyway. She knows what side her bread’s buttered on when it comes to me.’ I don’t believe him. I’ve seen the way she flicks furtive glances at him, the way of a woman deeply in love. Poor Martha.

  He looks at me with a hint of reproach. ‘You’re staying over there then?’

  ‘I’m reading the lease.’

  ‘Don’t be long or the fizz will go flat.’

  My fizz has already gone flat. What should
I do? I’m in his house and the door’s bolted. He’s nearer to the door and if I run for it he might get there first. Plus, I’ll have to use valuable time to undo the bolt. My mind is running riot. He might not even be thinking of attacking me, but when a man you barely know pushes his way into your space with alcohol and locks the door, anything can happen. I think of the awful, unfair tragedy that happened to a girl who had worked in my office. Lonely after her divorce, she’d gone on a date with a seemingly respectable guy who had drugged and raped her. Rape scars victims’ lives. I’m so vulnerable. Even if I scream, we’re so high up in the house; who will hear my desperate cry for help?

  I gather my courage. ‘Jack, I want you to leave.’

  ‘What?’ He appears startled, like he really doesn’t understand why I want him to get out.

  ‘What you’re doing isn’t fair to your wife.’

  He raises his glass. ‘The only thing I’m doing is offering you some bubbly – which I might add cost me a fair bit in the pocket department – to toast your new home.’

  I sign my name with a flourish on both copies of the lease without reading them properly and stand up. Stretching my arm out as far as possible, I hold his copy out to him; I don’t want him anywhere near me.

  ‘Here’s the lease, with the i’s and t’s dotted and crossed. Now please leave.’

  Suddenly his attention shifts sharply to the door. ‘Did you hear that?’

  I wish it was the sound of me punching him in the face.

  Instead, I turn my ear towards the door too. Can’t hear anything. Jack clumsily puts his glass down on the bedside cabinet and hurries over to the door. The Jack the Lad pose has deserted him. With the quiet know-how of a burglar he eases back the bolt to minimise the sound it makes. Opens the door slightly.

  Now I can hear it. It’s Martha calling his name. It sounds as if she’s in the hallway. He stiffens and then holds his finger to his lips to indicate silence. For the first time, I become angry. He’s making it look like I’m complicit in his out-of-order visit.