The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Read online

  The Dream House

  An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

  Jess Ryder

  Books by Jess Ryder

  The Guest

  The Ex-Wife

  The Good Sister

  Lie To Me

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  The Ex-Wife

  Jess’ Email Sign-Up

  Books by Jess Ryder

  A Letter from Jess

  The Good Sister

  Lie to Me

  Acknowledgements

  For survivors of domestic violence everywhere.

  Prologue

  The night sky was a battlefield, brilliant with clashes of colour and flame. Crackling explosions kept jump-starting her heart. Her head was spinning so fast she thought it might shoot off into space and burst into a million sparkling pieces. She was a Roman candle, a banger, a glorious fountain of golden rain.

  The air was thick with smoke, the sulphurous kind you only get on Bonfire Night, that seeps into your clothes and sticks in your hair for days after. The smell reminded her of being a kid – neighbourly get-togethers in back gardens, writing her name with sparklers, stamping the ground to bring the life back to her toes. Burnt sausages, fried onions and tomato ketchup. Dads carrying around biscuit tins and setting off weedy displays – Catherine wheels that wouldn’t spin, rockets that spluttered then fell into the rose bush. They had been simple, innocent times, she thought. But now the smell of gunpowder would be forever associated with this extraordinary night.

  The ground was soft after days of rain. She made her way to the end of the garden, the long wet grass licking her ankles, mud soaking into the soles of her slippers. It was strange that she couldn’t feel the cold. Her breathing was quick and shallow – the baby was so large she couldn’t fill her lungs. She steadied herself on a fence post. The child kicked out, pressing its foot against the wall of her womb.

  Bang, whoosh, sizzle, wheeeeee … The sky was on fire. Hot sparks fluttered around her, illuminating her silhouette as she walked around the compost heap, testing the ground. She crouched down, letting the hem of her dressing gown trail in the damp earth, and picked up a few dead leaves, mulched by the rain.

  Yes, this was the place. Nobody was around to witness; they were all at the park. They would watch the finale, have a few more goes on the rides and stalls, then drift slowly away, stopping off for chips or last orders. Everyone would come home and go straight to bed. She could be out here all night and not a soul would notice.

  It had been a night he had predicted, that she’d been warned about a thousand times. The ultimate attack she’d strangely wanted to happen, but only because she could no longer bear the tension of not knowing when it would come.

  Her fear of him was permanent, a tattoo on a part of her body only he had ever seen. Although the bruises, burns and bite marks had faded, they would never go away completely. She’d been a work in progress to him. ‘One day I’ll finish you off,’ he’d often said, and there’d been no reason to doubt him.

  A loud scream pierced the air. She looked up to see a huge rocket zooming towards the heavens. It held its breath for a moment, then exploded, spattering the sky with blood-red drops of fire.

  The new human being inside her – she hoped it was a girl – drew her knees into her chest.

  ‘It’s only fireworks, silly,’ she whispered, stroking her hard belly. ‘No need to be scared. We’re safe now.’

  Chapter One

  Stella

  Now

  I hug myself under the blanket and stare out to sea. This is my favourite room – a small corner turret perched on top of the house. You can watch the sun travel from east to west from its circular bay window. It’s so high up, I can look straight out at the water and ignore all the signs of human existence in between – the double yellow lines, the bus shelter, the green sward littered with benches, the zigzag of beach hut roofs. I can pretend I’m in the middle of nature, surrounded only by mud, sea and sky.

  Or rather, I could if the builder wasn’t making such a racket. I put my hands over my ears in a futile attempt to block out the banging. It’s been going on all morning; there’s no escaping from it, not even up here. He’s inside my head, hammering against the walls of my brain.

  This tiny room tucked under the eaves is the warmest place in the house. I climb up here every morning after Jack leaves for work to watch the tide go in or out. I can’t seem to drag myself away from the view. Even when the sea’s choppy and there’s a storm brewing it still seems peaceful compared to what’s going on below.

  Sawing, drilling, banging, thumping, things being wrenched apart and smashed to pieces; the house is a demolition site, but unlike our builder, we don’t get to go home at the end of the day. We’ve been camping in one of the downstairs reception rooms for weeks, with an unreliable boiler and only a dribbling electric shower. It’s so cold I can’t bear to take my clothes off at night.

  January is a stupid time of year to start building work, but we had no choice. It took six months for the sale of the house to go through because the owner was a charity and the trustees had to vote on every little decision. Then we couldn’t find a builder who was prepared to do the job for a price we could afford. In the end, I put a postcard on the community noticeboard in the local Co-op, and thankfully, Alan responded. He’s a nice guy but he’s a one-man band, in his late fifties and not the fastest worker on the planet.

  Before we moved in, I created mood boards for every room, with paint colour charts and fabric swatches, wallpaper samples, pictures of rugs and light fittings cut from magazines. I knew exactly how I wanted every space to look, what furniture we would buy and where we would put it. But since we arrived, my enthusiasm has waned. I’m struggling to imagine the tatty bedsits on the first floor transformed into four decent-sized bedrooms. The longer I spend in the gloomy seventies kitchen, the harder it is to visualise the bright and airy extension we’re planning with its generous skylights and bifold doors.

  A seagull lands on the roof just outside the window, its oily feathers ruffling in the cold. I fix my gaze on the watery horizon and try to recapture the excitement I felt the first time we viewed the house. It was June, one of the hottest days of the year. The sun was blazing, the sky was a solid cornflower blue and the English Channel was sparkling like the Mediterranean.

  We’d never been to Nevansey before; all we knew was that it was a few miles from fashionable Whitstable with its oyster restaur
ants, art galleries and vintage shops, and that houses there were a lot cheaper. We took one look at the tatty pier with its souvenir kiosks, its helter-skelter and giant bouncy castle and understood why. The town might have been a pleasant seaside resort once upon a time, but it’s well past its sell-by date.

  Jack wanted to go straight back to the train station, but we’d arranged to meet the estate agent at the property and I felt it would be rude not to turn up. I also had a strange, secret feeling that, despite the unpromising surroundings, this was going to be ‘the one’.

  We turned away from the tacky amusement arcades and set off along the seafront road, grandly named the Esplanade. The heat was exhausting and I felt dehydrated, regretting the bottle of lager I’d drunk with my fish and chips. I fanned myself with the house details as we climbed the hill, passing several boring bungalows and wondering where on earth Westhill House could be. Then we rounded a bend and suddenly it was in front of us, in splendid isolation on a wide corner plot.

  It was love at first sight. For me, anyway; not so much for Jack. The house looked even bigger than in the photos online. Double-fronted, rising to three storeys. Eight bedsit rooms, four downstairs receptions, a cellar, conservatory and large overgrown garden. In need of total refurbishment but with unlimited potential to be transformed into a stunning family home, or so the agents claimed. We stood in awe, silently noting the cracked stonework and rotting window frames, the broken roof tiles clogged with moss, the security cameras hanging off the walls and the rusting alarm box above the front door. Orange streaks ran down the grubby white facade like tears on a child’s face.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said.

  Jack snorted dismissively. ‘The views are amazing, I’ll give you that, but the place is falling apart. It’ll gobble up every penny of your inheritance.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I whispered. ‘It’s what they would have wanted for me.’

  * * *

  It’s almost two o’clock, still no sign of the delivery van. I should go down to the kitchen and make myself some lunch, but Alan is banging so loudly, I’ll never hear a knock on the front door. Feeling my stomach gurgle with hunger, I reluctantly leave my lofty watchtower and go down to the first floor.

  His radio is blaring out as usual, permanently tuned to the past. ‘Jean Genie, let yourself GO!’ he sings, bashing in time with his club hammer. I put my head around the door just in time to see part of a partition wall crash to the floor. Lumps of plaster scatter everywhere and a cloud of grey-pink dust rises in the air, making me cough.

  ‘Don’t come in!’ he shouts above the music. ‘It’s dangerous. The rest could fall down any moment.’

  ‘I’m making tea, want some?’

  He grins. ‘Never say no to a cuppa. Thanks, love.’

  Leaving him to his demolition work, I go down another flight to the kitchen, wincing as always at the sight of the greasy old units, varnished pine cladding and orangey brown tiles. I put the kettle on to boil and am reaching for the box of tea bags when I hear the sound of a vehicle backing onto the driveway.

  As I open the front door, a cold blast of sea air smacks me full in the face. A medium-sized van marked with Sweet Bedtime Dreams in swirly pink writing is parked on the cracked paving stones. The driver gets out and walks towards me.

  ‘Is this Westhill House?’ I nod enthusiastically. A second guy gets out and unlocks the back doors. ‘Queen-sized bed frame and memory-foam mattress. You want it assembled, right?’

  ‘Yes please. We’re sleeping downstairs at the moment, so if you could bring it in here.’ They pick up the mattress and follow me into our makeshift bedroom-cum-living-room.

  Their eyes flicker over the mess and I feel myself redden with embarrassment. Packing boxes are stacked around the walls and our clothes are hanging off hooks like dubious works of art. A pizza box from last night lies stranded on the desk; electric cables trail hazardously across the floor. The airbed we’ve been sleeping on is unmade, and dirty washing is heaped in the corner. I should have tidied up before they arrived, I suppose – not that there’s anything to tidy stuff into.

  While they’re assembling the frame, I retreat to the kitchen to finish making the tea. Fingers crossed this will cheer Jack up, I think. He’s been sulking since our row a few nights ago. One of those quick, nasty exchanges that came out of nowhere, fuelled by tiredness and alcohol.

  ‘I’m sick of living like this,’ he said. ‘The airbed is crippling my back, I haven’t had a proper shower in weeks, and if I have to eat another ready meal, I’m going to kill myself.’

  ‘It’s worse for me. At least you spend the day in a smart office – I’m stuck in this one room.’

  ‘You decided to buy the place.’

  ‘It was a joint decision!’

  ‘No it wasn’t. It was your money, I couldn’t stop you.’

  ‘Yes, my money because my parents are dead,’ I said, then burst into tears.

  I felt bad about using their deaths to trump the argument. The next day, I drove to one of those superstores in a retail park just out of town and bought the best frame and most comfortable mattress they had. It’s a surprise. You could even call it an apology.

  This evening I’m going to steel myself to clean the hob and cook a proper meal for once. It’s only spaghetti bolognese, but I’ve bought fresh Parmesan and a bottle of decent Chianti. Tonight’s going to be a fresh start. Proper food, proper wine, proper bed. Maybe we’ll even have some proper sex for a change.

  * * *

  Five hours later, my heart leaps as I hear the sound of Jack’s key turning in the lock. Rushing to the mirror, I check my lipstick and adjust my hair. I’ve changed out of my usual baggy jumper and jeans and put on a slinky black dress. I’m wearing the sparkly earrings he bought me for my birthday.

  ‘Hi! I’m home!’ he calls.

  I quickly glance around the room. Fresh linen is on the new bed, nightlights are flickering on the mantelpiece, the bottle of wine sits expectantly on the desk we’re using as a dining table. The atmosphere is almost romantic, in a tatty, bohemian kind of way.

  Jack enters, unzipping his jacket. ‘My God! What’s all this?’ he says, grinning.

  ‘I decided enough was enough. It’s queen size, bigger than the double we had at the old flat.’

  ‘Yeah, so I see.’ He sits and bounces up and down on the mattress. ‘Not too hard, not too soft. Good choice, Stella.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re pleased. I know we were going to wait until the new bedroom was finished, but—’

  ‘No, no, you did the right thing.’ He flops back in a starfish shape and sniffs the air. ‘And do I actually smell cooking?’

  I run off to the kitchen to serve up while Jack opens the Chianti and pours two generous glasses.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ I waltz back in with the steaming plates of spaghetti. ‘Not exactly MasterChef, I know, but at least it’s real food.’

  ‘Anything’s better than the shit we’ve been eating lately,’ he says, then adds, ‘I mean, I’m sure it’ll be delicious.’

  The pasta and the bottle of wine seem to do the trick, and before long we’re snuggled up together on our new bed, watching a movie and starting some casual foreplay. His hand creeps along the front opening of my dress and slips under my bra. I feel my nipple harden and lean into him, gently caressing the back of his neck. It’s been so long since we made love, we’ve almost forgotten how to do it. I stare into his dark brown eyes and grin mischievously. He gives me a slow, understanding nod and shuts the lid of the laptop.

  Then everything picks up speed and we’re tearing each other’s clothes off and thrashing about, kissing everything we can get our mouths to.

  ‘I love you,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry everything’s so chaotic – do you think it was a mistake buying the hou—’

  ‘Shut up,’ he replies softly, opening my legs. ‘I don’t want to think about that now. All I want is you.’ I pull him into me, clasping my hands over his small, tight buttoc
ks as we rock together.

  Suddenly there’s a loud thumping noise. I start nervously. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Mmm … it’s nothing. Kiss me.’

  ‘No, listen! Somebody’s at the door.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  Thump, thump, thump. It sounds like they’re hammering with their fist.

  ‘Who do you think it is? What shall we do?’

  Jack lifts his head. ‘Ignore it.’

  The knocking continues, growing louder, more insistent.

  ‘Maybe it’s Alan. He might have forgotten something.’

  ‘If it is, he can wait till tomorrow.’

  ‘It can’t be Alan, he’s got a key.’ Bang, bang. They’re not giving up. I wriggle out from under him and grab my dressing gown.

  ‘Don’t answer. It’s probably some delivery guy got the wrong address.’

  Bang, bang, bang.

  ‘Not at this time of night. It sounds really urgent. Maybe it’s the police.’

  ‘Why would it be the police?’ he says, sitting up. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  But I know the banging’s not going to stop until I answer. I run barefoot into the freezing hallway, quickly tying the belt of my gown.