The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Read online

  ‘Who is it?’ I shout. A dark silhouette presses against the wire-reinforced glass.

  ‘Please let me in! Please!’ A female voice.

  I bend down and shout through the letter box. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘I need help!’

  Jack emerges, a towel around his waist. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a woman out there. Says she needs help.’

  ‘What? It could be a scam, Stella. Don’t answer.’

  But all I can think of is Mum and Dad, remembering how they lay bleeding in the road that dark rainy night. Maybe they cried for help but nobody came. If the driver had stopped, if a passer-by had witnessed the accident and called an ambulance, they might still be alive today. And then I wouldn’t be carrying all this guilt around with me. Maybe, just maybe, this is a chance to make amends for the terrible thing I did.

  Without another thought, I fling open the front door.

  Chapter Two

  Stella

  Now

  The woman staggers forward a few paces, then falls headlong into the hallway, smacking herself hard against the cold tiles and rolling onto her side. For a second she’s completely still; all we can hear is her heavy breathing. Jack and I stare down at her.

  ‘What the …?’ he murmurs.

  Her face is badly bruised, her lip is swollen and blood is trickling from the corner of her mouth. There are streaks of dried blood down the front of her sweatshirt, her jogging bottoms are tatty and stained and she’s wearing slippers. No coat, no socks. She’s clutching a brown handbag to her chest. Behind her on the doorstep is a small black suitcase, the size I’d use for a weekend away.

  ‘What happened?’ I crouch beside her.

  ‘Door,’ she says through thick lips.

  ‘What? Is somebody out there? Jack – shut it, for God’s sake! She’s terrified.’

  He goes to the doorway and steps outside, peering into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anyone.’ He comes back inside, moves the case into the hallway and shuts the door. ‘Have you been mugged?’ She shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say gently. ‘We’ll take care of you.’ I look up at Jack. ‘Should we call the police? Ambulance?’

  ‘No! No police!’ She shakes her head fiercely. ‘No ambulance.’

  ‘But you’ve been attacked.’

  ‘No! They said it was okay … No police …’

  ‘Who said it was okay? The bastard that did this?’

  ‘No! No … Phone … On the phone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asks Jack, hovering a few paces away. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Let’s not worry about that now. There’s a first-aid kit in one of the boxes,’ I say. ‘See if you can find it.’

  He doesn’t move. ‘But we don’t know anything—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter right now. She’s hurt. Find some antiseptic cream, plasters, anything. Boil a kettle, we need hot water.’

  ‘We should call the police.’

  ‘She doesn’t want us to. Please just find the first-aid kit. And get some clothes on.’ He turns around with a huff and disappears into the front room.

  I go back to the woman. ‘Are you okay to sit up?’ She nods. ‘Let me help you.’ I carefully ease her upwards. ‘I’m Stella. What’s your name?’

  ‘Lori,’ she mumbles. ‘Ta.’ She moves her head stiffly, looking around her with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to A and E?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes, I’m sure … Don’t need hospital. No police.’

  ‘But you’ve been attacked, Lori. You need to report it. How did it happen? Was it a stranger, or do you know them?’

  She screws up her eyes. ‘This is Westhill House, right?’

  ‘Yes …’ I say warily.

  ‘You take anyone in, no questions, no police unless we ask for them. You never turn anyone away, that’s what they said.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘The helpline.’

  ‘What? I’m ever so sorry, I think there’s been some mistake.’

  ‘No, no mistake,’ she says firmly. ‘This is Westhill House. The refuge.’

  ‘A refuge?’

  ‘Yes! You know, for battered women.’ My mind immediately goes to the bedsit units, the communal spaces downstairs, the cameras, the alarms, the security glass on all the external doors.

  ‘Well, um, maybe, I don’t know, maybe it used to be a refuge, but it’s not any more, hasn’t been for a long time. It’s a private house now. I’m really, really sorry, but you’ve been given duff information—’

  She grabs my arm. ‘Please, love, please don’t turn me away! I’ve nowhere else to go, I’m running for my life. He’ll be out there looking for me. If he finds me, I swear he’ll kill me. Please, I’m begging you, let me stay.’

  My head spins with contradictory thoughts. I’ve just let a total stranger into my house; I must be crazy. How do I even know she’s telling the truth? But then I look at the bruises on her face, her swollen bloody lip …

  ‘Let’s get you cleaned up first,’ I say, gently lifting her to her feet.

  I steer her into the front room and sit her on the edge of our new bed, where just a few moments ago we were in the throes of passionate lovemaking. Her glance wanders over the telltale scene. The remains of our romantic dinner are still lying on the table, flickering candles almost burnt down to stubs, our empty wine glasses stained ruby red. My clothes are lying on the floor where Jack threw them after he ripped them off me. The sheets are crumpled from our thrashing about.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ I say, quickly kicking my bra and knickers under the bed. My flimsy dressing gown barely disguises my nakedness, and my bare feet are freezing. ‘We’re camping in here while we’re having the house done up.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She pulls her knees together, clutching her handbag as if it contains her whole life.

  Jack, now back in jeans and a shirt, brings me the first-aid kit and I tear open a packet of antiseptic wipes. She flinches as I try to clean the dried blood off her face. ‘Sorry. There’s a small cut on your cheekbone and the inside of your mouth seems to be bleeding.’

  ‘He swung at me, made me bite my cheek.’

  ‘You should get checked out at the hospital,’ Jack says, hovering behind me.

  She shakes her head. ‘Nah, it’ll be all right … I’ve had worse.’

  ‘There, that’s the best I can do.’ I stick a plaster over the cut. She looks up and gives me a weak smile.

  ‘Thanks, you’re an angel. Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t answered the door.’

  Jack is staring at her, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘My husband,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Jesus … Why?’

  ‘Let’s not go into that now,’ I say, shooting a glance at him. ‘She’s escaped, that’s the main thing.’ Turning to Lori, I add, ‘You’ve been incredibly brave.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ She looks down at her grubby pink mules. ‘What must I look like? A total wreck. Didn’t even put my shoes on.’ Tears well up in her dull grey eyes and she wipes them on her sleeve. ‘But at least I’m alive, eh? Just about.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or some tea?’

  ‘Tea, please, if you’re making.’

  ‘I think we could all do with one.’ I look meaningfully at Jack and he signals that he wants to talk to me. ‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, following him out of the room.

  We go to the kitchen and he closes the door behind us, his face puckered with annoyance.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he hisses, ‘but she can’t stay.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because! We don’t know who she is, or why she’s here—’

  ‘She’s just told us. Her name’s Lori; her husband beat her up so she escape
d.’

  ‘How do we know she’s telling the truth?’

  I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, hoping its roar will drown out our conversation. ‘Look at the state of her! We can’t turn her away. Her husband could have followed her. He could be out there now, waiting for her. What if he murders her in the street? We’d never forgive ourselves.’

  ‘If he’s outside, we should call the police. Let them sort it out.’

  ‘She doesn’t want them involved.’

  ‘That’s stupid. Why on earth not?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jack, she must have her reasons. Maybe she doesn’t trust them.’

  He huffs, unable to comprehend. ‘Well maybe I don’t trust her. I mean, why come here? Why pick on us?’

  ‘Apparently this house used to be a refuge.’ He stares at me blankly. ‘You know, for victims of domestic abuse. Their locations are kept secret.’

  ‘Oh. Right …’ He thinks for a few seconds. ‘If it’s a secret, how come she knew about it?’

  ‘She rang a helpline and was given this address.’

  ‘What helpline?’

  ‘I don’t know. They told her to come here and she’d be looked after – they got it wrong, it wasn’t her fault.’

  Jack takes a breath. ‘Okay, okay, that makes a tiny bit of sense, I suppose. But it’s not a refuge any more, is it?’ He looks at me hard.

  I pop tea bags into three mugs and pour on the boiling water. ‘It’s midnight; she’s hurt, scared, in shock. We can’t turf her out now. She can have the air mattress and a sleeping bag in the other room.’ I push past Jack to get to the fridge and take out the milk. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Yes it is – it’s a huge deal,’ he fumes. ‘We don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘It’s just for tonight. I’ll help her sort out a proper refuge in the morning.’ I pick up two of the mugs. ‘Be kind, Jack. Please, for me?’ I leave him pouting furiously in the kitchen and go back to our guest.

  ‘Do you take sugar?’ I say as I enter the front room, hoping to God she didn’t overhear us.

  ‘No, that’s fine, as long as it’s warm and wet.’ I pass her a mug, and she cradles it against her bloodstained top. ‘I’m really sorry for barging in on you like this. They told me on the phone I could just turn up, no questions asked.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not your fault, you were misinformed.’

  ‘I know, but I feel terrible …’ She pauses, looking anxiously towards the door. ‘I get the feeling your husband isn’t too happy about me being here.’

  ‘He’s not actually my husband, but he’s fine – it’s okay, we both want to help. We’ve got a camping mattress you can sleep on tonight. I’ll set you up in the other room. It’s a bit of a building site, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Anything’s better than being on the streets. You’re a diamond, thank you.’

  ‘Please don’t keep thanking me, it’s okay. Try to get some rest and we’ll sort it all out in the morning.’

  * * *

  It’s nearly one o’clock before we get to bed. I lie in the darkness, listening to Jack’s snuffling breathing and wondering about Lori in the room on the other side of the hallway. Has she collapsed with exhaustion or is she still awake too? I’d be surprised if she could sleep after what she’s been through tonight.

  I turn onto my side, listening to the noises of the house. It’s as if it has woken up after a long sleep, rubbing its eyes and stretching its limbs. I can hear it gently breathing, the floorboards creaking like old bones, the rusty pipes gurgling and coughing. How many women have knocked on its door, battered and bruised, desperate for help? It could be in the hundreds, even thousands.

  Jack’s furious with me, but I couldn’t turn her away, I just couldn’t. Thank God we were at home tonight. What if we’d refused to answer? What if her husband had followed her and stabbed her on the driveway with a kitchen knife? Left her dying in a pool of blood? I shudder, banishing the violent image from my mind and replacing it with a picture of her wrapped safely in her sleeping bag in the room across the hallway. I did the right thing, I think. For once in my life, Mum and Dad would have been proud of me.

  Chapter Three

  Kay

  Then

  It was mid February and the shop was heaving with symbols of love. Posters in the window, red bunting strung between the shelves, teddies with hearts stitched onto their tummies, heart-shaped key rings, foil balloons that brushed against her face every time she opened the till. The ‘with sympathy’ and ‘get well soon’ ranges had been put away in drawers, as if nobody would have the nerve to fall ill or die at such a romantic time of the year.

  Kay grumpily rearranged the gift bags, which a customer had jumbled up. It was going to be her first Valentine’s Day at the shop and she hoped it would be her last. By this time next year she was determined to have a different, better job, hopefully in Miss Selfridge. This was no place for a single mum without a love life.

  She’d felt so envious these last couple of weeks, watching the young men shuffle in, as embarrassed as if they’d just walked into a porn shop. Although to be fair, the majority of their male customers were older, and even if they didn’t wear a wedding ring, they had a married look about them. It seemed a bit daft, sending a Valentine’s card to somebody you’d already bagged, but how wonderful to have a romantic husband, she thought. How wonderful to have a husband at all …

  ‘No man will ever want you now,’ her mother had said when Kay had confessed that she was pregnant. She was only fifteen. The father was a Spanish waiter she’d met on a family holiday in Torremolinos. He was breathtakingly handsome; all the girls staying at Hotel Cascada had fallen for him. His name was Miguel Angel, although he pronounced the g in Angel as a thrilling, husky h. He sneaked free shots of Bacardi into her Coca-Cola without her parents knowing and told her to meet him at the end of his shift. She pretended to go to bed at the same time as her parents, but crept back down an hour later, emboldened with alcohol, puffed up that he’d chosen her above the other English girls. It never occurred to her that he’d picked her out as the most likely fool.

  He took her onto the dark, cool sand, and laid her down beside the pedalos, lifting her dress to her waist and taking her knickers down, scraping them over her sunburnt thighs. She was a virgin. Until that point, there’d been little more than a clumsy grope of her breast, an ugly love bite on her neck, a slobbering schoolboy kiss. But Miguel Angel was nineteen and reckoned she owed him more than just kisses. She didn’t mean to let him go all the way, but she was drunk and her Spanish was limited to por favor and gracias. Before she could stop him, it was all over. More a devil than an angel, as it turned out.

  ‘You’re shop-soiled, damaged goods,’ her mother said, but to her astonishment, they let her keep the baby. As time passed, she found it harder to remember Miguel’s features, but she saw his gorgeous dark eyes and smooth olive skin every day in her daughter. Abigail was four now and had just started school.

  Kay glanced at the clock and tried to work out what the little girl would be doing at this moment. It was morning break; she’d be running around the yard or playing games with her friends. She was a precocious little thing, surrounded by doting grown-ups. Mum and Dad had been very kind, Kay reflected, as she neatened up the cards, putting the ones that had wandered off back in their rightful places. She had disappointed them but they hadn’t thrown her out. They adored their granddaughter – spoilt her rotten, in fact. But the second she started school, Dad had shoved the evening newspaper in Kay’s face and told her to find herself a job.

  She’d applied for several, mostly in clothes shops because they gave you a ten per cent discount, but Many Congratulations had been the first place to call her to interview and they’d offered her the job on the spot. They were good about letting her work around school hours. She did nine to three Monday to Friday and then a long day on Saturdays. Mum babysat, but she didn’t want to look after Abigail all day and then all evening,
so Kay hadn’t had a Saturday night out for months. She couldn’t help but feel she was still serving a punishment for that hot August night over five years ago.

  Somebody behind her coughed. She turned around to see a young bloke holding up several Valentine’s cards. They were spread in a fan, making her think of a magician. Pick a card, any card …

  ‘Would you help me, please?’ he said. He was tall, with a square jaw and beady blue eyes. Smartly dressed in a Crombie-style overcoat and a pair of stay-press trousers. ‘I don’t know which one to choose.’

  ‘Wife or girlfriend?’

  ‘Neither … not yet.’ He went slightly red and undid the top buttons of his coat. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was a proper Ben Sherman shirt he had on – pale blue with a buttoned-down collar. She guessed he was about the same age as her, twenty-one or two at the most. Far too good-looking to be unattached.

  She looked at his choices. He was obviously the romantic type; the cards he’d picked out were all very similar – combinations of hearts, flowers and cute-faced teddies. A few had tiny satin bows stapled into the fold, and there was a lot of glitter, some of which had come off on his fingertips.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Very pretty.’ He screwed up his eyes as if peering at her through frosted glass. ‘Slim but not skinny. Lovely hair. Great legs. Beautiful smile.’

  ‘I meant what sort of personality has she got.’

  ‘Oh! A kind one, I’d say. She’s a very nice person, but to be honest, I don’t know her very well.’

  ‘Then I’d go for something quite tasteful, not too over-the-top – you don’t want to scare her off.’

  ‘Good point,’ he said.

  ‘That one would be my pick.’ She pointed to the card in the centre of the fan. It featured a bouquet of wild flowers, pinks, blues and purples on a white background. Silver glitter sparkled between the petals and there was a small silver heart embossed on the top right-hand corner.