The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

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The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 20

by Jess Ryder


  ‘Go back to your room. Now!’ Foxy barked. ‘Keep out of it.’

  ‘But I want Mummy!’

  ‘A hiding is what you’ll get if you don’t do as you’re told.’ Abigail squealed and Kay imagined him slapping her daughter around the face, pushing her back to her bedroom.

  ‘Leave her be, Foxy!’ she shouted as the sound of scuffling and screaming continued on the other side of the door. What was he doing to her? It was no good, she would have to come out. But before she could slip the bolt, she heard Foxy cry out in pain and swear.

  ‘You little tyke!’ he shouted. ‘You wait till I get hold of you!’

  She flung open the door just in time to see Abigail hurtling down the stairs in her pink pyjamas.

  ‘The cow bit me!’ He was rubbing his hand and sucking on the wound.

  Kay tried to get across the landing, but he was blocking her way. In the hallway below, Abigail was standing on tiptoes, reaching up to the door latch. The door shuddered open and she ran out in her bare feet.

  ‘Abigail! Come back!’ Kay cried, then turned to Foxy. ‘Let me pass. She can’t go out, she’ll get run over!’

  ‘It’ll be her own stupid fault if she does,’ he snarled.

  ‘You can’t say that; she’s only seven. I need to go after her.’

  ‘You need to do as I tell you.’ Foxy was burning up, his ears and cheeks flushed red. ‘You’re making me very angry, Kay,’ he added, dragging her by the hair into the bedroom and flinging her onto the mattress. He took the key from the door and locked her in from outside.

  She felt truly sick now; her heart was racing uncontrollably and she was sweating. This was far worse than all the blows he’d ever struck. Her little girl was out in the street, in the dark, and she couldn’t reach her. She lifted herself off the bed and staggered to the window, opening it and leaning out.

  ‘Abigail! Where are you, love?’

  The front garden was empty, the gate swinging open. Kay blinked into the evening gloom, searching for her daughter’s silhouette in the pool of light coming from the lamp post on the other side of the street. But there was no sign of her. How could she have disappeared in such a short space of time?

  ‘Abigail! Abigail! Please – talk to Mummy!’ she shouted, her voice dipping with hopelessness.

  She tasted fear in the back of her throat. Why wasn’t her daughter answering? Had something happened to her? It would be easy for a driver to hit a child darting out from between the parked cars. But there’d been no screeching of brakes, no sound of a crash.

  The air was still and silent, the pavements empty. If she called for help, nobody would hear her and it would only make things worse with Foxy. Perhaps Abigail was hiding. It would be the sensible thing to do – to crawl under a bush or crouch behind a dustbin. She was such a smart kid, not eight until next month, and yet so grown up compared to how Kay had been at that age.

  ‘Abigail? Are you there, love?’ she said in a loud stage whisper, pausing with her mouth open, waiting for a sign – a word, a rustle, a white arm waving out of the darkness. But nothing came. ‘Just wait there, sausage. Mummy will be down as soon as she can.’

  She drew her head back inside and stood with her back against the wardrobe, trying to steady her racing heartbeat. Her ears were pricked, but all she could hear was the blood rushing through her head. Where was Foxy? What was he doing? He must have gone downstairs.

  She moved forward and rattled the door, knowing it wouldn’t open but still feeling the need to try. She’d once seen someone slide a sheet of paper under a door, shake the handle until the key fell onto the paper, then pull it back into the room. But that had been on some television programme; it probably didn’t work in real life. Besides, she had no paper to hand, and the door was so tightly fitted it scraped the carpet.

  Jumping out of the window was impossible – she was too high up and there was nothing below to break her fall. She would have to wait until Foxy opened the door, but who knew what kind of mood he’d be in? He was so unpredictable. He could be working himself into a frenzy, clicking his knuckles, boxing the air; or drinking himself into a slump of self-pity. This wasn’t the first time she’d been locked in. It usually took about half an hour for him to come back, and then he’d either beat her or they’d have sex – sometimes both. He seemed to think that forcing himself inside her was an act of forgiveness on his part, proof that he still loved her despite the fact that she drove him to violence. His logic was crazy but she’d fallen for it all this time. Not any more, though.

  She put her hand on her stomach, pressing it slightly as if trying to touch her unborn child. What had she been thinking? She’d been living in a foolish fantasy world, believing that another baby would wave a magic wand over their relationship and put everything right; that fatherhood would transform this monster into a loving, caring, gentle man. Getting pregnant had only made things worse. She couldn’t have an abortion, she just couldn’t, but …

  She heard a car pull up outside the house. Blue lights flashed into the room for a few seconds, then stopped. Police? Ambulance? Why were they here? Oh please God, let it not be about Abigail. Before she could run to the window, the bedroom door opened and Foxy marched in, grabbing her roughly by the arm and pulling her onto the landing.

  ‘You say one word against me and you’re dead,’ he said, pushing her down the stairs as the bell rang. He opened the door keeping one arm tightly gripped around her waist.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Foxton?’ said a uniformed officer. There were two of them standing there, both men, both terrifyingly tall. She stared down at their large black boots.

  Foxy smiled politely. ‘Yes. What’s this about?’

  ‘Is it my dau—’ Kay started, but Foxy tightened his hold, trapping her voice.

  ‘Abigail is with a neighbour, she’s quite safe. Mind if we come in for a few moments?’

  ‘Please do.’ Foxy stepped back to let the policemen in. They walked into the living room, observing the surroundings – the telly playing some sitcom, the remains of the evening meal congealing on the plates. Their large frames seemed to take up the entire space. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re here,’ he continued evenly. ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  The officer took out his black notebook and flipped it open. ‘We had a 999 call from a neighbour. Your daughter knocked on her door in her pyjamas and said “Foxy is killing my Mummy”. Foxy – is that you?’

  ‘Yes, everyone calls me that.’ He let out a small, nervous laugh. ‘I’m very sorry that our neighbour was fooled into thinking there was some kind of drama going on. As you can see, it’s pretty quiet.’

  There was no evidence of their argument: no upturned chairs, no smashed windows or food thrown against the walls. The bruises on her body were old, and he’d given her no fresh marks this evening, not yet anyway. But now that Abigail had caused this fuss – God bless her, she’d only been trying to help – there would be hell to pay once the police had gone.

  ‘The neighbour said she heard shouting earlier,’ said the other officer.

  ‘That was me telling Abigail off, I’m afraid. She’s a difficult child, very aggressive. She bit me – look!’ Foxy proffered his hand; the tiny teeth marks were still visible. ‘When I tried to discipline her, she ran out of the house. I knew she hadn’t gone far, but I was teaching her a lesson, letting her sweat it out for a bit. I’m very sorry, I had no idea she would go telling such awful lies; she really is the limit.’

  The policemen exchanged a glance. The one with the notebook scribbled something down while the other one stared at Kay closely. She could feel his eyes burning her face, searching for answers. She so wanted to tell him the truth, but she didn’t dare. They wouldn’t believe her anyway. Foxy was being his usual charming public self.

  Officer number two lowered his eyebrows. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying, Mrs Foxton, but you look like you’ve been crying.’

  ‘She finds Abigail’s behaviour very upsetting, don’t you, love?’
Foxy interjected, squeezing her waist until it hurt.

  Kay nodded. ‘I’d like her to come home now,’ she whispered. ‘Can I go and get her, please? Who’s she with?’

  ‘We’ll bring her to you.’ The second policeman walked out of the room. ‘The neighbour would prefer to remain anonymous,’ his partner added.

  Foxy huffed. ‘I bet she would. Interfering busybody. Abigail’s got a lot to answer for too. What a dreadful waste of time.’

  ‘That’s kids for you, I’m afraid.’ The officer shut his notebook and returned it to his top pocket. ‘Best of luck.’

  Foxy showed him out while Kay ran to the front window to look for Abigail. She wondered which neighbour she’d gone to. There was an older lady next door, recently widowed; Abigail chatted to her sometimes when she was playing in the garden. On the other side was a family with three boys who were wearing the lawn away with their football. Kay didn’t know any of them by name, just smiled and murmured hello if they happened to meet in the street. The people opposite had only just moved in; she didn’t know much about them. Foxy would always give a cheery wave to the neighbours and make the obligatory remark about the day’s weather, but that was as far as it went. Privately he slagged them off and forbade her to have anything to do with them.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy!’ Abigail ran through the house and wrapped her arms around Kay’s legs.

  ‘There, there, it’s okay, you’re home now …’ She bent down and hugged her daughter as tightly as she could without squashing her tiny ribs. Foxy stood behind her, arms folded, a disapproving expression on his face.

  ‘Right, we’ll be getting off,’ said the officer.

  ‘Of course. I’m sure you’ve got plenty more important things to attend to,’ Foxy replied, walking him back to the front door. It opened and closed again, and Kay heard her husband release a heavy, angry sigh. He came straight back into the room and ripped Abigail out of her arms, grabbing her by the shoulders and spitting words into her face.

  ‘You pull a number like that again, and I will kill your mother!’

  * * *

  That night, Kay lay in the darkness, unable to settle. Abigail had been sent to her room and had eventually sobbed herself to sleep. Foxy had taken all her toys and dolls, saying he was going to send them to the children’s hospital. He even went into the garden and slashed her space hopper with a kitchen knife. Now it was lying on the patio like a dead thing. Kay imagined him tearing at her flesh in the same way. Who knew what he’d do next?

  He was lying next to her in the matrimonial bed, snoring loudly. Putting on such a show for the police had exhausted him and he’d sunk three cans of Special Brew after they’d gone. For some reason he hadn’t given her a hiding this time, and for that she was grateful. Maybe it was because she was pregnant, God help her, or maybe the police visit had rattled him. He wouldn’t want to end up in prison like Micky. Oh no, Alan Foxton was the opposite of his little brother – responsible, hard-working, as straight as a die. It was as if it hadn’t even occurred to him until tonight that wife-beating was a crime.

  But she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that one visit from the cops would change him. This couldn’t go on; she and Abigail had to leave. Why, oh why had she deliberately got herself pregnant? It was madness. They couldn’t go to her parents, not after all the bother she’d put them to in the past. Besides, they really liked Foxy and wouldn’t believe her. Falling on friends wasn’t an option either – he’d complained about all of them and she’d been forced to break contact. She didn’t have a job any more and wouldn’t get a new one now she was expecting. Where could she go? How would she afford to live?

  She felt tears rolling down her cheeks and onto the pillow. What an almighty mess she’d made of her life, starting with those Bacardi and cokes in Torremolinos, although that sounded like she considered Abigail a mistake, which wasn’t the case. She loved her daughter to bits and would fight to the death to protect her. Marrying Foxy was the stupidest thing she’d ever done, although nobody else could see it – nobody wanted to see it. If she stayed with him, the situation was only going to get worse. I will kill your mother, that was what he’d said tonight. Abigail could end up an orphan; the new baby might die in the womb. She couldn’t do that to her children. She had to escape.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light and she could make out the chest of drawers quite easily. Inside, hidden amongst the sanitary towels she no longer had need for, was the slip of paper Abigail’s teacher had given her. She remembered some of the details of the refuge – Westhill House, Nevansey. A squat, Ms Gardiner had said. Kay dreaded to imagine what the place was like; it was probably filthy and didn’t even have gas or electricity. But it had to be better than begging on the streets, and there’d be other women there too, who’d seen violence themselves and would understand what she was escaping from.

  Tomorrow morning, after Foxy left for work, she would keep Abigail off school, pack a suitcase and make her way to Nevansey. She didn’t want to leave her lovely house or give up her status as a respectable married woman, but she had to act now, before it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Stella

  Now

  Abigail lies on my bed, curled up foetus-like, her fist in her mouth. Lori is sitting at her side, stroking her back gently and murmuring words of comfort.

  ‘I’ve brought you some water,’ I say, putting the glass on the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ whispers Lori. She gives me a slight smile, as if expecting me to leave the room. But it’s my room, my bed Abi’s resting on. I feel like I need an explanation, at least.

  ‘Why did she faint?’

  ‘Oh, er, she gets dizzy spells,’ Lori says. ‘They happen out of the blue. Blood sugar or something, I think.’

  ‘Really?’ I can’t keep the doubt out of my voice. ‘It seemed to have something to do with Alan’s business card. She said “oh my God” several times, then collapsed.’

  ‘She meant “oh my God, I’m going to faint”, I expect. It’s embarrassing, yeah? She’ll pull round in a few minutes. Actually, if she could have a biscuit or something sweet, that might help.’

  Lori wants me out of the room, I know it – the air is thick with their secrets. I have an urge to stand my ground, but if Abi is genuinely ill, it will seem unkind. So reluctantly I go into the kitchen in search of chocolate digestives.

  My thoughts, however, refuse to leave the room. I replay what I saw. Abi fainted in shock, not because she had a sugar dip, and it had something to do with Alan. She must know him. Know him and hate him – maybe even fear him. I can’t think why anyone would be scared of sweet old Alan, but there has to be a reason for such a dramatic reaction.

  I slice open the packet of biscuits and the smell of sweet chocolate fills my nostrils. I pop one into my mouth, then assemble half a dozen or so on a plate and carry it back to the front room.

  Abi is sitting up now, sipping the water and looking rather shamefaced. I proffer the biscuits and she takes one gratefully. I should offer to make some tea, really, but that would keep me out the room for longer, and I need to be here. I need to know what’s going on.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  The two women exchange a look. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ says Lori.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ echoes Abi, her mouth full of crumbs. ‘I’m fine now.’ But I don’t believe them.

  ‘You can trust me, you know,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I think I’ve already proved that, several times over.’

  ‘It’s a medical thing,’ Lori insists.

  Abi nods in agreement. ‘I’m fine, really I am. I’m sorry, it’s my own fault, I didn’t have any lunch. I’ve been trying to lose weight and … well, I obviously went too far.’

  ‘I warned you,’ adds Lori for good measure. ‘You do everything to excess.’

  Abi swings her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Thanks for coming to the rescue, Stella,’ she says, ‘but I’d like to go upstairs and rest.’


  This is not good enough. I set my mouth in a stubborn line. ‘If you know Alan – if there’s some problem with him – please tell me. I have a right to know.’

  ‘There’s no problem,’ says Lori firmly. She helps Abi to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s leave Stella in peace.’

  They exit arm in arm, leaving me stranded, feeling stupid. Did I get the wrong end of the stick? Perhaps it was just coincidence that Abi fainted while she was reading Alan’s business card. And yet … I bend down and pick up the card from where it fell from her shaking fingers. If she won’t tell me what the connection between them is, perhaps he will.

  As before, the number rings out several times before going to voicemail. I leave what feels like the twentieth message, only this time my tone is different.

  ‘Alan, it’s Stella here. From Westhill House. Look, I don’t expect you to turn up any more or even give me an explanation about why you walked out on the job. This is something different. Do you by any chance know an Abigail?’ I pause. Abigail what? I don’t know her surname. Don’t know a thing about her, for that matter. ‘She’s a friend of Lori’s, mid to late forties, very dark looks, sort of Mediterranean. I’m certain she knows you. Anyway, if she means anything to you, please give me a ring. Thanks.’

  I end the call with a sigh. He won’t respond; I don’t know why I even tried. For some reason, he doesn’t want to have anything more to do with me, or with the house. Just like Jack. I turn to the invisible spirits of all the women who used to live here. What is it about this place that makes men run away?

  * * *

  Abi and Lori have disappeared upstairs and there’s been no sight or sound of them for hours. I wonder what they’re doing up there. Is Abi really resting, Lori nursing her? Or are they concocting a story to put me off the scent? The atmosphere in the house is charged; the walls are sucking the energy out of me. I badly need some fresh air – a quick walk on the beach at least – and yet for some inexplicable reason, I can’t leave.

 

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