The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Jess Ryder

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Kyle. He nearly killed the lot of you. I’m not surprised he ended up in prison. I still think he could have had your parents murdered.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I can’t bear it.’ I stare into my coffee mug, thinking, Please, please, don’t let that be true. Tears well in my eyes and I pluck a tissue out of the box on the table. ‘Sorry.’

  Molly sits down and takes my hands in hers. ‘I know you don’t want to hear me say this, Stella, but you need help. There’s a hell of a lot going on for you emotionally: issues with your parents you haven’t even begun to work through, the building project, and now this split with Jack. I’m really worried. You need to talk to someone, a grief counsellor maybe.’

  I quickly shake myself out of the past. ‘No, no, honest, I’m okay. I don’t need therapy.’

  ‘Well I think you could find it really useful. You’re very vulnerable, and people are taking advantage. I don’t understand why there’s another woman staying with you now; it all sounds weird.’

  ‘I’m fine, honest.’

  ‘No you’re not, it’s obvious you’re struggling. I know you extremely well, remember?’ She lets go of my hands and stands up. ‘I know everything.’

  Not quite everything, I think. Almost, but not quite.

  She lifts Zara out of the high chair and wipes her face with a cloth. ‘If you want my advice, you need to take control of the situation at home. It’s not good. I’m frightened for you. I think it’s about time you told your guests to leave.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Kay

  Then

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Westhill House,’ Kay said to the tall woman with tightly permed hair. ‘Have I come to the right place?’

  ‘I should think so. In you both come.’ She smiled, showing a gap in her front teeth. Her face was gaunt and pale, even ghost-like, but her eyes were kind.

  ‘Thank you.’ Kay picked up her suitcase. ‘I’m Kay, and this is Abigail.’ She gestured towards her daughter, who was still standing on the steps, looking out to sea. ‘We’ll go on the beach later,’ she told the little girl, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘But first we’ve got to find our bedroom and unpack. Exciting, eh?’

  Abigail turned around, frowning. She clearly hadn’t bought the story Kay had tried to sell her on the bus journey – a surprise holiday at the seaside with swimming, buckets and spades, ice cream and a stick of rock if she was good. It didn’t make sense to be going away when school had only just started again after the Easter break. But at least she had brightened up at the news that her stepfather would definitely not be joining them on the trip.

  It was too chilly for paddling, and the sea looked brown. Two seagulls swooped across the front garden, one of them landing on a pillar. Their cries seemed to chorus ‘Welcome!’ Kay clasped Abigail’s icy hand and pulled her into the house.

  She’d told her daughter they would be staying in a hotel, but this was anything but. The hallway was a chaotic mess of coats, scarves and woolly hats, thrown onto hooks, slung over the banisters or just dumped on the floor. Chunky boots, scuffed trainers and tiny wellingtons caked in mud made a teetering pile in the corner; there was sand everywhere, and the musty smell of dry earth.

  The wallpaper was dark green vinyl, the painted woodwork yellowed and chipped. Kay had a brief flashback to Hotel Cascada in Torremolinos – the last time she’d had a proper holiday and the only time she’d been abroad. How she’d marvelled at the dazzling white walls and shiny marble floors, being mopped almost constantly by cleaners. Of course, she’d known the refuge wouldn’t be like that, but even so …

  ‘I’ll take you to see Verity first,’ said the woman with the perm – Kay had found out she was called Pat. ‘She’s our house mother, she’ll sort you out.’

  As Kay followed Pat down the hallway, she tried to glance into the reception rooms on either side. There were women lounging on sofas in one, and some noisy vacuuming going on in the other. She could smell baby poo, Johnson’s talcum powder and buttered toast all mixed up. The sounds of lively female chatter and pop music drifted towards them from the back of the house, where she guessed the kitchen was.

  ‘Verity’s in charge,’ said Pat. ‘She’s staff; the other workers are volunteers. Everyone adores her, but don’t mess her around or she’ll have your guts for garters.’

  She knocked on a door, pushing it open without waiting for a response. A large older woman – in her sixties, Kay guessed – was sitting behind a desk. She had long grey hair and was wearing an embroidered caftan that had gone out of fashion about ten years ago.

  ‘This is Kay,’ Pat said. ‘She’s come to join us.’

  ‘You made it here. Well done!’ Verity said, as if she’d been expecting her. She stood up and enveloped Kay in her capacious bosom. Her voice was deep and her accent quite posh. ‘I want you to know that you are among friends, people who understand and care. We’ll look after you. Nobody can harm you here. You’re safe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kay replied, realising that she was starting to shake all over. She reached for a chair. ‘Sorry, I’ve come over a bit funny.’

  ‘It’s the shock, that’s all; everyone feels a bit wobbly at first. You’ll soon settle down.’ Verity turned to Abigail. ‘What lovely brown eyes you’ve got. What’s your name, dear?’

  ‘Abigail,’ Kay intervened. ‘She’s only seven; she doesn’t understand what’s going on.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. We have about a dozen kids here at the moment. It’s like having a jolly sleepover party every day.’ As if on cue, there was a loud rumbling sound overhead, like a small train running back and forth.

  ‘Aren’t they at school?’ Kay asked. The worst thing about this whole business had been taking Abigail out of her primary.

  ‘Some are, yes, it depends on how long they stay and whether they’re up to it. It’s not a big problem. We have volunteers who come in to teach the children so they don’t fall behind.’

  Kay nodded. ‘Like Ms Gardiner? She’s Abigail’s teacher, she volunteers here. She was the one who told me about the place.’

  ‘Yes, exactly like Franny! She’s marvellous, you’ll see her at the weekend. Now then, let’s find you somewhere to sleep.’

  It was strange, Kay thought as she followed Pat upstairs, that she hadn’t had to explain why she’d come. Verity hadn’t asked to see proof of her injuries, or even her identity. They simply believed her, accepted that she needed to be here. Their trust and generosity made her feel weak at the knees. Or maybe it was morning sickness. She hadn’t mentioned she was pregnant yet – she hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.

  She was taken to a small room on the first floor. She had prepared herself for the possibility of having to share a bedroom, but she was shocked by the sleeping arrangements. There were two sets of bunk beds, a double mattress on the carpet between them and a grubby single in front of the door, which meant everyone had to tread on it to get in or out of the room.

  ‘Sorry, it’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ Pat said, pointing at the single mattress. It was covered in pale brown stains. ‘Hope you don’t mind sharing with your little girl.’

  ‘She’ll want to be with me anyway,’ Kay replied, trying to keep her expression cheery, although her spirits were dropping fast. She squeezed Abigail’s hand. ‘It’ll be fun, won’t it? Like camping, only indoors.’ She’d never been camping; it didn’t appeal. Hard ground, creepy-crawlies and peeing in a bucket. Which made her wonder how many bathrooms there were and whether they had hot water. There was a distinct smell of unwashed bodies. If this room was anything like the others, there must be about thirty women living here, maybe more.

  Pat grinned. ‘I’ll get you a clean sheet. If you need any more clothes, there are boxes of jumble downstairs in the communal lounge, all donations. Just take what you need, but remember, there’s nowhere to keep anything.’ It was true. There was no space for any other furniture, not so much as a drawer to put her things in or a hang
er for her clothes. She would have to live out of the suitcase, although God knows where she would put that.

  It’s a squat, she reminded herself silently, not Hotel bloody Cascada. What did you expect? It was all a bit ghastly, but it would do for now.

  She rested the case on the mattress. ‘How long do people stay?’ she asked.

  ‘For as long as they need. We don’t push anyone out – not unless they break the rules – and we never turn anyone away. That’s why we’re full to bursting.’

  They went down to the kitchen and Pat put the kettle on for a much-needed cup of tea. She made an orange squash for Abigail and gave her a Jammie Dodger biscuit from a tin on the counter.

  Several women were sitting at the large wooden table, eating toast, drinking tea and puffing away on fags. They all said hello and introduced themselves, but their names roared over Kay’s head and were lost amid the hubbub of chatter and the Bee Gees screeching ‘Stayin’ Alive’ out of a transistor radio.

  She observed her surroundings. The wood panelling on the ceiling reminded her of a log cabin or a sauna – not that she’d ever had a sauna, but she’d seen them on telly. It was a bit oppressive. The orange tiles were wet with steam and the place reeked of chip fat and nicotine. There were two fridges but only one cooker. The four electric rings were all in use – a large saucepan was sterilising baby bottles; another contained baked beans, and there was also a simmering pot of something that might be soup and a deep fat fryer on the go. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, a bit early for chips, she thought.

  ‘We cook for ourselves,’ explained Pat. ‘We tried doing big meals on a rota but it was a disaster. People forgot it was their turn, or they didn’t like the food. Everyone’s got different tastes. Now it’s a free-for-all, but it kind of works. Just don’t hog all the rings and don’t forget to wash the grill pan after you’ve used it – it really pisses people off if it’s full of sausage grease.’

  Kay had a sudden pang for her sparkling surfaces at home. Her pristine oven that she cleaned after every roast, the brand-new microwave, which was great for frozen peas or heating up leftovers. They could do with one here, she thought.

  Pat poured out the tea and slopped in some milk. ‘These are the rules,’ she said. ‘Just a few, sweet and simple. No drinking – alcohol, I mean – no violence, no bringing men back: boyfriends, husbands, strangers, nobody. Do your bit on the cleaning rota, that’s about it.’

  Kay looked surprised, partly by the news that there was a cleaning rota. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to bring men into the house?’

  ‘We’re not as secret as we’d like to be. Men find out, they hang around outside, wanting to make up. Sometimes the women let them in for a bonk. Verity draws the line at that.’

  ‘Do they ever go back to their husbands?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it happens a lot, but they often come back. That’s up to them; we don’t judge. Everyone has their own story, you know?’

  There was a pause. ‘I’m pregnant,’ Kay said. ‘Is that okay?’

  Pat smiled. ‘Of course! Congratulations. That is, assuming you want to keep it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, although right this minute, she wasn’t sure why.

  * * *

  It took Kay several weeks to adjust to life in Westhill House. Surprisingly, the most difficult aspect was not the mess or the dirt or the poor facilities, but the lack of privacy. There was literally nowhere, either in the house or its large garden, that wasn’t constantly occupied by other women; unless you counted the toilets – only two of them for thirty-six residents! – and even then, if you lingered there for more than a couple of minutes, you soon had someone banging on the door.

  Kay had felt lonely and isolated in her marriage, cut off from her friends, not allowed to work. She’d been imprisoned by degrees; she’d hadn’t realised what was happening until it was too late. But now she longed to be alone, to hear only the sound of her own breathing, the scrape of her chair, her footsteps on the stairs. There was the beach, of course, that was deathly quiet, but every time she tried to leave the house, Abigail would ask if she could bring her new friends along to make mud pies or skim stones.

  Abigail was part of a little gang now and had almost forgotten what it was like to go to proper school. On her birthday, Verity bought balloons and another mother called Alesha made little fruit jellies. Ms Gardiner – You must call me Franny! – turned up with a home-made cake and eight pink candles, and everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’ with great enthusiasm and a terrible lack of tune, delighting Abigail, who blew out the candles so hard she sent hundreds and thousands scattering to the four corners of the kitchen.

  ‘It was my best birthday EVER,’ she said as they snuggled beneath their blanket that night, and it made Kay cry. A few women had moved on, or gone back to their husbands, and now they were sharing a bunk bed. She had her eye on the front attic room. There were no bunks up there, on account of the sloping ceiling, and fewer bodies meant less BO. But it was the sea view Kay longed for.

  Sometimes, it all felt so normal, she forgot why she was living there. Nobody talked about the beatings, there was no comparison of bruises or one-upmanship – Franny would probably say one-up-person-ship – about who’d suffered the most. The women wanted to forget about the violence they’d been subjected to, but everyone knew it must have been bad – why else would they leave their homes and come to live like a load of sardines squashed in a tin? Life in the refuge wasn’t easy. It was horribly overcrowded, washing facilities were inadequate, food was very basic, silly arguments broke out and there were a few rough characters Kay preferred to avoid.

  They were living off charity – donations from the public that mostly came in the post: one-, five- or even ten-pound notes; sometimes just a fifty-pence piece taped to a piece of card. Last week they’d received a cheque for an astonishing fifty quid. To begin with, Kay had felt uncomfortable about accepting money from strangers, but when she read some of the accompanying letters, she was very moved. I was beaten throughout my marriage, one said. If only there had been a place like Westhill House back then, I would have come to you like a shot. Keep up the good work, girls!

  ‘This is a squat, right?’ she said to Verity one morning. They were sorting out the donations, putting the notes and cheques into piles. ‘So that means we’re illegal.’

  ‘Technically, yes, but nobody’s going to chuck us out,’ Verity assured her. ‘The police are telling women to come here now; they see what an important job we’re doing. There are more and more refuges springing up all over the country. Some of them have proper local authority funding. It’ll happen everywhere eventually.’ Verity was always very optimistic about the future.

  ‘I won’t be staying much longer,’ said Kay, feeling cautiously for her words. ‘I’m going to apply for a council flat.’ It was a plan she’d been nurturing for weeks. She was feeling stronger by the day, ready to strike out on her own.

  Verity sighed. ‘No chance, darling, not when you left the marital home of your own accord.’

  ‘But he was going to kill me!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a second, but it won’t make a jot of difference to the housing chaps. As far as they’re concerned, you already have a home to go to. They don’t even care that you’re pregnant.’

  She was four months gone now and showing clearly. Luckily she’d found a maternity smock in the clothes box, together with a size sixteen blouse. The pretty dresses she’d worn when she was carrying Abigail were still at her parents’ house, but there was no way she was going to retrieve them. She’d had an upsetting phone call with her mother soon after she arrived at the refuge – ‘Stop being so selfish, Kay,’ she was told. ‘Go home and look after Foxy. The poor man’s falling apart.’

  Verity reached across and patted her round tummy. ‘You’ll be fine here. We’ll look after you. We’re a community of women; you couldn’t be in better hands.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Stella />
  Now

  I park on the concrete drive, next to the overflowing skip. I suppose I’m still paying hire charges on that, I think, making a mental note to organise its removal. But my mind is overcrowded with other, more important issues, and I know I’ll forget all about it as soon as I enter the house.

  It’s late afternoon and I’m glad to be home, although somehow ‘home’ is not the right word for this huge, rambling house. The rooms are too big to feel cosy. It’s never been somewhere I could shut the door, take my shoes off, collapse on the sofa and feel my shoulders drop. There’s no sofa, for a start, and you can’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling from a building site. But it’s more than that – something to do with the atmosphere. No matter how many alterations I make, I’ll never eradicate the house’s history. It’s written deep within the walls.

  My thoughts have been slowly crystallising since the conversation with Molly. She said some harsh things, but I needed to hear them. That’s what true friends are for, I guess. As I drove back via the Dartford Crossing, dwarfed by the vast expanse of the great bridge over the Thames, I left the past and re-entered the present, feeling a fresh sense of purpose as I approached Nevansey. I know what I need to do now. It’s not going to be easy, but I can’t let the situation drag on any longer. Lori and Abi have to go.

  Taking off my coat, I sling it on the wicker chair, pausing for a moment to listen for clues as to what’s been going on during my absence. I’ve only been away for a few hours, but it feels as if something has shifted. I think Abi was supposed to be interviewing more builders today, but I can’t hear any footsteps tramping about upstairs or the low rumble of voices in distant rooms. Walking over to the doorway, I stick my head back into the hallway. Silence.

  I go down the tiled corridor, narrowed by the stairs. The room Abi rather grandly calls the office is on my left, tucked into the belly of the house. Maybe she’s in there, working on her laptop. I go to open the door, but it seems to be locked. I don’t even remember seeing a key there, although I know all the doors in the house are lockable – we found a plastic box of keys when we moved in, none of them labelled. We never bothered to sort them out, just shoved them in a kitchen drawer.