The Dream House: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Jess Ryder

  ‘Go away. I hate you.’

  ‘That’s not a nice thing to say to your daddy.’

  ‘You’re not my daddy. You’re evil.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t be rude. I’ve come to take you both home.’

  ‘What?’ Abigail took a step down. ‘Mummy – Mummy! I don’t want to go.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere, darling,’ Kay replied. Her palms were sweating; she had to grip the knife handle harder to keep it in her grasp. ‘Stay right there. Don’t come down.’

  But Abigail kept walking down the stairs. She was swaying with fever, her glittering dark eyes fixed on her stepfather. ‘You hurt Mummy. I saw you do it lots of times. You’re a bad man.’

  ‘Abi, please, go back to your room – GO BACK!’

  But she carried on plodding down in her bare feet. As she reached the bottom step, Alan lunged forward and scooped her into his arms. She kicked and wriggled, but there was no escape. He locked his arms around her body and held her tightly against his chest.

  ‘Either you come now, Kay, or I’ll take her with me,’ he said.

  ‘No! Mummy! Mummy!’ screamed Abigail.

  ‘She can’t go out in her pyjamas, she’s sick,’ Kay wailed. ‘She’s got no shoes on.’

  ‘You’ve got two minutes to get your stuff together – two minutes! Or we’re leaving without you.’

  ‘Let me go! Let me go!’ Abigail pounded him with her little fists, sobbing hysterically.

  Kay cried out. ‘Don’t hurt her … I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t hurt her.’

  ‘Drop the fucking knife!’ he ordered.

  The knife. She’d been holding it so tightly it had glued itself to her hand. How powerful she’d felt just a few moments ago, brandishing it in his face. But now he was holding a much stronger weapon: her beautiful daughter, whom she loved more than anything in the world. She loosened her grip and let the knife drop to the floor with a clang.

  ‘Hurry up!’ he barked. ‘You’re wasting time.’

  ‘Just getting your things, darling,’ she said to Abigail. ‘I’ll be very quick.’ She tried to run up the stairs, but her huge belly held her back. By the time she reached the top floor, she was gasping for breath and the base of her tummy hurt. Downstairs, she could hear Abigail screaming and Alan shouting at her to be quiet. She was a fierce little thing when she was angry. Since playing with the other refuge kids, she’d become quite the tough fighter.

  Kay picked a few clothes off the chair that was their only wardrobe, then gathered Abigail’s trainers and her favourite teddy, shoving them into a plastic carrier bag. She could hardly breathe, her chest was hurting so much. If only somebody would come back now and rescue them. Pat and Alesha had promised to relieve her so she could go and catch the second firework display, but they must have forgotten. She paused to look out of the window and down into the street below. But there was no sign of anyone.

  There was more commotion downstairs; it sounded awful. If Alan laid a finger on that girl, if he dared … Kay grabbed a blanket and the bag, then lumbered down the top flight of stairs, her heavy breasts bouncing painfully, the baby on a roller-coaster ride.

  As she reached the first-floor landing, she realised that the noise had stopped. Fear lurched in her throat. She took a few paces forward and leant over the banisters, gasping as her brain tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing.

  It didn’t look real. A photograph, or a still from a movie, the horrific scene carefully posed.

  Alan was lying on the floor of the hallway. He was crumpled onto one side, knees bent, not moving. Dark red liquid was pooled around his body. Abigail was standing by the door, her spotty pyjamas spattered with blood. She looked as if she was playing musical statues – frozen in mid action, arms slightly raised, mouth hanging open.

  Kay felt herself starting to sway. She clung to the handrail to steady herself, then slowly descended, tread by uncertain tread.

  ‘Abi? … Abi, it’s okay … I’m coming. Mummy’s here,’ she said, her voice cutting through the silence. She reached the ground floor and edged past the pool of blood. When she reached her daughter, she put the blanket around her shoulders. ‘Now you go and lie on the sofa for me, yes?’ She gently pushed Abigail towards the door of the lounge. The child was like a doll, completely rigid, her limbs refusing to bend. ‘Mummy will look after him. He’s going to be fine, don’t you worry. You lie down and rest, okay?’

  Abigail allowed herself to be manoeuvred towards the sofa and let Kay lay her down and cover her with the blanket. It was as if she was sleepwalking. She didn’t utter a single word, or make the slightest sound of protest when her mother left her side.

  Kay went back into the hallway and bent over the body to check for a pulse. She couldn’t feel anything. He was still warm, but he had that awful stillness dead people had. She’d seen it before, when her grandfather had had his heart attack and died in front of the whole family.

  The knife was sticking out of his chest. It must have gone straight through his heart. How could Abigail have struck him with such force, how could she even have reached so high? It didn’t make sense. She stared and stared at the wooden handle protruding from his shirt. This was the knife she’d washed up only this evening, that a few minutes ago had rested in her hand. How could this horror have happened so quickly?

  She felt a terrible burning pain in the small of her back and stood up. The baby had never felt so heavy or so alive. Her stomach heaved and she clutched it, afraid that its contents would fall out.

  It was her fault for dropping the knife when he told her to; she never should have left it there when she went upstairs. Shouldn’t have picked it up in the first place. Only she hadn’t thought, hadn’t dreamt for a moment …

  She tried to place herself in the drama. Abigail must have wrenched herself free and grabbed it. Or maybe Alan had picked it up and there’d been a tussle and somehow … But he was a grown man and she only a little girl. Could he have stabbed himself, fallen onto the blade? She couldn’t believe Abigail had done it deliberately. Either way it must have been an accident – a horrible, horrible accident.

  But that wasn’t how it would look to the police. Kay could see that now. They would charge her with murder. She’d be locked away for life and Abigail would be put in care. And what about the child she was carrying? Would it be born in prison, then adopted by strangers? Anger started to burn deep within her, spreading like a fire all the way to her fingertips. She could not let that happen. After all she’d been through, all the suffering she’d endured at this monster’s hands, after everything she’d done to build a new future for herself, she was not going to throw it away now. They would never take her children from her. She would flee, go into hiding. She would drown them all in the sea before she gave them up.

  She looked down at the body and a fresh realisation swept over her. It was finished. Foxy, Alan, whatever she called him, was dead. He couldn’t harm her any more. Relief flooded through her, drowning the anger. She retched violently and threw up onto the tiles.

  But she had to act. Now, before any of the others came back. Her mind rattled through a list – grab clothes and supplies, gather Abigail up, call a taxi and just go. Go anywhere. But she was eight months pregnant, and she only had a few quid in her purse. Where would they go anyway? She would be a fugitive. Nobody would want to take her in, there was nowhere she would be safe. What were they to do, live in the woods in the middle of winter? They’d die of exposure.

  Running away was impossible. The baby could come at any moment. She could feel it now, pushing its feet against the lining of her womb. A dull, period-pain-like ache was radiating from her lower back and wrapping itself around her body like a stiff rubber band.

  She went back into the lounge to check on Abigail. The child had fallen asleep but was breathing fast, her eyelids flickering as if she was dreaming. Her face was warm and sticky with fever. Kay laid her hand lightly on the tiny ribcage, feeling her daughter’s rap
id heartbeat. Maternal love oozed out of her pores. She would not give up one life of imprisonment to replace it with another. It was over. They were free of him now. This was good. Something to be celebrated. She heard the crackle of fireworks outside; it seemed as if they were being set off for her.

  Build a bonfire, build a bonfire, put your husband on the top …

  She wouldn’t burn him; that would be too difficult, too obvious. No, she would bury him instead. Bury him at the bottom of the garden and nobody would know, nobody would ever find out.

  * * *

  They found her by the shed. She was standing in the mud, cradling her belly, watching the fireworks with a strange look of elation on her face; she didn’t respond when they called her name. Franny took her hand and led her slowly back to the house.

  Pat and Alesha were there too; they’d come back to take over the babysitting, just as they’d promised, and Franny had come with them. They’d opened the front door and seen the body straight away. Pat went to call the police, but Franny stopped her. The man was quite dead; there was no saving him. And she’d just seen Abigail lying on the sofa, her pyjama top stained with blood.

  Kay tried to tell them what had happened, only she realised that she didn’t know, not with any certainty. She knew how it had started, but not how it had ended. ‘I was upstairs,’ she said. ‘I heard noises, like a fight. When I came back down, he was lying there bleeding and Abigail was just staring into space.’

  ‘What did she say?’ asked Franny.

  ‘Nothing. I don’t think she understood.’

  ‘Poor love, she must be in shock.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ said Pat. She was sitting on the bottom stair, holding her head in her hands. ‘If we call the police, they’ll arrest Kay and she’ll be put away – all on account of that bastard. They’ll probably shut the whole refuge down and we’ll be out on the street. It’s not fair!’

  ‘He deserved to die,’ said Alesha.

  ‘Yes, but what do we do?’ Pat looked anxiously towards the front door. ‘Everyone will be back soon. All hell will break loose. We can’t let the kids see this. We have to get rid of the body and we have to do it bloody fast.’

  Franny and Alesha gasped. It was unthinkable, and yet there was no other solution.

  ‘I’m going to put him in the garden,’ Kay told them. She’d planned it all when she went outside. There were some spades in the shed. The ground was soft; it wouldn’t take long to dig a shallow grave.

  ‘You can’t do anything, not in your condition,’ Alesha said.

  It was true. The dull ache hadn’t gone away; in fact, it was getting stronger. Her stomach had tightened a few times too, but she was ignoring it. The baby would have to wait.

  ‘If we dispose of the body, that makes us an accessory,’ said Franny. ‘We could be convicted of murder. If we come clean and explain to the police that he attacked Kay and she was defending herself—’

  Kay interrupted. ‘They won’t believe me. Look at him, for God’s sake. There’s a knife sticking out of his chest.’

  ‘I know, I know, but—’

  ‘We have to do something,’ said Pat. ‘Like now.’

  Kay put her hands under her belly and let out a small groan. ‘I’ll take all the blame,’ she said. ‘If he’s ever found, I’ll say I buried him by myself. I swear to you on the life of my children … I will never, ever tell anyone what happened.’

  Franny pursed her lips. ‘What about Abi? You can’t expect a child to keep a secret like that.’

  ‘She didn’t know what she’d done,’ said Kay. ‘It was like she was in a trance. If she mentions it, I’ll say it must have been a bad dream. A hallucination. Kids have hallucinations when they’re ill, don’t they? And she’s had nightmares before. She’s scared stiff of him – remember the drawings she did on the wall? If I deny it, she won’t question it, she’ll believe me. And if there’s no evidence …’

  ‘I guess it might work … We must make sure she doesn’t wake up, give her some more medicine,’ said Franny, but she sounded unconvinced.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ said Pat sharply. ‘Franny, Alesha, you help me with the body. Kay, are you okay to clean up the blood? Throw the mop out when you’re done, make sure you rinse the bucket out.’

  Alesha nodded. ‘I’m up for it. If Kay gets done for his murder, he’ll have won. All the men who have battered us will have won.’

  ‘I’m doing it for Abigail,’ said Franny. ‘Although God knows if we’ll get away with it.’

  ‘Thank you, girls, thank you …’ Tears glistened in Kay’s eyes and her heart felt full, like a balloon that was about to burst. ‘I promise I will never let you down.’

  Pat started giving directions for lifting the body. ‘I’ll take his head, you grab his legs.’ She turned him onto his back. Kay couldn’t bear to see his face again, so she went into the kitchen in search of the mop and bucket.

  As she ran the hot tap, a powerful surge of pain spread from her spine all the way through to her belly button, making her gasp and grip the edge of the counter. It lasted a few seconds, then slowly subsided. She knew exactly what it meant. The baby was on its way. One life had been extinguished and a new one was about to be born.

  Chapter Forty

  Stella

  Now

  I lean back against the pillow, my mind whirring with what she’s just told me. ‘So let’s get this straight … Your husband is buried in my back garden.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I never knew exactly where they put him,’ Kay says. ‘Somewhere down the bottom, by the shed, I think. I went into labour that night and was taken to hospital. Dawn was born early the next morning.’

  The atmosphere is charged with the ghosts of the past. I feel them drawing closer, standing at the end of the bed, or pulling up a chair. They’ve sent their children into the other room to play, placed their hands over the ears of the babies. Everyone is gathered now. They want to know what happened next. You can hear a pin drop as they listen.

  ‘But why did the other women help you get rid of the body?’ I say. ‘They were taking such a huge risk.’

  Kay’s face breaks into a sad smile. ‘That’s easy to answer. It could have been any of us in that situation – I’d have done the same for them. We’d all suffered terrible violence at the hands of our men. We were the victims, not the criminals.’

  ‘But it was obviously self-defence, so why didn’t you just call the police?’

  ‘I didn’t trust them; they’d let me down before. I was frightened they’d charge me with murder, and I didn’t want to lose my girls.’ She sighs. ‘It was very different back then, Stella. Domestic violence was allowed to go on, as long as it was behind closed doors. The police didn’t like to get involved; they saw it as a private business between man and wife. Horrendous, I know, but that’s how it was.’

  My thoughts return to the women who helped Kay cover up the killing. I’ve always thought I had close friends who would be there for me in times of crisis, but this is on another level. Would I have done the same for Molly? Would she have done the same for me? I instinctively feel that the answer is no. But then we’ve never been pushed to the limits.

  ‘It’s an ugly story,’ Kay says. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear it, sorry you had to endure all this. I promise, I had no idea what my girls were up to.’

  I look at her, bewildered. ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll get Dawn to come down. She can explain.’ Kay stands up and walks over to the door, opening it and calling through the gap. ‘Dawn, love? Can you come and talk to Stella, please?’

  I lean across and pick up the glass at my side. The water feels cool on my lips. As I swallow, I try to imagine how it must have felt for Kay in those first hours after Alan’s death. She would have felt ecstatic to be free of her violent husband, then terrified that the body would be discovered, or that one of the conspirators would talk.

  ‘I trusted them completely,’ she says, as if r
eading my mind. ‘I knew they’d never crack. Even so, we agreed it was best if we went our separate ways and didn’t keep in touch. The girls went to other refuges, Franny took a job up north. I still think about those marvellous women every day. I owe them my life.’

  ‘And nobody else in the house knew?’

  ‘No. In a funny way, me going into labour helped. I’d just finished mopping up when some of the others came in. They laughed when they saw me cleaning – said it was a sure sign I was about to drop. I was a huge distraction. They called the house mother and she put me in an ambulance. All that time, the others were at the bottom of the garden, digging. It was such a chaotic place. Nobody missed you if you stayed out; we were free to come and go as we pleased. When they’d finished, they laid a load of crap over the grave to hide it. Nobody ever went down there. The garden was overgrown; we only ever used the top bit, to hang washing out. The rest of it was basically a rubbish dump.’

  And not much has changed in forty years, I think. I had so many plans for my wilderness … A terrace with gentle steps leading down to a beautiful lawn. A pergola, a vegetable patch, a small playground, a pond full of darting fish.

  ‘What did you do after Dawn was born?’ I ask, turning away from my musings on things that would never be. ‘Go back to the refuge and carry on like nothing had happened?’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘No, it was too dangerous. I went home, told the landlord that Alan had done a bunk – which he believed, no problem. He felt sorry for me, let me stay on until I got myself straight. I never went back to Westhill House – not until today, that is.’ She suddenly looks wistful. ‘I loved it here. I missed the place so much, missed the other women; I felt very isolated on my own with Abigail and the new baby, but I couldn’t go back. I had to cut all ties with the place.’

  ‘Nobody reported him missing?’ It seems so strange to me that somebody could disappear and the rest of the world barely notice. I know people could go off the radar very easily in those days, without the internet and social media tracking their every move. But even so. If I vanished and nobody even raised the alarm …