No Place Like Home
Rebecca Muddiman
Contents
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2018 Rebecca Muddiman
The right of Rebecca Muddiman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
1
I can’t wait to get home.
The rain pelts my face, and the wind just rubs the miserableness in. I’m desperate to get inside to shut the world out. To get into my pyjamas. To heat up some soup and devour the still-warm bread I bought on the way home. To watch something mindless on TV and forget about the chill in my bones, the stress of the day and the memories of worse days.
I decide to cut across the playing field behind the house. My eyes take in the almost empty space, and I think about the proposed housing development, about how the locals have been mounting a campaign to stop it, worried about the impact on house prices. It’s never been something I’ve considered before, but I suppose now I’m one of them…
It’s still light, just dull from the rain. I don’t feel vulnerable, even though I probably should. I see a couple of people walking dogs in the distance but no one else. The play area in the centre of the field is desolate, and the remaining swings, the ones the vandals have yet to cut down, sway violently, creaking with each gust. I walk by quickly, desperate to get home.
I’m still in the honeymoon period with the house. It’s been three weeks and I’m still excited by the thought of it. My own place. My own home. I never thought I’d have to wait this long, that I’d be renting until I was thirty-five. But that doesn’t matter now. Now I have what I want.
I risk a blast of icy rain in the face and look up to the backs of the row of houses ahead. I count them, losing my place once as a plastic bag is blown into my face. Starting again, I count in my head. One, two, three, four, five. Five from the end. The fifth house. My house. And I can’t help but smile.
I notice the extension on the house next to mine. Notice a window in the loft. I’ll do that, when I’ve saved some money. The extra room will be nice, and it’ll add value. I notice that next door’s house has newer windows than mine too. Maybe that should be the first job. New windows. A period look. But double glazed, of course, to save energy, keep me snug.
I keep my eyes on the window. My bedroom window. And something catches my eye. Some movement. I feel a stab of fear and blink away the rain that has settled on my eyelashes. I look again. Nothing. I almost laugh.
I walk on, faster now, desperate to get home, to get dry, to get cosy. And then, I see it again. A shadow. Something moving within the gloom of the room.
I stop. It can’t be. Maybe I miscounted. I’m looking into the bedroom of a neighbour. I stand still, buffeted by the wind, trying to concentrate. I count again. One, two, three, four. Five. The fifth house. My house. And someone is in there.
Someone is in my house.
I start to run. I don’t know what I’m going to do. My legs are damp from the water splashed from puddles. I can hear my feet slam into the ground. I can hear my breath, making the burning in my lungs audible. The rain almost feels welcome now, cooling my cheeks, but the wind is my enemy, slowing me down, and I wish it would change direction and push me home.
I slow down as I get onto the road. A couple of cars pass and I see someone’s face through the moving window, staring at me, seeing this woman in heels and skirt running through the rain. I wonder if they think something is wrong, or if they just think I’m one of those people afraid of getting wet.
My brain is going nuts, all the possibilities running through my mind at once like a zoetrope gone berserk. I’m wrong, there’s no one there. I’m right, there is someone. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s everything to worry about. How did he get in? What should I do? What should I do?
What should I do? Call someone? The police?
I keep moving. The street is empty. No people. Not even any cars now. I realise I’ve got my keys in my hand. I don’t remember getting them out of my bag. My mind is telling me to go inside, to stop this, to protect what’s mine.
I look around the street. It’s quiet, except for the rain and the occasional gust that rattles an awning or juggles some litter. I can’t see life anywhere, not even inside the houses. There’s not a single light on, no flickering TV. I could knock on a door, but what good would that do? I don’t know anyone. I could knock. I could say I think someone’s in my house. But so what? What would they do, these strangers? Who’s going to come out in this squall to help some crazy lady who thinks there’s an intruder in her house but won’t call the police? Would I come out?
I stand there in front of the house, keys digging into my palm. It’s freezing, but I feel the heat of something inside me.
I stand there, frozen, unsure what to do. And then I see him.
He’s downstairs now. He’s walking around my house like he owns the place.
He turns. He’s put the light on now and I can see him clearly. I feel the heat inside me burn brighter. It’s not fear. It’s anger.
What’s he doing in my house?
2
Two Weeks Earlier
There were still things in bags, things I hadn’t found a home for, even though I hadn’t brought much with me. Or, at least, I didn’t think I had. A clean start. That’s what I was after. A new house, a new me.
But I was standing looking at stuff I didn’t even know I had, never mind neede
d, and I wondered if I was turning into my mother. If they’d had those hoarder programmes back in the day, she would certainly have had a starring role. Even when we had to move into a smaller place, she had clung on to knickknacks and plain old rubbish as if her life depended on it. At least my stuff was functional. Maybe my mother thought that someday she’d get back what she’d lost and have room for it all again, but that was delusional to say the least. Dad was never coming back and with him went the good life. No matter how hard she worked it was never going to be the same.
I picked up a shoe box which rattled when I moved it. Not shoes then. I lifted the lid and found a few loose photographs and souvenirs from long forgotten holidays. I took the photos out and put them aside and threw the rest into the bin bag. New start.
The photo on top of the pile caught my eye and I picked it up. My mum smiled back at me; slightly mocking but in a loving way. The picture was faded, washed out with a yellow hue, and part of me felt it was a perfect image of her, if not then, now for sure. I could see her light dimming with each visit, and I knew one day I’d go and she’ll have vanished completely.
I put the pictures down without looking at the rest of them. This was supposed to be a happy time, a new start. I turned to put some books on a shelf and stared at the wall. It was crying out to be demolished, to create one long room with more light, more space. I wondered if it was too late to start banging through walls, if there was anywhere open at this time to get a sledgehammer, or if it was even wise to start hammering myself. Surely there was someone I could get to do it for me. I stared at the wall, imagining what could be, trying not to think of what had been, that there had been someone, that maybe I’d been foolish to end things.
I shook myself out of it. The thought was ridiculous. It had ended for a reason. A very good reason. And there was no going back.
Later that night, I lay on the settee, staring at the ceiling, deliberating whether or not it needed a fresh coat of paint. I was tired, my arms and legs ached, mostly from moving things around but perhaps still an echo from that terrible week before. But I knew sleep would not come. Not for a while.
I stared at the ceiling a little longer, thinking about the best place to buy paint – decent stuff, not the cheap, nasty kind used in my last place – and noticed a cobweb waving gently. I sat up straight and searched for a duster, sweeping all traces of the past away. Standing, I looked around, realising that just because my things were here it didn’t mean the past had been driven out completely. I needed to repaint it all. Tear up the carpets. God only knew what was lurking within those fibres.
I tried to work out just how much carpeting I’d have to buy. Or whether I could sand the floors, put down rugs. Then, there were the walls. So many walls I’d have to paint. How much money would it all cost? Too much. I knew I should just be happy that I had the house, a beautiful house, when I’d started to think I’d be living in crappy rented flats all my life; especially after the last attempt had fallen through. But I really wanted to make the place me. And there was so much temptation. It seemed like I couldn’t leave the house without seeing a dozen things that would be just perfect, that screamed, buy me, buy me, buy me. I looked down at the pile of interiors magazines on the table, idly flicking through one. There was so much I could do with the place. But who has the money? No one. Not unless you’re willing to make sacrifices.
I walked to the window, running my hand down the wall. It wasn’t so bad. The decor was actually quite tasteful, considering. I could live with it. For now.
I looked out onto the street. It was dark, the streetlights were on. I pulled the curtain and noticed how heavy they felt. A hint of stale smoke wafted towards my face as they moved and my nose twitched. When I got the house, everything had been left inside – furniture, curtains, even personal belongings. The last proper owner had died, and no one wanted to clear the place. No one but me. So, the curtains would go, but for tonight, at least, they’d have to stay. I didn’t want people looking in. Mum always said that as soon as the lights went on the curtains should be closed or else it invited people to stare. Burglars, perverts, nosy neighbours.
As I pulled the second drape, I saw him. He was standing across the road, facing my house. For a moment I thought he was looking right at me, but he was in the shadows so I couldn’t tell. I pulled the curtain a little more and he moved, just slightly, closer.
My heart pounded. I froze. Had he seen me?
I ducked behind the curtain, too late for sure, and peeked round it. He was standing there, not doing anything. Just standing. I pulled the curtain closed. Mum was right. I needed to keep people like that out.
Turning to walk away, feeling secure inside my little castle, I decided to ignore him. Don’t let anything spoil this. But before I got to the settee I changed my mind and turned back, opening the curtain a little, phone in my hand like a weapon.
He was still there and I felt butterflies crawl inside my stomach. Maybe he saw the phone in my hand, the silent threat of calling for help. Either way, he turned and walked away, quickly but somehow without purpose.
I let my hand drop, releasing my grip on the phone a little. I wondered how he must feel. Wondered, did he have anywhere to go? He looked dirty, cold. He could be homeless. I felt a tiny stab of guilt.
But I’d had my fair share of troubles, so I closed the curtain and lay back on the settee, the TV burbling quietly in the corner, and soon, I fell asleep and dreamt of my dream house.
3
When I woke up I felt disoriented. I sat up too quickly, it made my head ache. I was in the living room, on the settee. I reached for my watch.
It wasn’t quite dark outside, just dim, really, which could mean anything. Early morning, late afternoon. Perhaps I’d slept through a whole day, exhausted with everything that was going on. I picked up my watch and saw it was just gone eight a.m. and felt relief I hadn’t wasted the day.
I stood up, feeling sweaty and disgusting in the clothes that I’d slept in, even though it was cold outside. As I turned around I could see the outline of my body imprinted onto the settee.
I walked through to the kitchen for a glass of water. I’d cleaned the place from top to bottom when I first arrived, but still, there lingered a stale smell, something ingrained so deeply into the linoleum floor, the plastic veneers of the worktops, even the fridge. At first I’d thought it was handy that things like that were already here, that I wouldn’t have to splash out on new things right away, but after a while it began to feel dirty, haunted even. The old woman had died months ago, and yet, I could still feel her presence in the old-fashioned furniture and the smells in the cupboards. I needed to get new things. Surely I deserved it, after everything that’d happened?
For a brief moment, the night before came to mind. I saw him standing across the street, looking towards the house. I blinked the image away, telling myself it was nothing.
I ran the tap, letting the water tumble over my hand before I filled the glass. It tasted metallic but felt good running through my insides as I tried to get my head around what to do next.
Okay. Febreze the mattress, let it air, put the sheets on. They’re new at least. Unpack the rest of the stuff. Find places for some pictures. Clean the fridge again and stock it with nice things. Find a throw for the settee, something to make it look new. Buy a new toilet seat and shower curtain. Clean the bathroom again. Buy some flowers, flowers make people happy. Take the curtains down. Buy some new curtains. Buy, buy, buy. Clean, clean, clean.
I walked up the stairs to the bedroom and stared at the bed. I desperately wanted to buy a new mattress but a good one cost a lot, so I’d have to make do with the memories coiled up in the springs of this one. I flipped it over and started spraying, the sickly-sweet scent cloying. After doing one side, I let it drop back onto the frame and opened the window. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and damp autumn leaves, but it was better than the flowery smell in the bedroom. I stood by the window and inhaled the outside for a while
before returning to the mattress to finish the job.
When I was done, I stood back to look, as if the mattress would be transformed by a few squirts of air freshener. It wasn’t. It still looked ugly, and I tried not to think of all the things that must have taken place on it over the years. Or whose bodies had lain there. I didn’t want old memories. I wanted new ones.
I pushed the window wider to let some of the chemical odour out and went into the hallway and took off my clothes. I ran the shower, letting it heat up while I looked around, doubting that the place would ever be really clean.
Steam started to fill the small room, and I climbed into the bath, adjusting the shower head and the temperature. It switched from inferno to ice for no apparent reason, and I spent five minutes trying to get it right like some kind of aquatic Goldilocks.
As I stood under the flow of water, I felt a surge of something. Happiness? Pride? I’d worked so hard for this. When my last chance had fallen through, I thought it was over. I thought I’d missed my shot. But then, this came along. Was I just lucky? Or was it more than that? I wanted to show it off to the world, but it was too soon. I couldn’t wait to invite the girls over. I knew they’d be envious and that Kimberley would be able to disguise it, but Sasha wouldn’t. I knew that Kimberley’s parents were willing to help her buy a place but had nowhere near enough for a deposit. Sasha’s parents couldn’t even do that after losing their own house when her dad’s business got into trouble. I knew she was bitter about it, and I tried to sympathize, but I didn’t get any help either. I did this alone.
No Place Like Home_a gripping psychological thriller Page 1