The New Home

by Chris Merritt

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

The perfect couple. The perfect house. The perfect nightmare.

When Freya moves into her new home and meets her neighbour for the first time, she is awestruck. Young, attractive and mother to a darling little girl, Emily is everything Freya wishes she was. Freya left her old life behind when she moved to Emily’s quiet street on the outskirts of London, and she’s in need of a friend right now.

But as Freya sits down for dinner with her new neighbours, Emily’s husband doesn’t seem to even notice his beautiful wife. Cold, avoiding eye contact and simmering with aggression, Michael puts Freya on edge. Days later, the police knock on Freya’s door: Emily and her daughter are missing.

Terrified for her new friend and realising that the attics above the two homes are connected, Freya quietly climbs into the house next door in search of answers. When she discovers an old photograph in a box marked with Emily’s name, she realises there’s more to her new neighbours than meets the eye. Her hands shake as she sees that the person in the photo looks remarkably like someone in Freya’s life. Could the two women have a connection that she didn’t realise? And did Emily know?

Freya stares into the house next door from the hidden spot at the bottom of the garden, and shivers when Michael’s dark eyes stare back at her before he quickly shuts the curtains. Freya’s husband fears she’s becoming obsessed with Emily and that she’s beginning to lose her mind. But Freya is sure only she can uncover the truth about the house next door…

Fans of Claire McGowan, Shalini Boland and Lisa Jewell will love the gripping tension and unexpected twists of The New Home. Once you start reading, you’ll be hooked!

What readers are saying about Chris Merritt:

‘I read this within 24 hours, it was that outstanding… An astonishing page-turner.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

‘I literally had shivers down my spine… Phenomenal and exciting!’ Carla Kovach, 5 stars

‘A totally gripping page-turner that crackles with tension – get ready to stay up late!’ Lisa Regan

‘Kept me gripped from start to finish…. Gripping and nail-biting, a complete roller-coaster ride.’ The Reading Closet

‘I absolutely loved this book… Kept me on the edge of my seat… Fantastic.’ Stardust Book Reviews, 5 stars

‘Utterly Fantastic.’ Carol Wyer

‘One of those books that once you start, you just have to keep on reading no matter how late it is… I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough… Totally absorbing and brilliant thriller.’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars

‘This book will have you in its grip and won’t let go until you reach that final page…

Release date: September 7, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

I’m good at imagining things. Psychologists call it visual thinking. To me, it’s like a movie screen’s been set up in my head, but the projectionist has long since left and nobody else knows how to turn it off; certainly not me, the sole audience member, sat there with my box of popcorn. I’ve been like that since I was a little kid and, thirty-something years later, nothing has changed. A vivid imagination can be scary at times, but I wouldn’t want to live without it. Everything would just be so much less interesting.

My fiancé, Jack, says it’s my imagination that has brought us here, to Sunningdale Road in the London suburb of Weybridge. To the small, dilapidated middle-terrace house that is number twelve, with its peeling paint, warped window frames and loose, creaky floorboards. It’d been on the market for over a year, and the owner had already dropped the price three times. Jack said they must be desperate to sell; I suggested that the place was overvalued at the beginning, that they were probably given bad advice by an aggressive estate agent. That it gave us the chance for a bargain.

As soon as we viewed it, we could see why no one had even made an offer. Cracks ran over the walls and ceilings like lightning strikes captured in photographs. Blooms of black mould gathered in the corners like a thousand tiny Rorschach inkblots. Every room was old-fashioned, not in a boho-chic way, just in a hadn’t-been-upgraded-since-the-seventies way. We couldn’t see the end of the garden through the tangle of head-high weeds, so thick you’d need a machete to get through them. The trap door to the loft didn’t even open, despite the estate agent’s best efforts (he assured us there was enough space up there for an extra bedroom, though, maybe with an en-suite bathroom). In short, the place was a complete shithole. And I loved it. Because I could picture its potential.

On those property TV programmes, they’d call it a doer-upper. Most people wouldn’t look past its photos on the website. But I could fast forward in my mind through months or perhaps years of hard work, after which we’d have a beautiful house we’d created ourselves. And – even though the phrase makes me cringe a little – what I saw on that first visit was our forever home. A place into which Jack and I would pour our love and energy as our family grows to fill it. A puppy, then a child, maybe two… all of us playing together in the garden on long, warm summer evenings. I let myself get carried away, as usual. We put in an offer the next day and it was accepted immediately.

Last week, we exchanged and completed, and Jack went to pick up the keys. Today, we’re moving in. I’m so excited about the start of this journey that I can feel butterflies in my stomach right now, more even than the moment I realised Jack was going to propose to me, though I wouldn’t tell him that. I’ll keep it to myself, same as the clichéd thought that keeps popping into my head: this is the first day of the rest of our lives together.

I have a vision of the two of us, happily grown old, taking a break from tending our garden to drink tea and eat home-made cake. I see our evenings spent snuggled up by a wood-burning stove, reading and talking and watching films. I picture us still having a dance to our favourite songs while we cook dinner, just like we do now. And all this between lots of visits from our family; grandchildren tumbling through the door and racing into our arms…

‘Freya,’ says Jack beside me. I realise that he’s stopped the car, and we’ve arrived. I turn to him, and he gives me a lopsided grin. They say we’re meant to find symmetry attractive, but his off-kilter smiles were one of the first things I remember fancying about him. ‘You were away in a little dream, weren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I was.’ My gaze drifts to our new home. When I look back at him, I catch an expression in his features that might be apprehension. But it’s gone so fast that I can’t be certain.

He switches the engine off. ‘Right, then.’

I inhale deeply. ‘So, here we are.’

I secretly hope Jack will say something profound about the occasion that we’ll remember for years to come. Something about love and hope and family and the future. Instead, pragmatic as ever, he nods to the van that’s parked in front of us. ‘Removal guys are already here,’ he says. ‘We’d better get inside and tell them where to put everything.’

An hour later, our house is full of cardboard boxes, Jack is sorting out the kitchen appliances, and I pop back outside to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything. Satisfied that the truck is empty, I hand Pavel and Ondrej two hundred pounds in cash and a six-pack of Czech lager, and I thank them for their help. They insist on me taking one of the beers and, before I know it, we’re clinking cans and drinking together. The slight awkwardness of this lasts for a minute before they tell me they have another job and they should leave. They jump back into the cab of their van, and I watch as they disappear around the corner, part of me wishing the pair of them could stay and help us unpack. Maybe even start renovating. But no, I remind myself, this is our project. I take a swig of the beer I didn’t want, and it fizzes unpleasantly in my mouth. Then a voice calls out behind me.

‘Hello!’

I turn to see a woman striding towards me, her shoes crunching on the gravel path of her own, neatly landscaped, front garden. She’s beautiful, in a kind of effortless, natural way that’s all bone structure and good genes. She’s dressed casually, but I can tell it’s nice stuff. Tresses of thick golden hair tumble around her shoulders as she moves. She’s about my age, maybe a bit older; it’s hard to tell. She’s as radiant as a Hollywood star, and I’m suddenly ashamed of the shabby old clothes I chose for moving, embarrassed by the half-drunk beer can dangling at my side, and aware of the miniature jungle of a lawn between us, which is now my responsibility. But she doesn’t seem to care about any of that; she’s looking right at me and beaming, clutching an elegant green bottle topped with gold foil.

‘Hi,’ I reply.

Her eyes flick up to the ‘SOLD’ sign that’s been tied to the rotting remains of what I guess was once a picket fence. ‘You’re moving in?’ she asks.

‘Yup. Literally just arrived.’

‘Congratulations!’ she exclaims, approaching and handing me the bottle as if I’ve won a prize. ‘I’m Emily.’ She nods towards the immaculate house from which she’s emerged. ‘We’re the neighbours.’

‘Freya.’ I take the bottle from her outstretched hand and glance at the label. Pol Roger. It’s champagne, not cava or prosecco. ‘Oh, wow. That’s very kind, are you sure?’

‘Course.’ Emily shrugs, as if she gives it out all the time.

‘You really didn’t have to…’

She flaps a hand. ‘It’s a pleasure. Welcome.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ I can feel myself blushing. ‘Thank you.’

Emily gestures to our run-down house and starts asking what we’re planning to do with it, when a child’s voice calls from her open front door.

‘Mummy! I can’t find my swimming goggles.’

Emily looks at me, rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently. ‘Have you tried your schoolbag, darling?’ she calls back, then lowers her voice to me. ‘This happens every Saturday.’

I laugh.

‘But I don’t know where my bag is,’ comes the plaintive response.

‘Okay, we’ll find it in a minute,’ says Emily. ‘Sorry,’ she adds for my benefit.

A little girl in a blue-and-white striped dress bursts out of the door and runs towards us. She’s ridiculously cute, a miniature version of Emily. I’m already picturing them on a sun-drenched beach somewhere during a summer holiday, splashing in the waves and building perfect sandcastles. When the girl sees me, though, she freezes before taking cover behind her mum, clinging to her legs and peeking out at me.

‘Don’t be shy, Thea!’ Emily ruffles her hair. ‘Would you like to meet our new neighbour?’

Thea shakes her head slowly.

‘This is Freya.’

‘Hello, Thea,’ I say, trying to be friendly but conscious that I have alcohol in both hands, and it’s not even midday yet. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Thea doesn’t reply.

‘How old are you?’ I ask.

After a silence, Emily says, ‘She’s five, aren’t you, sweetie?’

‘Five and a half,’ Thea corrects her.

‘I like your dress,’ I say.

Thea ignores this and stares at the can in my hand. ‘She’s drinking the same drink as Daddy.’

I’m saved from responding to this by Jack, who appears in our doorway and raises a palm in greeting. I do the introductions, pass him the bottle. But when I glance up, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at Emily. There’s something in his eyes, in the slight parting of his lips and the tiny hesitation before he says, ‘Lovely to meet you.’

‘You too.’

The brief silence that follows is broken by a deep male voice inside their house.

‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’

‘But I haven’t got my goggles,’ Thea reminds her mum. She sounds worried, now.

Before Emily can respond to her daughter, a tall man emerges from their front door. He’s good-looking, in a kind of austere way, with a full head of dark hair that’s grey at the temples. He wears a thin sweater over a collared shirt and chinos, and his brown deck shoes are buffed to a shine. He’s carrying a small red rucksack that’s designed to look like a giant ladybird. He stops and regards me and Jack as if we’re a couple of trespassers. This time it’s Emily who introduces us to her husband. His name’s Michael. But that’s all we get before his attention is elsewhere.

‘You’re going to be late,’ he tells Thea.

‘She can’t find her goggles,’ Emily says, hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

Michael huffs his irritation and points a key fob at a Range Rover parked in the street. Its lights flash as the locks make a smooth clunk sound. ‘Never mind. We’ll get you some new ones at the pool. Let’s go.’

As he bundles Thea into the vehicle and we watch them pull away, Emily chuckles and waves goodbye. I turn to Jack, wondering whether this might be us in a few years’ time. But I can’t catch his eye because he’s staring at Emily.

He’s got that strange look of apprehension once more; the same one I glimpsed in the car. And this time, I know I’m not imagining it.

By late afternoon, Jack and I are both knackered. We’ve lugged boxes, unwrapped crockery, hung clothes and stacked books for five hours straight, barely pausing to inhale the sandwiches we picked up at a petrol station this morning. But the place still feels half-empty. The few items of furniture we’ve brought from our one-bed flat in Hackney hardly seem to register their presence here, as if they’ve been plucked from a doll’s house and dropped into a real home, their inadequacy exposed. The enormity of the task we’ve taken on begins to dawn on me, and the euphoria I felt this morning is starting to ebb away. I decide it’s time for a break. I find Jack in the bathroom, eyes narrowed in concentration as he threads the rings on a shower curtain.

‘Hello handsome handyman,’ I say. ‘Fancy a walk?’

‘Sure.’ He immediately drops the curtain into the old bathtub, metal rings clattering on enamel. ‘Where do you wanna go?’

‘I was thinking next door.’

He blinks. ‘Again? I mean, already?’

‘No, other side. We can introduce ourselves.’

‘Oh, yeah. Course.’ He looks relieved.

We make our way outside and towards the neighbouring property, number eleven. It has a large bay window at the front, but the curtains are closed. We exchange a glance as we move down the side of the house in search of an entrance, half-wondering if we’re already intruding. It’s not as run-down as our place, but nowhere near as nice as Emily and Michael’s, either. Along a path of concrete slabs, weeds sprouting from the cracks between them, we find the front door. It’s open.

‘Hello?’ I call out. There’s no reply.

‘Anyone home?’ says Jack loudly.

Without stepping over the threshold, I crane my neck to look inside. I can see worn carpet, faded wallpaper and a couple of old framed photos of people whose faces I can’t make out in the gloom. For some reason, I’m picturing an older woman who lives alone.

I point to the interior. ‘Should we?…’

‘No.’ Jack takes a step back. ‘If there’s no one here, we should try again later.’

‘But the door’s open.’ Suddenly, my curiosity gets the better of me and I step inside.

‘Freya!’ Jack hisses behind me. ‘You can’t just—’ But it’s too late.

As I walk through a narrow hallway, inspecting the photographs, I hear Jack follow me in. The lighting’s low, but I notice that the people in the images on the wall are dressed as if from a bygone era. I move slowly towards a room at the back where there’s a little more light, unsure whether I should call out in the silence. But something keeps me quiet, and even my footsteps become softer. I can feel Jack creeping behind me, matching my movement. We probably shouldn’t be here, but now I have to know who lives in this house and why they’ve left their front door open.

Tentatively, we go into a kitchen, and I see the first sign of life since entering: a kettle on a lit gas hob. Is someone here? I’m trying to take in the other features of the room when something flashes at the corner of my vision. There’s a scraping sound and I don’t even have time to turn my head before a dark shape rushes at me from above. Instinctively I scream and shut my eyes and raise my hands to shield my face.

But the attack never comes. Breathing heavily, I lower my hands and open my eyes again. A large black cat has landed on the linoleum floor, and it’s staring up at us with undisguised hostility. It snarls briefly before nonchalantly slinking away.

‘Jesus,’ says Jack. ‘Bloody thing scared the living shit out of me.’

‘I reckon we probably frightened it too.’ I could almost laugh, but my heart is hammering in my chest. ‘We’re the ones who turned up unannounced.’

‘Must’ve been up on those cupboard units,’ he observes. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, fine. Nearly had a heart attack though.’

‘Don’t do that, it’s my day off.’

I turn and he’s giving me that lopsided smile. I’ve just started to relax slightly when a piercing shriek cuts through the air, and my heart leaps into my throat once more. It’s the kettle, steam billowing from its spout. Decisively, Jack moves past me and switches off the hob. The screeching dies down, and the low rumble of boiled water is the only noise until the words cut through the air like a scalpel.

‘Who are you?’

I whip round to the doorway where a tall old woman is standing with hands on hips. Her jaw is set firm, her back is straight, and she seems completely undaunted by the presence of two strangers in her house. She has a mane of long white hair, and her eyes are a cold, pale blue. She’s enveloped in a thick grey cardigan that extends almost to her bare feet.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demands.

‘Sorry,’ I blurt. ‘We’re, um, the new neighbours. We just came to say hello and the door was open and…’ I falter and try a smile. I want to show her we mean no harm. But she isn’t paying attention to me any more. She’s staring at Jack, wide-eyed and fearful, as though she’s seen a ghost.

‘Henry?’ she says.

His features crease in confusion for a moment. ‘No,’ he replies. ‘I’m not Henry.’

‘This is Jack, my fiancé,’ I explain.

The woman shakes her head, pinches the brow of her nose and shuts her eyes. ‘Of course,’ she says when she opens them again. ‘How silly of me.’ Then she moves briskly towards the kettle. ‘Right, then. Would you both like some tea?’

Cathy, as we’ve learned our new neighbour is called, pours the tea. It’s old-fashioned, made in a pot with loose leaves, the proper way. As she places the little strainer over each of our cups in turn, I study her, trying to guess her age. Sixty-five? Seventy-five? Older? I can’t tell. Her face is lined and weather-beaten, the skin dotted with liver spots. But her hands are strong, her grip on the full teapot steady, her movements assured.

‘Sorry again,’ I say, ‘about coming in, uninvited.’

‘I thought I’d closed the door,’ she says, giving a tiny shake of her head, ‘but it must’ve blown open.’

‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask.

‘Henry and I bought this place in 1978,’ she replies instantly.

Henry. I’ve been wondering who he is since she mistook Jack for him. ‘Who’s Henry?’

‘My husband.’

‘Oh, is he?—’

‘He’s not here now.’

I’m not sure what she means. Is Henry dead? Are they separated? Or has he just popped to the shops? I look at Jack, and I can tell he’s trying to work it out, too.

‘Seventeen thousand pounds, it cost then.’ She finishes pouring and pushes the cups towards us. ‘And we thought that was a fortune! But we fell in love with it, so we put on our smartest clothes and made an appointment to see the bank manager. He took some convincing, but we persuaded him to give us the mortgage, and that was that.’

Jack says something about house prices and times changing. I’m picturing this meeting, though, the formality of it, the lost age when people had a personal relationship with their local bank branch and mortgages weren’t simply decided by an algorithm processing reams of online data about credit cards. I see Henry, tall and broad, dressed in his best suit, Cathy straightening his regimental tie before they go in. She’s feeling that same sense of anticipation as I felt today, moving house with Jack: the start of a future together.

‘Why did you come here?’ she says suddenly.

‘We wanted more space.’ I squeeze Jack’s hand under the table. ‘You know, for the future…’

‘Yes, of course. Same as Henry and I did.’ She pauses. ‘I mean, why Weybridge?’

‘I’ve got a job,’ says Jack. ‘Up the road, at St Peter’s hospital. Starting tomorrow.’

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘Cardiologist.’

I think back to the day Jack was offered the position as a consultant, five months ago. He punched the air with both fists and threw his arms around me. I knew how hard he’d worked to get the opportunity, how many years of specialist training he’d slogged through. I was so happy for him. The only problem was that St Peter’s was in Surrey, thirty miles away, on the other side of London – a four-hour round trip – and he’d be on call-out. With my work being freelance and mostly remote, the sensible decision was to move so he could be near the hospital. It was a no-brainer, but in this moment I feel a pang of loss for my friends in Hackney. For the canal, for Broadway Market and the marshes. It’s replaced quickly, though, by the thought of hanging out with Emily. I’m already imagining us chatting easily over coffee, as if we’ve known each other for years.

‘Neighbours seem lovely,’ I say when there’s a lull in the conversation a bit later.

‘Neighbours?’ Cathy frowns.

‘On the other side.’ I point in what I think is the right direction. ‘Emily and Michael.’

‘Who?’

‘You know, er, at number thirteen. They have a daughter, Thea.’

Cathy purses her lips, narrows her eyes and holds my gaze. ‘Just be careful,’ she whispers. ‘They’re not…’ but I don’t catch the end of her sentence.

‘Not what?’ I ask, suddenly anxious.

Cathy doesn’t reply. Instead, she stands and carries her cup over to the sink. ‘I should be getting on,’ she says.

Jack and I have a lazy, decadent dinner of takeaway pizza and champagne. I wonder if we should invite Michael and Emily over to share the bottle, but Jack says that we deserve to celebrate together, just the two of us, and I don’t take much persuasion. We’re both exhausted from the move, and we eat the pizza straight from the box without plates or cutlery. Midway through my second glass of champagne, I ask him the question that’s been niggling at me since this morning.

‘This is going to sound strange,’ I say, ‘but you haven’t met our neighbours before, have you?’

Jack barks a laugh. ‘What? No, course not. How would I have done that?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m less sure of myself, now. ‘Maybe you treated them at hospital once…’

‘In Homerton? Why would they be up there?’ He reaches for another slice of pizza. He’s right. It’s miles away.

‘Could’ve been somewhere else,’ I add hastily. ‘You do locum shifts, and you’ve worked all over London at some point in the last fifteen years.’

He crams in half of the slice and shakes his head.

‘Friends of friends?’ I suggest. ‘Uni, maybe?’

‘Nope.’ Jack arches his eyebrows. He thinks I’m being weird. ‘What makes you say that?’

I take a swig from my glass. ‘For some reason I just got the impression that you recognised them.’ Recognised Emily, I want to say.

‘I’ve never seen them before,’ he says firmly, staring at the remainder of his slice. But I know what I saw. At least, I think I do. I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.

‘What about Cathy?’ I ask.

‘Crazy old cat lady?’ Jack snorts. ‘Do you reckon I’ve met her before, too?’

‘No, I mean, what do you think she meant when she told us to be careful?’

He stops chewing. Looks at me sceptically. ‘Come on, Freya.’

‘What?’

‘She’s not all there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She leaves a gas flame unattended, claims her door blew open on a day with no wind and doesn’t remember the names of the couple who’ve lived two down from her for the last however-many years?’

‘Maybe she got distracted by something, lost concentration. Happens to all of us.’

He ignores my suggestion. ‘And it’s obvious there’s no one else in that house, even though she talked about her husband like he was still around. She thought I was him, for God’s sake!’

‘You think Henry’s dead?’

‘I don’t know about dead, but he’s not there.’ He sighs. ‘I’m not an old-age psychiatrist, but I’ve seen the onset of dementia enough times. Early MCI, it’s called. That’s how it started for my dad. Small lapses that got bigger and more frequent until they were the norm.’ There’s pain on his face.

I nod. I never knew Jack’s father; he died before we met.

‘I’m worried about her, if anything,’ he continues. ‘I mean, are we gonna find her wandering around in the street at night, disorientated, or wake up to our house burning down?’

‘She seems pretty capable of taking care of herself,’ I counter.

‘Don’t be too sure. When someone’s mind goes…’

Maybe Jack’s right. Perhaps I was too busy imagining Cathy and Henry at our age, dreaming while Jack was analysing. It wouldn’t be the first time. But, despite his logic, I can’t shake her words of warning.

Just be careful.

It’s a week since we moved in. We’ve been invited to Michael and Emily’s house for dinner, and it sounds silly but I’m almost as excited as the day we arrived. I’m anticipating a fun night that’s not only the start of a close friendship, but also a step towards being accepted in our new community. Jack, on the other hand, was a bit funny about it at first, saying he might need to work or be on-call, claiming he’d be tired from a busy first week at the hospital. But I’d already accepted for both of us, so I batted back his excuses one by one until, eventually, he gave in and agreed. Would it have killed him to be a bit more enthusiastic, though?

Now, as we stand on the doorstep and tap the knocker, brandishing a bottle of wine that’s twice as expensive as one we’d have taken to our friends in Hackney, I recall his expression as he looked at Emily that first day. I wonder if it has anything to do with his apparent reluctance to be here now. But the thought goes out of my head as the door opens and Emily is there, beaming at me and pulling me into a hug. Her perfume is gorgeous.

She looks stunning in a full-length emerald-green dress that makes her hair seem a deeper shade of gold and even more lustrous. She ushers us into a warm, well-lit entrance hall and pauses to give Jack a quick hug and double air-kiss. He seems to go slightly rigid, mumbling a hello, and when she waltzes off, telling us to come through, I shoot him a glare: an unspoken reminder to make an effort because this is important. He frowns, as if he hasn’t understood me.

The interior of the house is as pristine as its outside, the décor and furnishings as beautiful as the occupants. At the back of the ground floor is a large extension I’ve glimpsed through the overgrown vegetation of our garden. It contains a . . .