The Perfect Neighbors: A gripping psychological thriller with an ending you won’t see coming
Helen gave Mel a smile. “What’s HFN?” she asked for something to say.
“Home Front Network. The Elementary division of the school starts at nursery age, but we do our bit for pre-school families too. Some young mothers, living so far from their home countries, become a bit overwhelmed and need a helping hand to get organized. I’m the branch chair,” Louisa said.
Helen pitied the harassed mums who found Louisa Howard on their doorstep offering to organize them. “Are you a volunteer, too?” she asked Mel.
“Mel is an absolute stalwart but we prefer volunteers who are mothers themselves. Unless you’ve had a baby, you can’t know what you’re dealing with.” Louisa clasped her hand to her chest, no doubt an I Endured Childbirth gesture.
Mel, who’d been admiring the pavement, walked off without saying goodbye. Helen got the impression she’d heard Louisa’s pronouncement before and knew she’d reached the end of it. She trudged along Dickensweg, shoulders hunched over the pushchair. An elderly man came round the corner, tipped his felt hat to her and went towards the door of number 2.
“Manfred, come and meet your new neighbour,” Louisa called out to him.
If the man was irritated at being summoned, he didn’t show it. He walked towards them. Although he was tall, he stooped so he didn’t tower over Helen the way many German men did. He lifted his hat in greeting, revealing a smattering of liver spots at his hairline. How old was he? Seventy? Nearly eighty? He gave her a firm handshake.
“Angenehm. Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Where have you been this bright and early?” Louisa asked.
“Every morning I go for a healthy walk along the river.” As he spoke in his thick guttural accent, he gave off the tinny fumes of alcohol.
“I’m glad you’re keeping busy. Do let me know if I can do anything for you. You’re always welcome here.”
Welcome in his own country? What a cheek. He must have caught Helen raising her eyebrows but his face remained impassive, his own heavy eyebrows and thick moustache doing much to conceal his expression. When Louisa turned away from him, he took this as his dismissal and headed back up the street.
“He does his best, poor chap, a bit of a drinker,” Louisa said. “Don’t worry, he can’t understand; his English is pretty ropey. Anyway, must dash if I’m to fit in five miles before lunch. Let me know when you’re ready to join me. Remember what I said about the weight.” She climbed back into her car.
Helen was sure Manfred had hesitated on his porch, listening. His English sounded pretty competent to her.
By noon she’d turned over the front bed. The street was silent. Sun glinted on the shutters at the Howards’ house, reflecting their yellowness onto an open upstairs window at number 8. She shuddered, imagining the same colour might be projected on her own house. A crow cawed and swooped at the window. It clung onto the bottom of the frame, claws scrambling and scraping, wings flapping. Its beak banged against the glass, fighting with its own image. Pulse racing, Helen dropped her spade and backed to her front door. The battling bird lost its footing and flew off. She went back to work but, as she dug, kept looking around, unable to shake off the feeling that someone was watching, standing over her.
She was glad when it was three o’clock and busy in the street. Mothers, bikes, and children used the path by Louisa’s house to cut through to the next cul-de-sac. Also striding up the road without the pushchair, at a pace which Helen previously assumed wasn’t possible for her, was Mel. She turned up her path and didn’t acknowledge Helen.
As well as clearing the flower bed, Helen mowed the lawn and pulled out the weeds between the paving slabs. Her shirt stuck to her underarms and her back was stiff, but she was happy-knackered; a good day’s work. She sat on the step with a coffee as some teenage girls moved through Dickensweg towards the cut-through. They tapped into their mobile phones. When Chris’s sports car roared up, the girls flocked around it, all their texting forgotten.
“Have you decided yet, sir?” one said, flicking her greasy side fringe behind her ear.
Chris brushed his hand through his own thick, white hair. “I’m still working on the casting.”
“What are you looking for?” a tall, elegant girl asked. Helen thought she was stunning.
Apparently so did Chris. “Strong features like yours might work.”
The girl lost her poise as the compliment reduced her to a giggling teenager. The girls crowded closer and all talked at once. Chris fed them with non-committal but encouraging one-liners: I have to get the balance right; everyone has a chance; I’ll let you know when I screen test.
As he walked past Helen, he said: “We only have to do the back gardens, you know. School maintains the front between May and October. Another three weeks and they’d have done it for you.”
She stamped the mud out of her wellingtons before going indoors. Prick, she stamped, prick, prick, prick.
***
That night her sleep was fitful. But as well as Gary’s frantic tapping on the games controller through the left-hand wall, other noises invaded her dreams. The face at the Howards’ back fence morphed into the crow at the Stephens’s window. Her heart raced and she sat up in bed until the dream left her. When fully awake, she ached her way to the bathroom, her back and knees complaining about the gardening. The sounds from her dream were louder through the wall. She sat on the loo, releasing her stream slowly to keep it quiet. A nosy git like Chris Mowar would get off on hearing her pee. She heard a cough, a gasping, empty-out-the-lungs noise, and sloshing sounds. She pressed the flush; Chris was making too much noise next door to hear her.
5
Sunday, 2 May
Mel’s heart raced when the Barton couple at number 1 stepped out of their front door with their pack of yapping spaniels. But they turned left onto the main street, the dogs pulling against their leads to sniff the grass verge. Mel sighed with relief and knelt by Chris’s car to continue cleaning the tyres.
“Guten Tag,” a voice said, hard and guttural.
The young man was gaunt, scruffy-looking. He must have come from the copse that ran between their cul-de-sac and the one behind. She’d seen him once before, hanging around the edge of the wood, and she’d stayed indoors until he’d walked off. Now he squatted beside her and said something in German.
She didn’t know what he said, but she could smell him, taste him, tobacco. She leapt to her feet and felt her skin draw bone-white. Black dots floated in front of her eyes.
He stood up and put his hand in his jacket. She flinched. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, opened it and offered her one. She stepped further away, her eyes darting between the man and the packet. She wished Chris was here; he’d know what to do.
The man shrugged, lit a cigarette for himself and pocketed the pack.
What now? She was working a cotton bud between her fingers. Her fists were tensed in front of her although she knew she’d be no match if he got nasty.
He pointed at the cotton bud. “You British won’t get your wheels dirty.”
A deep heat rose up her throat and she felt dizzy. Hearing him speak English made him more threatening.
He ran his fingernails over the bonnet, not quite hard enough to leave a scratch. “Expensive car,” he said. “You like driving it?”
He stared at her. The cold intensity of his eyes pushed her into answering. “It’s my husband’s car.”
But she wished she hadn’t; her response only made him ask something else. “Where does he drive you?” He drummed his fingers on the bonnet and turned them into a fist when she didn’t answer. “To the Rhineland?”
She watched his fist and shook her head.
“Or the Mosel or the Sauerland? Or the Black Forest or the Ahr Valley?” He fired off the place names like bullets.
She carried on shaking her head. When would this end?
“You must go somewhere.”
“I …” she faltered.
His eyes narrowed and he snarled: “Or is only England good enough?”
She flushed crimson, panic rising. The man looked unstable; she’d have to say something. How was she going to get away? She couldn’t run into the house; he’d see where she lived. Maybe if she’d accepted the cigarette, he’d have stalked back to the copse and left her alone. Her refusal had made him angry.
“We go to Austria, to the Grossglockner, in spring. The Whitsun holidays.” She held her breath. Why had she said all that?
His eyes pierced her, made her shake. It was better when he spoke. Why was he silent?
“The neighbours. We go with the neighbours,” she blurted out.
A dog barked up the street, the couple returning with the spaniels. The man darted into the trees and disappeared.
6
Helen and Gary sprawled on the sofa, replete after the roast pork they’d prepared and eaten together. She’d phoned her parents before lunch. It turned out to have been an easy, excited call. They’d booked a cruise to celebrate Dad’s sixtieth in December.
She moved onto Gary’s knee and kissed him. They snuggled together. He still had the soapy clean fragrance from his morning shower but some of the Sunday cooking smells had seeped into his T-shirt.
He returned the kiss and said: “I’ve worked out why you’re in a good mood: the outdoor pool opens tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait. With all the free time I’ve got now, I can set myself a proper training schedule. I could aim for a decent time over 100 m crawl. What do you think?”
“I love it when you talk athletic.” He pulled her down and manoeuvred himself on top. Contentment came over her as he unbuttoned her shirt. Things were great; she adored Gary, Germany was fine.
The doorbell chimed, and Gary dropped to the floor, struggling with his zip, “bugger” coming loud through clenched teeth.
“I’ll go.” She could guess who it was. She fastened her shirt but resisted the urge to scoop stray hairs into her ponytail.
Louisa. “It’s the wives’ breakfast at my house tomorrow. I’ve put you down for a dozen cookies. Aldi ones will do if you can’t bake.”
“I’ve arranged to go swimming tomorrow.”
Louisa paused, and Helen savoured her hesitation. She felt like she had when her squad had won the Midlands swim championships. Triumphant.
But her victory didn’t last.
“I hope you’re going to the village pool. I managed to get 400 people to sign my petition and I convinced the town hall officials to open it for us.”
As Helen listened to Louisa’s account of how she asserted herself, she gripped the door, longing to slam it in her neighbour’s community-spirited face. Eventually Louisa remembered she had more breakfast invitations to deliver and left.
“Is there nothing that bloody woman doesn’t do?” Helen asked Gary. “Do all the neighbours kowtow to her?”
“I’ve heard her coffee mornings are fun. All the wives who don’t work are happy to help. And it’s thanks to her you’ll get to swim tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll drive to Center Parcs instead.”
“Don’t be silly; it’s thirty kilometres away. Not even someone as stubborn as you would hack off their own nose in spite.”
Fiona
“Hi, it’s me.” I was out of breath after dashing from the languages block to get a signal.
“Shall I phone you back?” Mum said. “Save your credit.”
“I’ve got a lecture now. I just wanted to tell you something.” I cradled my mobile under my chin and got out my lit folder. “Do you remember that extended essay I had to write when I was in Lyons?”
“I think you mentioned it. Eight thousand words, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the one,” I said, almost dropping the folder in my excitement to get my words out. “I got a First for it.”
“That’s brilliant.”
I propped the folder against the wall. “Listen to what my tutor said: ‘This is one of the best undergraduate analyses I’ve read. I have high hopes for your results this year.’ Can I tell Dad now?”
“He’s having a nap, love, but I’ll tell him later.”
“Is he all right?” I couldn’t keep the alarm out of my voice. He’d slept in the daytime during his treatment. But he was better now, wasn’t he?
“Of course. He’s just taking it easy.”
“If that’s all it is …”
“Definitely. Stop worrying. So are you celebrating in the uni bar tonight?”
“I don’t think I’ve got time.” I still had a business case study to finish and some vocab to learn.
“You can give yourself one night off.”
“I suppose I could go to the George.” Liz and Cheryl preferred the pub to the uni bar. I tagged along last week but left when the engineering lads moved in for a flirt. I had an essay to write anyway.
“Go on, love,” Mum said, “you never know, you might meet the man of your dreams.”
7
Monday, 3 May
Cold pinched Helen’s arms and thighs as she stepped out of the changing room into the open air. It turned to tingling, comforting heat as she slid into the water. She dropped under the surface and set off at a gentle crawl.
It felt like home.
She quickened her stroke, her hands cutting deep through the water. Of course, Gary had been right to insist she came to this pool, but he’d called her silly and stubborn. He’d never said that to her before, not even when she wanted to stay in England. Their marriage, so serene during the weekends they spent in Shrewsbury, was changing. She looked up at the clock by the exit. The last 200 metres were not far off her personal best.
The exertions of the early lengths caught up with her and she slowed her pace. There was no sign of Louisa’s 400 petition signatories and they couldn’t all be at the wives’ breakfast; even Louisa’s catering had its limits. On the far side of the pool was an elderly couple, floating from one end to the other, the full 50 metres, at a rate too slow to be classed as swimming. The woman was on her front with her flowery swimming cap so high out of the water she was almost standing up. Her husband was on his back, also head high, as if sitting in a favourite armchair.
The only other swimmer was a man who, with the whole pool to swim in, chose to carve out lengths a mere three feet away. He was constantly in her field of vision, keeping pace. Just like Louisa – wherever she turned, she found her. Louisa must have sent her envoy to the pool to stalk her. She smiled to herself, knowing how ridiculous she was being. She upped her speed to shake him off but was surprised he didn’t stay with her for a second length. She slowed down, despite all her competitive training telling her not to, and finished the length at a leisurely rate.
When she looked back, he set off from the far end swimming butterfly. His technique was good: arms sweeping wide and low, allowing his shoulders to clear the water, conserving energy. He was veering to the left, towards Helen, as his stronger arm pushed deeper. She should move out of his way but she was annoyed at the invasion of her space and stayed put. His left arm reached the wall about six inches from her shoulder.
“Entschuldigung,” he said, lifting his goggles. “Mein Fehler.”
“I don’t speak German,” she replied although she was pretty sure his unfamiliar words were an apology.
His shoulders stiffened. “You are from the international school.” It sounded like an accusation. He climbed out of the water and slipped on the flip-flops he’d left on the poolside.
He walked towards the shower on the grass area behind the pool. Tall and rangy. In swimming trunks his arms and chest were sleek with good muscle definition. In clothes he would appear skinny. How old was he – 21, 22? He’d fill out with age. He turned around in the shower and saw her looking. She blushed. He came back and squatted on the poolside behind her. “You are from the school,” he said again.
“I’ve just arrived from England,” she conceded.
His shoulders relaxed. “So you are new. Do you like it?”
“I’m looking forward to getting to know Germany.”
“Germany. But not the school?” He shook his head. “It’s okay you mustn’t explain. I work there also, IT support, but I live here in the village. My name is Sascha Jakobsen.” He had an accent, although he pronounced “village” with a v rather than the w favoured by most Germans trying out the English word.
He pushed the wet fringe out of his eyes. A tiny wave of something unexpected rippled through Helen’s body. He was waiting for her to introduce herself but to talk for longer would stop them being strangers and she sensed danger in that.
“Bye then,” she said, preparing to glide away.
“Tschüs,” Sascha said. He walked towards the changing room.
Helen launched both arms over the water and dolphin-kicked her legs. He wasn’t the only one who could swim butterfly. She wondered whether he was watching her but told herself to stop.
8
When Gisela went to get the second bottle of Sekt from the kitchen, she saw Sascha on the balcony. He was hanging out his trunks and towel. It wasn’t that long ago he would have left them in his bag on the floor, expecting that his washing would reappear clean and dry on his bed. But he no longer expected that of his mother; he no longer expected much of her at all.
He turned round, and she darted into the lounge. With the first bottle already inside her, she had to grab the doorframe to keep herself upright. She fell into an armchair and hid the new bottle under a cushion. She lit a cigarette and inhaled so hard that she hacked up phlegm.
He put his head round the door on the way to his bedroom. “Hallo, Mama.”
Gisela coughed again, for longer this time. The two of them inhabited the same apartment but different worlds. He never greeted her, so why now?
She felt for the neck of the bottle under the cushion. Her mouth was so parched it hurt but she couldn’t open the Sekt because he’d hear the cork pop. She crept over to the Schrank wall unit and eased out the bottom drawer. Verdammt! The vodka wasn’t there and neither were the miniature fire water bottles she’d bought at Lidl. Sascha! She should hammer on his door and demand an explanation. I’m the parent here. But when she heard his door open, she jammed the Schrank drawer half shut.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said, coming in to help her with the drawer. He slid it back into place and left the room, whistling.
She slumped into her chair. Heilige Maria Mutter Gottes (Holy Mary Mother of God), since when did this scowling young man whistle? Judging by the wet swimming things, the Freibad must have opened for the season. Perhaps he was exhilarated after exercising in the fresh air. Good. He spent too much time brooding in his bedroom or in the car.
He came back into the room, smiling, and she felt a pang of fear. “Have you been to the school?” she asked.
His face hardened. “Why would I go there?”
“I just thought …”
“What did you just think?”
“Nothing. How was your swim?”
“I met a woman.”
“Oh?” There’d been no one since Julia, since he’d cancelled dates with her to park outside the metal fence of the Niers International School instead.
His face remained hard but he said: “She’ll be useful, maybe open doors for me.”
9
Helen got home on a high after the swim, her blood buzzing with exercise hormones. And then the drudgery of her new life settled on her shoulders. She spent the afternoon signing up at the school library. She had trouble tracking it down; for all its solid frontage, the school had camouflaged its library in a Portakabin at the back of the campus. Eighties temporary units neglected into permanence.
She found the Elementary School’s second-hand uniform shop first and went in to ask for directions. Sabine, the school nurse, was working behind the counter. Helen laughed and asked her if she did every job in the school.
“I’m usually only here on Friday. It should be the head’s wife’s shift today but she has a breakfast party. Do you know Louisa?”
Helen’s whole face clenched. Of course, Louisa volunteered in the school shop. She thanked God that the wives’ breakfast had given her a narrow escape.
“I know her slightly,” she said. She turned to leave but noticed a pretty velvet top hanging from the rails.
“Try it on,” Sabine said. “We don’t just sell second-hand uniforms, we have clothes for everyone. It was Louisa’s idea.”
Helen dropped the blouse sleeve as if it was on fire.
***
When she finally found the library, the assistant told her she had to get her membership form signed by her husband before she could borrow any books. “You’re his dependant. School rules.” Helen stuffed the form in her pocket and stormed outside, silently vowing to order her books from Amazon.
“I’ll come to yours at eight.” A voice she recognized was coming from the other side of the Portakabin.
Damian Howard. For once she’d be pleased to see a neighbour, this one in particular. As head teacher, he could make the stupid library assistant give her a ticket. But she stayed out of sight when she realized he was on the phone.
“I can only stay an hour … Shelly, Sweetheart, please. It’s better than nothing … You know I do. I can’t wait …” His voice was getting nearer.
She moved away briskly in case he came round the corner. Something told her Shelly Sweetheart wasn’t a pet name for Louisa.
***
Later, back at home, she wanted to plant up the front flower bed with the marigolds she’d bought from Aldi but, when she peered out of the kitchen window to check the street was clear of nosy neighbours, she saw Damian and Chris in conversation by Chris’s car.
There wasn’t a day that went by when Chris, or Mel, didn’t polish the sport car’s paintwork. A wave of irritation came over Helen: Gary was still at school whereas Chris was long since home.
And Damian was home too. Head teacher and family man, who made private calls in work time. She’d wait until he’d gone back to his side of the road. The thought of making social chit-chat with him made her sick.
But she stayed at her window, watching. Damian faced Chris, his fists clenching while Chris ignored him in favour of washing the car. Helen was turning into a curtain twitcher and she hated herself for it. But she was fascinated. There was no sign of the peace and harmony that Gary swore reigned supreme in Dickensweg. She thought for a minute that Damian was going to thump Chris. Hating herself even more, she opened the window to listen.
“What about it?” Damian snapped.
“I want to make some changes.” Chris was still polishing the car.
“You bastard,” Damian said and walked away.
“Don’t forget I’ve got the Chateau Petrus at eight,” Chris called after him.
Helen pulled back from the window. She’d heard of Chateau Petrus. It was a wine that cost over five hundred pounds a bottle. Where did Chris get the money for expensive plonk? And why offer to drink it with a man he’d just argued with? She wished she’d opened the window sooner.
When Chris had gone indoors, she took her box of plants to the flower bed under the kitchen window. As soon as she knelt down and turned the soil with her trowel, a feeling of comfort came over her. She was deriving as much pleasure from gardening as she did from swimming. But the pool had the advantage of being five miles from Dickensweg.