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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The wind was rising, the clouds scudding across the sky, speeded up like when Aster fast-forwarded the television, and the moon was flashing on and off, like his flashlight. He stood up, ready to leave, ready to forget everything he had come here to do, feeling a powerful urge to crawl onto his daddy’s lap. Across the gardens, all he could see was the glint of silver light against the glass of the greenhouse next door.

The first faint spots of rain began to drum against the corrugated iron, and the wind was moaning and moaning, and the ladder was shaking as he began to climb down. A splinter of wood buried itself in the bulb of his thumb, and it made him think of the children’s collection of Shakespeare stories his mother had bought him.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

Evan’s face was a pale daub in the darkness, one slipper resting on the third-from-top rung, his hand gripping the one above, flashlight stuffed down the band of his pajama bottoms.

The wind was still moaning.

Except it didn’t sound like the wind anymore.

It sounded human.

Evan squeezed his eyes shut, and the speed of his heart was the echo of his childhood; the beat of a wooden spoon against a tub, the pound of a toy drum, the banging of his fists against a saucepan.

He wondered if the killer was coming for him and a sob rose in him. The police lady had said she was going to wait one more day until she started looking for his mother. He wondered if they always took that long. If the killer was in his garden, it would be too late for him. He would be dead by then.

But then he remembered that his mother had taught him to stand up to bullies, to find his courage and to use it, and he made himself open his eyes.

Evan peered over the edge of the ladder, in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the copse, but all he could see was a bank of trees and the fence that ran across the length of the bottom of his garden.

He reached for his flashlight and switched it on, sweeping it across the copse, illuminating the claws of the trees, and they were reaching for him, and so he swung the light lower until it ran across the inside of a deep drainage ditch that he had barely even noticed before.

His flashlight spotlit pockets of toadstools and dried mud, fallen leaves and ferns and weeds. He saw a flicker of movement, a mouse scrambling out of the way of the beam, and a sandal.

His mother’s sandal.

And lying in that ditch was a familiar shape in a poppy-red dressing gown.

84

84

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 3:05 A.M.

The copse