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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
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  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

None of them noticed the old man standing at the top of The Avenue, too intent on watching Charlie, a butcher’s son, plunge his hand into the bag and pull out a pig’s head.

Aster took one look at the snout, the closed eyes, the rough tufts of hair and gagged. Charlie waggled it at them, and Bailey and Marco nudged and pushed each other toward it, swearing and laughing, full of boyish bravado, but desperate not to touch its leathered skin.

Charlie glanced at Lovell’s front door and, with as much strength as he could muster, drove the pig’s head onto the top of the stake.

The butcher’s carcass swung lopsidedly, as if the pig were still alive, dancing at its own funeral.

Several things happened at once.

Aster screamed.

Charlie wiped his fingers frantically against his shorts.

And the old man appeared on the pavement behind the teenagers and pointed a shotgun at Aster’s head.

55

55

Now

What is it about the inanimate that frightens us so much? Is it fear that the shuttered face of a doll might open up as we turn away, that skin-crawl sensation of being watched? Do we suspect their eyes will blink, heads twist, a grin twitching into life, laughing at our trust?

Or is it that these dolls, and the puppets we use our hands to move, to bring to life, represent our most primal hopes of raising the dead?

I do not have the answers to these questions. I try not to think on them too long. I have no desire to bring anyone back. Except you.

Some days, though, when I am going about the business of living, I am reminded that most of us discard the identities we once inhabited.

The cruelty of the children we were. The shy lover we pretended to be. The manic-depressive who was once the class clown.

Perhaps this is why the inanimate frightens us so. Because the faces we turn to the world are ever changing while the faces of the inanimate are condemned to never grow old.

56

56

Tuesday 31st July 2018, 1:21 P.M.

26 The Avenue

When Dessie Benedict had completed a three-mile run, finished cleaning the house she had owned for eleven years, hung out two loads of laundry and eaten lunch, she stretched out on the sun lounger in her back garden.

This glorious weather was all well and good, but it wasn’t the same as being on holiday. Her makeup artist friend Alexis had just got back from a month-long road trip in Nashville. Dessie longed for an adventure of her own, but Fletcher seemed reluctant.

Maybe he was losing interest. They hadn’t been living together for that long—only a few months—but sometimes he seemed distant. A secret part of her couldn’t help thinking he had landed on his feet with the nominal rent he paid her. He’d be a fool to leave.