The Neighbours: A gripping, addictive novel with a twist that will leave you breathless. Hannah McKinnon Mary
on. “That’s my husband, Liam, and this is our son, Zachary.”
“Zac,” the teenager said, rolling his eyes around in his head so hard they started to look a lot like marbles. “I’m Zac.” He shook my hand, too, and now that they’d stopped their dizzy spin, I noticed he had his father’s intense eyes.
Liam jumped down from the van and gave me a hard clap on the shoulder. “Cheers,” he said. “Appreciate it. The removal company got delayed, so we decided to bring a few things ourselves. A couple of people helped us on the other end but now, well...” He whistled. “You’re a lifesaver.” He smiled again, revealing teeth as white as his wife’s.
I figured these people were either dentists or had a great family discount. Either way, Liam’s jaw was what my mother would have called “strong,” and his cheekbones probably had their own exclusive page in Esquire. When he discarded his winter jacket, and although he wore a fleece, I could tell he was no stranger to the weight bench.
“Happy to help,” I said. Then I did that male-pride thing—sucked in my gut, straightened my back, all the while wishing I’d been a tad more diligent with my sit-ups in recent months. “Let’s start with that sofa.”
Liam and I made a couple of trips from the van to the front door, where Zac and Nancy took over dispatching boxes to the appropriate rooms.
“So where did you move from?” I asked Liam as we carried a TV the size of a small country up the driveway. The bloody thing felt as solid as a slab of gold and probably cost more. “You don’t sound local.”
“Lancashire. Preston area.” He navigated us toward the front steps. Christ, he didn’t even seem to be sweating while I could already feel my shirt sucking mine up like a sponge.
“Really?” I straightened the TV slightly so we could get it through the door without scratching it. “My grandparents lived in Longton.”
“Yeah? You grew up there?”
“No. We went north almost every summer, though.” We put the television down in the living room, my back screaming a silent thank god. “But my wife grew up near Preston. She moved here after we met.”
“Seriously? What’s her name?”
“Abigail—Abby—Morris.” He shrugged so I added, “Sanders before we married.”
Liam looked at me for a few seconds, then blinked. I thought I saw a flicker of something pass over his face, but it disappeared all too quickly, so I figured I’d imagined it.
I laughed. “Don’t tell me you know her?”
“No.” He turned and headed for the front door. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”
In hindsight I should have stopped him. Questioned the look. At least asked what it meant. If I had, then perhaps none of what was to come would have happened.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d still be with my wife.
“THEY’RE MOVING IN TODAY?” Camilla wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. “That didn’t take long to sell, did it?”
I nodded, and peered past her up the stairs, wishing Sarah would hurry up. Now that Camilla and I both worked at Sterling Engineering, seeing her on weekends could be, well, a bit much. She gossiped a fair amount and somehow got people to say more than they should despite themselves, including me if I let my guard down.
“The house was only empty a few weeks,” I said. “Not surprising, considering the price they were asking.” I heard Sarah and Claire giggling upstairs and imagined them speaking in hushed whispers about boys, music and music by boys. They’d declared themselves BFFs on their first day of school, but Nate always said nowadays they were more like conjoined twins.
“Let’s go, Sarah,” I called out, “We’d better get a move on if you want those boots.”
Sarah’s answer was a casual, “Yeah, coming,” and I pictured her rolling her eyes and Claire putting a hand over her own mouth—maybe my daughter’s, too—stifling another laugh.
“So who are the new neighbors?” Camilla raised her eyebrows. “Some hot guy who can mow the lawn for you?”
I scrunched up my face. “Hardly. Nate just said they look normal. And he cuts the grass.”
Camilla laughed. “Well, if a fit bloke moves in next door you might want to rethink that. But,” she said, “enough of my fantasies. In any case, they can’t be worse than Barbara, right?”
I knew exactly where this conversation was heading. Camilla always wanted the skinny on our neighbor’s latest antics, and there had been plenty to entertain her with in recent months. “I bet you’re glad they dragged her off to the home,” she continued, “and—”
“That’s a bit unfair. She wasn’t well, you know? We all need to—”
“I know, I know.” Camilla shrugged. “You’re going to tell me to be more compassionate. Someday I’ll be old and senile and glad of people being patient with me.” She laughed. “But even you have to admit she was a nightmare. Sarah said she’s refused to go near the old bat for years. You never told me it was that bad.”
I opened my mouth in contradiction, then closed it again. After all, I could hardly deny it, Barbara Baker truly had been a nightmare. She’d been our neighbor since we’d bought the house in Bromley almost seventeen years earlier. At first she’d been charming and eloquent, brought us succulent mince pies at Christmas and soul-warming chicken-noodle soup when both Nate and I got the flu. She’d babysat Sarah whenever we’d desperately needed a night out—and even when we hadn’t. The perfect neighbor. Except, over the years, as Barbara slowly lost each of her cats and most of her marbles to old age, she’d gradually morphed into a shrieking banshee who wore the same white flannel nightie that had taken on a distinctly yellow sheen under the arms. It was sad, it really was, and we helped her as often as she would allow, which, lately, had been hardly ever.
Camilla leaned in and only slightly lowered her voice. “Did she honestly shout, ‘Eff off and die, you shits’ at you before she left?” Her eyes were wide, anticipating the latest morsel of gossip.
I nodded. “We’d been counting the days until she left for the home.” Why had I said that? Now Camilla would tell everyone we hated our old neighbor.
Camilla laughed. “You mean the godforsaken place where you come out stiffer than the box they shove you in, isn’t that what Barbara always called it? And Sarah said she threw the contents of the litter tray over the fence, too? God.” As she stopped to catch a breath, her face flushed, and I couldn’t tell if it was information overload or something menopausal.
“Yes, she did.” I’d have to educate Sarah again on the lost art of discretion, not that I was exactly leading by example. I cleared my throat. “But Barbara wasn’t well, the poor love.”
“So sad,” Camilla said, floury hand on hips, her voice grave. “Old age is a friend to no one.”
“Absolutely,” I said, determined to change the subject. “So how’s Josh?”
Camilla clicked her tongue. “Oh, fine. Out with his bowling league again. Some tournament or something. Can’t keep track where.”
I smiled. “Isn’t it great that you have your own interests? When you don’t have to live in each other’s pockets?”
Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Fantastic. So do you still work out as much?”
“Yeah.” Sensing an impending interrogation, I called out, “Sarah, forget it. The weather’s horrible anyway. We’ll go home instead.”
My daughter immediately appeared at the top of the stairs, her