The New Neighbors Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE NEW NEIGHBORS

  “An intricate, powerful, and deeply unsettling thriller about the profound ways in which cruelty can change its survivors, and the creeping fear that nothing—not your home, not love, not even your own mind—is as rock-solid and impregnable as we all want to believe.”

  —Tana French, New York Times bestselling author of The Trespasser

  “This terrifying thriller sent shivers through me!”

  —Jane Corry, author of My Husband’s Wife

  “A masterpiece of duplicity, a psychological thriller of the highest order, in which the characters not only lie to each other and to everyone around them, they lie to themselves. With two highly unreliable narrators digging themselves deeper in every chapter, fans of he said/she said suspense will love this tense and gripping story. Highly recommended!”

  —Karen Dionne, author of The Marsh King’s Daughter

  “A raw, tightly wound thrill ride, a nightmare scenario about a home purchase that goes horribly wrong. And then some. This is a fast-paced, intense, and creepy novel that you won’t be able to put down until you reach the end.”

  —David Bell, bestselling author of Bring Her Home

  “[A] bundle of creepy chills . . . Read it.”

  —The Observer (U.K.)

  “Deeply creepy . . . This clever, twisting plot, told in convincing voices, will haunt you in the very best way.”

  —Sunday Mirror (U.K.)

  TITLES BY SIMON LELIC

  The New Neighbors

  The Facility

  The Child Who

  A Thousand Cuts

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Simon Lelic

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Previously published in the U.K. as The House.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lelic, Simon, author.

  Title: The new neighbors / Simon Lelic.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017028398 (print) | LCCN 2017031279 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451490469 (eBook) | ISBN 9780451490452 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Psychological fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6112.E48 (ebook) | LCC PR6112.E48 N49 2018 (print) |

  DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017028398

  Penguin U.K. trade paperback edition / November 2017

  Berkley hardcover edition / April 2018

  Cover art: Shadow of woman behind door © by Hayden Verry/Arcangel

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Anja and for her grandpa

  CONTENTS

  Praise for The New Neighbors

  Titles by Simon Lelic

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART ONE CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PART TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Further Reading

  About the Author

  WHEN MY HAND slips from the knife, my first thought is that using it wasn’t as difficult as I assumed it would be. I feel elated, initially, until I notice the blood. It flows quickly, determinedly. It stains my sweatshirt, my trousers, even the floor, and that’s when my elation turns to fear. It’s gone wrong, I realize. This thing I’ve planned for so carefully. It has all gone drastically, horribly wrong . . .

  PART

  ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  JACK

  THE POLICE WERE outside again last night. I watched them in the alleyway from the spare-bedroom window. They couldn’t have seen me. I’m fairly sure they couldn’t have seen me. And so what if they had? It’s not like I was doing anything wrong. It’s perfectly natural, isn’t it? Like the way motorists slow down to get a view of an accident. Probably the police would have assumed it odd if I hadn’t been watching. I mean, I couldn’t tell from where I was standing, but I bet the rest of our neighbors were all watching, too. All with their lights off. All cloaked discreetly by their curtains. What I didn’t like was the impression I had that everyone out there was also looking discreetly at me. That the police being out there, at that time of night, was all just a show. A reminder.

  God, this is hard. Harder than I thought it would be. It’s knowing where to begin as much as anything. I’m not Syd. I know what she thinks, what conclusions she’s drawn already, but I don’t process things the way she does. If she had gone first, I don’t know where we would have ended up, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had a clue about where to go next.

  I guess for me the only logical place to start is the day we first saw the house. This was back in April. It’s September now. The fourteenth. At 3:17 in the morning, to be precise. Syd’s in bed, but I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to. I doubt she’s sleeping either, to be honest. I don’t think she’s slept properly in weeks. Me, I drop off easily enough. Every night I don’t think I’m going to, but it’s exhaustion, I suppose, the weight of worry. Tonight, though, our decision made, I just wanted to get on with it.

  There’s a lot to get through and not a lot of time.

  —

  THE OPEN HOUSE day, then. I suppose it has to be, though there’s very little about the day itself that was unusual. I recall how busy it was, how many people, when the time came, narrow-shoul
dered their way through the front door. Because there was a queue, you see. Not a line, but one of those messy, I-was-here-first scrums you see at bus stops. We’d arrived forty minutes early and already there were half a dozen couples ahead of us.

  But that wasn’t uncommon. Not for a house viewing in London. The strange thing was that it wasn’t just the house that was up for sale. Whoever bought it would also be buying everything the house contained. And once Syd and I had got inside, we saw that the entire place was stuffed with junk. Actual dragged-home-from-the-dump junk. Books, too, and clothes, coats, pictures on every square inch of wall, boxes stacked heedless of shape or size, plus furniture big and small in every crevice. It was like a live-in, life-and-death version of Jenga.

  Oh, and birds. Clearly the current owner was into dead stuff. Taxidermy—doing it, hoarding it, I couldn’t tell. There was a hawk, a seagull, even a pigeon amid the scattered flock. Syd must have noticed them, too. I remember being surprised that she didn’t turn around the moment she did see them and walk straight out.

  The story the estate agent gave us was that the owner had met a woman on the Internet. She lived in Australia, apparently, and he’d dropped everything to run off and be with her. Just like that. He’d been approaching retirement age anyway, but even so he chucked in his job, abandoned his friends and signed over his house—dead pets and all—to the estate agent to sell as one bumper package. Which made a good sales pitch, I suppose, and accounted for the state of the place—but personally, right from the off, I just couldn’t see it. I mean, what sort of person would do that? And—setting the storybook explanation aside for a moment—why?

  So, yes, that was odd, and for me more than a bit off-putting. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I’d fallen for the house itself. I mean, the layout wasn’t a problem, and there was more than enough space (living room, kitchen, separate dining room, plus one, two, three bedrooms—not including the unconverted attic). The building, though—it was creepy. There’s no other word to describe it. The garden was overgrown and the paintwork about as attractive as a skin complaint. The house stood alone (“detached,” marveled the brochure) as though it had been shunned. There was a row of terraced houses on one side, huddled together as though for safety, and a block of flats with its back turned on the other. It looked—and felt—somehow ostracized.

  So I suppose all I’m saying is I didn’t like the place. All that junk, the building itself—it just felt wrong. The problem I had was that Syd was clearly smitten. I knew she would be. She knew she would be; it was Syd who’d found the house on the Internet and who’d insisted we arrive at least half an hour early.

  “So-oo,” I remember her saying to me, once we’d finally finished looking around. “What do you think?”

  We were in the living room, beside the fireplace. I remember this older guy kept staring at me from across the room. I was conspicuous in trainers and a T-shirt, whereas all the other blokes my age wore a collar, pressed jeans and polished brogues. They were City types, basically, or—like the man who kept staring—fathers of spoiled little rich kids. And probably that was the other thing that was stopping me sharing Syd’s enthusiasm. It had taken Syd and me more than two years to scrimp enough for a deposit, whereas most of the couples we were up against had likely earned theirs from a single bonus. So on that playing field, with London rules—how could the two of us be expected to compete?

  “I think it’s like The Hunger Games,” I answered uncomfortably. What I meant was that bit in the film before the action starts, where the contestants are drifting around, pretending to be friends—to be allies or whatever—when really they’re just itching to kill the crap out of one another.

  Syd looked at me blankly. I knew for a fact she’d seen the movie at the cinema, but her memory about stuff like that isn’t the greatest. She smoked a lot when she was younger, and I’m not talking Marlboro Lights. She did a lot of drugs, actually. I’m not saying I’ve never dabbled myself, but there’re certain people they affect more than others. Syd had a difficult upbringing. Horrendous, actually—so bad that she’s still never told me the whole story. And when, later on, she had her troubles, the drugs, I reckon, played a part. She says they didn’t. She says all the damage had already been done. But weed, coke, pills, what have you—that stuff definitely leaves a mark.

  “Just . . . all these people,” I explained. “I mean, I knew there’d be other interest, but nothing like this.”

  Syd slipped her hands around my waist. “Forget about everyone else for a moment. What do you think about the house?”

  I paused for half a second too long. “I like it,” I said at last. “I do.”

  “But?”

  “But . . . nothing. It’s just . . . it’s kind of dark, that’s all.”

  I think Syd assumed I was merely playing my role, in house-hunting as well as in life. Syd dishes out her affection as though she’s sharing Skittles, whereas I trail stoically beside her, kicking tires and knuckle-tapping walls. It’s rare that I know what I’m wary about exactly (What’s actually supposed to happen when you kick a tire, other than the reverberation in your toes?), but it’s a part I’ve somehow settled into. It’s what men do, I’ve learned from somewhere. My father, probably, who could suck the joy out of riding on a rollercoaster. Plus, as I say, Syd definitely needs a counterweight. It’s why we’re so good together. She stops me gazing at my feet so much; I stop her floating off into the sky.

  “That’s just the weather,” Syd countered. “All these people. Plus, have you seen all of this stuff?”

  I was half expecting her then to mention those birds. She didn’t.

  “There’s an attic, too,” I said. “If the rest of the place is like this, what must it be like up there?”

  Syd glanced toward the ceiling. I joined her, worrying in that moment whether the whole building was liable to suddenly cave in.

  “Well,” said Syd, “we’ll just have to hire a van or something. A man. Assuming we can still afford it.”

  She smiled then and tucked a stray strand of hair behind a perfectly formed ear. In the house in which I grew up there was this blossom tree outside my bedroom window. Cherry, apple, I’ve no idea. It flowered pink but never actually bore any fruit. The leaves, though, were this deep, rosewood brown, which came aglow when caught by the light. Syd’s hair, which she never dyes, is exactly the same color.

  “Jack? I’m not going to make you live somewhere you don’t want to. If you really don’t like it, then let’s just leave.”

  It wasn’t a guilt trip. Syd truly meant what she’d said. So maybe I should have said something. Maybe I could have put an end to it all then and there.

  We did leave . . . but in the end we put in an offer as well. Just for the hell of it. And, I’ll admit, because Syd was clearly head over heels and I wanted her to be happy. Besides, what harm could it do? I didn’t love the place, but I didn’t hate it exactly—and anyway we couldn’t afford it. The mortgage we had agreed wouldn’t even get us to the asking price, and the details stipulated offers over. So there was no way we’d get it, not given the level of interest. All those people, with all their money . . .

  I felt safe because we shouldn’t have had a chance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SYDNEY

  JESUS CHRIST. I knew this would be a bad idea. I fucking knew it.

  First off, this isn’t a ghost story. OK? Let’s make that very fucking clear. The house stood alone as though shunned. Who do you think you are, Jack—Stephen King? Creepy house, creepy furnishings, a happy(ish) couple moving in all dumb and cheerful. All the elements are there. If this really were a Stephen King novel, there’d be cats turning into zombies by chapter three.

  But I say again, this isn’t a ghost story. It’s . . . I don’t know what this is. That’s why I’m writing it. That’s why we are. Right, Jack? Isn’t that what we agreed?

  I know w
hat he’s trying to do. He wants you to think that we’re just spooked, that we’ve imagined the whole entire thing. Or that I have. (The drugs, Jack? Really?) But the clues. The reminders or whatever you want to call them. I have them right here in my desk drawer. And this thing on the surface in front of me. Looking at me. Staring at me. I don’t want to, but if I chose to I could reach out and touch it. It’s real. Like the blood; that was real too. Remember the blood, Jack? How I wished we’d both of us imagined that!

  He’s in denial, that’s what it is. He’s trying to act like none of this is happening. Part of Jack’s problem is he can’t stand the idea of people thinking badly of him. He gets all hot and sweaty if someone tells him off for putting his feet up on the train. So this . . . what this looks like . . . he can’t handle it. Not that I’m handling it either but at least I’m acknowledging it’s happening. Because it’s like a horror story, I’ll admit. I’ve seen things out of the corner of my eye and imagined things I know weren’t really there. But that . . . it’s just . . . it’s part of it. You see that, Jack, don’t you? Surely you must fucking see that!

  I’m so angry right now I don’t know if there’s any point in my going on. I mean, if buying the house was my idea, then writing this was most definitely Jack’s. I let him talk me into it but only because it was better than doing nothing. That’s what I thought, anyway. Now? Now I’m not so sure.

  Oh, and just for your information, Jack, of course I dye my fucking hair.

  And Skittles. Skittles.

  I need a cigarette. I need a cigarette and I don’t even smoke!

  —

  SO I’VE BEEN for a walk.

  Around the common, I was about to type, but in reality to the newsagent’s for a ten-pack of Marlboros. Reds. I smoked two in a row standing on the corner—a shooter of nicotine and traffic fumes. There’s nothing like a breath of fresh air to calm the nerves, don’t you find?