Bad House (5 page)

She looked at him like he had slapped her. “Just stay the hell away from me and Jacob tonight. I don’t know what this is about, but you’re infecting our son with this, this
insanity.
”

“Are you calling me insane, now?”

“You’re
acting
like a lunatic, yes. If the cap fits.”

If there was one thing that drove Ian nuts, it was his wife’s causal sarcasm. He supposed it went with the territory of being a teacher, but it was still so infuriating. A flash image slammed into his brain; the one of him thrusting the scissors into her eyeball.

Shaking her head sadly at him, she opened the door to Jacob’s room. “Goodnight Ian, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

When she shut the door behind her, Ian felt a strong sense of loss. He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ian awoke at eight to an empty house. He had tossed and turned all night in the spare room. Lurid and violent images had played in an endless-loop in his subconscious. Some nightmares he remembered and some thankfully dissolved with the morning light.

He woke up to the fading remnants of dream where he was slicing open his wife with a carving knife from throat to pubis and pulling out endless, long coils of her intestines.

“Fuck this shit,” he said on waking.

He shuffled back into his bedroom to use the en-suite bathroom, wondering what he was going to do with himself today.

For the first time in two weeks, he stared at his reflection head on. His usually sparkling blue eyes looked lacklustre and were circled with darkness. His pale face was even more so, lending him the appearance of the walking dead.

I am not losing my mind. There is something wrong with this house
.

He couldn’t ignore it anymore, he couldn’t pretend that nothing was going on and that he just had an overactive imagination. This house was
infecting
him somehow, its very madness was seeping into his brain. Every single night for the past two weeks he had been plagued by nightmares. Every single day he had taken at least eight paracetamol for the constant, brain-scorcher of a headache. Jacob was affected to. He had started to turn more sullen and withdrawn by the day. Holly, of course, was oblivious. She just thought Jacob was taking badly to the move. And as for him, well, she just thought that he was being a moody arse.

During the spells of wakefulness last night amidst the dreams of death and murder, he had made a conscious decision. He was going to pay that slime-bag estate-agent Jefferson a visit. But there was something he had to do first.

After showering and dressing, he stood on the main road and rang the buzzer by the side of the massive, steel gates of twenty-eight Aberdeen Road. Cars whizzed past him on the main-road and despite the traffic fumes, the air felt fresh after the thunderstorm.

“Yes?” came a female voice over the crackly intercom.

Ian leaned forward to speak: “Hi, my name’s Ian Webster, me and my family just moved in to number twenty-nine. I was just wondering if I could pop up for a moment?”

On top of a high post next to the fence, a camera pointed down at him. He raised his hand in a self-conscious salute.

“Come on up, I’ll buzz you in,” came the feminine voice in reply.

The gates buzzed, then swung inwards, revealing a long driveway much like his own. The house at the end of it, however, was much different. Ian guessed that each hidden house along this salubrious half-mile stretch was unique. This one was a lot more modern than his, and a hell of lot posher. At first glance it looked like a big, white cube with
a lot
of glass.

Ian supposed it had a certain architectural charm, even if it wasn’t really his thing. It instantly put him in mind of some nineties, cheesy, Hollywood psychological horror movie. The only difference being it wasn’t perched on a clifftop and there was no beach with crashing waves below.

When Ian arrived at the (tinted glass) door, it was open.

“Hello?” he said into the empty hallway.

“Come in,” called out that same female voice. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”

Now that her voice wasn’t distorted by static, he could detect the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Spanish, maybe?

Ian stepped into the hallway, and was completely bowled over by the tacky extravagance. If there was ever a stereotype in his head of a footballer and his wife, this was it. The floor was comprised of shiny, marble-effect tiles like the inside of a seashell, which instantly made him think of public toilets in an upmarket shopping centre.

Big, bland, frameless modern art hung on the white walls and there was even the obligatory, ‘run over cat’ of a leopard skin rug. A floating, chrome staircase curved gently upwards at the end of the long hallway.

Ian saw her legs first as they descended the floating staircase. First, her little bare feet and shapely ankles came into view, then the vast expanse of richly tanned, long, long legs.

Ian gulped when all of her reached his line of vision and he did his best not to gawp. She was wearing a floaty blue, baby-doll nightdress, and nothing else. Her dark brown hair hung halfway down her back and she regarded him with doleful, brown eyes.  She had the whole, ‘Salma Hayek’ thing going on, with her glowing, Puerto Rican skin and high, full breasts. She might have been in her mid-twenties, but as with all beautiful women like her, it was impossible to tell. She could have been anywhere from twenty-one to thirty-nine.

She also looked extremely familiar.

He could feel a hot blush heat his face and he cleared his throat. He
never
blushed, this was flat out ridiculous. Not only that, there was no hiding the blotchy, embarrassing fact, given his irritatingly transparent complexion. He averted his gaze before speaking.

“I’m sorry to intrude, if this is an inconvenient time I can call back.”

Like when you’re dressed maybe
…

“No, no, it’s fine. I have nothing special planned.”

When he met her gaze, he saw she was smiling, taking obvious pleasure in his discomfort.

“If you’re sure…”

“Quite sure. Would you like a coffee?”

“Yeah, why not? Thanks.”

“Come on,” she said, gesturing for him to follow with the faintest flick of his head.

He walked after her, trying not to stare at the way her heavily curved, but firm buttocks flexed with every step beneath the semi-sheer nightwear, but failing miserably.

“Milk and sugar?” she asked, spinning round and catching him in the act.

He blushed even harder.

I’m acting like a bloody pubescent
…

“No thanks.”

The kitchen they were stood in was twice the size of his. Again, it wasn’t to Ian’s tastes, but he could appreciate the sleek design. Everything was steel and chrome and sparkled in a way that suggested the cleaners came more than once a week.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks. I chose everything myself. My husband leaves all the design choices to me.”

“I can see why.”

Ian, you lick-arse nob
…

“I’m Marianna. Marianna Hobbs. So what can I do for you, Ian Webster?”

He cleared his throat and tried not to dwell on her sultry appearance as she busied herself with the sleek coffee machine.

“I just wanted to pop over and introduce myself. And to ask if you knew the people that lived in the house before I moved in.”

The fact he said
I
instead of
we
did not escape him.

Stop it, you’re married, remember?

“Number twenty-nine has been empty since we moved in a few years ago, apart from the builders, of course. Me and Jeff never met them.”

Jeff Hobbs.
So
that
was why she looked so familiar. It all made sense now. Jeff Hobbs was a football player and this glorious woman was his lad-mag, model girlfriend. Her beautiful face was quite often on the newsfeed of his email.

And her body. Let’s not forget that.

As if he could. He thought these model types were usually airbrushed half to death, but not Marianna. She was even more beautiful in the flesh. Fresher, somehow.

He shook his head slightly to keep the dirty thoughts at bay.

“So you know nothing about them at all?”

She shrugged her shapely shoulders, causing those perfectly round orbs of her breasts to tremble slightly.

She’s not wearing a bra
…

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you know the people the other side of me at number thirty?”

“Not really. Everyone keeps to themselves round here, although I did hear that they’re spending the winter in Australia. So what do you do, Ian? You don’t look much like you’re in the football industry.”

Ian let out a genuine laugh. He loathed football with a passion. “No, I’m an artist.”

“I bet you’re good with your hands, then.”

Ian’s cock twitched when he thought about how her full tits might feel in his hands and he tried not to stare at the way they gently swayed as she carried the coffees over to the breakfast bar. She sat down on one of the high-stools and Ian sat down opposite.

“Nice coffee,” he said before he had even taken a sip.

Marianna laughed; a light, girlish giggle that twinkled musically in his ears. “So what’s so interesting about the previous owners of your house?”

“Oh, I just want to get in touch with them about some unpaid bills.”

She rolled her eyes. “Typical. Rich people are the worst for not paying what they owe. Even my husband has an offshore account.”

“Does he? Still, it pays to look after what you’ve got.”

His gaze unintentionally slid to her chest, making what he said take on a whole new meaning.

“And do you, Ian?”

“Do I what?”

“Look after what you’ve got? If so, your wife is a very lucky lady.”

He blushed.
Again
. How did she even know he was married anyway? Did he just have that henpecked look?

The wedding ring is a probably a bit of a giveaway
…

He twiddled the thin gold band thoughtfully before replying.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure my wife would agree with you right now.”

“You can’t be any less attentive than my husband. Sometimes I really think he wouldn’t notice if I dropped dead.”

Ian frantically racked his brains, searching for something,
anything
to change the subject: “I didn’t realise you were Spanish. You’re English is excellent.”

“Thank-you. I guess you mean I’m not exactly known for my personality.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She waved her hand dismissively in the air. “Relax, I know exactly who and what I am. Since you ask, I come from a poor little village in Spain. And I did what I had to do to get ahead.”

Ian found himself actually
liking
this woman, and that really wasn’t good. In his eight years of marriage, he hadn’t once thought about straying. But looks aside, there was just something about her….

“I’d better go,” he said abruptly, getting to his feet.

“So soon?”

“I really must. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime. So what does your wife do for a living?”

“She’s a Maths teacher.”

“So she’s out at work every day. Interesting.”

“It was nice to meet you, Marianna,” he said, feeling decidedly flustered as he walked away on shaky legs.

“I get lonely sometimes,” she said when he had reached the door.

He stopped dead in his tracks, heart thumping hard.

Don’t say it Ian. Don’t say it
…

“Pop round anytime you want,” he said with his back to her.

Fuck
…

“I might just do that, Ian Webster.”

Stealing himself, he turned round to face her. She smiled sweetly at him, her face composed and angelic and her long legs neatly crossed on the stool.

Although the picture of innocence was ruined when she uncrossed her legs and let her thighs fall apart for a second before re-crossing her legs. He clearly saw the lips of her plump, shaved vulva and he went dizzy for a moment as all the blood rushed to his groin.

“Goodbye,” he managed to mumble before he left.

Half an hour later, Ian was stood outside Smooth Moves Estate Agent in the heart of Manchester. Peering through a gap in the window display of houses for sale, he saw Jefferson sitting at his desk in his cheap and shiny looking, pin-stripe suit. He was on the phone, and his slick-backed, dark hair glinted under the harsh fluorescent lighting. One other person was with him in the office, an attractive blonde woman in a sharp navy trouser-suit sitting at a desk adjacent to his.

Ian slipped a hand inside his short leather jacket, and fingered the penknife he had stashed away in an inner pocket.

Just in case,
he reminded himself.
It’s not like I’m actually going to use it
.

He pushed open the door of Smooth Move and stepped inside.

“Hello Mr Jefferson. Remember me?”

The man’s well-practiced smile seemed to falter for a second. “Of course I remember you. How are you settling into your new home, Mr Webster?”