The Perfect Neighbors: A gripping psychological thriller with an ending you won’t see coming. Rachel Sargeant
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with the wood behind the Howards’ fence. The whole estate enjoyed a similar leafy arrangement. Her skin prickled. An intruder could pass through the network of copses and climb into any garden unnoticed. She gathered her tools and headed to the front of the house.
She stabbed the spade into the flower bed under the kitchen window but only broke off the stalks of a few weeds. She dug harder, but the dense greenery fought her off and she couldn’t reach the soil. Another lunge, and the bones in her arms juddered as the spade hit bedrock. Rubbing the sweat off her forehead, she contemplated how else she could tackle the task.
“Slacking already?” Chris said, coming out of his front door. His voice made her bones rattle more than the bedrock had done.
“Not working today?” she asked. School would be well into the registration period. Didn’t the head of A and D have a form class?
He stepped across their joint path towards her. “Tough job turning your garden into Number Ten.”
She felt him sizing her up. She knew what he saw: damp fringe, ruddy cheeks, traces of snot and grass stain where she’d rubbed her nose.
“A bit of weeding,” she said.
He shook his head. “It’s more than that. You’re a competitive woman.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Gary’s told us all about your coaching and your swimming career. You like to be the best, don’t you?”
She lifted the spade again, undecided on whether to sink it into the soil or to bring it down on his head. How dare this stranger pronounce on her life? “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Louisa likes to be the top wife round here, that’s all I’m saying.” He sauntered towards the sports car, gave her a wave and drove off.
She dug faster, scratching and gouging, and turned over a good third of the bed before she heard a car pull up.
“I see Gary’s got you earning your keep.”
In any other tone Helen would have taken the comment as a jokey conversation opener but this voice was as piercing as Chris’s eyes had been.
“Morning, Louisa,” she managed to say. The top wife climbed out of the Serengetiguzzler. Pastel pink tracksuit, spotless trainers, full make-up.
“I stopped to ask whether you wanted to come for a run but I can see you’re busy. How about tomorrow at nine thirty?”
“I’m not much of a runner,” Helen said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.
“Gary said you ran three miles a day when you lived in England.”
What the hell else had Gary said? “Maybe, once I’ve settled in.”
“Make it soon. It’s bad for the metabolism to stop exercising. You’ll put on weight.”
“I’m sure the gardening will compensate,” Helen said, not snapping.
The door of number 7 opened and Mel backed down the step with a pushchair. She was wearing the same leopard-print leggings that she’d worn at Louisa’s party the previous week.
Glad of the distraction, Helen called out: “I didn’t know you had a baby. Who’s this then?”
The pushchair was empty. Helen assumed the child was still in the house, but Mel’s strained features instinctively told her there was no child.
For once she was glad of Louisa, who said: “Is that another pushchair for HFN? What a knack you have for finding them. Pop it in the boot and I’ll take it up later.”
Mel’s face bulged with colour. “I’ll walk it round. Thanks.”
“If you’re sure you can walk that far,” Louisa said and added for Helen’s benefit, “Mel suffers from shortness of breath.”
Helen gave Mel a smile. “What’s HFN?” she asked for something to say.
“Home Front Network. The Elementary division of the school starts at nursery age, but we do our bit for pre-school families too. Some young mothers, living so far from their home countries, become a bit overwhelmed and need a helping hand to get organized. I’m the branch chair,” Louisa said.
Helen pitied the harassed mums who found Louisa Howard on their doorstep offering to organize them. “Are you a volunteer, too?” she asked Mel.
“Mel is an absolute stalwart but we prefer volunteers who are mothers themselves. Unless you’ve had a baby, you can’t know what you’re dealing with.” Louisa clasped her hand to her chest, no doubt an I Endured Childbirth gesture.
Mel, who’d been admiring the pavement, walked off without saying goodbye. Helen got the impression she’d heard Louisa’s pronouncement before and knew she’d reached the end of it. She trudged along Dickensweg, shoulders hunched over the pushchair. An elderly man came round the corner, tipped his felt hat to her and went towards the door of number 2.
“Manfred, come and meet your new neighbour,” Louisa called out to him.
If the man was irritated at being summoned, he didn’t show it. He walked towards them. Although he was tall, he stooped so he didn’t tower over Helen the way many German men did. He lifted his hat in greeting, revealing a smattering of liver spots at his hairline. How old was he? Seventy? Nearly eighty? He gave her a firm handshake.
“Angenehm. Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Where have you been this bright and early?” Louisa asked.
“Every morning I go for a healthy walk along the river.” As he spoke in his thick guttural accent, he gave off the tinny fumes of alcohol.
“I’m glad you’re keeping busy. Do let me know if I can do anything for you. You’re always welcome here.”
Welcome in his own country? What a cheek. He must have caught Helen raising her eyebrows but his face remained impassive, his own heavy eyebrows and thick moustache doing much to conceal his expression. When Louisa turned away from him, he took this as his dismissal and headed back up the street.
“He does his best, poor chap, a bit of a drinker,” Louisa said. “Don’t worry, he can’t understand; his English is pretty ropey. Anyway, must dash if I’m to fit in five miles before lunch. Let me know when you’re ready to join me. Remember what I said about the weight.” She climbed back into her car.
Helen was sure Manfred had hesitated on his porch, listening. His English sounded pretty competent to her.
By noon she’d turned over the front bed. The street was silent. Sun glinted on the shutters at the Howards’ house, reflecting their yellowness onto an open upstairs window at number 8. She shuddered, imagining the same colour might be projected on her own house. A crow cawed and swooped at the window. It clung onto the bottom of the frame, claws scrambling and scraping, wings flapping. Its beak banged against the glass, fighting with its own image. Pulse racing, Helen dropped her spade and backed to her front door. The battling bird lost its footing and flew off. She went back to work but, as she dug, kept looking around, unable to shake off the feeling that someone was watching, standing over her.
She was glad when it was three o’clock and busy in the street. Mothers, bikes, and children used the path by Louisa’s house to cut through to the next cul-de-sac. Also striding up the road without the pushchair, at a pace which Helen previously assumed wasn’t possible for her, was Mel. She turned up her path and didn’t acknowledge Helen.
As well as clearing the flower bed, Helen mowed the lawn and pulled out the weeds between the paving slabs. Her shirt stuck to her underarms and her back was stiff, but she was happy-knackered; a good day’s work. She sat on the step with a coffee as some teenage girls moved through Dickensweg towards the cut-through. They tapped into their mobile phones. When Chris’s sports car roared up, the girls flocked around it, all their texting forgotten.
“Have you decided yet, sir?” one said, flicking her greasy