Rachel Sargeant - The Perfect Neighbors - A gripping psychological thriller with an ending you won’t see coming

Helen jumped. The woman could join the SAS with those ambush skills. She gouged a deeper hole in the soil.

“I should have told you about the garden centre in Dortmannhausen,” Louisa said. “So much better than the bargain packs the supermarkets do. I stocked up two weeks ago.”

“And you’ve been hardening them off ever since.”

Louisa hesitated, as if unsure whether Helen intended an insult or a compliment.

Before Louisa could re-start, Mel came out of her house, looking like Andy Pandy. Helen couldn’t think beyond the ancient TV puppet’s romper suit that was a dead ringer for the blue and white thing Mel was wearing.

“Murdo wants his Mr Tumble boxers for school tomorrow. Will you have my load ready tonight?” Louisa called out.

Mel nodded and came across to Helen. “Have you got any washing or ironing?” It was the first time Helen had heard her volunteer a question. “You will have to pay me but I’m quick.”

The last thing Helen wanted was a neighbour rummaging through her washing, but at least Mel had the gumption to run her own business. And going back inside to find washing would give Helen an excuse to get away from Louisa.

She told Mel she had some of Gary’s shirts to iron. “Come in the house and I’ll get them.”

“I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t be silly. Come in and I’ll show you what needs doing.”

Mel hesitated but Louisa took her arm. “In you go, Mel. Helen doesn’t want her dirty laundry aired in public.”

Helen was prepared to ignore the double meaning but anger rose inside her when Louisa followed them into the house uninvited. She went upstairs to find the shirts. When she came back down, Mel was peering into the drawers of the hall cabinet and Louisa was looking on. Mel snatched the laundry from Helen and made for the door.

Tuesday, 4 May

The water rippled as Helen lowered herself into it, the misty atmosphere absorbing her splash. She was tempted to float there like the old couple the day before, to clear her mind. But she couldn’t shake off the sticking, spiky thoughts she had about her neighbours. She stretched into a steady crawl, upping the pace after two lengths.

What the hell was going on last night? Some kind of Stepford Wives’ pantomime? Mel was certainly dressed for comedy. And the blatant way she rifled through Helen’s hall, was that some kind of prank with Helen as the butt of the joke? She jabbed her hand deep below the surface, challenging the water’s resistance. But the water won and broke the rhythm of her stroke.

Or was Mel the stooge? It was more likely that Louisa rather than Mel wanted to nose around. Was the whole “have you got any ironing” set-piece a scam masterminded by Louisa? Helen rocked from side to side as she tried to get control of her arm pulls. There was something not right about that woman, about both women. She wouldn’t be giving Mel ironing again however well she did it. And it wasn’t any wonder Damian was playing away. Louisa must be hard to live with.

Creepy Chris must know what Damian was up to. Helen slowed her leg kicks to give her arms time to settle. That would explain Damian’s angry body language by Chris’s car last night. Maybe he’d caught Damian on his phone to Shelly Sweetheart like Helen had. Was he threatening to tell Louisa?

The lot of them had been in their expat bubble so long they’d forgotten how normal neighbours behaved. She would never become like them. Thank God she had this pool to escape to. She pushed her hand down and this time hit the catch point. The water worked with her and her rhythm came back. She kicked hard and stepped up the pace. She settled into a twenty-length speed swim.

She was resting when the young man – Sascha – got in beside her. Already flushed from her swim, her face got even hotter.

“How many laps have you made?” he asked, fixing his goggles on his forehead.

She knew her distances to within five metres but she couldn’t think. “I’ve … just started.”

He took off his goggles and fiddled with the strap. “We could make a few laps together.”

Her gut told her to decline and glide away; to accept would land her in the heat of something she couldn’t control. But, before she answered, he said: “I’ll get the Schwimmbretter . I don’t know the name in English.”

He pulled his lean body up onto the poolside and headed over to the cage of swimming floats. A baby brother, nothing more.

She matched him over several lengths but, when they sprinted the final four, she hadn’t raced so hard in months and thought blood would burst through her eardrums. She gulped for breath and put her head down for the last push. When her fingertips reached the wall, he was already standing up.

“ Unentschieden ,” he panted. “We both won.”

“A draw? How chivalrous,” she said, heart racing.

“ Schiffalrus ?”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s swim.”

Their last set degenerated into a leisurely breaststroke as they lifted their heads to recapture the air that racing had taken out of them. He told her he’d captained the school swim squad. She played down her own swimming career, saying she’d won the odd race now and again. For the first time in weeks she didn’t feel the need to assert her capabilities. Her companion accepted her as an equal. Condescending Louisa and belittling Chris faded out of her mind and she relaxed.

***

Sascha was waiting by her car when she came out to the car park. They’d said their goodbyes poolside. A chill crossed her shoulders and she fastened her jacket. Why was he still here?

“Are you going back to school?” he said. “The office needs me in work. It will save much time if you drive me there.”

A lift to a stranger? She hesitated. She’d enjoyed their swim but it had to end there. She could lie, say it wasn’t her car but Gary’s England footie badge on the windscreen would give her away.

“I’m not going straight home,” she said.

“Of course. You don’t know me. I shouldn’t ask.” He tucked a strand of wet hair behind his ear. The gesture was cute, innocent. She reminded herself he was just a boy. And he worked at the school like Gary. He was one of them. There’d be no harm in giving him a lift.

She climbed in the driver’s seat and leaned over to open the door for him. She immediately regretted her decision. Burnt tobacco invaded the air. Drawn cheekbones, Adam’s apple, zip-up jumper bobbled with age, her passenger looked spare and eager. He didn’t belong in Gary’s car.

She kept her eyes dead ahead as she set off, feeling like a learner driver on the German highway. She hadn’t driven with a passenger apart from Gary since she arrived. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The pool was beyond the village and there were wheat fields on both sides. She imagined Sascha studying every ear of corn as she crawled past. When the silence grew too awkward she asked him how long he’d worked at the school.

For a moment he didn’t answer, then he said: “How are you finding it? Living there?”

Her foot slipped on the pedal. The needle on the speedometer nudged up. She found a sort of answer. “Fine. I’ve cleared the front garden, but there’s competition in our road. One woman’s managed to trail a whopping great wisteria round her door.”

“Wisteria,” he mouthed.

“It’s a purple climbing flower that sort of hangs …”

“I know what it is.” His shoulders stiffened. Then, aware of her looking, he relaxed into his seat.

She drove the rest of the way in nervous silence.

They reached the turning for the school and she drove past the community noticeboard. For once not defaced by graffiti, there was a poster for half-term activities. Gary would have a week off school so they could go away. He was always talking about the lakes in Southern Germany. Time for themselves. Away from Dickensweg. She glanced at her passenger. Away from everything.