Hannah McKinnon - The Neighbours - A gripping, addictive novel with a twist that will leave you breathless

“Abby.”

Rest would have to wait. Against my better judgment I raised my head, each millimeter expending energy I didn’t think I had and causing pain to shoot through every part of my body like a thousand burning hot pins. I tried, but my legs and lower back stubbornly refused to budge even the tiniest amount, as if I’d been nailed to the ground.

I forced my eyes open.

And I saw him.

“Tom.” My own voice this time, barely a whisper. “Tom.” A little stronger, louder.

My brother lay a few meters away in what had been my blue Ford Capri, but which was now an upturned carcass of broken glass and mangled steel. The flashing of the hazard lights illuminated Tom’s bloody face and body every few seconds, a perverse freak show. He hung upside down. Unlike me, he was still in the car, somewhere between the front and back seats, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles. Eyes wide and glazed. Staring at me. Desperate. Begging.

“Abby,” he said once more, and I watched as he attempted to lift his arms, tried to reach for me. “I can’t get out.” Tears rolled up his forehead, mixing with a steady stream of blood from the deep gash above his eye that looked like a second mouth. “I can’t get out.”

“Tom,” I said again, before my eyes closed despite my efforts to keep them open. Fighting the beckoning darkness felt like a struggle I’d never win.

The light from the wreck somehow became brighter, warmer, too. Somewhere in my brain it occurred to me it wasn’t the sun—couldn’t be the sun—it was still so dark. Wasn’t it? My mind started drifting away.

But then the pungent smell of smoke and petrol filled the air.

I wanted to move. I needed to get to him. But I couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my eyes open again, staring into his. “Tom. I’m so sorry.”

The last thing I heard were the screams, Tom’s and mine, as the car burst into flames.

NOW NATE

WHEN THE U-HAUL van arrived next door, I did what most sensible human beings would do: I ignored it. Once I’d made sure it was just the new neighbors moving in, not some crazy person stealing lingering Christmas decorations, I cranked up the fire, flopped back down on the sofa and buried my nose in my copy of I Am Ozzy, marveling at how the guy had lasted so long.

As far as I was concerned, moving in February, undeniably the coldest month of the year, was a ridiculous notion. And I wanted nothing to do with it.

The house was my peaceful kingdom that blustery Saturday morning. Abby had gone to pick up Sarah from a sleepover, and they’d planned on a Mum and Daughter shopping spree in town. Bad weather and potential conflict be damned.

I think Abby had her eye on the winter jacket sales, and knew Sarah wanted a pair of Steve Madden combat boots. I could tell from my daughter’s look she’d been impressed when I said I knew who Steve Madden was. In reality, I’d only heard about him when I’d finally got around to streaming The Wolf of Wall Street, belly-laughing as Jonah Hill struggled to pronounce the designer’s name whilst high on a bucket of quaaludes. Abby hadn’t been impressed by the film, not even by Margot Robbie in that scene. Well, never mind Margot’s perfect breasts. Apparently Abby didn’t like Steve Madden’s boots either.

“They’re awful,” she’d whispered last night as we lay in bed. Then she must have remembered Sarah was out because she said, more loudly, “Grunge, punk or whatever the hell gone bad. I hate combat boots.”

I lowered the stack of papers I’d promised myself I’d look over as soon as I got home but had barely made a start on. “I hope you didn’t tell Sarah.”

Abby pulled a face. “God, no, ’course not. I said they were great, and I might get a pair, too. Figured reverse psychology would stop her from wanting them.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. She gave me one of her looks.”

I laughed. “I think they’re pretty cool.” When Abby raised an eyebrow I added, “The boots, not the looks. And it’s her money. She saved up for them. Let her do what she wants.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I’d wear them if they didn’t make me look like a middle-aged has-been.”

Abby smiled, rolled on top of me and kissed my neck. Her hair tickled my face and smelled of something vanilla and cherryish. She always smelled nice, even when she’d been on one of her insane, million-mile runs.

“You’re not a has-been, Nate,” she whispered.

I wrapped an arm around her, slid my other hand underneath her T-shirt, ran my fingers up and down the soft skin of her back. “And what about the middle-aged part?” I said before nibbling on her neck.

She raised her head and looked at me with one eyebrow arched, and a sly smile playing on her lips. “Let’s see...”

As her mouth traveled down my chest, I shoved the papers off the bed, letting them slide to the floor in a heap. Reviewing Mr. Rav Ramjug’s superior programming skills could wait. Frankly it had been a while since Abby and I last got busy. People say it’s normal for a couple’s sex life to disappear for a while after having a kid. What they don’t tell you is the vanishing act repeats once said kid hits teenage years because she a) doesn’t go to bed at seven and sleep like a dead man until dawn, and b) has the hearing of a greater wax moth.

I groaned as Abby kissed my stomach. Despite us having the house to ourselves and the entire night ahead of us, we ended up in a frantic quickie, with Abby collapsing onto my chest afterward, the two of us breathing heavily.

“I think we both needed that,” she said, before sliding off me and getting up. I never had the chance to moan about my wife wanting to spoon endlessly after sex. Three minutes in and she was about as cuddly as a piece of Lego.

I propped myself up on one elbow and watched her get dressed. I did that sometimes—watch Abby—and mostly she was unaware of it. When she was baking and I pretended to be engrossed in a book or—another favorite—when she was going over the monthly bills, hair scrunched up in a messy ponytail, brow furrowed at the latest phone statement, lips moving silently as she checked the numbers.

I liked to look at her, I mean properly look at her. Study her as if she was a Miró at The Tate I could stand in front of and ponder, cocking my head to one side, pompously tapping my lips with one finger, wondering what the artiste meant to express with the masterfully applied strokes and splashes of paint. Not that I had a bloody clue about art. I could barely tell a Picasso from a stick man even if the latter tapped me on the shoulder and kicked me in the nuts.

So I silently perused Abby’s long, slim legs with the scars she hated so much but were a huge part of her, the arch of her back, her elegant, swan-like neck. A classic masterpiece.

“What?” Her voice pulled me out of my trance. She’d turned around, and I’d missed it. Busted.

“Nothing,” I answered with what I hoped was a charming grin, and shook my head slightly. “Just looking at you.”

As she smiled her blue eyes sparkled, and her long blond hair settled in that sexy, tousled bed-head look, the one that screamed, “Oh, yeah, I got some.” I let my gaze linger as she went to the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

I lay back in bed and thought about my wife the way you do in a fuzzy postcoital state. Abby could give Jennifer Aniston a run for her money anytime. At forty-four she looked at least six years younger. It put me, with my slight paunch that I swore every January (the last one being no exception) I’d get rid of, to absolute shame. I wasn’t overly proud of the thinning spot on the top of my head either. But what can you do? I was almost halfway between my forty-sixth and forty-seventh birthday. Jesus, forty-seven—it had sneaked up on me like my slight paunch. I stretched, sighed and soon felt myself drift off to sleep, only stirring slightly when Abby climbed into bed a while later.