Uninvited Read online

  Uninvited

  Jocelyn Dexter

  Copyright © 2022 Jocelyn Dexter

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  The right of Jocelyn Dexter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2022 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN 978-1-914614-97-2

  Contents

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  Also by Jocelyn Dexter

  1. Me

  2. Me

  3. Me

  4. Rebecca

  5. Roger

  6. Lucy

  7. Frank

  8. Me

  9. Me

  10. Rebecca

  11. Me

  12. Roger

  13. Me

  14. Me

  15. Me

  16. Me

  17. Becky

  18. Lucy

  19. Frank

  20. Me

  21. Me

  22. Becky

  23. Frank

  24. Lucy

  25. Becky

  26. Me

  27. Becky

  28. Becky

  29. Lucy

  30. Frank

  31. Me

  32. Me

  33. Me

  34. Lucy

  35. Lucy

  36. Becky

  37. Me

  38. Me

  39. Me

  40. Becky

  41. Lucy

  42. Frank

  43. Becky

  44. Me

  45. Me

  46. Frank

  47. Me

  48. Becky

  49. Lucy

  50. Frank

  51. Me

  52. Becky

  53. Lucy

  54. Frank

  55. Me

  56. Becky

  57. Becky

  58. Becky

  59. Becky

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Jocelyn Dexter

  Shh

  1

  Me

  My name is John. It isn’t really, but I answer to it all the same. It’s not my birth name, put it that way. It could just as easily be Paul, Steve or Dave. But I like John. It’s a boring nondescript name. Unexciting. And I don’t look exciting – you could pass me in the street and not give me a second glance; probably wouldn’t even notice me at all. Except perhaps for my size. I’m big. Like a big old cuddly teddy bear. I look like a John. Someone you’d welcome into your home.

  The name fits in with my immediate plans. Comfortable, unassuming, John. People never expect the unexpected with me. They only see my easy-going façade; the very John-ness of me.

  I’d initially thought about simply breaking into the house, and surprising Rebecca. I had, after all, burgled many a property in my past. And indeed, had accessed this very house in particular. I could have used the spare key that was kept under the flowerpot. But this way was better.

  I’d decided on the charm offensive. I could do charm: a lot of smiling, a lot of eye contact, a lot of meaningless compliments. And a lot of practice. I’d learnt quickly, absorbing all the information on how to finesse and delightfully engage others. Charm always took people by surprise. Common decency and politeness dictated that many people, especially women, were thrown by a show of gracious courtesy and they acted stupidly, without thought. By which time, of course, it was too late. Too late for them to see the error of their ways and I would be inside their house.

  With them.

  I stood in front of the large country house. Not your average chocolate-box cottage but a magnificent grey stone structure on three floors. I peeked through the open slatted venetian blinds, into a spotless modern kitchen. Nothing chintzy going on here.

  Having already concealed my bigger and much heavier rucksack behind a large bush to the right of the front door, I hooked my two thumbs around the straps of my lighter rucksack, casually slung over my shoulders, and adopted a completely non-threatening stance. My legs were planted slightly apart, my black brogues so highly polished I could see my own reflection in them. My laces were, as always, tied with a double safety knot. I’d taught myself as a boy how to make my footwear more secure and enjoyed the added ‘safety’. Proudly I’d shown my mother, but she’d had little time for praise: a busy lady. But I knew she was pleased. She’d patted me absently on the top of my head in a congratulatory way. Quiet, unspoken plaudits, but good enough for me.

  The double safety knot had worked for me for all these years. I saw no reason to change a habit of a lifetime. Being prepared was a good motto, although I was no boy scout. Far from it. But I liked the principle of being ready for any eventuality.

  Standing away from the threshold, not wanting to crowd, I plastered on my oh-my-good-gosh-boy-next-door smile, rang the bell and waited.

  The woman who opened the door – Rebecca – was wearing her hair up and a flour-dusted apron which held her heaving bosom in place, and only partially covered her simple jogging pants and baggy jumper ensemble. Sunday lunch was already on the go. Flaring my nostrils I inhaled discreetly. Chicken. My favourite. At least I wouldn’t go hungry on this particular venture.

  Rebecca’s eyes furrowed in slight confusion as she looked at me. I wasn’t expected and she didn’t recognise me, so it was a facial expression I’d anticipated. Sweeping my blond hair from my forehead in a boyish gesture, I beamed at her. A real, live full-wattage smile, showing off my perfect white dental work: boasting my little row of impeccably enamelled Tic-Tac-teeth. ‘Rebecca, how lovely to see you again. You look marvellous.’

  I opened my arms and gathered up her small frame, nearly lifting her off her feet. Planted a big wet one on her cheek and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Roger told me how well you were, but he didn’t tell me just how fantastic you look. It really is lovely to see you again.’

  Stepping past her, I watched her face drop as she realised I was suddenly and unaccountably on the wrong side of the door. I was in.

  Her cheeks pinked, and she said, ‘No, wait. Please stop. I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘It’s me. You know me.’

  I laughed softly and pretended a mock-hurt look that she had forgotten me so quickly. I held my hand to my heart, feigning distress. She visibly dithered; her innate good manners fighting with the fact that there was an uninvited man in her house.

  I slithered my glance up and down her body. Taking the whole of her in. It had the desired effect. She blushed. I grinned at her. ‘I’m certainly all the better for seeing you, Becky. Is it through here…?’

  Of course I knew where the kitchen was because I’d let myself in weeks before – just to familiarise myself with the lay of the land. I pointed quizzically as if unsure of the route but walked into the kitchen, and then like a divining rod, headed miraculously into
the dining room as if by luck. Heard her hurried footsteps behind me. She laid her hand on my arm, her fingers gripping with a surprising strength.

  ‘No, really, please wait. Look, I’m very sorry, but I’m still not sure who you are, and I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Who were you expecting?’ I smiled to take the bite from my words. ‘Don’t tell me Roger forgot to tell you I was coming for Sunday lunch? I’ve been looking forward to it so much. And of course I can’t wait to see your daughter again – Lucy, and her new husband, Frank, as well. Do tell me they’re still coming.’

  My apparent intimate knowledge of her family and their plans for the day, threw her. Her cheeks still held an embarrassed tinge of pink but flared afresh again in an ugly crimson flush.

  ‘Yes. I mean, no. Roger didn’t tell me. Or I forgot. Probably my fault – it usually is. Brain like a sieve. And yes, Lucy and Frank are coming. As per. But I’m terribly sorry, I really can’t quite place you. Who are you? How do we know each other?’

  ‘Rebecca, really. How can you not remember me? I can’t believe it. I’m hurt.’

  Her fingers interlocked with each other, creating a mass of reddened digits, her knuckles showing white. She was a veritable blaze of angst-ridden colour. ‘Come on, Becky. Tell me you’re only playing. You are, aren’t you?’

  She looked on the verge of weeping at her own social ineptitude. Rallying well, although laughably transparent in her attempts to redeem herself, she stretched her mouth into a smile – so tight I thought her lips might split. ‘Just give me a clue. I’m just dreadful with names and faces. Always walking past people who I’ve known forever.’

  Collapsing down heavily on one of the wooden dining chairs, as if she were feeling faint from her utter uselessness and lack of etiquette, I almost felt sorry for her.

  No, that’s a lie. I didn’t feel sorry for her. Not one little bit. I said, ‘I haven’t told you my name. My fault entirely. That’ll help. It’s John. Remember now? We last saw each other at Roger’s Christmas party. Three months ago?’ I spread my arms out in what could only be interpreted as charming. ‘How could you forget, Becky? We all had such a laugh that night.’

  She feigned a look of relief as she pretended to recall our non-meeting. Slapped her hands to her forehead. ‘Oh, stupid, stupid me. Now I remember. John. How are you?’

  ‘Certainly better now you know who I am. Sorry if I frightened you. You looked as if I were the bogeyman who’d come for Sunday lunch, instead of me, John. Don’t worry, don’t be upset. Easy mistake to make. We’d all had a bit too much of the old vino at the Christmas “do”, so no hard feelings. I know I’m not exactly a stand-out type of man, am I?’

  Again with the blushing. She jumped up. ‘I’ll get you a drink. Wine? Red or white?’

  ‘Whatever you’re having.’ She hesitated because I’d given her a choice. Left it up to her. ‘White would be lovely, thanks, Becky,’ I said, coming to her aid.

  I made myself comfortable at the solid oak dining table, my hands folded in front of me. I couldn’t help but take the time to admire my beautifully and professionally manicured hands: the nails were buffed to a soft sheen, the cuticles were where they should be, and the tips of my nails were bright white, perfect crescents. Filed, smoothed. Delightful.

  My rucksack sat on the chair next to me as I politely waited for my glass of wine. She brought it to me and sat opposite, looking pointedly at her watch. ‘Roger will be home soon. Back from the pub. Two o’clock. He’s never late.’

  That much I knew. And estimated time of arrival for Lucy and Frank – they also ran like clockwork and would turn up at three.

  We both sipped politely from our respective glasses and I leaned forward. Instantly, she recoiled. Tried to cover her rudeness by pretending a coughing fit. Getting up and walking around the table so that I stood over her, I rested the back of my legs against the adjacent chair to Becky. ‘I’m a real townie – can’t abide the country. Too much open space for me. However, I do concede, that on the face of it, because you have no other houses around you, you have your very own idyll of peace and tranquillity, with no one else close enough to spoil it. But do you know the worst thing about living in such a beautiful rural house like this? A secluded house like this? Do you know the one real pitfall of this set-up?’

  She shook her head, her eyes suddenly rounder and eyebrows higher than they should be. I quickly bent in close, so that my mouth almost touched her face, and her hair tickled my cheek. I whispered in her ear. ‘The worst thing about living here, Rebecca, is that no one can hear you scream.’

  Then I headbutted her, right between the eyes.

  2

  Me

  Tutting, I cleaned up the broken wine glass from the carpet. It had caught the edge of the table as it fell, as Becky fell, and I consequently had to mop up the spilt wine with wads of kitchen paper from a roll. Didn’t want it to stain: it was a nice carpet.

  More to the point, I wanted things to look normal; didn’t want Roger glancing through the kitchen window and not seeing his wife slaving over a hot stove. He wouldn’t be able to see her now at all, as she was hog-tied on the dining room floor, with an apple in her mouth to stop her shouting out. She looked uncannily and amusingly like a pig on a spit, adorned and decorated as if for a banquet. But at least she was quiet. And of course, breathing. I am not a complete beast.

  The stuffing of the mouth with an apple was purely to stop her shouting out and warning Rog that all was not as it should be. That dinner might be a little delayed. But hopefully not spoilt. The masking tape which held the apple in place rather ruined the overall medieval look that I was going for, but it at least restrained her dribble that would otherwise have run free. A real plus.

  I looked at my watch. Ten to two. Ten minutes. Frankly I was bored and couldn’t wait for everyone to get here. Becky wasn’t up for general chit-chat, so after a quick wander about, tidying as I went, I positioned myself on the hinge-side by the inside of the front door and simply waited.

  Holding the carving knife with both hands, the tip of the blade pointed straight up.

  Finally, I heard the sound of Roger’s car pull into the lane and park outside the house. Bang on two o’clock. I had to hand it to the man, he adhered strictly to his own self-imposed timetable. It was an admirable quality – that of reliability, if a little nerdy for my tastes. He always looked a bit too much of an Anorak for me, showing a lack of spontaneity and a smidge too much of predictability and dullness. I’d like to say, ‘Each to their own,’ but I didn’t really think like that.

  And I actually knew that he was far from being Anorak-Man. Don’t judge a book by its cover and all that. He had hidden depths. And he’d hope to keep those depths well and truly hidden. For his own sake.

  Good luck with that.

  I braced myself as I heard Roger shout out, ‘Rebecca, I’m home.’ And then he closed the door to find me standing there, staring at him. Instantly, at a glance, I recognised again, up close and personal, the weakness in him. Smelled the beer fumes coming from him. He reeked of it.

  On impulse, I thrust my face to his. ‘Boo!’ Tiny flecks of my own spittle landed on his cheeks and his arms flew up in defence. He stepped back and in doing so, managed to stand on one of his own feet: he fell in an embarrassment of idiocy and cowardice, landing on his blubbery bottom.

  You must forgive my theatrics, but I wasn’t physically under threat from old Rog, so I had allowed myself the fun of simply frightening him.

  He brought his hand to his mouth and I saw it tremble. ‘Stand up,’ I said. He did, his mouth slack. His face had undergone a weird sort of disintegration, almost disappearing, as if unsure of what expression to settle on.

  ‘Hello, Rog, I’m John. Thanks for being on time. It’s appreciated. Hang your coat up and we’ll go and find your wife, okay? Suit you?’

  He didn’t move. Not a muscle. I had to step forward one pace, softly, softly so as not to frighten him to death, to check that he w
as still doing the old breathing in and out thing. And there it was; a raspy, whispery sound – his breath had taken on a whistle for the occasion. Odd.

  I unlooped the corded twine that I had earlier placed on one of the coat pegs, lasso-style, and gently hung it around Roger’s neck. Pulled it tight, but not too tight, and led him down the short hall to the dining room. Not really knowing why I bothered as he was very low maintenance, I manacled his hands together. Police issue handcuffs. Only the best. I knew a man who knew a man who knew a woman. It’s good to have contacts in my world. Becky was already wearing a matching pair. I’d got four for the price of two. Bargain.

  I didn’t even have to wield my mighty blade at Roger. He was already completely cowed purely by my very existence in his house.

  Bit pathetic I thought.