Bad House by Sam West Read Free Book Online

more sullen and withdrawn by the day.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