All Fall Down: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist that will take your breath away (33 page)

A
ny noise
in the night could wake him now. Eight weeks since the birth of his daughter and Harry barely remembered how it felt to sleep for seven hours straight and wake naturally, refreshed and ready for a new day. All the warnings from their friends about the misery of sleep deprivation had turned out to be spot on.

The sound had come and gone by the time he registered he was awake, eyes glued shut, heart beating fast. Not the baby, he was sure of that. It must have been something outside, perhaps in the alley along the back where urban foxes prowled.

Harry waited, trying to recreate the feeling he’d had, the sense of a dream interrupted by a … a thud, a scrape: a surreptitious noise, as though something –
someone
– was trying to go unheard.

Or maybe it had just been part of the dream itself. Either way, now he was awake he ought to take a look out of the window; check on Evie and see how much time there was before her next feed …

Harry knew he should do these things but he couldn’t. He was frozen in place, eyes tightly shut, not even daring to breathe.

There was an intruder in their home.

I
t wasn’t
a rowdy neighbourhood by any means, their tidy terraced street. Although modest in size, the houses were highly valued for their proximity to the railway station, to good schools and friendly corner shops and vibrant pubs, to all the pleasures that Brighton had to offer. Not quite in the heart of the city but close to one of its main arteries, the Port Hall district between Dyke Road and Stanford Road was arty, upmarket and conservatively bohemian – so letterboxes bore stickers refusing junk mail on environmental grounds, even while the parking bays were choked with 4x4s.

A lot of young families lived here, Harry and Alice’s being one of the youngest. There weren’t too many people coming home in the early hours, although a woman over the road worked shifts at the hospital. In the city beyond there was always the drone of traffic: sirens, car horns, slamming doors and screeching tyres, and sometimes the distant, deep rumble of trains leaving Brighton station. Depending on the season, there was birdsong to a greater or lesser degree, most of it charming and rarely disruptive, the exception being the caustic screech of the seagulls – or the
bloody
seagulls, as they were known round here.

All these things contributed to the soundtrack of Harry’s sleeping hours; all were familiar and expected and unthreatening. What he’d just heard was of a different nature altogether.

But no one could have broken into the house without waking him, could they? Even if they had, they’d be satisfied with stealing what was on offer in the living room: the Blu-ray player and the PS4. Some cash, maybe a phone or an iPad. Harry couldn’t recall precisely what was lying around, but he was sure of one thing: thieves were opportunists. There was no way they’d risk climbing the stairs or waking the occupants of the house.

So why, then, did Harry feel there was somebody right here, in their room?

S
lowly
, very slowly, he let out the breath that had caught in his lungs. He opened his eyes, remembering how next door’s cat had given him a few scares in the past: that kettle drum
boom
when it leapt on to the dustbin; and its plaintive wail, like the cry of a tortured child. Harry willed it to make a noise now, to break the illusion of danger.

Nothing.

Because it wasn’t an illusion
.

His focus switched to the space around him. Alice was sleeping heavily and so, for once, was the baby. When the time was right they planned to move Evie to the nursery next door. For now she slept in a Moses basket on a fold-out stand, positioned close enough to Alice’s side of the bed that she could reach out and soothe her back to sleep at the first hint of a restless murmur.

Evie had her own breathing pattern, a rate so rapid it brought to mind someone panting to complete a race, and a distinctive snore that managed to sound enchanting even on the nights when Harry was so tired he wanted to claw out his eyes and fill the sockets with concrete.

There was always a smell of milk in the room, Evie’s signature fragrance, but now Harry realised it was competing with something else: a sour top note of male sweat and stale clothing that had no place in here.

And other breathing. Was he imagining that?

He locked up every muscle, devoted his full attention to listening, listening …

And then the voice of a stranger spoke from the shadows.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’

A
lice reacted
with an urgent flailing of limbs. She probably thought she’d overslept and missed a feed. Harry tried to speak, wanting to find a way to keep her silent and still, because it had occurred to him that Alice’s best hope of safety – of
survival
– was if the intruder believed Harry was alone in the room. But the words wouldn’t come, and his rational mind knew it was a ludicrous idea. The street light filtering through the curtains was more than sufficient to see how many people were present.

Three
.

And that thought – the knowledge that his baby daughter was here too – made him sit up in a panic, his mind racing. The bed trembled and Alice groaned and stretched, turning towards the Moses basket.

‘Harry …’

‘Ssshh.’

He rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of a shadow, a shape, just to the right of the door. It took a step towards the bed as Alice, twisting in his direction, said, ‘She’s sound asleep. Why—?’

‘Look.’ Harry lifted his arm to point, wondering vaguely if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation.
Oh yes, please: to hear Alice laugh and say there’s no one here but us
.

But Alice didn’t laugh. She sucked in a breath as if to scream, then choked it off, probably acting on the same instinct that had driven Harry’s response: to keep Evie asleep, to protect her, no matter what else happened.

And still the figure waited at the end of the bed. It was a man, tall and broad, but there were no features apparent, nothing visible in the silhouette.

‘Get out of here.’ Harry barely recognised his own voice. He was ashamed of the tremor in it, as if such a weak command could send a burglar packing.

In response the man turned slightly, checking over his shoulder. There was another trickle of laughter. That was when Harry knew this wasn’t a burglary at all.

It was something much, much worse.

T
hanks
firstly to Oliver Rhodes and the marvellous team at Bookouture. I am extremely grateful to my editor, Keshini Naidoo, who went way beyond the call of duty in her efforts to whip this book into shape on a rather demanding schedule. Equally, Kim Nash has been an extraordinary whirlwind of activity in support of my books. Thanks also to Natasha Hodgson, Rhian McKay and Claire Rushbrook.

At Darley Anderson I want to thank Camilla Wray, Naomi Perry, Mary Darby, Emma Winter and Rosanna Bellingham for their ongoing help and support.

For advice, feedback and general support I’m indebted to Ian and Heidi Vinall, and to Stuart and Karen Marsom. After thanking the old geezers in my previous book, this time round I want to give a shout out to Dawn, Karen, Heidi, Jacqui and Maria for decades of friendship. And as ever, the biggest debt of gratitude is owed to my first and most put-upon reader: my wife, Niki.

To my fellow Bookouture writers, thank you for the camaraderie and the warm welcome to this lovely online community. Thanks to Demetra Saltmarsh and Renee White for keeping me in physical shape to write.

Finally, can I say a huge thank you to all the many bloggers and reviewers who took my last book to their hearts and did so much to contribute to its success. I’ve been absolutely astonished by the response to
See How They Run
, and I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to post a review or contact me via email, Facebook or Twitter.