Going going gone, p.1
Going, Going, Gone, page 1
Copyright
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First published by HarperNorth in 2026
1 EDITION
Copyright © Nasheema Lennon 2026
Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2026
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Nasheema Lennon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
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Source ISBN: 9780008701918
Ebook Edition © March 2026 ISBN: 9780008701925
Version 2026-03-03
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008701918
Dedication
For Craig, you are so dearly missed.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Book Credits
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Nathan and I’d promised each other no more secrets, but today it feels better to ask for forgiveness later than argue now. He kisses my forehead on his way out to work; the smell of his cologne lingers as he walks away. Aaliyah bounds over to me with the enthusiasm only a five-year-old can have at this time of the morning for her goodbye hug. Wriggling free from my arms, her long dark plaits bounce in her eagerness to go to school. I wave them both off but my smile fades when the door closes behind them.
Opening my laptop, it only takes moments to log into the house auction site; my previously viewed list opens automatically. The house that had given me so many nightmares all those years ago is now nothing more than a dilapidated shell of its former self. I cast my eyes over the photos on my screen, the timer to the right counting down the seven minutes left until the auction opens. With so many other houses in better condition available, I hope there won’t be much competition for this property: 6 Church Street in Swansend Town.
I imagine what that town must be like now. Still stuck in the dark ages of not wanting to modernise no doubt, filled with people that were born there, probably sat in the same pubs talking to the same people until they retire and die there. The townies never coped well with change or outsiders, or maybe it was just Mum and me that they didn’t like. The town I once called home had, through years of therapy, become nothing more than dark and distant memories, until I saw that house was for sale. Kaitlin’s house, my best friend from the time we could walk and talk, whose absence has left an unending emptiness in me.
As far as Nathan knows, today’s auction is to secure a property to fix up and sell for profit, as we’ve done multiple times before. Another sensible step in our retirement plan. What he would never understand is why, after twenty years, I’d even consider going back to that town, let alone that house. I sit wringing my hands, hoping he’ll understand that I never went looking to go back, but when I came across it on the auction site I knew it was fate.
Watching the timer get closer to zero, I scroll through the pictures, stopping at the kitchen. The prick of tears behind my eyes threatens to spill with the warm memories of sitting down to Elsie’s freshly made cakes while she and Mum gossiped. Kaitlin and I disappearing up to her room to share the latest magazines she’d snuck from her parents’ newsagents. A deep sense of sadness washes over me seeing Elsie’s kitchen looking so uncared for. The few cabinets left look like they’re barely hanging onto the walls. Black mould creeping across the tiles snaking its way into the pictures of the bathroom.
Back then Elsie had been so proud of her home, carefully decorating it and making sure nothing was ever out of place. Nothing like the images staring at me from the screen. Mum said after what happened to Kaitlin, Alfie, Elsie’s poor excuse for a husband, had insisted they move to a house across town closer to their shop. He said the change would help Elsie get over what happened that night, as if a few miles could do that. But he’s always been cruel and heartless.
I can’t bring myself to think how Mum will react should I win the house. The guilt of hiding this from Nathan is enough right now. And who knows, I may not even win the property. But I’m going to try. I know I have a beautiful home, a husband who loves me and a child I adore but seeing this house made me question all the times I’d told myself that my happiness was revenge in itself for the way I was treated. It’s not. If I go back to that town I can show all those that hounded us out that they never broke me.
The clock keeps ticking down. There are mere seconds left until the auction starts and so I take a deep breath and get ready for the stream to go live. I know what to expect; all our previous fixer uppers have come through this site. Those decisions were always based on making the most profit. It even allowed me to give up my finance role to devote all my time to fixing up one property after the next.
Nathan, as always, leaves me to choose each project, he never really involves himself with the practicalities of it all. He trusts me. Besides, his IT company takes up all of his time. I take a deep breath, pushing him and this clear crossing of a line out of my mind. This is something I need to do. I’m stronger now than I have ever been and it’s about time I faced the ghosts of my past.
The screen changes, splitting between a picture of a different property on the left and a live stream of the auctioneer on the right. Words tumble from his mouth at such a pace, regaling rules and regulations in the clearly skilled manner of a seasoned expert. As soon as the first auction begins I sit hypnotised at his rhythmic monotone speech that sends the bids flying higher and higher before he slams his gavel down in front of him.
One lot after another is sold in quick succession. My heart sinks at how keen the bidders are, scared that there will be far more competition for Kaitlin’s house than I predicted. The first of the more unkempt properties slows the bidding. Property after property go unsold, reserve prices unmet. Then it appears.
My stomach churns at the picture of K aitlin’s house, the reserve price of £50,000 underneath, a fraction of what it should be worth if it had been looked after. I’ve never fixed up a property in such disarray but that doesn’t matter right now. Leaning in closer, I hang on the auctioneer’s every word.
‘It’s in need of a face lift but you have a blank canvas here, ladies and gentleman.’ The auctioneer’s choice of words hit a nerve. It isn’t a blank canvas. It was like my second home, where I experienced an abundance of love and wonderful memories. My stomach turns in knots, my fingers creeping towards the keyboard to bid £20,000 below the reserve price, to see who else is going to bid. But the auctioneer reminds us all that without hitting the reserve, it will go unsold.
The screen switches to the telephone line operator, holding a numbered paddle in his hand. ‘Thirty-five thousand pounds with phone line one,’ the auctioneer announces, his eyes flicking to the monitor in front of him. Like a shark sensing blood, the speed in which he reacts to having more than one interested bidder sends my head in a whirl. ‘There’s three bedrooms, a large family bathroom. Perfect for the rental market,’ he bellows.
Other bids start to come in quick succession, each one making my pulse race. The price leaps up in £5,000 chunks. The sense of urgency he creates with each bid from those sat in front of him, to those virtually and the telephone lines is mesmerising. My mouth goes dry.
I haven’t even been back to the property to calculate how much repairs will cost or how long it will take. With every potential bid I could be offering far more than I should. But the rapid rise of the price on the screen doesn’t afford me any respite. ‘Fifty thousand pounds, we’ve met the reserve,’ the auctioneer excitedly announces, his gavel raised. I either keep bidding or watch Kaitlin’s home be sold to someone who will never know or care about everything that happened there.
‘Can I get another £5,000?’ he asks, scanning his monitors. ‘Once at £50,000, twice at £50,000 …’ I don’t hesitate any further, typing in my offer. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see my bid appear on the screen, staying his gavel once more. ‘We have £55,000 with an online bidder, can I get £60,000?’ His eyes dart from the camera to the room around him, but he’s met with silence. This could be it. The house could be mine.
I swallow hard, waiting for him to raise his gavel but he points in the direction of the phone staff. The same numbered paddle is held up, with a nod from the operator. ‘Sixty thousand pounds,’ he says, repeating it to encourage more interest, his hands gesticulating wildly in front of him in a speed matching his words. I quickly type my next offer but I instantly deflate; by the time I press the enter key the bids have already surpassed mine. My breath hitches in my throat, the thought of not winning this property focusing my thoughts that I don’t just want this house, I need it.
I know I need to type a big enough increase that I scare other bidders away. The auctioneer’s voice echoes through the screen. ‘Seventy thousand pounds. I have £70,000 online.’ That’s my bid. ‘This is more like it ladies and gentlemen. Don’t regret losing the chance at the potential for a beautiful family home.’ His eyes still scanning for more interest.
Finally, he realises he’s not being met with any further bids, with a gentle shake of his head it’s finally happening. ‘Once at £70,000 …’ He raises his gavel. ‘Twice at £70,000.’ I hold my breath, cursing his now slowed pace. He’s buying time, waiting for someone to interrupt him. ‘Oh we have a bid coming in on the phone.’ I exhale loudly in frustration. My hands clench, waiting for the camera to flick to the same operator. When it does he holds three fingers up next to the paddle. ‘I’ll take the £3,000, we’re at £73,000.’
I can barely stand it. With the smaller increment though I wonder if the person I’m bidding against is running out of funds. I, however, am not. I picture Nathan’s face when I tell him what I’ve done and how hastily I’ve spent our money, but I shake him from my thoughts and begin to type. I’ve come too far to lose this house now.
Wiping my clammy hands on my skirt I bid another £10,000 and get ready to bid again if that phone operator reappears. There’s a sickness whirling in my stomach as my bid is repeated. The auctioneer’s voice getting louder. ‘Once at £83,000. Twice at £83,000. Any more from our telephone bidder?’ The screen cuts to the operator, who shakes his head. ‘I’ll accept another thousand,’ the auctioneer offers. I ball my fists willing him to just stop. We all watch as the phone operator mouths the question into the phone but he shakes his head. ‘Then we are all done at £83,000 to the online bidder.’ The crash of his gavel slamming down makes me jump. I breathe heavily, my body tense from an exchange that can have lasted no more than a few minutes.
The screen has already changed to the next lot and with it any adrenaline quickly drains from my body. The realisation of what I have just done dawns on me as messages linking to payment options pop up. I’m horrified at the reality of what I have done, the financial commitment, explaining myself to Nathan, but most of all this house means I’m going back to Swansend Town. The place I spent so long trying to forget.
Chapter Two
One month later
After weeks of arguing about the house one moment then switching to avoidance and silent treatment the next, I’m surprised Nathan insisted on coming with me to the source of our tension. It wasn’t the amount I’d bid; we are financially comfortable. It wasn’t even that I’d spent it without speaking to him first. He’s always encouraged me to go with my instincts when buying houses to flip. No, it’s that I’d deliberately kept the details of the bidding on this house from him, knowing he wouldn’t have supported it. Only he knows the nightmares that still make me wake up screaming. The panic attacks he’s had to talk me down from. And no matter how many times we have the discussion he cannot understand my need to return, but why would he? I’m not sure I truly understand either.
The calm patter of raindrops on the windscreen and the occasional sigh from Nathan break the silence. He puts his hand on mine. ‘We don’t have to go in you know. Let’s just go home.’ His face soft, almost pleading. ‘We can put this place back on auction and never come back.’ I’m thankful that his tone is gentler than it has been.
‘We’ll never make the money back. I paid way more than anyone else was willing to,’ I lie, thinking of the buyer matching my every bid until the final moments. Someone else clearly wanted the property but it’s ours now and I’m not willing to give it up.
‘I don’t care about the money, I care about you and what this place will do to you.’ He strokes the back of my neck. His fingers running through my hair, grazing the scar hidden beneath. Flinching away from his touch, I turn my attention back at the house, the rain blurring my view. Although I refuse to admit it to him, I’m worried about the same thing too. But I’m so drawn to this place, it’s something I need to do.
Stepping out into the rain, so much feels familiar with the row of well-kept terrace houses. Other than a few more paved driveways and satellite dishes, nothing much has changed. Except for number 6. Kaitlin’s house. Our house now.
The once neatly trimmed square garden is now overgrown and littered with whatever the wind has carried into the long blades of grass. The iron gate Elsie would yell at us not to slam is missing, with the frame it once hung from rusted and leaning precariously to one side of the wall. The same wall we would sit swinging our legs on when our mothers were remembering just one more bit of gossip they just had to share when saying their goodbyes at the door. Tears threaten to spill. I would do anything for Kaitlin to be sat on that wall waiting for me, with her black painted nails moving the strands of her long black hair from her face.
‘Are you sure you want to go in?’ Nathan asks. All I can do is nod, scared that if I try to speak the tears will start, but I don’t make it past the gateway. The slabbed pathway leading up to the house is cracked, weeds reaching up through each gap. My heart feels heavy seeing the beds where clumps of lavender and peonies once grew beautifully under the bay window are now no more. In their place a variety of weeds and brambles cling to the walls in a haphazard manner.
I can’t believe Elsie would let the place get into this state, whether she lives here or not. A large drop of rain hits the back of my neck, sending a shiver through me, hurrying me along. Feeling in my bag for the key, I pull it out with a cardboard address label still attached. Nathan’s arm wraps around my waist. ‘You’re shaking,’ he says, turning me and lifting my chin, ‘are you sure you want to do this?’
