Flash in the Pan

by Christine Brand

  ~#~

  Flash Mob

  The Watcher is watching again. I turn off the lights, and draw back the corner of the curtain. It is not my house he is watching, but the house next door, the house of the beautiful lady. I am sure that she is the target of his interest. I am the only person in a position to see the Watcher. The window in my loft looks out at a wider angle than that of the rest of the house. The Watcher has chosen an almost perfect site. I know that watching him makes me a watcher also, but I feel he has a need, far more than just idle curiosity.

  The Watcher is a quiet looking man, the kind you can pass in the street without noticing. A grey man dressed in black. He has short, dark hair, a plain face and a solid build. He dresses in jeans and a roll neck. I have only seen him outside the house once, on the night he moved in. A large black van pulled up and the Watcher entered the house carrying some boxes. The “For Sale” sign has not been removed, although nobody has been to view the house. Without my vantage point in the roof, I would believe the house to be empty.

  I converted the loft into an office to give me somewhere quiet to write, but the moment I see the Watcher I cannot resist watching him. He appears after darkness falls, but is not there every night. I think he knows when the beautiful lady is not at home, and does not bother to watch. I get a lot of writing done on these nights, if he hasn’t appeared by nine o’clock I can settle down to work in the knowledge that we will not be watching tonight. Watching the Watcher has become an obsession.

  The beautiful lady came to live here about a year ago; despite passing the time of day on occasion, I do not know her name. The children called her the beautiful lady, and it has stuck. She goes out to work every day dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase. I have decided she works in an office, a high up position; she has expensive tastes. She went away a while ago, and I had peace from the Watcher for the whole weekend. I could write, unencumbered by my obsession.

  I have made up several stories to explain the presence of the Watcher, a detective looking for evidence of “the other man”, the beautiful lady is a wanted criminal, or a witness in hiding. The real truth never occurred to me. When I look back I wonder why I never spoke of the Watcher to anyone; I wish I had been able to see into the future. I sigh and change position. To be sure I am out of sight of the Watcher I sit on a beanbag below the window, which is not the most comfortable seat.

  I wake up to the phone ringing, and realise I have fallen asleep at the window. As I reach to the desk and pick up the phone I look at the clock and see it is past midnight.

  “Hello?” Nobody answers. “Hello?” There is quiet on the other end of the line, then a faint click. I hang up.

  I go to the window, but the Watcher is gone for tonight. I can’t write any more, and I can’t sleep. I wander aimlessly around the house, sipping warm milk at one thirty I put out the lights and creep downstairs, careful not to disturb the children.

  Beeping. Crying. I open my eyes. The sun is bright, the alarm clock is bleeping and little Carlos is sitting in the bedroom doorway. From the sounds downstairs, his sister Maria is making breakfast. I drag myself out of bed. Stretching, I pick up Carlos in his Spiderman pyjamas. Carlos is seven, and I still pick him up although he is really too big. He tells me Maria won’t make him any breakfast. I sigh and take him downstairs.

  That night he is not there, I write 6000 words, and go to bed, unfulfilled. I will probably rewrite what I have written. I check on the children, and they sleep soundly.

  I sit waiting. It is nearly three weeks since the Watcher first came. It is quarter to nine, Carlos and Maria are both asleep, I need to get some work done, but I haven’t seen the Watcher for two days and I’m desperate to know if he is still there. The beanbag shifts under my weigh, and I have crick in my neck. I sigh and just as I prepare to stand up, I see him.

  I freeze and lower myself back down gently. The watcher takes his customary position. He watches. I watch. After a while, he goes out of sight, and just as I see him return, I hear a noise behind me. I jump, startled, and turn. Carlos is standing in the doorway his dark hair tousled, and sleep stuck to his eyes. I take his small hand in mine and he tells me about his bad dream as I lead him back to bed. Twenty minutes later, he is back in the land of nod and I am back at the window. The watcher is gone. I move to the desk and write 4000 words.

  I am awakened early the next morning, I check the clock and it is only half past six. The alarm has not yet sounded. Looking out the bedroom window, I see a police car opposite. I crane my neck to see further; there is an ambulance outside the beautiful lady's house. As I watch, the ambulance crew come out, unhurried. The body on the stretcher has the face covered. A uniformed policewoman follows the stretcher out, looks both ways and crosses to the Watchers house.

  I stare out the window and wait for the knock.