Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

Ending the call he looked around. Light sparkled on the rippling water below him as a swan glided silently by. He walked slowly past the pub, along the riverbank in the direction of Kim’s office, stopping by a narrow side street. It was quiet, just as he’d hoped.

  Perfect.

  He waited there for her, anticipation building inside as he peered along the footpath. Far from dull, the day now seemed vibrant and exciting, charged with power.

  Come on . . .

  And there she was, walking along the riverbank towards him, long dark hair catching the sun, a smart blue jacket over a simple white blouse, a short skirt accentuating her legs. He smiled and waited for her to come to him.

  ‘Rob.’ She beamed as she reached him, but he put a finger to his lips and hushed her with a smile. Taking her hand, he led her wordlessly into the shadow of the side street. She looked puzzled, but he reassured her with his eyes as they moved a short distance from the river and stopped by an alcove between two buildings.

  Now, he turned towards her, gathering her in his arms and kissing her as he pushed her gently back against the rough brick wall. He could feel her surprise, and she started to say something, but as their lips met she closed her eyes and put her arms around his neck. For a long moment, they stood there, until he moved, untangling himself from her enough to slide a hand inside her blouse as he bent forward to kiss her again. He loved the warm softness of her skin, the wonderful uncertainty in her movements, the way she felt so unprepared for him.

  Her breathing had quickened but she slowly relaxed her arms and allowed her hands to drop to her sides.

  Good. She knew what was going to happen.

  People were walking by just a few yards away, but it didn’t seem to matter any more, and she yielded to him as he touched her. Head upturned, she kissed him deeply, then gasped as his hand slid down between her legs. Her eyes flickered open nervously but he stared down into her face as he moved, holding her gaze from looking round, smiling as he felt her body beginning to respond.

  He knew her well, could sense how the surprise melted into an excited abandonment. As the urgency grew, she lowered her eyes and half turned her head, but he gently touched her chin and drew her back so that she was looking up at him again. He wanted eye contact.

  His fingers moved quickly now, teasing her relentlessly until she couldn’t help herself any longer. This was what he wanted from her. Staring down, he watched her bite her lip, saw the slight widening of her eyes as her body tensed and felt her squirm against his hand for a moment.

  Then, blushing deeply, she gasped and sagged. He released her and she leaned back against the wall, beads of perspiration visible below her neck.

  ‘Hello,’ he grinned.

  ‘Rob!’ she whispered, as she smoothed the front of her skirt down, then gave him a bashful half-smile. ‘I can’t believe you just did that . . .’

  He kissed her lightly on her forehead.

  Glancing left and right along the alley, she seemed to steel herself, then looked up at him.

  ‘Do you want me to . . .?’ She placed her small hand on his crotch.

  It was intoxicating. She would probably kneel down in front of him right here if he told her to. He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘This isn’t the place, and I’d hate for us to be arrested.’

  She adjusted her jacket and smiled back, her face flushed. He pushed a strand of hair away from her face, then reached down to fasten the open button on her blouse.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting this afternoon, but I shouldn’t be too late,’ he explained. ‘When I get home . . .’

  She nodded shyly and leaned her head against his shoulder, so obedient, so vulnerable. Unfamiliar emotions glimmered briefly within him and he put his arm around her.

  ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘I promised you lunch.’

  He took her hand and led her back out into the sunlight.

  Naysmith indicated left and turned off the road, wheels crunching on the loose stones as he entered the car park. He drove forward slowly, casually, pretending to look for a space. This was the third car park he’d checked. He pulled the wheel round hard, turning into the next row, his eye scanning the noses of the parked cars.

  There was another silver one, about two-thirds of the way along. He crept down the line until he could see it better . . .

  K347 GMX. There it was, the target’s car, sitting partly hidden behind a blue people carrier.

  Got you.

  Craning to look over his shoulder, Naysmith reversed back up the row and turned his car round. There was only one exit from this car park, but, looking up and down the road, there seemed to be nowhere that he could sit and wait without attracting suspicion, or being given a parking ticket.

  He checked his watch.

  If their previous encounter was anything to go by, the target should be leaving just after five – less than an hour from now – and would probably go down Sparkford Road.

  Better to go ahead and wait for him.

  It was a bit of a gamble, but he could easily find that silver Honda again, now that he knew where it would be. Satisfied, he pulled out of the car park and drove down the hill. Peering out, he considered the turnings on the left and right, but they all seemed to be side roads, little residential cul-de-sacs. He allowed himself to go a bit further until, coming round a sharp bend, he found what he was looking for. Here, there were houses on either side of him and the street broadened out slightly, with just enough room to pull over and park. A little way ahead, the road passed beneath the railway embankment via a short tunnel. It was too narrow for vehicles to pass side by side, and a set of traffic lights controlled access – two cars were waiting at a red light as he looked – it was a natural bottleneck.

  The perfect place to wait.

  He angled the car in to the kerb and parked. Switching off the engine, he adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could watch the road behind him, then glanced at the dashboard clock. Just over half an hour to go.

  Leaning back, he adjusted his seat to make himself more comfortable, and turned on the radio.

  It was nearly half past five, a little later than he’d expected, when he spotted the silver car approaching. He already had the engine running as it passed, and pulled out behind it as it slowed for the traffic lights.

  So close . . .

  The light changed to green and they passed under the railway, emerging onto a wider street with larger houses on either side. Driving carefully, he followed the silver car down towards the main road.

  It was important to keep the distance between them right – too close, and he could end up sitting behind him at the junction long enough to be noticed; too far and he might lose him altogether.

  He took it slowly, allowing a slight gap to open up between them, coasting gently along for a hundred yards, then accelerating as he saw the Honda’s brake lights go off. They turned right onto the main road, but swung left down a small side street a moment later.

  At least the man used his indicators. That would make the task somewhat easier.

  They followed a small road that wound its way down beyond the last of the houses, past wide playing fields and out across a low water meadow. A bridge took them over the calm river that gently meandered between the trees. Naysmith hung back as far as he could, but the road was quiet and the silver Honda was travelling slowly.

  They were well outside the city now, and the target was moving faster. At a roundabout, Naysmith decided to let another car slip in between them – there was no point following someone if you weren’t going to try to be subtle about it – but after a mile or so the silver Honda turned off onto a smaller road signposted ‘Petersfield’ and it was just the two of them again.

  From a gentle dip, they climbed a broad hill crowned with trees and drove out onto the rolling South Downs. The landscape fell away on either side beneath a vast sky, and the sun gave a golden glow to the clouds on the horizon. It was like journeying into a painting . . .

  They ha
d been driving for nearly half an hour when a red car appeared in the rear-view mirror. Naysmith glanced back at it, watching as it steadily closed the distance between them.

  Good.

  He allowed it to overtake, gently increasing his speed to tuck in close behind it and urge it along. It would be no bad thing to have a car between him and the target again.

  The silver Honda was clearly visible up ahead and, slowly, the gap between the three cars closed. Thankfully there were few opportunities to overtake after that – tall hedgerows created blind curves, and oncoming traffic made it impossible when the road did straighten out.

  They continued on together, dropping slowly down between the hills until they came to a remote rural crossroads where a red light halted them. There was a large country pub on the far side of the junction, and a small petrol station opposite.

  The Honda indicated right but, as the lights changed to green, the other car drove straight on, leaving Naysmith directly behind the target once more.

  Where were they going? It had been well over half an hour now – how much longer could he sit behind this car without it becoming suspicious?

  Cresting a long hill, the road plunged down through some trees towards another village. The Honda’s brake lights came on as they approached the bottom of the hill, but then the left indicator light started flashing as well.

  Finally, he was turning off.

  As the gap between the two vehicles closed, Naysmith reluctantly decided to drive on. It would be too obvious to continue the pursuit. His eyes followed the silver car as it turned down a narrow lane before being lost from view as he continued on through the village.

  West Meon was a quaint little place, with well-kept houses and old flint walls that pressed close to the road winding sharply left and right between them. He took the next turning onto a small side road and pulled over to think.

  He must be close now.

  The lane that the silver car had disappeared down didn’t look as though it led anywhere. In all probability, this was where the target lived. It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look along that lane and see what was down there . . .

  He waited a few moments, then turned the car round and crept back through the village. There it was; the little lane marked ‘High Street’. He smiled as he turned off the main road and drove slowly between the smartly whitewashed buildings that huddled close on either side. It was all rather charming – an old-fashioned butcher’s with a painted mural that read ‘Supreme Sausage Champion’, a tiny shop-cum-post-office and, moments later, a very grand-looking pub.

  Naysmith glanced left and right, hunting for any sight of the silver car, but without success. He cruised on slowly until the houses thinned out and he suddenly found himself driving under the shadow of thick foliage where the lane passed through some trees.

  Emerging from the gloom, he found turn-offs to a couple of narrow lanes that might lead to more houses, but he knew from experience that villagers remembered strange cars. He was driving with his own number plates on, so it was better not to take any risks. In any event, even if he had lost the Honda, he had made good progress. He checked the dashboard clock: 5.52 p.m. It would be easy enough to lie in wait down here on another day.

  Satisfied with his afternoon’s work, he drove out of the village, looking for a place to turn the car round. There were a couple of houses on the left and he glanced across briefly as he passed.

  There!

  On a gravel driveway, set back a little from the road, sat the silver car.

  K347 GMX.

  He didn’t stop, just continued up the lane until he came to a small junction where three ways converged around a triangular patch of rough grass. There, he halted for a moment, suddenly aware of the excitement growing inside him. The game was moving towards its next phase.

  Smiling, he drove back through the village and out to the main road. It had been an excellent day.

  22

  Thursday, 19 July

  There was a sedate pace that people adopted in this supermarket. Everyone slowed down a little, especially the people in front of Naysmith, or so it seemed to him. He was hungry, and he didn’t like shopping when he was hungry – it made him buy things he didn’t want. Pushing the trolley around the vast store, he tried to focus on just the items he needed, but his mind was elsewhere.

  It would have to happen on a Wednesday. He would need an excuse to be out for the evening, perhaps even the whole night. Nothing too specific or too complicated – he didn’t want to catch himself out with an over-elaborate lie. At the same time, if he was too vague or evasive it would make Kim suspicious. On some level, she knew he slept with other women – she had to – but as long as he wasn’t too obvious about it, he could deny it to her, and she could deny it to herself. In a way, both of them lied to protect the relationship.

  Of course, it wasn’t always another woman. Sometimes, as Kim fired her tearful accusations at him, when she was so certain that he was cheating on her, he taunted himself with the idea of telling her the truth. Of gently holding her small shoulders, staring down into those wondrous eyes, and telling her where he’d really been, what he’d really been doing. But it was a hollow fantasy. Something like that could never be unsaid. So he’d deny it, and she’d accept it, and they’d end up in bed together, each as dishonest as the other.

  He sighed. It was one thing to go through all that when he really was screwing someone else, but he didn’t want to argue when he wasn’t.

  The aroma from the bakery aisle tugged at him and he stopped to select a crusty loaf before moving on to find a good bottle of wine.

  He would say it was a networking event. There was nothing unusual about that – his work often took him to industry get-togethers – and mentioning a noisy bar in London would explain why he couldn’t answer his phone. If he had to stay out all night, he could tell her he’d drunk a little too much. The key was to mention it to her as soon as possible. Last-minute absences were suspicious, but dates on next week’s calendar were less spontaneous and somehow more believable.

  He put a couple of bottles of Merlot into the trolley and turned towards the checkouts. In front of him, an older man finished placing his items on the conveyor belt and stood, waiting to pay. This man had thicker, darker hair, but there was a definite similarity to the target – five foot ten, same age, same podgy build. Naysmith gazed at him for a moment as he joined the queue. So close now, just inches away, he considered how quickly someone of that build moved, wondered how heavy he was. And then, as he stared at the back of the man’s head, he suddenly knew how he would do it.

  Friday came, and there was still a lot of preparation to be done. He drove down the hill into West Meon, braking hard just before the ‘30’ speed-limit sign. He knew the road quite well now. Glancing briefly at the turn off for High Street, he continued on through the village, just as he had that first time, eight days ago. The road twisted one way, then the other before he saw the side street he wanted and swung left into Station Road.

  It was narrow, with old flint walls and hedgerows pressing close on either side. There were a couple of houses and then the countryside closed in again, with tall trees lining the road as it started to climb. Naysmith slowed and turned onto a gravel track that bent away to the right. Following it round, he emerged into a small car park, deserted save for one other vehicle. He switched off the engine and opened the door, drinking in the quiet, listening to the faint rustle of the leaves above.

  This was the northern end of a walking trail that followed the course of a disused railway south along the Meon Valley. At another time it would have been appealing to explore it and see where it went, but today he had something else in mind. He was dressed appropriately in jeans and an anorak – just like any other walker, except that he’d deliberately avoided bright colours. There was no sense in standing out.

  Locking the car, he made his way along to the end of the car park, grinding small stones underfoot until he found the muddy path t
hat led into the trees. Snaking through the bushes, it swept down onto the grass-covered remains of the railway line. He halted suddenly, listening. There were faint voices ahead, growing steadily louder. It would have been better to go unseen, but there was no reason why anyone should remember him – he was just another walker. The key was to avoid anything that would attract suspicion. He set off in the direction of the sounds and soon met a grey-haired couple coming back up the path towards him. They nodded and offered a polite ‘Good afternoon’ as they passed. Naysmith gave them a warm smile and continued to walk on into the trees, listening to their voices gently dwindling in the distance. Slowing now, he glanced over his shoulder, checking that they were out of sight, then turned around and stalked silently back up the track behind them. Ignoring the way that led to the car park, he pushed hurriedly on through the bushes, following the overgrown trackbed. Once he was clear of the path, he paused, listening intently. Not far away, a car started and he heard the tyres bite into the gravel as it slowly drove away.

  For a moment, it seemed as though a blanket of silence fell on the woods, but then he became aware of the gentle sigh of the trees as a faint wind drifted through the branches above him. He was alone.

  Each footstep was somehow louder in the stillness, his boots swishing through the long grass and crackling down into the undergrowth. He moved quickly but carefully, watching the ground for obstructions. The trackbed seemed lower here, and he suddenly realised that what had looked like earthen banks on either side of him were actually two overgrown platforms wreathed in brambles. Decades ago, this must have been West Meon station. He paused to look around, suddenly seeing the shapes beneath the moss, glimpsing the memory of another time. There were no buildings left, but here and there a piece of crumbling brickwork was visible among the nettles, and a few worn steps led up into a tangle of bushes. In front of him, right where the old steam trains would have passed, a young tree had forced its way up towards the light as the last remnants of the railway were gradually swallowed up by the forest.