Eye Contact

by Fergus McNeill

  As they ascended, he gazed around at the faces on the escalators. Solemn pinstriped bankers, eager interns, power-dressed women . . . so many irrelevant people, little more than a fog that obscured him as he tracked his prey. He glanced ahead, noting how the back of that sandy-haired head was moving towards the ticket barriers. Good. The man worked somewhere close by.

  Climbing the last few steps into the blinding daylight and traffic noise, Naysmith paused and looked left and right along the pavement. The target was a short distance ahead of him, walking east alongside the old stone buildings of Threadneedle Street. It was almost nine o’clock – wherever he was heading, it wouldn’t be far now.

  A double-decker bus crawled along, keeping pace with Naysmith and bathing him in warm fumes. He glanced up at a girl staring vacantly out from her seat inside. He smiled as their eyes met and she grinned back before nudging a friend sitting next to her. If only she knew.

  Ahead of him, the blue anorak disappeared from view as the target turned down a side street. Naysmith quickened his stride and hurried to the corner, not wanting to lose track of the man. They made their way down a quiet road, then turned right into a narrow cutting, gleaming new tower blocks on one side dropping vast shadows across the grand old office buildings on the other.

  The man was only twenty yards in front of him when he veered over towards a modest, stone-arched doorway. Padding lightly up the steps he pushed through the tall glass doors and disappeared inside.

  Naysmith glanced up at the building, noting the name of it as he walked past, then strolled on towards the end of the street with a satisfied smile on his face. It had been a most productive morning.

  42

  Thursday, 6 September

  Harland trudged across the grass, his hands in his pockets. He moved slowly, like a reluctant child called home at bedtime, head hanging and eyes downcast. The sun was bright just now, bleaching the colour from the morning, but it was still cold. Or was that just him? He wondered about that as he walked up the slope, following the worn path, taking the same route he always did. Perhaps it was all in his head, a natural reaction to a place with such strong emotional associations.

  Blooms of dark lichen gnawed at the older headstones and heartbroken angels gazed down on him as he came to the paved track. Even the wind seemed hushed here, sighing softly through the trees. Pressing on into the newer sections of the cemetery, he left the tarmac and walked up the slope, picking his way between the plots, careful not to step on any of the graves. Flowers were more frequent here, and the odd mourner could be seen, kneeling in quiet grief.

  Should have brought flowers.

  He passed a tragic little plot, lovingly adorned with children’s toys and hand-drawn cards sealed in cling film, but even that couldn’t move him. Not here, not now, so completely insulated by his own loss.

  He hesitated near the top of the slope, then took the last few steps towards a small, simple headstone, the polished marble pale against the grass. He stood for an awkward moment using his sleeve to gently clean the top of the stone before sitting down beside it.

  How long was it since he’d come here last? Weeks? Months? His visits had become shorter and less frequent as he’d found less comfort in them. The turf had knitted together now, a soft green covering that marked the passage of time as the world moved on without him. His hand reached out, caressing the grass, just as he used to caress the duvet when she lay beside him, asleep.

  The tears came suddenly, and he slumped down, overcome with anguish, weeping uncontrollably. Deeper and deeper he sank until he had nothing left to give, and the darkness passed, leaving him weary, disoriented.

  He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings, feeling the cool blades of grass pressed into his hand, the cold marble against his face.

  ‘I miss you,’ he whispered.

  He knew she was there, knew she could hear him. The presence was so strong that he was almost overcome. Suddenly aware of his own appearance, he wiped his eyes, struggling to adopt the brave grin that he used to wear when he was trying to reassure her.

  But he knew that she could see through him, just as she always had.

  He pictured her, standing there beside him, a small hand on his shoulder, her beautiful eyes full of compassionate sadness. Sitting, propped up on the grass, he put his free hand on his shoulder, gently touching where hers would have been.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby . . .’ He choked on the words he wanted to say, sitting in trembling silence as he struggled to compose himself.

  ‘I don’t mean to be like this, but it hurts. It hurts so much.’

  A wry little smile, flashed through the tears, the best he could manage.

  ‘You made quite an impression on me, you know?’

  He sat for a while in silence, just as they used to, not needing words, satisfied and complete in each other’s company.

  Sniffing, he closed his eyes, shutting out the emptiness around him, imagining her kneeling down on the grass beside him.

  ‘I suppose you know I’m not doing that well without you.’

  Instinctively, he knew how she would have reacted to that, her perfect little brows furrowing into a frown.

  ‘Okay.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I know you’ll always be with me. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult.’

  He slowly opened his eyes and squinted out across the rows of gravestones and the gently rustling trees beyond. Hurting him was the last thing she would have wanted.

  ‘It’s impossible, isn’t it?’ he grinned. ‘Can’t live with you, can’t live without you . . .’

  She would have laughed at that, a brave little smile on her worried face as she gazed up at him.

  ‘The worst part is, I actually feel guilty for not thinking about you. I know you wouldn’t want that, but I’m just being honest. If I’m feeling good about something, laughing, whatever, and then I suddenly remember what happened?’ He shook his head. ‘Enormous feelings of guilt. Stupid, isn’t it?’

  He ran his fingers through the grass again.

  ‘But I could never leave you,’ he said. ‘How can I just abandon you here, in this . . .’

  He gestured with his hand, taking in the lines of grey stones that lay all around.

  ‘Maybe that’s why I don’t visit you here that often, because I keep you with me at home . . .’ He bowed his head, hoping it wouldn’t sound like an excuse. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  And she would have understood him, only too well. She was always more practical than him, always had more common sense. He pictured her, regret on her serious little face, moving apart from him and sitting down silently by her own headstone.

  She would want him to live. She’d insist on it, but it was asking an awful lot.

  ‘Oh my beautiful girl,’ he sighed. ‘Why did it have to be you? I wish it had been me . . .’

  But he knew how stubborn she could be. Sitting on the grass, feeling the warmth of the sun as it climbed in the sky, he stayed with her until a strange peace came over him. Eventually, he got to his feet and took a few steps forward, looking out across the cemetery. In the distance, the rattle of a passing train rose above the background rumble of the city. He turned his head, speaking over his shoulder.

  ‘I love you, Alice,’ he said softly.

  I love you.

  That familiar smile, those wonderful bright eyes that always seemed to sparkle when she heard those words. She would be here, waiting, whenever he needed her.

  Sighing to himself, he trudged down the hill without looking back.

  43

  Thursday, 6 September

  Naysmith had left the conference early. The late afternoon seminars were frequently space-fillers and networking opportunities would be limited – he really wasn’t missing much. In any case, he’d already had several very productive meetings, so he’d earned a few hours off.

  It hadn’t taken him long to travel back to Bank and retrace his steps to that narrow cutting between the office buildings. No
w he sat in a claustrophobic little pub, looking out through the grubby window onto Throgmorton Street. From here he couldn’t quite see the glass doors of the office where the target worked, but it was the best vantage point available – anyone heading towards the station from here would have to pass him.

  He checked the time again – it was just after 5 p.m. Hopefully, the sandy-haired man wouldn’t be working too late. Fortunately today was Thursday – if it had been Friday there would be more chance of the man going out for a drink, but with luck he’d be heading straight home tonight.

  Gently turning a beer mat with his finger, Naysmith wondered where he lived, what his home would be like. He clearly came from somewhere to the east of the city, but what sort of place? Would it be a good neighbourhood or bad? Did he live alone, or was there someone waiting for him? He found himself hoping that there wouldn’t be children, but quickly pushed that train of thought away, unwilling to go where it led.

  Frowning, he closed his fist around the beer mat, crumpling it into a jagged ball, and went back to his patient study of the street.

  The target didn’t appear until 6:15 p.m., a slightly weary figure in that same blue anorak, trudging past the window in the direction of the station. Naysmith swallowed the last mouthful of drink that he’d been nursing and slipped out after him. The street was busier now as the offices released their staff into the evening rush hour. It was easy to hide in the swirling flow of commuters, hurrying along the pavements then disappearing down the steps to the underground station, like water down a storm drain.

  Naysmith shadowed his target through the crush of the ticket barriers, along the passageways and down to the busy DLR platforms. He stood a few yards away from him, not near enough to be noticed, but close enough to keep him in sight.

  When the train arrived, he felt the crowd surge towards the doors. The sandy-haired man was caught up in a tight knot of passengers and swept forward to the edge of the platform. Naysmith kept him in view until he was on board, then shouldered his way through the slow commuters to secure his own place in an adjacent carriage. There was no need to get too close just yet – he knew the target was travelling at least as far as Poplar.

  As the doors hissed shut, and the passengers jostled around him to maintain their personal space, he closed his eyes in disgust. Brash fragrances, body odour and bad breath, all sealed in the heat of a busy train. How did these people do it every day? Why would anyone settle for this sort of existence? He sighed. Life was too short for this kind of misery – he knew more than most how quickly it could be snuffed out.

  The train rattled through the noise and darkness of the tunnel and out into the evening gloom. Rising steadily, the rails climbed to an elevated track that swept along, carrying them eastwards between the grim-looking neighbourhoods that sprawled out below. Grey tarmac streets and endless parked cars slid by, all bathed in the tainted glow of street lamps and garish shop signs.

  Stations came and went – islands of harsh white light in the darkening evening – and gradually the passengers around him began to thin out. He found a seat where he could see the target in the next carriage, head bowed, reading a book.

  Outside, the towering heights of Canary Wharf obscured the horizon. There was a lonely beauty about this part of Docklands as the glittering buildings bloomed with lights, and shadows hid the wasteland around them. Naysmith smiled to himself and turned away from the window. They had just passed through Poplar – from here on, he would need to be ready. The train was bound for Woolwich Arsenal, so at least he now knew which line the target travelled on, but that wasn’t enough. He had to find out where the man lived.

  Outside, everything was growing darker as they sped onwards, leaving the vast glow of Canary Wharf behind. After a while, a faint sense of unease began to gnaw at him. The Dome lay a long way behind them now, and several stations had slipped by – how far out of the city were they going? The train rattled across a junction and sloped off to the right. An unfriendly landscape of high fences and dark industrial buildings finally gave way as the track curved up beside a long expanse of water. Apartments looked out between the old dockyard cranes and there, in the distance, he could make out the ExCeL Centre where the conference was being held.

  And now, finally, the man was putting his book away. Naysmith watched until he was sure, then quietly got to his feet and moved to the doors at the opposite end of the carriage as the train began to slow down.

  There was a delicious coolness to the air as he stepped out onto the bare concrete platform. After the smothering humidity at the start of his journey, the slight chill was very welcome. They had alighted at West Silverton, an elevated station with two short platforms that hugged the tracks, each side enclosed by a curved metal roof.

  Naysmith walked slowly, letting the man get slightly ahead of him as they moved to the exit – only two other passengers had got off here and he didn’t want to spook his prey.

  As he descended the flights of steps that led down to street level, the train rumbled away somewhere above, the noise fading as it crept off into the darkness. Suddenly, this station seemed a very lonely place, and he felt a shuddering thrill of anticipation. The man had no idea what was behind him, following him out onto the pavement that ran beneath the elevated tracks. His irrelevant life, ebbing away with each step as he led his killer home.

  Naysmith measured his pace, but his muscles were taut and eager from the adrenalin. He suppressed an urge to howl with excitement as they crossed the road and headed north into a warren of newly developed apartment blocks. It couldn’t be far now.

  He slowed down, allowing the distance between them to stretch out a little as the sandy-haired man turned to cut across a grassy open space surrounded by houses. A forlorn figure, brightly lit, then silhouetted, then brightly lit again as he walked between the street lamps that lit the curving path. Naysmith glanced around – a lot of windows overlooked this little area. When the time came, he would have to find somewhere more secluded than this.

  Ahead of him, the target had reached a line of houses. Naysmith strolled slowly out onto the grass, shunning the well-lit path. There was no need to rush in – he could see everything from here.

  The man had turned and was walking along the pavement, bag under one arm, reaching for his keys . . .

  Which house would it be?

  His eyes followed the target as he slowed and turned onto a brick-paved driveway. There were lights on in the house – the man clearly didn’t live alone. A moment to fumble with the lock, then light spilled out across the drive as the door opened and he disappeared inside.

  Naysmith smiled and made his way calmly across the grass and onto the pavement. He gazed across at the street sign – Evelyn Road – then strolled slowly past the house, noting the number, and walking on.

  He had everything he needed.

  44

  Thursday, 6 September

  Harland opened the cupboard and pulled out a handful of DVDs, all still sealed in their cellophane wrappers. These days he seemed to buy more films than he watched. Idly shuffling through them, he tried to judge which would suit his mood, or which might best improve it. Eventually he chose one and settled down in front of the TV to escape.

  When his phone rang, he couldn’t quite remember where he’d left it. Pausing the movie, he followed the sound through into the kitchen. The ringtone grew louder as he drew the phone from the pocket of his jacket, still draped over a chair, and quickly answered it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Graham?’ It was Mendel’s voice.

  ‘Evening,’ Harland smiled. ‘How’s life in the police force?’

  Mendel chuckled.

  ‘Consistent,’ he replied. ‘Are you at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay if I swing by?’

  ‘Sure, if you want.’ Harland was puzzled. This was unlike his colleague. ‘You remember the address?’

  ‘I’m parked outside,’ Mendel replied. ‘Stick the kettle on.’


  They sat down in the living room. Mendel leaned forward, placing his mug on the coffee table and picking up a DVD case.

  ‘I really enjoyed this one,’ he nodded. ‘Great twist at the end when you find out that the crippled guy is actually the villain.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Harland sighed. ‘Saves me the trouble of enjoying it myself.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ His colleague smiled. He eased himself back into the armchair and looked around the room, automatically cataloguing, noting things – a bad police officer’s habit that they both shared.

  ‘So what brings you to this part of town?’ Harland asked. ‘Consorting with a known troublemaker like me could be bad for your career.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Mendel rebuked him. ‘Things have pretty well calmed down now. In fact, a little bird told me you’ll be back in scenic Portishead next week.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The big man spread his palms wide.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he said. ‘Leighton’s being transferred, so Pope and Jackson are picking up his work on that Shirehampton thing. And that leaves us short-staffed . . .’ He paused, then added, ‘Not that Pope’s a great loss, mind you.’

  Harland leaned back, his fingers steepled in front of his face.

  ‘So they just need me back to make up the numbers,’ he mused.

  Mendel shot him a disapproving look.

  ‘If I’d known you were going to get all enthusiastic about it, I’d have come round sooner,’ he said pointedly.

  ‘Sorry, you’re right.’ Harland held up a hand. ‘It’ll be good to get back to work. That’s all that matters.’

  Mendel nodded.

  ‘You’ll probably get the call tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Try and sound surprised, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Harland laughed. He reached out for the remote control and switched the TV off, then looked across at his colleague. ‘You came round just to tell me that?’