The Watcher

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘It’s pretty much the same. Just with two of one thing, rather than the other.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  ‘God, you’ve led a sheltered life. Use your imagination. In fact, don’t. Don’t, do that. You’re ruining this.’ Sometimes he needs a scold.

  ‘I mean, do you think they’re a “get into their pyjamas” kind of couple? Or d’ya think at some random moment the blonde might just grab the redhead, throw her on that wooden table and just… give her one?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, they’re varnishing it. They’re only half finished.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The difference in the colour of the wood. There’s newspaper on the end there, look. And by the sink, brushes in a glass jug.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re good at this.’

  ‘And, now I come to think of it, I’ve seen these two before.’

  ‘Where?’

  He holds my gaze.

  I look away from him.

  Shit.

  ‘Wow. You. Are. Mental,’ he says

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s not nice,’ I say, breezy, but firm.

  Whoosh! A plane shoots overhead. They come very close here. It’s like they’re getting closer every time. The women look up. You can see their pale, white necks. Janet strokes Tippi’s red hair. She dyes it. Must do with that shade.

  Footsteps plod along the hallway. We pause. And give each other that grinning look of recognition.

  ‘Uh oh. I zink our znext-door neighbour ist home,’ Aid says, his eyes twinkling.

  Soon, I’ll tell you about the man who lives next door.

  Part Two:

  The night. And the day that followed.

  20 days till it comes. Night. 10 p.m.

  SWM – Cary – Parkway – Brunette – Singular – Pensive – 21 degrees, under cover of night, windy – 5’ 10”.

  Cary has his favourite Breton top on. He’s recently got one of those new haircuts. It’s slick on top and shaved at the sides. It’s the haircut that would occur if De Niro from Taxi Driver became the third member of Wham! He probably works in Shoreditch. It’s probably a normal haircut there. He’s finishing the look with a red scarf/neckerchief. Which is bold. I get the feeling he’s been plucking up the courage to do this for a while and surprisingly it looks OK. He’s dancing around a bit, probably to electronic sounds. I wish I could hear what band or DJ. I really wish I could. To get a better idea of it all.

  His mates arrive and they do ironic fist pumps. They’re probably going out somewhere actually. ‘Mate 1’ has a Hot Chip T-Shirt on. One of them disappears and then comes back and pinches his nose. Then the other ones disappear and do the same. They start playing on the Wii and it’s competitive. One of them licks his teeth as he flings his controller forward, lets go of it and it smacks into the window. It’s kicking off!

  They’re all laughing but Cary doesn’t find it so funny, he probably only part owns this flat as part of that scheme. It’s not as posh as the Waterway flats but it’s nice, same floor plan as ours. He knows the window isn’t broken or cracked but he’s telling them:

  ‘Dude, careful, these windows cost a fortune.’

  Yes, I think that’s what he said. And he’s right, I bet they do. They wouldn’t be cheap to replace. He thinks there’s a mark. There is a mark. He’s got a cloth. Oh, he’s pretty much got it. Oh, I see. It wasn’t a proper mark.

  ‘How’s Tippi’s table coming along?’ Aiden says, without looking up.

  ‘Er, not bad, I think. Looked like it was nearly done and drying about an hour ago.’

  ‘Do you think they sanded it first? I might do something like that.’

  He never does anything like that. Not any more. He barely even leaves the house.

  ‘I’d imagine so, Aid. I imagine they’ve done it with a few tables before, mate.’ Doing my mock-urban-upper-middle-class voice.

  ‘Oh, I’d imagine so, babe. I imagine they sell them online actually. That’s what I imagine. Babe.’ He loves it when we do this.

  ‘Oh yup, that’s what I imagine too. It’s probably reclaimed. From some suburban yard, somewhere you wouldn’t have heard of, mate.’

  ‘Oh yeah, mate. I imagine it’s difficult to tear Tippi and Janet away from the reclamation yard. There’s so much there you can… er… er…’

  ‘Reclaim, babe?’

  ‘Well, exactly, mate.’

  I’m not sure who we’re making fun of really. Everyone, I suppose. And ourselves.

  Oh dear! Oh no. Cary. You poor thing. You poor little hip, upwardly mobile thing, you’re bleeding. Ouch.

  No sooner had ‘the lads’ put ‘cloth-gate’ behind them, when catastrophe struck again. I caught it in my sights perfectly. I could see it before they did. Those boys in their high spirits were larking about on their Wii. And Cary was standing way too close to the action. I thought, someone’s going to get hurt here. And bang! He caught a controller right in the face.

  He’s bleeding quite a lot. From his top lip. The one with the mohawk is looking for something, maybe ice. While ‘Mate 1’, still clutching the blood-flecked controller, apologises profusely while pacing from foot to foot.

  I’d call an ambulance but I don’t think it’s my place to. It might prompt a few questions. Like: ‘Who the hell called this ambulance?’ ‘Dude, is one of us sending messages out into the airwaves without knowing it? By mental telepathy? Or, like, some other discreet human transmission process we’re as yet unaware of?’ And ‘Hey, bloody hell, man, who’s that woman staring at us through her binoculars over there?’

  I think an ambulance might be a bit extreme anyway. I’m sure it’ll stop bleeding in a moment. I still wish I could help. I’d go and give it the once-over myself if I was a doctor. But I’m not. No. I’m not a doctor.

  ‘You’re obsessed,’ Aiden mumbles.

  ‘No, I’m not. People always say that sort of thing about women. She’s mad, she’s mental, she’s obsessed. You should know better. You write good women.’

  ‘I think I just write people. Hopefully. But you’re right. Sorry. I won’t say that. It’s stupid.’

  ‘I’m just interested.’

  ‘Yes, and you’re good at it. It’s probably from your past as an “avid birdz votcher”. You big old geek.’

  ‘I was never a birdwatcher.’

  ‘What? Of course you were. Told me on our first date you were.’

  ‘I certainly never said that. Let me educate you a bit. Birdwatchers: go to their local park, with standard gauge binoculars and mark down all the little birds they see in the local area. Birders: may go to other countries, recreationally or professionally–’

  ‘Professionally? Who pays them to do that?’

  ‘—or wherever, in search of more birds they haven’t seen to add to their Life List. There are around ten thousand varieties of bird, even the most ardent birder is unlikely to see as many as seven thousand in their lifetime. Now, those that go birding: may visit specific hides and spots to see birds for an afternoon and may also keep a book or list of what they see, like the birders do. And lastly, twitchers—’

  ‘Ah, twitchers!’ He snorts.

  ‘Twitchers: set their sights on a particular rare bird and travel specifically to find it.’

  ‘Oh right, and which one are you?’ he says.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t say I was a twitcher. Which, incidentally, my friend, is so named because one of the most famous rare bird searchers, Howard Medhurst, had a rather nervous disposition, if you must know.’

  ‘Like you. You have a twitch. Yes, so that’s what you are.’

  ‘No I don’t. No, I’m not…’

  ‘See, there it goes. It’s a long blink and your cheek goes a little too!’ he says, grinning again, the cheeky sod. Thinks he’s ruffled me.

  ‘Really? I… I’ve never even noticed I do that.’

  ‘Vell, you doo. So zere,’ says my Austrian psychoanalyst. His eyes narrow as he takes on a darker tone. He s
miles, half concerned, half like a predator, sizing me up. Then speaks exactingly: ‘So… I suppose ze real qvestion iz… vot are you… searching vor?’

  A knock at the door. I’m saved from my interrogation. I answer it. Aiden sits there not even thinking about getting up to answer it. He simply stays there on his arse, like plankton, like he always does.

  ‘Dr Gullick?’

  Aiden suddenly shoots up, excited, shifting himself into a position where he can see me but the woman at the door cannot see him. He is wide eyed and open mouthed. He eyeballs me.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say.

  ‘Could you please help me. It’s an emergency,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I say, swallowing hard and reaching for my black leather washbag. Here we go.

  I told you. I am not a doctor. As you well know. But this does tend to happen from time to time.

  19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.

  WM – Phil – Desk by the door – Brown hair – Very singular – Open, friendly, maybe too friendly – Air con broken, sweaty, temperature unknown – 5’ 11”.

  There’s a tall fern in a plain white porcelain pot in every corner of the room, you know the kind. Blackening bananas litter an enamelware fruit bowl. And people have started to sit on awkward seats that force you into a position somewhere between ‘riding a penny-farthing’ and ‘kneeling while being held at gunpoint’. It’s good for the back they say, but what you gain in posture you must lose in dignity. There’s no place like home. And this really is no place like home. They say that in twenty years’ time everyone will work from home. We’ll communicate with colleagues and clients purely through the net and companies will save millions on the office space. I’m counting the days.

  I turn off my phone because it’s been ringing again today. I don’t want it interrupting me now. There was even a voicemail. And we both know who’s calling. Don’t we? But, no. I’m not ready to talk, yet. Take the hint. I spend most of my time at work talking on the phone. To people in far off countries. People I don’t know. And have no desire to. This is how it goes:

  ‘Could I ask how you found the seating arrangement during the conference?’

  ‘Was there enough seating in the relaxation areas?’

  ‘Interesting, what sort of seating would you like to see for the conference next year?’

  ‘OK. OK. Uh huh. Right. Did you… Ha ha. Oh, of course. Well, I… of course.’

  Did you ever hear that rumour about office temperature? That an ancient office law comes into play during summer if your air con is broken? Which is probably more likely to be enacted if your windows don’t open. Apparently they worry in this place that if they did open everyone would spontaneously jump out. Opting for the sweet release of death rather than filling out another spreadsheet.

  That rumour. About that law. That states that if someone is officious enough to take an official reading with an approved thermometer. And the mercury inside hits that magic number. You all get to go home on full pay? Yes? You’ve heard that one? Well, apparently, that rumour is complete bollocks. I’m so tired from everything that happened last night. I just want to sleep.

  I know that rumour is bollocks. Because Phil, who has the desk by the door, has just attempted to invoke this medieval law. He used a thermometer he oddly happens to have in his drawer. He’s that kind of guy. Then he went to confront our line manager with his findings. He did all this because I asked him to. He’s the only one I speak to. The only guy in the office that seems even vaguely interesting. The only one who shows any sign of a possible personality, now Lena and Rob have moved on to better things.

  In a moment of desperation I Skyped him a cry for help. It was a nice moment. It went like this:

  Gull1978: Get me out of here.

  KentishPhil: Why?

  Gull1978: I’m sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. It’s like I’m bathing while I sit here.

  KentishPhil: Graphic. You look tired.

  Gull1978: Thanks. Couldn’t sleep last night. Again.

  KentishPhil: I understand.

  Gull1978: Get me out of here. I’m serious!!!!!

  KentishPhil: OK. Have a plan.

  Then he tried it. He reached for his thermometer. Took a reading. Then very skilfully and with the utmost charm took the findings to Deborah, in a valiant attempt to bust us all out of here. Deborah laughed, said: ‘That isn’t really a thing. I’ve literally never heard of that rule. Sorry to disappoint you all.’

  We all laughed it off and secretly seethed. She patted him on the shoulder. And asked him if she can get the Friday report by Thursday.

  ‘If you were to design a perfect conference for cardiologists, what would it look like?’

  ‘Well, just, say anything you like.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Lots more toilets. OK.’

  ‘Hotel provision closer to conference centre, good.’

  ‘Free hot dogs? Ok. Ha ha. Very funny. No, you never know.’

  ‘How about a water slide? No, just joking there.’

  ‘No, I know that wouldn’t be appropriate.’

  ‘Yes, I know heart disease is Britain’s biggest killer.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  From out of the window I see a plane go by that could be headed anywhere. The sky is so blue. The plane cuts through it at tremendous speed. Everyone in it has a comfortable seat and someone is bringing them coffee and a decent enough meal. They are heading to Barbados, or Tenerife, or Ibiza, or Honduras, or Tuscany, or Agadir, or Cephalonia.

  I think about that Missing poster again. It flashes into my mind occasionally.

  I look down at my trainers. I’ve still got blood on them from last night.

  20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m.

  WF – Me, Lily – In an apartment at night – Light brown hair – Married, but utterly singular – In the mirror – Could be a doctor, in another life – 5’ 7”.

  To cut a long story short sometimes our Internet goes down. We had to call out a local guy in the end because our provider takes so long to actually send someone to fix it themselves. Our guy says there aren’t quite enough sockets in the building for everyone. So every so often someone’s Internet guy changes around the sockets, pulling one out at random so there is a free socket for whoever is paying them that day.

  It’s like there were three in the bed and the little one said roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. Maybe that’s not a good analogy. There are twenty-two flats and twenty-one phone ports, so it’s like musical chairs, let’s put it like that. At any one time, someone in the building doesn’t have a phone or Internet connection. And you can’t even get a mobile signal round here because we’re too close to the water, apparently. They can’t get a transmitter close enough or something. So you have to boost your phone signal using an app and your Internet connection. So if you don’t have the net you haven’t really got anything. You’re stranded.

  So our guy, nice guy, Dexter, big guy. He has the idea of putting a sticker on our port that reads ‘doctor on call’. He’s done it before he says. It works.

  The first time we got a knock on the door was four months ago, 4 a.m.

  ‘Please, the concierge told me there was a doctor in the building and he gave me the flat number. I’m so sorry to disturb. It’s my husband.’

  Aiden was flat out, so I was the fall girl. Dr Gullick. It sounds good, doesn’t it? Trustworthy somehow. You can imagine a Doctor Gullick. I don’t know any of the Dutch side of the family. Maybe there aren’t any anymore. I know it’s a Dutch name but I feel as British as they come. But I’m sure the original Gullicks, the Dutch Gullicks, were good people. Maybe they were doctors. Who knows, maybe something will kick in. It’s not the prettiest name of course. It means ‘small bald man with no beard’. Did you know that? Hardly flattering for a gal. But there we are.

  I looked at her as my brain adjusted to being awake. I finally figured
out what on earth the woman was talking about. The thoughts connected in a couple of seconds. A concierge must have stuck his head in behind the phone port panel at some point and clocked the sticker. Made a mental note to tell people not to pull that one out at all costs. Which was our plan. This, however, was not.

  I considered explaining, imagined her face as I told her about the ruse. Maybe I could tell her it was Dexter’s idea. Lay it all on him. He’s a big guy. He could take it. Maybe she’d see the funny side. But I didn’t do that. I couldn’t take the shame of it. Not that I loved the alternative either. Both were pretty shitty options. It was a less heart-rending but more socially awkward version of Sophie’s Choice. Anyway, somehow I instinctively reached for my leather washbag, which could be generic enough to have my ‘doctor’s equipment’ within it. Nodded. And we left.

  I gave her husband the once-over. Sharp abdominal pains had kept him up all night. I put my hands on his bare stomach. What a strange interloper I am. It’s funny where one little lie can take you. His skin felt clammy and warm. I’m not sure what I was feeling for. A rumble. Or a kick. I applied gentle pressure and then dug my fingers in. He groaned. Skin is the kindest of fabrics. It felt like more intimacy than I’d had for a while. He breathed heavier and my breathing changed too. His stomach tensed. He groaned again. It wasn’t arousing or anything. But it was something.

  They waited for the verdict. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Just a hiss of air. They leant in. The moment seemed to linger on forever. Words failed me. Stage fright. The three of us exchanging glances. In this abstract ménage à trois. Me, dressing up. Them, waiting. They have no idea. There’s an intruder in their home.

  My silence was starting to seem like the harbinger of bad news. The doctor with the test results wields such power. For a moment, I enjoyed the thrill of this. But I had to speak. I finally found the standard NHS Direct response falling from my lips:

  ‘It’s difficult to make any assumptions without getting an X-ray. It’s your call, if you think this is a 999 emergency then I would pick up the phone now. If you think it can wait till tomorrow, go straight to your GP and wait in line to be seen that day. They’ll usually fit you in at some point in the morning.’ Like a bad actor, I fumbled through it.