The Watcher

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill you!’

  I breathe deep, gasping from somewhere deep within my lungs as I ready myself to attack. The one advantage of the dark is that my attacker can’t see me either. I stay quiet, jumping back out to face them head on. My fist tightens as I flick open the knife, keeping it concealed within the bag until the last moment. I breathe in once more.

  ‘You fucking—’

  As the car comes past I stare at her face to face. Both our hearts pumping fast. The cold, damp night air filling our nostrils. Jean holds a pipe above her head. She’s a biggish woman. I would say it would crack my skull right open. If she uses her full force. I hope she doesn’t, but then maybe that’s what intruders get.

  ‘You stupid cow. What are you doing?’ she says, letting the pipe fall to her side.

  I can barely get the words out. I hold up my hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t… er… hurt me.’

  She looks at me and recognition flickers across her face. A frown.

  ‘Get inside. We should get inside. Now.’

  Night. 3 a.m.

  WF – Jean – Canada House – Grey perm – Alone – Wary. Tough. Gives as good as she gets – A warm evening, with European breeze, Pitch-black night – 5’ 6”.

  ‘People like you shouldn’t be hanging around here in the dark. You stupid girl,’ she says, suddenly becoming a Mother Superior.

  ‘People like me?’

  ‘Beehives. That’s what they call you. Bloody beehives. After that posh pub – the Beehive – they opened that all you yuppies go to. I knew when that arrived it was the beginning of the end for us.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m not a… yuppy. That’s not who I am.’

  ‘Well, whoever you are, they can spot you a mile off. You’re a different species. And you’ll be an endangered one if you hang around here at night. You lot need to stick to your side. They don’t much like me. So they certainly won’t like you. And if they don’t like you, you know about it.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘The kids. The ones they couldn’t find places for. They’re still here. They broke back into their own homes, some of them. Mostly in the Alaska House. Sleeping on newspapers. Making their way any way they can.’

  ‘But I thought everyone had new places to live?’ I say quietly. Guiltily.

  ‘Yes. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. They got us out all right, with promises of bigger flats “just that little further out”. The ones that stayed, our places are falling down and no one is coming out to fix anything no matter how much I ring up the council and threaten them. The others ended up in places like Ipswich. I mean, where’s Ipswich? It’s not my home. But some came back and stayed anyway, hiding in the building. ‘Cos their lives are still here. Their jobs are still here. Whatever they consist of. I’m not saying they’re criminals. Least, they weren’t before. But once things start to slip. Once you break the first couple of rules, the rest don’t seem so hard to break either. Every morning I wake up and someone has pissed opposite my door. Every morning I clear it up. I see everything round here. And I’ve seen some things. Drugs and drink is just the start of it. I’ve seen blood on the pavement. And I’ve seen it shed in front of my eyes too. But no one cares about the things that people like me see. Don’t hang around here, you silly cow. Get back to your end. And lock the door when you’re there.’

  You couldn’t call her kindly. She probably once was, but her manner had been hardened by the last couple of years. She looks ten years older than the photo in the paper. Her hair wasn’t so grey then. But inside, the place is still a home. Pictures of children and grandchildren smile out at you from behind floral frames.

  ‘They’re in Portugal now. They only call once a month, at most. I should’ve joined them. Bloody freezing this country.’

  She’s right, it is cold in here. I’m not sure how, outside is quite warm, summertime spreading smoothly through every other corner of London. Jean’s place has its own Arctic microclimate. Like the cold has soaked into the walls. She explains the price of fuel has gone up and her state pension doesn’t allow her to be reckless, even with heating. Everything has to be thought out. Everything perfectly stacked. Enough tinned food for a nuclear holocaust. And, along with the metal pipe that sits next to the door, a cricket bat and an old fire poker are there for self-preservation.

  For a moment, my eyes linger on a statue that sits on her kitchen sideboard. A cream-coloured monkey, sitting on a rock. Serenely smiling out at me. His ears are a curious shade of lime green. His belly is brown. And, on his head, the monkey balances a bowl. Which Jean uses for spare change.

  Below the bowl, the monkey’s hands cover his eyes.

  A noise from the other room. I stand and grip my bag again, placing myself in front of Jean, ready to do who knows what.

  ‘Ha ha, that’s just Terrence,’ she says. Now highly amused. Her King Charles spaniel puppy bounds into the room. She reaches for a treat and strokes his head. He comes to greet me too. I was never good with dogs, but luckily Terrence is good with me. Jean seems brighter suddenly with Terrence around. Younger. She is a different person all of a sudden. You can see what she would’ve been like with a family around her.

  ‘I was up late. I saw your light on. I know it’s strange, but I just wanted to say… I read the article, and I would never cross the road to avoid you. I’m sorry all this has happened to your home. I like it round here. But I’m sorry me being here means that… means that you’re being forced to leave. I think that’s awful. Terrible. And, in some way, I feel responsible. I’m sorry. For that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about us, love. We’re already sunk. We’re just waiting till we hit the bottom. And there’s nothing anyone can ever do about that.’

  I am embarrassed to say it, but I want to come again. To help with things. If there is anything she needs help with. She doesn’t look happy about it but she doesn’t say I can’t either. I punch my number into her phone and promise her again that I won’t walk through the estate after dark. It’s a promise I plan to keep.

  I decline her offer to borrow one of her makeshift weapons, saying I’d run back and be safe. Not revealing I have a knife with me. Or that I had been a few seconds away from plunging it into her side when we first met. I chance a hug. She doesn’t move for a second. But I hold on. Her body, at first rigid, softens. There we stand, two people who can’t sleep, holding each other up. Gradually, her arms come up and curl around me. I haven’t hugged anyone like this since Mum. As this thought passes through my mind, I squeeze harder and she does too. Her daughter was a long time gone. Something distinct passes between us. A noiseless whisper. Or a secret. Then I feel and hear her breathe, as some held emotion drifts up from her chest and then out and away. We all need a hug. She touches my shoulder and then ends the clinch abruptly, almost with a push. But, when I look up, I see a grudging acknowledgement in her watery blue eyes. I nod, both of us avoiding full eye contact as my feet scuff her floor and I turn and put my hand on the door handle.

  I turn back for a second because I think I hear her say something. But I don’t think she did. This, however, gives me a chance to smile at her properly and she gives one back like she’s out of practice. I stroke Terrence, open the door and hear it close and lock behind me as I hustle off quickly down the concrete stairs. The stench of piss fills the air.

  I run, while trying desperately not to look like I’m doing so. I can see my flat and imagine being safe in bed with Aiden any second. I look around me, even more self-conscious on the return journey than I had been on my trip over here. I am ready for someone up to no good. Ready to give as good as I get if anyone tries anything. I try to stay inconspicuous but my own breath seems deafening in my ears, echoing hard around the estate, making me a target. It’s hard not to feel paranoid when someone has just told you to watch out. Then, from the corner of my eye, on the fourth floor of Alaska House, I see a metal slat pull open. A car speeds past,
beeping its horn wildly in the distance, and its headlights illuminate the outline of a face. Startled by the starkness of the noise and silhouette in front of me, my breath falls away. I feel like I’m winded. As I stagger back to catch it and breathe deep, I look closer. A pair of eyes glisten in the window. I look straight into them. As they look back, accusingly. Then I turn and run.

  19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.

  I head out of work and hurry to the Tube. Marching towards home and to my bed. Every day at work is exactly the same. I don’t know if I can take much more. I just have to zone out and let it happen to me, I suppose. Sorry. I’m falling asleep even now. I need to sleep.

  ‘Is that blood on your shoes?’ A shout comes from behind me.

  It’s Phil. A bit indiscreet. What if I was a serial killer? He would’ve just blown my cover. I give him a look. How does he know I’m not one? He could be getting himself into a lot of trouble.

  ‘Sorry. I sort of blurted that out, didn’t I?’ he bumbles.

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ I say coldly. I’m tired.

  ‘Whose blood is it?’

  ‘Not mine.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘You make me pretty nervous.’

  I’m walking hard and he’s struggling to keep up. I’m not slowing down though. If he wants to talk so much he’ll keep up. I’ve got to get back and have a chat with Aiden. I’m worried about him. He’s deep into his book. He barely leaves the house. I said I’d support him while he wrote it, so I’m the one paying the rent. I’m the one paying for the food deliveries too. He’s done the same for me in the past, but this is different. He’s a shut-in. He doesn’t go out on his motorbike or anything any more. He never talks about our possible baby. He just sits by the window tapping away at his laptop. Morning, noon and night. He’s really letting himself go.

  ‘I know this isn’t perfect timing but I wondered whether you fancied a drink some time?’

  ‘What? What kind of drink?’ I say, as if the word ‘drink’ seems somehow alien to me.

  ‘You don’t have to decide that now. You can have anything up to the value of six pounds. Which will get you most things these days. Well… in Yates. Not other places. But we could go other places.’

  ‘You know I’m married right?’ I stop for the first time and look him in the eye.

  He looks back at me. I’m not sure I like how he looks at me. He’s very keen.

  ‘Er… yes, of course,’ he says, falteringly. He stops altogether for a second.

  Then tries again. ‘I mean as friends. Just for a chat. Just to pass the time.’

  ‘Oh, a friendship drink. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  ‘I am.’

  I’m through the barrier and he knows he gets a different line to me so he’s talking very fast.

  ‘But if you need to let off steam any time. After work. Someone to talk to…’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’ I’m civil as I head off in the other direction. He’s nice. I’m tired.

  ‘Not that you need anyone to… Wait!’

  That does stop me in my tracks. That was loud. A few people make faces as they pass by me and head down to the elevator. He’s making a scene. I make a face that says, Go on then. What?

  ‘I’ve seen you. I watch you. When we’re at work.’

  Oh, God. He’s either searching for a romcom moment or he’s about to throttle me. People flow past me and onto the escalator and down to the Underground. And I have to stay there. In his awkward tractor beam. Until he’s finished.

  ‘OK, Phil. See you tomorrow.’

  He stares at me. Meaningfully. But I’m not entirely sure what the meaning is.

  ‘I just like you, that’s all,’ he murmurs. It would be cute if it wasn’t so awful.

  Romance is a curse. The amount of unwanted gestures that get foisted on women in this city is incredible. All those sensitive London blokes that think they’re in a kooky movie. Someone should tell them, Real life isn’t like that, love. Supposed ‘romance’ has become an excuse for men to do what they want. To shout across crowded rooms. To talk in stupid voices. And, worst of all, learn to play the ukulele. Today’s version of ‘romance’ is just another thing women have to withstand.

  I point at him, make a gun sign with my fingers and fire. Pow, pow. Then I step onto the escalator.

  ‘See you tomorrow then, Li…’

  I’m halfway to the Victoria Line as his voice fades away in the crowd.

  I wonder what he wants with me. Maybe he doesn’t even know, at this stage.

  At home, I collapse into bed. Kick off my trainers and turn my head to Aiden. He barely even looks up. Just taps away, his back leaning against the window. Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ I’m not sure who he’s become. I barely recognise him. I breathe out heavily. My head falls back onto my pillow. Last night has given me such strange thoughts.

  I don’t know what it is about last night. But it’s bringing things back to me. Some unresolved things. Again, I know you’re not a therapist.

  But if I do let you see me again. If I let you. If you do pay us a visit. If you really must cross the Channel and come and see us. If you can manage that trip over on the ferry. And everything else.

  You’ve got to promise not to say those words. You will promise me that. You have to. Or you’re not coming anywhere near me. No matter how much you say you can help.

  I know you think I’m overreacting. But please. Don’t say them.

  Those words I’ll never forget.

  Don’t say: This is how it started with her too.

  Part Three:

  The Woman in Canada House

  18 days till it comes. 10 a.m.

  I slept for fourteen hours straight. I look at my phone and, luckily, it’s Saturday. I had no idea. The days seem to merge into one. Aiden must be in the bathroom. He’s not making much noise in there. Maybe he’s in the bath. Stagnant. Like a soup. Still tapping away at his laptop all the while.

  ‘You OK in there?’

  No response. I slept too long. My head hurts and my brain is heavy. My limbs feel like they’re carrying weights. I pull on some jeans and a shirt. I hate the feeling of putting on clothes when I haven’t showered. I hoist up the blinds and let the light flow in. It’s so bright. My eyes struggle to focus and then a crowd come into view. In the top right hand of my window. In front of Canada House.

  ‘Just going out for a second, you need anything?’

  No response. I still need to talk to him about his behaviour recently. Who am I to talk? I know. But, still.

  I squeeze my trainers on and head into the hallway and then the lift. Using it for a few flights of stairs always seems pointless but I want to check I don’t look too mad in the mirror. I tie my hair back, spray under my arms and throw my black bag into my rucksack. I guess I’m using it more in the way that Superman uses his telephone box. I tap my fingers against the metal rail as I wait for the door to slide open. When it does, I hurry to the glass doors, push the green release button to let me out of the building and the fresh air hits me, making me feel a bit sick.

  I squint in the bright daylight. The crowd gets thicker as more bodies join it. I could call Jean and ask her what it’s all about rather than join the rubberneckers but I only think of that when I’m virtually there. On second thoughts, I don’t even have her number, I only gave her mine. There are faces I know from the newbuilds milling around, people from the council side too. It’s a real community get together. But, God knows what it’s all in aid of.

  Then I feel it. There it is. That chilly feeling is here. The one that goes through the flesh and into the bones. The sort that makes animals stampede. The ‘we need to talk’ text. The Unavailable number that calls and asks for you by name and beckons you to ‘sit down’ because ‘we have some news that might be difficult to hear’. Cary is eating a Cornish pasty at the edge of the group. Perhaps someone
has erected a snack stand. He gets up on tiptoes to try to get a better look but doesn’t want to venture in any further. I’d say hello but that would be odd. He’s never met me.

  I walk past the Missing poster and glance at the blurred picture of a young woman’s face on it. It says she was a local student. The number of the local police sits underneath her photograph. I wonder where she went. I wonder when she went. I feel like this poster has always been there. Much like a flyer for a gym or cheap long-distance calls, I always imagine these things are not meant for me.

  I push through the bodies. They seem to be crowded around an open door. It’s a weird sight. They stand in neat rows like a perfect audience for a Covent Garden street magician. But they’re being held back by an invisible force that allows them only so close. Some police tape that exists only in their imagination. Because the police are nowhere to be seen. Maybe no one has thought to call them yet. Maybe no one wants to, far better to keep that level of danger in the air, like a theory dangling, unanswered. It’s more thrilling that way. Or maybe it’s just not that serious. I’ll join the throng and find out. I like to sit and watch as much as the next man.

  My breath gets shorter though as I get closer and see they’re standing, looking up at the open first floor door to number forty-one. Further up the stairs, directly outside her door, more people stand, gawping and ruining the view for those on the ground. Too many bodies in the way. They’re stock still, staring at what I can’t see. They part suddenly and a young boy shouts as something flies past everyone at knee level. It’s Terrence. I feel like he’s an old friend even though we only met a few hours ago. The night before last. When I was here.

  Terrence barks wildly. Spooked or just seeing an opportunity to play. He finds me and comes to say hello. I stroke his head and peer past the faces and into the flat. Then I see her. There, face down in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by her family pictures and an overturned dog bowl, Jean. It’s strange how stupid people are in crowds. How insensitive to the moment. The import of the situation ripples through their bodies but their brains struggle with ‘what’s appropriate’ and the result is an open-mouthed gawp. Some hold phones, unsure whether to use them. A bloke in shades scratches his arse. They are all overcome by this unusual Saturday morning drama and have no way of coping with it.