She stands just behind it. A spooked look on her face. She pauses. She’s worse than before. She looks bad. I’m sure she’s thinking the same about me. She wants to chat.
‘Hello, Doctor,’ says the woman who couldn’t sleep.
‘Hello, Sandra,’ I say, remembering her name in the nick of time.
‘Terrible about that lady, wasn’t it? Terrible business. Dead,’ she says, eyeballing me.
‘Is that right? How awful. Anyway I must get on,’ I say.
‘First the student. Then her. Who’s next? Ha,’ she chatters.
‘I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ I say, it coming out sounding far more guiltily than I intended.
‘The student’s the funny one, of course.’ She holds my gaze. Trapping me.
‘What do you mean?’ I urge, interested now.
‘Well, I’m not saying they’re related. The crimes. But the signs do both point to murder. To me anyway. And she was so active. In the community, I mean. But then, she did also have that boyfriend of course! You’d see him around. I think he was from over this side,’ she babbles, almost excitedly. Letting me in.
‘Really. Who was that?’
‘Oh, some fella. Ordinary looking. Nice chap,’ she says, guileless.
‘Maybe someone should go and talk to him? Maybe he knows something,’ I proffer.
‘Well, maybe. All I know is he lived in one of these buildings. Fair hair. That’s about it,’ she says, wanting to continue the conversation. But out of ammo.
But I’m wary of her. She unnerves me. She’s not the sort of role model I need at the moment.
‘Well, have you told the police this?’ I say, starting to move.
‘Oh yes, Doctor. But they don’t believe me. I tell them all sorts. They never listen. They nod and smile. But they don’t even write things down any more. I don’t know what’s wrong with them, I don’t know what they think is wrong with me. But, don’t worry, I’ve told them,’ she says, touching my forearm.
I remember that’s pretty much how the police treated me too. I have a horrible thought. When they said I’d ‘been there before’, I really hope they weren’t confusing me with Sandra. Not to be rude. But she’s a good fifteen years older than me. Everyone must be able to tell that. Not being vain, but come on. And she’s slightly more nervous of disposition, I’d say. Like a startled woodland creature. But it would make some sense, I suppose. Because I hadn’t ‘been there before’. I’m sure I hadn’t. I’m sure.
I pull away and make my excuses. I’m trying not to let her in. She’s just a disturbed woman, I tell myself. Maybe that makes two of us.
‘Nice to see you, Sandra,’ I offer.
‘Bye, Doctor,’ she says, a bit louder than necessary.
Sandra thinks they’re connected. I never really thought about that. Only in passing. Only in jest. Not seriously. I thought Brenner was getting his own back, laughing at me for thinking he was some sort of murderer, a normal bloke laughing it up at the ridiculousness of it all. I thought he was riffing. Thought it was a skit. But maybe he wanted me to hear. Maybe everything he murmured was true. He was whispering his secrets, just for me. Taunting me. For sport. Because he knows now they’ll never believe a word I say. Just like they don’t believe a word Sandra says. So he can do what he wants. Right in front of my face. It’s all part of the pleasure of it.
How many kills does it take to make a serial killer?
Sonya, the student. Jean. The girl at the window. Aiden.
Sandra thinks there’s a serial killer on the loose. And now I do too.
1 day till it comes.
It’s 11 a.m. I’m going back over to the estate. Going to see Chris. He thinks I’m stupid for wanting to go back in there. He’s already told me that. Thinks we’ll get caught again. If that happens, he says, it’s more trouble for him than me. Not that he’s been caught before. He’s kept his record clean. But someone of his description seems to get in a lot more trouble for things like this than someone of my description. People tend to press charges. And he can’t have that. He’s got his brother to think about.
So I’m going to get a crash course in lock-picking. He says I can learn everything I need to know in one hour, with these kind of locks anyway. It’s scary when you think about it. It only takes someone desperate enough to take a chance. I’m going to take a chance.
We got unlucky last time. If the cameras hadn’t flicked on at the right time, to my channel, channel me. If the concierge had had his feet up watching the TV, throwing Murray Mints into his mouth, rather than glancing at the multi-screen, we would have gotten away with it. But whether I get caught or not, I’m getting in there to find out what’s going on. What’s in that big green chest. To see if he’s got Aiden tied up in there. Anything is possible.
I feed Terrence first. Then I take some stuff down to the recycle room. I’m a criminal but I’m still civilised. I take my washbag and wear plainer clothes this time. I push the Basement button.
It smells in here. This is the rubbish lift. The one everyone uses when they’re going down to the recycle room. It stinks, because everyone uses it for this. And everyone uses it for this, because it stinks.
The door opens and I head into the underground car park, which leads to the recycle room. It’s always dark in there. The whirring of generators dips and rises in the background, you wouldn’t want to stay down here too long. That noise, almost calming in small doses, would really get to you after a while.
I was stuck down there between doors for half an hour once, a while ago. Not pleasant. A concierge had to come and get me out. I tried Aiden but he went to voicemail, as is the theme.
I step into the recycle room. I have company. An imposing-looking guy. The door closes behind me. He turns.
It’s Lowell, sorting out his plastics from his disposables. It’s funny I never think of him as imposing. It’s difficult to see someone objectively once you know them intimately. Not that I know him that intimately.
His glass is in one bag. Some food in another. Several bags for life, to conserve the atmosphere. Some stuff for the clothes bin in a hessian Waitrose bag. Crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s. As per.
‘Hey, Lil, you took me by surprise there,’ he says, turning.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. What you up to?’
‘Nothing. Up to nothing actually. Really,’ he says, shiftily. Like he could be up to something.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I say, realising the time.
He probably takes days off whenever he wants. I bet he gets so far ahead of himself the boss probably says, ‘You know what, Lowell, I know you won’t like this, but take the rest of the week off, you’ve earned it,’ He’s that reliable.
‘Ah, Lil. Can I tell you something. I’m not proud of it. Can I?’
He suddenly seems different. Situationalism. His old confidence gone. Evaporated. He winces. Breathes in.
‘You see, well. I lost my job. Careless thing to lose, I know,’ he says, ruefully. But trying to make light of it.
‘Oh, Lowell, I’m so sorry. Sorry, mate.’ I lunge in.
We hug. Long one. I haven’t had one of these since the night with Jean. He nestles his head into me. I didn’t think he’d be a head-nestling kind of guy. I didn’t think he could let himself go so much.
‘Actually, it’s worse than that. There’s more,’ he says, deadened.
‘Go on.’
‘I lost two jobs. How bad does that suck, huh? First my own little company went bust, went totally under, lost two contracts in a damn week. Suddenly, no one wanted our software, so that was that. Then, they were downsizing at my nine to five. I’d only been there ten months. I defected from another company. So not much of a pay-off. That’ll teach me, huh?’ he mutters, almost tearing up. Which is pretty out of the blue.
‘Oh fucking hell, I’m sorry.’ I pull back and look at him.
Lowell will be fine, surely. It’s strange to see him
so weak. It could be the making of him. The vulnerability that could turn him from captain of the chess club to someone with a bit of heart. He’s attractive like this. But I think that’s just me. He doesn’t seem to be embracing it. He’s changed, hurt. I wonder how long ago all this happened. I think I’ve seen him around in the days for a while. When I’m not at work. He always seems to be there.
‘Ah, you know. It’s not so bad. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with,’ he says.
The lights go out. They’re on a timer. This little room wasn’t built for standing and talking so if you don’t open the door every three minutes the lights go out.
We stand in silence for a moment. I don’t know why. It seems to last for ages. This black silence. Then I laugh.
Which is intended to break the tension. But that doesn’t happen. We fall into silence again. I can smell him. A dark scent, strong. I hear his steady breath. I want to tell him about Aiden going missing. Maybe I should’ve a long time ago. I should’ve told someone. But also, I don’t. I don’t want to think about Aiden at all.
He leans into me. Grabs my arms. Holds me.
‘There you are,’ he says, soft and low. It’s nice.
Then slowly he brings his face towards mine. Gradually. So unhurried. My breathing changes. And so does his. It’s so close I can feel it on my mouth.
Then his lips touch mine. My weight goes forward and I press myself against him. He pushes his tongue softly into my mouth just for a moment. I grab for his arm but get nothing. He touches the back of my neck and pulls back a touch. He pulls away. Then he kisses me again. I haven’t been kissed for a very, very long time. My forehead touches his in the darkness. My hand lifts towards him. I try to delicately touch his face. To stroke the skin all along his right cheekbone.
Then he moves me out of the way. I hear his footsteps. He’s rummaging around. He’s behind me and I don’t know where he is. I feel exposed. Five minutes in a closet in the dark with a strange man. He moves again suddenly. I hear his feet across the floor. I move my body towards his.
The lights come on. His face flickers back into view. He speaks.
‘There we go Lil. Nice to see you,’ he says, cuing me.
I laugh nervously. We ignore everything. But we both know. It’s charged. It’s exciting. And we’ll always have it. Even if it goes nowhere. Even if that’s it. He’s got me, even more than I thought he had.
I grab my bag and leave him in there. I turn before leaving.
‘You’re going to be OK though, yeah?’ I say.
‘Yeah. Yeah, of course,’ he says, unsure. Shooting for sure but falling short.
‘Well, if you need anything. I’m just beyond the wall,’ I say.
I smile. He attempts one too. He winks. Smiles. Looks at the ground. Coy, but still masculine. He pulls it off.
I sling my bag over my shoulder.
I’m a bad wife. I may never have been the best.
But now I’m bad.
1 day till it comes. 2 p.m.
One of the many benefits of living in a largely abandoned building, like the one Chris lives in, is the amount of unopened doors that line the empty corridors.
First of all it makes for a good aesthetic, haunting, in a concrete dystopian kind of way. Communist. Brutalist. And each door is a little possibility. You could bust into them if you wanted to. Swim around in someone’s old life. Whatever’s left of it. That would be exciting. Particularly if you’re anything like me. And I know you’re at least a bit like me.
But the most useful thing, for me, is the amount of locks to practise on. Chris has the perfect set-up for a lock-picking training school. It wasn’t easy at first, you need to feel it, get a sense for it. The first one I tried I thought was never going to open. I’d passed into that sulky give-up phase. It was never going to happen. I told him I picked a tricky one. Then he tried the same one and he was in virtually straight away.
The old locks, he says, the ones for the flats on the estate, are very low quality. Worse than the locks down our end. But they’re good to practise on.
I broke a rod clean in half in one of the locks. He charged me for that.
‘Delicate,’ he said. ‘It’s a delicate thing.’
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
I’ve opened five now. My time’s getting faster, I’m feeling it. I’m virtually ready. He’s a good teacher. He could do this for a living. It’s possible he does.
I head back down the bare staircase. Past the graffiti that threatened me when I entered the building for the first time. It looks kind of harmless to me at this point. I lift myself out of the hatch and walk briskly down to Waterway and hover. Waiting for someone to let me in.
Lunchtime brings better luck than last time and Mrs Smith, back home for a salad (I think she has her own design store in Stoke Newington) lets me in breezily. All smiles, I keep my head down and don’t say a thing. Her face falls a bit, but it’s a tiny moment, nothing that she’ll remember. I’m used to being painfully nice. Usually. A real people pleaser. But I don’t have time for that nowadays. Certainly not today.
I ready the rods in my pocket, no one on the stairs today, more luck. I might not have that much time. I’m hurrying but trying not to seem so to the naked eye. Or the electronic one. Which I pass underneath, on my way along the corridor to number eighteen.
My black baseball capped head drifting under it for anyone happening to watch. If the concierge screen flicks over to my channel. The cap is my one concession, my one piece of disguise, to throw them off if only for a few seconds. I might need those seconds. I am a serial offender after all. They know my face. There’s probably a picture of me up in the concierge office.
I stick one rod into the bottom of the lock and ease the other into the top. It looks slightly forced from the last time, maybe that will make it easier. Maybe I’ll slip into a groove and the lock will virtually slide itself open.
But it’s trickier than I thought. I’ve just done five in a row in the estate, but this lock’s harder, it’s taking a bit more nuance to catch the pins inside. There are five in there you have to lift up. I’ve been at the door for quite a while now. Which anyone watching would notice.
I try not to force it. My arm is becoming stiffer, more desperate, but I try to keep it calm, keep my actions still and not let the tension ruin everything. I imagine her in there, the girl at the window. Gagged and bound at the foot of the bed. A dog bowl at her feet for her to lap water out of. To keep her alive. I picture Aiden in another room, his throat partially cut, tied up and bleeding out. Every second may count. The lock isn’t giving me anything, but I keep at it. I hear a moaning from inside. I want to press my ear to the door, but there’s no time. I drop the wrench rod, the one that goes into the bottom of the lock, and bend down to pick it up. I hear something behind me. I picture a bag next to Aiden, an orange bin bag with the student in there chopped up. A mess of limbs and it’s leaking. It oozes over the laminate wood flooring, touching Aiden’s bare ankles. He knows when Brenner comes home, he’s next. He probably thinks the rattle of the lock is him coming back now. He could be bleeding. Every second counts. I hear the moaning.
I push the wrench rod back into the lock, ease the top one back in too and feel the slightest lift, the tiniest pop. I lift the pins, turn the wrench rod, and it opens. I step inside. Controlling my breathing. Footsteps in the corridor. A passer-by, security or police. No time to wonder. I survey the room. The blinds are down. The moaning comes from the bedroom. Where I saw the chest. I should have brought a hammer and lever to wedge it open. I look around for anything that could assist me. Nothing in the hallway.
I try his bathroom. Hotel soaps – he travels a lot – otherwise it’s very much like mine. It’s all situational. He has a quinoa moisturiser. A sonic toothbrush. Like me. But he is different to me. He has something to hide. But worse than what I’m hiding. The moaning rises.
I think about the samurai sword. But then think better of it. It’s better a
t cutting into skin and bones than anything else. That’s what it’s made for. In a drawer below his sink I find a hammer.
I brace myself behind the bedroom door. There’s definitely a girl in there. I’ve come to save her. This is it.
I push it open, hammer held high and announce myself into the room. She screams. He shouts. A flurry of sheets and activity. Their breathing stays heavy. I’m not sure what he was doing to her. But it wasn’t so violent. I stand, in his bedroom, a hammer in my hand.
‘What the fucking hell are you doing?’ he shouts. He stands, naked. I see everything. ‘Get the fuck out of here, you mad fucking bitch!’
He’s enraged and a little scared too. I would be, if someone broke in to my home. While I was at it. My mind a thousand miles away from home security. She covers herself. But I see most of her. I just stand there. Hammer aloft. She seems to recognise me suddenly. From when I pointed my fingers at her, my pretend gun, from across the way, from my lair. She pipes up. I just stand there.
‘Do you know this woman, Rich? Are you shagging her or something?’
‘Do you really think… look at her for fuck’s sake. She’s fucking mad. Get the fuck out, you fucking weirdo.’
I drop the hammer. Everyone jumps as the noise echoes around the room. I get out of there. As the door closes behind me, I hear his muffled explanations.
‘I didn’t want to tell you because I thought it would freak you out. But some woman, that fucking woman, broke in here the other day, she’s a nutcase.’
I pause, then hustle down the hallway. Maybe I can get away. Maybe it’ll be OK. But it’s not likely. I deserve to be caught. I deserve to be locked away. She didn’t look hurt. I saw the whole of her. She had no bruises. No burn mark. Nothing. It’s not right. She’s the same woman. Smooth, tanned skin, distinctive. But there’s not a mark on her, they couldn’t have cleared up in just a few days. It’s not possible.
But I saw them through my binoculars. I had her in my sights. But they’re playing tricks on me. They must be. I hear a shout as I get to the end of the hallway.
The Watcher Page 16
