‘Hey, come back, get back here,’ he shouts.
I don’t want to do that. I don’t trust him. I still see him as the man from before. As Brenner. He’s imposing. He shouts again.
‘Come on. Just come a bit closer so we can talk.’ He’s calmer.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m seeing things. I must be.’ I stop at the end of the corridor.
‘Just come here. Come a bit closer. So we can talk.’
I do. I give in. I’m broken. I’ll give him whatever he wants. I just don’t want him to shout. I hope he doesn’t shout. I move closer still.
‘There. Just there. What’s your name?’ He eyes me, seriously.
‘It’s…’
‘Lily, isn’t it? Yeah, Lily,’ he says, gentle.
‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble, only just holding back hot tears.
‘Just come a little closer. I don’t want the neighbours to hear.’
‘I’m so, so sorry.’
He’s calm with me. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare away the tiny bird. But I’m not sure what he wants to do with the bird. When he’s got it.
‘Look. Listen to me. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to react. To all this. It’s not a normal situation. I didn’t mean… but it’s not. Normal, I mean. Is it?’ he says, exuding comfort and mercy.
‘No, no,’ I say, contrite.
He leans back against his door frame. He looks inside. Nods to tell her it’s all OK. Then looks back at me.
‘Lily, the police told me I should press charges. Even if you were… Even if they thought you might be…’
‘Mad?’
‘No, harmless. But I didn’t want to. And then I found that thing. That ruddy thing under my fridge. I thought you knew it was all a laugh by then. I was having a laugh with you. I know that doesn’t seem… normal either.’
Suddenly he’s like the boy next door.
‘Lily. I’m not going to press charges, or anything like that, because I think this is partly my fault and clearly you’re… I mean you’re a… not thinking straight. But that’s OK.’ He’s making excuses for me now.
‘Thank you, thank you.’ I sound pathetic. I dry my eyes on the sleeves of my top. My body turns.
‘But, Lily, I do want you to get help. Or… I think maybe you should see someone. After this kind of incident. Because it’s not a fucking… small thing, is it? So please, do that for me, OK?’ he says with a hint of steel.
My mouth tuts as I open it. It’s dry. I nearly shrug but don’t want to seem indifferent, I want to seem resolved. I am resolved. I hold my head up. We stand there. There is some understanding between us.
He’s waiting for me, I think. Waiting for me to tell him I’ll do that. That’s what he wants. But I don’t know if I want to give him everything he wants.
I think of my mum. I give him a long look.
The Day It Comes.
My doorbell goes. It’s 8.30 a.m., but it didn’t wake me. I was awake already and looking at the ceiling. I got a call from Deborah, my boss, at eight, asking if I wanted to ‘make my time off a bit more official’. She says she’d noticed a change in me. A withdrawal. She also says she ‘knows and understands’. Everyone seems to ‘know’ and ‘understand’.
She wants to put me on a one-month sabbatical for ‘mental-health issues’. Apparently, my behaviour has been erratic for a while. Something about unresponsiveness. She guardedly mentions a few ‘incidents’. I don’t remember any of them.
She’s gentle and kindly on the phone. It makes it all the more humiliating. I want to tell her, ‘Oh, fuck off.’ Tell her to shove her job. But I doubt that would help to convince her I’m not out of my tiny mind. I want to tell her I’m moving on to bigger and better things. Better job, more pay and respect. But I’m not. So I don’t.
A month off on full pay. It’s a gift. What to do with it, what to do. I’m thinking all these things when the doorbell rings.
I leap up. It must be Aiden, forgotten his keys perhaps. Finally home. Everything fine. People don’t often ring the doorbell. They just knock.
We used to ring the doorbell when we first moved in though. As a joke, even though we had our keys. Then it’d be him. Or it’d be me. We’d put on some funny voice and say, ‘Oh, hi, I’m Nigel, the account manager, and I wanted to test whether the doorbells were in full operational order.’ It’s probably that. It’s probably him.
Two men stand at the door. Neither of them Aiden. One of them is the police detective from before. The other is more burly looking and in the appropriate uniform. Our man from before still looks like a bookkeeper. He’s the one that speaks.
‘Ms Gullick, we have a couple of things we need to talk to you about,’ he says, less laissez-faire than in our previous encounter.
‘OK. I’m all ears. Fire away.’
‘I think this is the sort of thing that would be better handled at the station. If you’d like to come with us?’
I think it’s a question but it doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like an order. I go with them. Perhaps Brenner or Rich didn’t come so good on his promise. Arsehole. He probably called them up and told them everything. I may need a better story. I may need a lawyer.
It’s only when I’m in that chair again, in that little white room, that I start to think about Aiden. I should tell them about him but I doubt that’s the norm. ‘Ooh, while I’m here, my husband’s been missing for five days. Yes, I should’ve mentioned that earlier perhaps, but there we are, any chance of having a look?’
No. Best to keep it close to my chest. Best to keep it all close to my chest. This must all be down to ‘Rich’. Not proving good on his word. I can handle the rap for a bit of breaking and entering. I’ll break down maybe. They’ll buy that. But the bookkeeper doesn’t want to talk about that. He doesn’t even mention it in passing. He wants to talk about something else.
‘Can you tell me what your relationship is to the recently deceased Jean Taylor of forty-one, Canada House?’
The tape is on. It whirs in the background. What is this? The other policeman leans in.
‘I’ve seen her around. I’d heard that she died. There was a commotion outside her flat the morning she was found. That’s it.’
They listen. Giving nothing away. Then a slight smile from each.
‘I’d seen her picture in the Guardian – she wrote an article in it. We were on nodding terms. I… I saw the sign up saying they were appealing for witnesses. Do you think there was… foul play?’
There are those two words again. Infantile in my mouth.
‘So… you’ve never been inside her residence?’ says the bookkeeper.
I mull it over. What to do, what do. Don’t give it away.
‘No. Never,’ I say, firm. I smile for a moment. At one of them. Then the other. Resolved. Then a thought hits me. It’s worth a try.
‘Have there been any developments? In the case? I’ve been very much hoping that someone would get to the bottom of it.’
Listen to me. Even I think I sound suspicious. Unnatural.
‘There may have been. But leave the questions to us.’
Air again. You could drive a bus through these pauses.
‘Nothing else for us? Ms Gullick?’
They weren’t keen on the Brenner story, it got me nowhere. But I could tell them everything. That would be one way to go. I could tell them about the tall fair-haired man. About my three corroborating witnesses, which I sourced myself. About the suggestion that he, or someone like him, had been spotted with Sonya. That he may even have been her boyfriend. I could tell them about Aiden. And my binoculars. I could tell them everything. But I don’t. I smile ruefully. I tell them nothing.
‘That’s funny, because after we took your fingerprints the other day we got a match on a set of prints that were taken inside her flat. She was a lonely woman. Only two sets of prints in there. Yours. And hers. How do you explain that?’
Now I do have a choice. Not a good one. Something. Or nothing.
‘No comment.’ It sounds more guilty coming out of my mouth than I thought it would.
‘Then we’ve got the fact that you broke into another neighbour’s flat the other day.’
Just the once. He didn’t mention the second time. He didn’t mention the hammer. Perhaps Rich was as good as his word.
‘We’ve even got eyewitness reports detailing you hanging around the estate just nights before she was killed. And on subsequent nights afterwards.’
‘I live quite nearby. I sometimes cut through that way. Who—’
‘But what worries me most, Ms Gullick, is that we followed up a report of a doctor arriving at the scene before we did. A doctor that fits your description, when we looked into it. We’ve got a frequent but not entirely reliable witness who described the doctor as looking very much like yourself.’
The air goes cold. The muscles in my face slacken. A shiver shoots down me.
‘You’re not a doctor are you? Ms Gullick?’
‘No comment.’
‘We just wondered whether Jean Taylor thought you were one. Because, maybe, you told her you were. You might’ve used that authority to get into her flat. Mightn’t you? That’s at least feasible isn’t? From our point of view.’
I’m pinned. I am a bug under a glass.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t go anywhere, Ms Gullick. You are a suspect in the murder of Jean Taylor. Stay close. Only the guilty people run. It’s a cliché, I know. But it’s a perfectly good one.’
Part Eight:
The Woman on the Fourth
The day it comes. Afternoon.
They taxi me back home. My head is pounding. I think there’s something seriously wrong with my sinuses. I’m pained. I used to get migraines as a kid, maybe it’s that. I don’t know. It might also have something to do with being what seems like the only suspect in a murder inquiry.
Everyone seems to be watching. Talking about me. From some disturbed woman who I once gave athlete’s foot cream to, out of the goodness of my heart, to the possible psychopath over the road. And all sorts of other assorted faces, watching from high windows. I’m not the only one who was watching.
A friendly face greets me as I step out of the car and slam the door. Lowell jogs up in sportswear. He has a skinnier frame than I would have thought. Broad shoulders, exposed in a white vest. Jogging back from climbing, I imagine – he has his gloves on. To remind people of his masculinity. Keeping fit in the afternoon. A privilege of only the self-employed or the unemployed.
‘You OK, Lil? Mind me asking what’s up?’ he says, eyeing the police car as it pulls away.
I should be embarrassed but I’m way past that at this point. At least he’s shared things with me too. We can be partners in the doldrums. Shame twins. I’m just happy to see a friendly face. I give him a hug. He’s warm. Clammy. Then I pull away.
‘Oh, it’s…’ I say hesitantly, turning towards the building entrance.
‘Go on,’ he says, eagerly, a bit nervous at what I might say.
‘I’m just helping them with their inquiries,’ I say, casually.
He holds his hips. Squints in the sun. Takes a sip from his water bottle.
‘Wow. About… about what? Do you mind me… er…’ He trails off.
For the first time in a long time, I feel enabled. Tough. I have a secret. Everyone wants to know what I’m into. I’m into some serious shit.
‘Tell you what. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’
He’s inside. My base level of tidiness has kept me afloat. There are old newspapers scattered about. Unwashed dishes and cups. A few. I notice them as if they’ve just appeared. But other than that it’s pretty good. It’s funny how strangers make you look at yourself with fresh eyes. But I’m doing OK. Keeping my head above water.
He leans on the arm of my sofa, demonstrating that he’s not staying long. Or, most likely, embarrassed to be sweating a bit in a half-stranger’s living room. It’s strange to be an intruder when you’re not at your best. I told him he could shower first but he was keen to hear my story. He kicks it off. He gets right into it.
‘Is it about the break-in?’
‘Which break-in?’ I say, meeting his gaze.
‘Hmm?’
He pauses. He’s sweating. But then he has just been running. ‘I heard there was a break-in. In the other building?’ he says.
‘Oh, you heard about that. Yeah. I think I heard that too.’
Suddenly I feel like I hold all the cards. It’s novel. Thrilling.
‘No, no. It wasn’t about that,’ I say, looking away.
He gets up and paces around the room. A sudden need to dominate the space. He stalks around like an animal. He looks funny. Maybe he’s nervous, it’s got a bit real for him I think. Not sure how to help. Unsure where we go next.
‘It’s a funny story really,’ I say, helping him out.
He stops and stares. Beat. Beat. The tension is palpable. I guess he’s worried about me. It’s understandable.
‘They seem to think I know something about that old lady. The one that died.’
‘Oh, right. Right.’
I leave him hanging. I’m enjoying this, I don’t know I why.
‘So, Lil. Do you? Know anything about it?’
‘No, no. I just knew her a bit. To nod to. That’s it.’
‘OK. I guess they’ll take anything they can get.’
‘And I went to her house. One night. Kind of late.’
‘Right. Did you?’ he mumbles.
He sips his tea for the first time. It looks kind of small in his hand. A toy cup. He is taller than I remember. Bigger in sportswear.
‘Yeah. I just went to say hello. I’d seen her in the paper. There was a story about her. Wanted to check she was all right. I was being a good neighbour.’
‘And you were just telling the police that,’ he says, presumptuous.
‘No. I didn’t tell the police that.’
‘Then… what did you tell them?’
Another sip.
‘Nothing. Didn’t want to look like I was part of anything I wasn’t. Didn’t want to be bothered by them. So I said nothing.’
He leans against the sofa again, finishes his tea in another gulp. ‘That’s probably for the best.’
‘Yeah, I’d say so.’
He isn’t asking where Aiden is. A strange man is in my flat. Trying to dominate the space. Not asking where the man of the house is.
‘You did the right thing. Save yourself a lot of bother. Right?’
The transatlantic tone in his voice comes through strongly. It’s cute when he uses words and idioms he’s picked up from here. Like when he says ‘bother’, ‘rubbish’ or ‘cup o’ tea’. He probably doesn’t now how subtly but beautifully alien they are in his mouth. These tiny imitations and replicas of the real thing.
I’m expecting him to chip off. But he’s still lingering. He’s concerned. Maybe about me. Maybe he wants to help but doesn’t know how. He’s not going anywhere. He’s got something to say. The noise of the diggers rises.
Rumble. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.
‘I’m in a bit of bother at moment,’ he says. There he goes again, being borderline adorable. But his tone has changed. He stands. ‘See, I bought a couple of those flats. The new ones? Before my twin sackings. Ha.’
I consider this for a second. Twice a year they break ground on a new building. After the wrecking ball hits an old one, within a few months they can clear the ground and start work in earnest on the new project. Canada House is scheduled to be dust within two years. If you root around on Princeton Homes website, you’ll find there’s a building called Aqua View ready go up and it will open in the first quarter of 2019. Things happen fast after they break ground. That work involves diggers and foremen. But it also involves graphic designers, computer-generated images of proposed idyllic landscapes. Plus parties. Lots of them. Pimm’s and Prosecco flows. Current owners can often be seen
there thinking about putting down a deposit for another flat. Just a little investment. Where else is there to put your money these days, huh? Initially they get you to put down a small amount. A few grand. Then twenty more around six months later. Six months after that they’ll need sixty more and so on. And so on. The longer you can stay in the game the more chance you have of ‘flipping it on’ for big rewards from Far East investors or some such. But you wouldn’t want to default, you wouldn’t want to take on too much. You could lose the whole thing.
‘I actually went in for three, Lil. I’ve got payments I need to make. And soon.’
He has a habit of falling on his feet. I’m sure he’ll work something out. He’ll find a way. He’s one of those guys. But three!
‘Ooh. You’ll work it out. You’re one of those guys.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Long as they hold their value. I’ll be fine.’
‘Why did you get three? If you… don’t mind me…’
‘Things were good. Very good. Then they got not so good. I overdid it a bit. Why does anything crash? Overspending. Not that I’m going to crash. Ha.’
He makes a move. He offers to wash up his cup and I take it off him and put it on the side. We’re suddenly awkward with each other. I think he thinks we overshared. We’ve got to know each other far better these last few weeks. It’s all happened so fast. Possibly too fast.
But we’re still buddies. He’ll be OK in a moment. It’s good to share the load.
‘Well, I’ll get going. Any news. Any… thing? I’m always here.’
‘I know.’
‘And stay away from those cops. Seriously. Whatever’s going on around here, I think we need to stay out of it. Keep it on the down low. Know what I mean? After all, you know, nobody likes a squealer,’ he says. Kind of dorky.
I stand and walk him to the door. I don’t know why. It’s not a big flat. Just one bedroom. For the two of us. He has two bedrooms. Just for the one of him. Perhaps he likes to stretch out. Or maybe he’s just greedy.
‘I wish Aiden was around to say hi.’
He stops. Looks at me. Almost as if he knows. ‘Yeah. How are you doing with all that?’
The Watcher Page 17
