The upshot was that five hundred and fifty entries, relating to between eighty and ninety species, were rejected. Because, as we all know, once someone says they’ve seen something then imaginations tend to run wild.
Of course, George Bristow, as you well know, was discovered to be an utter fraudster. He would import stuffed birds from abroad, then record a sighting of that bird in the Hastings area, which would allow him to then sell the thing as a rare example of the species found far outside of its more usual habitat. He made a tidy profit using this method from wealthy ornithologists like Walter Rothschild.
The only twist in the tale comes with what we know now. That almost immediately after all this, nearly all of these eighty or ninety species did have confirmed bona fide sightings on these shores.
This means there are two possible morals to this story.
There’s an understandable school of thought that says George Bristow did see some or maybe even all of the birds he claimed to. But the manner in which he went about it and the scale of his incredible discoveries made everyone think he was a liar.
The second moral is that some lies, even errors and guesses, do turn out to be true.
I consider telling you all this. I consider reminding you about the Hasting’s Rarities. But I don’t.
Instead we listen. Creaks. The occasional footstep. His shoes scuff the laminate flooring as he wanders around in there. Or is it the sound of pipes? Our ears strain for something telling.
‘He’s wandering around in there. He’s uncomfortable,’ I say, speculating.
I look at you, a glass placed to each of our ears. I feel young. It’s good to have you back. Playing with me. It’s nice to have company. We’re back in the hide.
‘If we heard a phone call. One where he gives it all away. Hard evidence. That would be something, but…’
‘I’ve already bugged one flat, Dad. It didn’t go well.’
‘Christ. Well, I’m not suggesting that. I’m not suggesting anything like that. We don’t want do anything silly, Lily Anna,’ you say, still being careful with me. Not stoking the fire but trying to solve a problem. Like you’re rewiring a plug for me. Or bleeding a radiator, to improve the efficiency of my heating system.
‘I know, Dad.’
I was so scared to tell you about all of this. I didn’t know what you’d do or say. But here you are. Practical to the last. Entertaining all this, at least. On my side. My dad.
I walk around uncomfortable. I’ll bet Lowell is doing the same in there. He’s probably replaying our last conversation. Rolling it around like a marble in his head.
He could be listening to us too, a glass against the wall. Trying to figure out what we know. And if he’s going to have to do something about it.
‘Well, I do have one idea,’ you say from the bedroom.
The binoculars are back in your hand and you’re roaming around. Checking what you can see from window to window.
‘I can’t quite get a good angle,’ You say, lost in the lens, adjusting the dial. Like father like daughter.
You crouch, looking for a vantage point. This seems odd to me. No matter how you twist your body, however expert you are, using old tricks or new, you can’t see into the building next door. The geometry isn’t right.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’
‘See that window, there? Sixth floor, blinds down?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m getting a reflection off it. So now if I can get the right angle, I can get the outline of him in there. Shadows and light mostly, but it’s better than nothing. This is just to see what we can see, you understand. Out of interest. Just to take a little look. Understand?’
‘I understand.’ I try to hold in my excitement but fail. My fingers twitch.
You lodge yourself up against a wall. Your right shoulder leaning into it. You get low to steady yourself. It’s textbook. Like you’ve done it before. I wait patiently. I’m already planning my next move. I remember I have his number. He gave it to me the other day. In case I needed it. Just in case.
‘There he is,’ you say, coolly.
‘You see him?’
‘Yes. He’s moving around. Steadily. Side to side,’ you say, rational, without drama. Simple facts for our journal.
I imagine some strange ritual. In there. In that flat. A ritual that doesn’t make a sound. A mime. A silent act in his silent flat. My bedroom backs on to his. We could be in the same bed if you took the wall away. I picture the hours I was living here. My illusions not so abstract by comparison. Because next door was him. Silently. Making things perhaps. But what? Torture implement? Weapon? Maybe he’s sawing. Maybe he’s sawing something up.
‘I think he’s ironing a shirt,’ you say.
‘That’s not very incriminating,’ I say, disappointed. ‘This isn’t exactly gold, Dad,’ I say. Back in the hide and nothing to see. The waiting hours.
‘Hang on he’s coming towards the window.’ You shift a bit.
‘Shouldn’t you get out of sight?’ I pull on your arm. ‘Can he see you? In the reflection?’ I’m worried now. We don’t want to give ourselves away. Not when we’re so close. Not when he’s so close.
‘Not sure. I’m not quite sure.’
‘Dad!’ I say, snatching the binoculars off you and pulling you to the side. ‘If we can see him. He can see us.’
But you’re still watching. Not giving up.
‘I’ll just keep a lookout. With the naked eye. It’s less conspicuous’
‘Don’t let him see you,’ I warn.
‘He’s at the window now.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s right there.’
‘Dad, careful.’
‘He’s closed his blind.’
I feel safer with you here. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.
‘Did he see you? Dad? Did he see you?’
We need to do something. I clutch my phone hard inside my pocket.
28 September. 8.55 p.m.
I’ve sent a text, but there’s no response. Not yet. They didn’t get back to me last time. They didn’t even show their faces. They’re hardly reliable. But I hope they come back to me this time. Because I really need them.
I was nervous to tell you about the text, so I didn’t. But then I’m a master of suppression at this point. I didn’t think you’d want me to do it. I didn’t think you’d think it would even work. Because, come to think of it, you’re not even sure the people I’ve texted exist.
‘Check number attached. This is guy u saw. I’ve got him. Need him out of his flat. Plse txt him from this number. Threaten him. Tell him anything. Need ten minutes in there. Plse.’
I sent it an hour ago. I look at my phone. It obstinately refuses to bleep. I might have to send another to hurry it all up. It needs to happen tonight.
You’ve settled down on the sofa. Pensively pushing it all around in your mind, like a reluctant detective. I’m not sure if you’re indulging me to pacify me. Or if you have a plan too. Intermittently, you glance towards the wall and then to me.
You wouldn’t like the second part of the plan. You’d have several reservations. You’d think it was dangerous. You’d think it would be breaking the law. You don’t want me to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. You wouldn’t want me to get into any real trouble. I’m afraid of all these things too. But I don’t think we have any other choices left. We wait.
I send another message. To hurry them up. Or just in case the last one got lost. Or in case they respond better to pleading than straightforward questions. Or maybe it’s just because it makes me feel a little less helpless.
‘Pls. Need to get in there. In danger otherwise. We’re so close.’
I put my phone back on the glass coffee table. I check it’s not on silent. Twice. I wait ten minutes. I check it again. I check the volume is up. I check I have signal. I look at Terrence. Unaware of everything. His simple face knowing neither great highs nor lows. Contentment being
food in his bowl. Water in his dish.
You stroke his head. We’re still in silence. Giving nothing away. Just in case Lowell’s listening somehow. Or maybe we’ve just run out of things to say. We wait.
29 September. The small hours.
The sound of Lowell’s door closing. I wake and check my phone. It’s 6 a.m. Both of us have fallen asleep on the sofa. I place a blanket over you gently and put my eye to the peephole. I wait. Terrence stirs. I put my finger over my pursed lips to hush him. As if he understands. Footsteps down the hallway. We stay as quiet as mice. You just sleep and I want it to stay that way. I search around for my bag, my tools for breaking and entering already packed and ready to go.
Then more footsteps. He’s coming back. More hasty this time. We wait. Terrence and I. I feel he’s about to bark. I put my hand over his mouth. Holding his jaw shut. He looks at me with disdain. But stays silent. I don’t want Lowell to hear a peep out of us. I don’t want him to think about what we’re up to at all.
He wasn’t out there long. There was a noise and something opening. Some rustling around. Then he passed our door again. I see him through the enlarged peephole. He’s so close I gasp. His blurred image. His face, magnified to the size of a cinema screen. Then I hear his door slam shut. He’s back in his hide. I reach for my glass. Still holding Terrence. I put my ear to it. And hold the glass to the wall.
He’s searching around. I just hear rumbling. It could be anything. He could be throwing bags about. Or it could be the pipes. It could be distant diggers. Or him, searching for a knife. I can’t tell.
I stand waiting. Like a musical statue. My phone bleeps. It’s early for correspondence.
I reach over to cut it off. Just in case.
I read the text: ‘It’s done. Dunno if he’ll buy it. But it’s done.’
I’m not sure what took him so long but he’s come through.
Something is going on in there. Is he buying it? I wonder how much he can hear through the walls. They can’t be that thick In these newbuilds. I’m sure that if you pressed your ear against our flat, from the other side, and listened hard enough, you could hear us breathing.
I keep listening.
A door slams, wildly. I jump. I’m worried you’ll wake, but you don’t. Terrence lies down, cool as milk. Lowell’s outline flashes past. I see it. I hear his feet go down the hallway. Then down the stairs. No lift for him. He’s in haste. The footsteps get quieter. Dying away.
I keep looking through the peephole. Just in case.
It’s time. I count down with my fingers as I get everything I need.
Ten, nine. It’s a slow ten. Just to be sure he’s gone. I grab my bag.
Eight, seven. I find a bone for Terrence.
Six, Five. I breathe. Let’s go. Show time.
Four. A noise in the corridor.
It’s an Indian family with their child in a buggy. I don’t know them. I have no names for them. They could be new to the neighbourhood. Maybe off on holiday. How nice. Normal people aren’t starting their day yet. Hope you have a nice time. Now get a move on. I watch as they roll along the corridor and wait for the lift.
Three, two. I resume the count. The lift pings. It opens.
One. They step inside. The sound of the lift closing.
I push open the front door and turn right. Towards Lowell’s place.
My metal rods are in the keyhole. I’m patient. I’m glad you’re not watching me do this. It would make me nervous. You have to look good doing everything in front of your dad. Even breaking and entering.
I’m practised by now. I keep my movements smooth. I want it to be quiet. I don’t want to rouse anyone.
The sound of the lift. I get ready to pull out of the manoeuvre.
Then the lock gives and we’re in. It all happens in a matter of milliseconds. I push the door open, step quickly inside and close it behind me.
I’ve applied gloves, just in case. I’ve already left fingerprints in two other flats. I resolve not to leave anything of myself behind here.
I take a look at the place. I wanted to see inside for so long. Now I’ve been in here twice in twenty-four hours.
Lowell is a reader. The place is covered in books. Some ordinary. Some extraordinary. Contemporary American fiction. A lot on Egypt. Some medical books. Some philosophy. Cookery books and teach yourself Spanish. I should be looking for something a bit more incriminating than a strange library history but I can’t help myself. I’m curious. Old habits die hard.
I turn and open the bedroom door and start rifling through his wardrobe. I’m thorough. Lines and lines of slacks and shirts. The same slacks. The same white shirts. Order is clearly a priority. I head to the spare room.
I’m ready to hustle into his cupboard at any moment. If he comes home. I scope out the hiding places, just in case. Yes, the wardrobe would be the one if he bursts in.
I search his drawers. Lines of white underwear. Drawers and drawers of plain white socks and T-shirts. That’s all.
I can’t help noticing Lowell is a hoarder. There’s meticulous order about the place, but his wardrobe could give the Kardashians a run for their money. Not in style but in volume; it’s like he’s never thrown anything away. Old shirts and jeans in the bottom of the wardrobe. A ton of them. Plus, there are tidily kept newspapers, with crosswords finished on pencil in each. Reams of them. Catalogued.
I head to the bathroom and look under the sink. Nothing. Fifty different aftershaves. A perfectly stocked male cosmetics drawer. It’s as if he knew he was having guests. I wish I could keep my place so tidy.
I take the top off the toilet and take a look to see if he’s stuffed anything into it, where the handle attaches to the pumping system. Inside. But there’s nothing there. I haven’t got long and we need my smoking gun. Blood in the hallway. Gloves thrown carelessly into the bin.
I open the bin. All I see is an empty bin liner.
He could have just taken it. The body. In fact, he could’ve taken it at any time. Maybe even when I saw him in the recycle room. He could’ve been disposing of everything right before my eyes.
I’m getting desperate. I rifle round behind books and a big oak bookshelf. I check behind his speakers and under his sofa. I check his coffee table. I give his fashionable standing lamp the once-over. Lowell has excellent taste. Scandinavian furniture. Tidy and sleek. Wood and pottery. His drawers only show an excellent selection of herbal teas and designer cutlery. I turn and hear a noise behind me.
‘Ahh!’ I shout. Barely concealing an all-out scream.
It’s you. You must’ve woken up. Twigged. Stepped into the hallway and seen Lowell’s door slightly open. Assumed the rest and opened it. You always said you could read me like a book.
I hold out a hand. Like you used to do to bar me from crossing the road when it was busy. It pleads to give me a couple more seconds. I turn and see the suitcase again. You go to grab me and pull me out of there. I struggle towards it. You’re pulling me back with everything you have, but I’m stronger now. I break away, there’s nothing you can do.
I lift it up. A dark fluid reveals itself from under the case. It languidly drips out and onto the wood laminate floor beneath.
You raise a whispered voice to try to get me out of there.
Your palm goes in front of your mouth. As I start to unzip it. It is definitely the source of the smell I noticed when last I was here. It oozes under my feet as I unzip. I’m sure it’s blood. He must’ve had her in the freezer to try to keep the smell to a minimum. To keep it from decomposing before he decided what he was going to do with it.
As I struggle with the zip, I look at you.
It’s only then that I see him behind you.
He coshes you hard on the head. Then he grabs a kitchen knife. But I see his move and grab for it too. You crawl into the corridor, blood coming from your head; it runs down the back of your neck.
I struggle with him. He’s caught us red-handed. He knows we’ve seen everything and we have to
go. He wants to dispose of us. He and I hold each other’s hands. They’re clasped tightly around the handle of the knife.
I lean in and bite him hard on the wrist. He drops the kitchen knife and I get past him into the corridor but he’s locked the door. I turn the lock and open it as I see you make it into the bedroom and slam the door. My hand is on the handle when I feel a kick from behind me.
‘Bitch!’ Lowell shouts. ‘Come here, you stupid bitch.’
He’s got me and he’s trying drag me back into the kitchen. He wants me in that freezer. He’ll knock me out first. Then cut my throat. I can see it coming. But there’s no time for daydreams. Whatever happens will be here soon enough. He grabs his cosh and hits me on the head with it. My adrenaline is so high I barely feel the contact against my skull, but my legs give up the fight.
He tries to hit me again but it’s a glancing blow. It’s messy. I get under it and knee him in the groin. He shouts.
I try to open the door again but he gets me by the throat.
He squeezes. He lifts me up and pushes me against the door. I hear my neck make sounds I’m not ordering it to make. He’s strong. Every bit of him is focused in on choking the life out of me.
My eyes roll back. I feel like I glimpse bone.
Then I see him again. He nods. Yes.
He keeps me held off the ground. He looks me in the eye.
I start to lose consciousness. My last thought is about you. How I brought you here. How stupid I’ve been. I hope you get out of this.
I struggle and squeal. But I’ve got no fight left in me.
My legs, a foot off the ground, can only gently kick back. And tap his front door. That’s the sound hear as I start to lose consciousness.
Tap, tap. Knock, knock.
29 September. 6.35 a.m.
Some could see this as an epitaph. I address it all to you, because you were my accomplice. You believed in me. Without you I wouldn’t have made it. So this is all for you.
I do something I’ve never even considered next. I draw my head back. This is not imitative behaviour. I don’t know where it’s come from. I certainly haven’t seen anyone do it before. Not in real life. I throw my head forward as I stare at his spitting, gurning face and smash my forehead into it.
The Watcher Page 23
