The Watcher

by Ross Armstrong

  This thought does haunt me every so often. It creeps up on me when I feel most safe. I wonder whether he’s watching me. Keeping a close eye. Waiting to strike. From one of those buildings over there. Watching my every move.

  It could be any of them. Any face that passes me by. Everybody that walks past me in the hallway. It could be them. I don’t know.

  I think about it every so often. When I’m home late at night. When I put my key in my door and the lift opens behind me. When I see someone in the building I don’t recognise. Or even someone I do. But I wouldn’t say I’m solely afraid. That’s not quite the feeling. I’d say I’m interested. Fascinated. Curious.

  And if he does, if he exists, I want him to come for me. I’m ready.

  I pick up my binoculars. I haven’t touched them for a while. I stare at Brenner. He’s in there right now. There he is. I don’t need the binoculars to see. But it’s symbolic. I want him to know I’m watching.

  I flick my bedroom light off. Then on. Then off. Then on.

  Signalling to him. That I’m here. As a lighthouse might. Beckoning him to turn. I stare.

  He gets up and wanders around. He doesn’t scare easily. But then he doesn’t scare me either. I want the confrontation. I crave it. And so I wait.

  A lone Sanderling passes above us. Perhaps he’s lost. Poor bird. He’s a coastal wading bird. He’s a circumpolar Arctic breeder. Highly gregarious. So strange, but nice, to see him here.

  I turn the light off. And on. Then off. Then on.

  Off.

  On.

  Off.

  On.

  In spite of everything, things look so much better.

  How well we all are here. What different people we have become.

  I look at him. It’s such a mystery. It fascinates me.

  Then he turns. Looks right at me. We share an expressionless gaze. He lifts his hand slowly.

  And, as I smile, my hand rises too. And waves.

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

  Copyright © Ross Armstrong 2016

  Ross Armstrong asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  Ebook Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008181192