The Rogue Watcher

by Seth Rain

  Scott followed him. ‘Wait. Where are you going?’

  The Watcher’s cross tattoo disappeared when he adjusted his collar.

  ‘This makes no sense,’ Scott said. ‘Wait.’

  The Watcher stopped and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It makes perfect sense. Today is your friend’s date. He is now by His side. You shouldn’t feel sadness; you should feel happy for him.’

  ‘I don’t believe any of that.’

  The Watcher peered into Scott’s eyes. ‘It was your friend’s time.’

  ‘That man murdered him!’

  The rain fell with even more force. The Watcher lifted his head and closed his eyes.

  ‘By a Watcher,’ Scott continued.

  ‘That man is a zealot. He has no connection to us.’

  ‘Why should I believe you? He behaves like you. Talks like you.’

  The Watcher took three steps towards Scott, who stiffened, planting his feet on the ground. Taller and clearly stronger than Scott, the Watcher appeared to calm himself, tilting his head one way then the other. ‘I’m telling you the truth. You may not want to hear it, but it’s all I have.’ He pointed to Craig. ‘The man who killed your friend is convinced he has a calling. It doesn’t involve the Watchers.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The Watcher waited.

  Scott thought how impossible it was to change someone’s mind – someone who believed.

  ‘It’s difficult to understand, I know,’ the Watcher said. ‘But the AI has calculated all eventualities and knows His will.’

  ‘No,’ Scott said. ‘This was your doing.’

  The Watcher bowed his head and breathed in, filling his chest. For the first time, he appeared angry.

  ‘And what about me?’ Scott asked. ‘Will he come for me too?’

  The Watcher nodded at Scott’s hand. ‘Now he knows your date, yes.’

  There was shouting and jostling as a fight broke out on the street through the alley. A flock of drones descended, their lights flashing.

  ‘Tell me where I can find him,’ Scott said urgently. People ran along the street, calling out, covering their faces from the drones. Soon the police themselves would arrive.

  The Watcher rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are there others?’ Scott asked. ‘Others he’ll be tracking down?’

  The Watcher exhaled noisily. ‘Here, in Manchester, there’s one other before your date.’

  ‘Will he go after him?’

  The Watcher nodded. ‘I’m guessing so.’

  ‘Why can’t you stop him?’ Scott asked.

  ‘It is not my place.’

  Scott’s hands rolled into fists. ‘When?’ Scott asked. ‘When is his date?’

  More drones hovered above, keeping an eye on the trouble on the street. The Watcher took a piece of paper and pen from his pocket, wrote on the paper, and pushed it into Scott’s hand. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’

  Scott held on to the scrap of paper. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ the Watcher said, stepping into the alleyway. Rain fell onto his head and ran down his face. ‘Go home. There’s nothing you can do here.’

  Scott went to speak, but the rise in noise from the protestors on the street made him retreat to the door into the club. The Watcher reached the end of the alleyway, looked both ways, before disappearing into the crowd.

  Eight

  Scott lay in the bath, Rebecca in front with her back to him.

  ‘I want to leave Manchester,’ she said. Her wet hair fanned out against his chest and trailed in the water.

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘We’ve always talked about the Lakes.’

  ‘The Lake District?’

  ‘You love it there.’

  Scott shifted in the bath and water sloshed around him. Rebecca sat forward.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘But live there?’

  He stared at the back of her head. With his arm wrapped around her, she held his hand in hers and stroked his tattoo.

  ‘I want to live somewhere pretty. It’ll help us forget about your date.’

  Her fingers intertwined with his.

  ‘What about your job?’ he asked. ‘Can’t imagine there are many primary schools in the Lake District.’

  ‘I’ll find something.’

  The way she spoke was petulant, but Scott didn’t say so.

  ‘I’ll do anything,’ she said. ‘I don’t care. Here, in the city we’re surrounded by them.’

  ‘Watchers?’

  ‘I hate it. Whenever I see one of them I wonder whether it’ll—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, and pulled her back so she lay against his chest.

  He felt her shrug. ‘You can find odd jobs,’ she said.

  ‘Not much work for a carpenter these days.’

  ‘There’ll be more in the Lake District than here.’ Her shoulders tightened. ‘I want to leave this place. Manchester’s a wasteland.’

  Wasteland. Scott paused. It meant something. Then he remembered. T. S. Eliot. ‘The cruellest month’. It was the first line of The Waste Land: ‘April is the cruellest month.’ He remembered Craig saying it.

  ‘Can we?’ she asked, holding on to his arm.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I know what that means,’ she said, her voice dull.

  ‘Let’s get the next date over with and we’ll—’

  Her body stiffened and so did her voice. ‘We can’t live like this. It’s four months away.’

  Scott waited.

  ‘We can’t live our lives around your date,’ she said. ‘We have to live despite it.’ She sat up and turned around to face him. She tilted her head, her eyes fixed on his, her lips pursed. She laid a hand on his chest. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’

  The thought of April came to him. The cruellest month. ‘We’ll go. I promise.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him. Water sloshed onto the floor. The way she kissed him made him think she’d read his mind.

  ‘I’ll buy the train tickets,’ he said. ‘Soon.’

  She lay her head on his chest and he heard her sigh and felt her grip on his arm loosen, as if giving up.

  Nine

  Scott handed Rebecca the train tickets.

  She looked at them, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  ‘The Lake District,’ she said, then let go of him. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Soon.’

  She checked the tickets. ‘In a month?’

  ‘We need to find a place to live,’ he told her.

  She nodded, her expression serious, before again breaking into a wide smile.

  ‘Where are we going to stay?’ she asked.

  ‘Hassness House. On Lake Buttermere.’

  ‘Have we been there before?’

  Scott shook his head. ‘It’s a smaller lake, tucked away. That’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Away from here,’ she said, and looked outside. ‘How long will we stay there?’

  ‘A week.’

  She read the tickets one more time, then placed them on the table next to her side of the bed.

  ‘I need to pack,’ she said, and reached into the wardrobe for her case.

  Scott watched her pack. He thought about the drawers beside him. In the bottom of one there was a revolver. He had to stop Dearil before he went anywhere.

  Ten

  Scott stood across the street. The row of houses was quiet – different to the centre of Manchester. He checked the address on the paper and read the name: Adam Trenchard, whose date was tomorrow: 24th January. There would be nearly four hundred Chosen around the world whose date would be the same as Adam’s, but only one of them lived in Manchester. Scott didn’t know what he’d say exactly, and hoped it would be enough to show Adam his date as an explanation.

  Two boys, aged twelve or thirteen, dressed in school uniform, kicked a football back and forth. Scott studied the street, then
the house, but saw no movement inside. He rubbed the back of his neck. Being there was foolish. He took one last look along the street and walked away.

  ‘Adam!’ a boy across the street shouted.

  Scott stopped. He stared at the boy with the football. Was it him? He’d heard of some of the Chosen being young, but…

  The boy who’d shouted ran over to the one he’d called Adam and tackled the football away from him.

  Scott checked the scrap of paper, hoping he was mistaken. He wasn’t.

  Adam picked up the football and walked up to the address Scott had been given.

  ‘No,’ Scott muttered, checking his watch and the date.

  The door opened and a woman ushered the boy inside. Maybe, Scott thought, the boy didn’t know about his date. There was no way they’d have given him the tattoo yet.

  He felt sick, watching the house, waiting for a sign of the rogue Watcher. Maybe the Watcher with the cross tattoo was close by too. Scott hated it. Not only because it was a child, but because no one saw any reason to challenge things. People accepted what happened.

  He checked his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the revolver. He’d bought it, trying to fool himself into thinking it was for his protection, but now a thought came to him. He might have to use the gun to save the boy’s life. It was wrapped up in his own survival, and maybe Rebecca’s. If he killed the rogue Watcher, he couldn’t come after Scott next. There was no way Scott could talk to the boy or to the boy’s parents. It wouldn’t work. He’d have to do it all himself.

  Scott walked away from the house, his fingers touching the revolver in his pocket. He decided to come back at midnight, in time for the boy’s date.

  Above, on the horizon, two aeroplanes banked left before rocking onto their bellies. They disappeared behind the towering buildings in the city centre, grey and hazy in the distance.

  Scott returned to the boy’s house before midnight. Morning was a lifetime away. Scott watched the house from behind a row of trees across the street. He patted the revolver inside his coat pocket. The thought of using it made him sweat. Pointing it at someone and firing … it was crazy. But if it meant saving the boy’s life – for now at least – then he could do it; he was sure of it.

  He checked left and right. Dearil, the rogue Watcher, could arrive at any time in the next twenty-four hours. But something about the night – maybe the warm air, or the clear skies – made Scott think he’d be there sooner rather than later.

  Scott walked along the pavement, intent on getting a closer look at the house. The streetlights were dim, their light barely reaching the ground. The evening was clean and fresh. Scott recalled Adam walking up to the front door, his mum welcoming him home; it was obvious that she loved him and wanted to protect him. It must be impossible, Scott thought, to remain calm and act normally on the boy’s date – and keep it from him. The family had lived for seven years knowing the date – but not the year – on which their son would die. He imagined the family receiving the email on the same day he’d received his own. Adam would have been a young boy when his parents found out he was Chosen.

  Scott strolled along the street, glancing now and then at the house, with no idea what he was looking for.

  A shadow moved in a bedroom window. It was the boy – he knew it. Scott continued walking, hoping not to appear suspicious, fighting the urge to turn his head. The house next door was also in darkness, and Scott walked past it before slipping down the alleyway at the side of it towards the back garden. Something skittered along the passageway and jumped up onto the fence. A cat. An old gate swung back and forth. He pushed open the gate and edged inside.

  He scanned for any sign of a security light. The garden was small, and felt even smaller thanks to a row of tall evergreens. Scott crept across the lawn, hoping to find a way into the next garden along. He glanced up at the house, but it was dark inside. He imagined the boy’s mum awake, waiting for a Watcher. Scott had been there himself – there was no getting used to it.

  He followed the fence, hoping to find a way through.

  Behind him, the cat landed on the lawn, making Scott jump. He paused, waiting for a sign of someone other than the boy inside the house.

  The crescent moon was bright.

  He waited another few seconds then continued. Where the side fence met the rear fence, there was a broken wooden panel. Scott edged through the gap and into the boy’s garden, which was more exposed. Stooping, he ran towards cover.

  A bright light flashed on.

  Scott stopped.

  The back door swung open.

  ‘Stop there!’ a man bellowed, aiming a shotgun at Scott.

  Scott held up both hands. ‘Wait! Don’t shoot!’

  ‘What do you want?’ the man shouted.

  ‘I’m here for the boy,’ Scott said, still with his hands raised.

  The man tightened his grip on the shotgun and thrust it at Scott. ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘No,’ Scott said, waving his hands. ‘I’m here to help.’

  In the bright light, Scott saw the man’s brow furrow. ‘Who are you?’

  Scott raised his hand. ‘I’m Chosen. Like the boy.’

  The man peered back at the house. ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘I can help.’

  The man lowered his weapon. ‘You’re not a Watcher?’

  ‘No,’ Scott said. ‘Look.’ Again he showed the man his date.

  The man lifted his shotgun. ‘How do I know that’s real?’

  Scott held up both hands. ‘It’s real. Believe me, I’m here to warn you. You’re in danger.’ Scott took a step closer and tried to see into the house.

  ‘What’re you talking about?’ The man lowered his shotgun. ‘Watchers?’

  ‘There’s a man who claims to be a Watcher, and he knows your son’s date.’

  The man took three steps towards Scott. ‘Claims?’

  Scott checked the garden then nodded. ‘I think he’s coming here. Tonight. For Adam.’

  The man glanced back to the house. ‘So why are you here? What can you do?’

  Scott felt for the revolver in his pocket. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.’

  The man inspected Scott then relaxed his broad shoulders. ‘You’d better come inside.’

  Scott took one last look at the crescent moon and followed the man into the house.

  ‘Does he know that he’s Chosen?’ Scott whispered. ‘Your son?’

  ‘He’s not my son. I’m with his mother,’ the man said, locking the door. ‘No. Not exactly. Although I think he’s starting to work things out.’ He glanced at Scott’s hand.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Scott said.

  ‘And this man – who claims to be a Watcher – he knows your date too?’

  Scott nodded.

  Walking towards another door, the man paused then cocked his head, listening.

  ‘What is it?’ Scott whispered. But he already knew.

  ‘You hear that?’ the man whispered.

  Scott tried to hear it, but the only sound was a throbbing in his temples. He scanned the kitchen, looking for a sign of who was in the other room. He knew it was Dearil, but had no idea how he’d got in.

  The man raised his shotgun.

  ‘Wait,’ Scott hissed at him. ‘Don’t!’

  But it was too late – the man ran into the next room.

  Scott followed.

  Gunshots. Shouting. A woman screaming.

  Scott dived to the floor, behind a wall, reaching for his revolver.

  Another gunshot.

  Then silence.

  Scott held his breath, dizzy, his chest thumping.

  Movement in the other room. A shuffling. Then a bump.

  ‘You can come out now,’ a voice said.

  It was him. Dearil.

  Scott inhaled and tightened his grip on the revolver. In one quick action, he was on his feet, pointing the gun at the rogue Watcher. There was a smell of gunpowder, wisps of it swirl
ing in the air. He tried keeping his eyes fixed on Dearil, but he couldn’t. On the ground were two dead bodies: the man he’d spoken to only moments before, and what must have been the boy’s mother.

  ‘You killed them,’ Scott heard himself say.

  ‘It was their time.’

  ‘They don’t have dates,’ Scott said. ‘How do you know?’ He walked towards Dearil, his revolver shaking.

  ‘Whatever happens does so with His blessing.’ Dearil examined his revolver, opened the cylinder and refilled it with bullets he took from his coat pocket.

  Scott checked the room. ‘Where’s the boy?’

  Dearil shrugged, his eyes fixed on the weapon. ‘Around somewhere.’ He raised his head. ‘I knew it would be you. All along.’ He held out his arms, the revolver hanging from one finger.

  Scott stared at him, confused.

  Dearil smiled. ‘Do it.’

  ‘What?’ Scott choked.

  Dearil lowered his arms to his side and breathed in, expanding his chest. Slowly, he removed a glove and raised his hand to show Scott.

  Scott’s eyes narrowed on a tattooed date: 24.01.

  Dearil was Chosen too.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Dearil said. ‘Whatever happens does so because He wills it so. There’s no escaping it. You’re here to kill me.’

  Scott couldn’t breathe. He worked through it all in his head: how he’d ended up there, in that spot, at that time, all of it planned, unavoidable. It felt as though he was choosing, that he was in control, but he wasn’t. He lowered his revolver.

  ‘No,’ Scott said.

  Dearil burst into motion, sprinting to the stairs.

  ‘Stop!’ Scott said, but Dearil disappeared, striding up the stairs.

  Scott followed. When he reached the first landing, he heard the boy crying. Dearil was holding the boy, an arm across his chest to keep him still. The boy fought, but the more he struggled, the tighter Dearil tensed his arm.

  ‘Let him go!’ Scott said, his revolver pointed at Dearil.

  ‘Do it!’ Dearil shouted, and for the first time, Scott saw Dearil’s anger. ‘Now! Do it now!’

  Scott’s hand shook. He waited. Something was stopping him.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ Dearil said. ‘You know that, don’t you? All this – it’s happening because it has to happen this way.’