The Watcher Read online

  The call ends. His rage subsides. He takes his phone and throws it at the settee. PG anger. Then he turns and frowns. His eyes narrow and he’s thinking about something. Maybe his next move. If only I’d heard that call, I’d have a good idea of what that might be. That’s what I need. I need to hear inside there.

  He goes back to his ornamental samurai sword. Unsheathes it. Then holds the blade in his hands. As gently as a newborn baby. It’s a ceremonious act. He respects it.

  Then he presses one finger against the blade. It cuts him. It’s sharp. He breaks the skin. Blood flows. I can tell because he puts his finger straight into his mouth. Then he pulls it out and admires his hand. Which he holds towards him, just twenty centimetres from his face. Then it comes again. The bleeding not staunched. I catch sight of it trickling from his index finger down to his palm.

  And he just looks at it. Cold. Still. Expressionless.

  8 days till it comes. Single white male.

  Our drinks land on the table. We’re at the nearest pub to the station. He went for a white wine. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he would be a mainstream lager man. I’ve gone for a Bloody Mary.

  You should have seen his face when I asked him if he fancied a swift one after work. It was just like Terrence’s when I say ‘walkies’. So eager, so bright, so much hope.

  I thought maybe it would be good for me to get out of the house for a while. But that’s not really why I’m here. I need Phil’s help. I need a geek.

  ‘. . . I mean, I do think there’s a message to it all. You wouldn’t think a movie with Adam Sandler as an East European hairdresser would have so much depth, but it’s actually a great performance. Certainly one of his most fully realised characters since The Waterboy…’

  ‘What are we talking about?’ I zone in and zone out as always. My mind on, dare I say it, more important things.

  ‘You Don’t Mess With the Zohan. Oh. You’ve gotta see You Don’t Mess With the Zohan, it’s a classic comedy…’

  ‘Talk to me about the sound equipment.’ I cut to the chase.

  ‘What do you wanna know?’ he responds, like a cocky pro.

  I had no idea how much he’d know about this kind of thing, but it makes sense. I think he still goes to the Games Workshop. Paints citadel miniatures. He said he thought about joining the TA but likes his weekends too much. He loves ‘kit’. All that. It’s his favourite topic. Like I said, it makes sense.

  ‘So, say I wanted to hear what those people over there were saying to each other. Those two, right at the other end of the bar.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got your bugs. Which you’d have to preplant—’

  ‘That’s not an option,’ I say, cutting him off before he waffles on down some useless byway.

  ‘Err, OK, you’ve got directional sound. You point it like an arrow at your target. You simply tune in depending on the distance, like a long wave radio and, errr… Robert’s your father’s brother, as they say.’

  ‘Would it work through glass?’ I say, not messing about.

  He stares at me. I’m giving myself away.

  ‘Hmm. Well. It should do. Not perfectly, but it should do. You can get the lot with the transmitter and headphones for about hundred odd quid at the spy shop. You can get anything in there. Like. In the world.’

  He grins. Sweetly. Stares at me deeply. Spy equipment and Adam Sandler films may, for once, not be the only things on his mind.

  ‘Good! That’s really good. Thanks,’ I say, trying to break his trance.

  ‘Yeah. Cool. I mean, if you could plant a bug, that’d be your best—’

  ‘No, it’s not an option, Phil,’ I say, firm. I know what he’s like when he gets on one. I don’t have time.

  I suck hard through my straw. Time to get out of here. I did warn him it’d be a swift one. I need to get back home; Terrence needs walking. I realise I’m not thinking about Aiden at all any more.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me asking—’ Phil says.

  ‘I do.’ Best to cut him off early. Whatever he’s pushing for.

  ‘I just thought I’d say, I could help, with whatever your project is. I mean if you do need someone. An accomplice. Put me in the game. I’m your man.’

  ‘No,’ I say, finishing up my drink. He’s barely touched his wine.

  ‘Oh, please. I’d really, really like that. Whatever you’re doing. It sounds cool. And I’m always up for a bit of mischief. Remember when I hid the stapler?’ he says. Puppyish.Please don’t make a scene again, I think.

  ‘Look, Phil. It’s nothing exciting. Just a little project. A solo project. Girl stuff. You know. It wouldn’t be the kind of thing you’d be interested in.’

  ‘Oh, come on, try me! I have night-vision goggles, for for God’s sake!’

  ‘It’s really not that kind of thing,’ I offer. A verbal rub on the back.

  His words seem to make me feel more ridiculous. Accomplice. Mischief. This isn’t a childish game. It’s not Dungeons and Dragons and I don’t need a sidekick. And if I did I’d pick Lowell, not him. Lowell and I. We could be a brother and sister crime-solving team. He could be my Jem. And I, his Scout. Sorry, Phil. Cruel to be kind. You don’t make the cut.

  I think about telling him I’m a lone wolf, but then I really would sound ridiculous. Anyway, I’m not. I’ve got a husband. And a dog now too. That’s virtually a family.

  Imagine Aid’s face if I brought some bloke from work back to the house too. Like I’m collecting strays. Just a mate to play around with some headphones and a directional microphone for a bit. Then he would definitely say I’m mental. Or a child.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for the drink. I’ve really got to get back,’ I say.

  ‘What? Already?’ He’s stung. He still has a full glass of white wine.

  ‘You stay. Watch the football. Finish your wine.’

  ‘I don’t even like wine! I thought it’d make me look classy,’ he blurts out.

  It’s the sort of comment that makes someone with a bag on their shoulder, half hovering between sitting and standing, momentarily place herself back on her bar stool. Purely out of sympathy. I do keep my bag firmly over my shoulder though. Symbolically.

  ‘Phil, we’ll do something another time, but I’ve got a lot on at the mo,’ I say. Dead-end friendly. I’m trying to kill the conversation before it gets a bit emotional. Again. I’m trying really hard. But it’s too late.

  ‘Do you think about him? Your husband. When you’re out having a drink with me, is that it? I’m sorry if that’s it,’ he says, his face slightly reddened now. I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t know whether he wants to fuck me or fight me.

  ‘No, no. It’s nothing like that. It’s not weird or anything. To have a man as a mate, I mean. It’s fine, you’re fine. And we are mates, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, mates,’ he says with a grimace.

  In another life I might have kissed him at that moment. Maybe just to make him feel better. But I’m not at university any more. Those days are gone. I’m a very married woman.

  ‘Give me a couple of weeks. Then we’ll go for a proper drink.’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be nice, a proper drink. As mates,’ he says, trying a smile.

  I kiss him on the cheek and hurry off. If Brenner does anything incriminating I want to be there to see it.

  He calls me back. ‘Lily. You will remember to get on with the rest of your life after all this has died down, won’t you?’ he says, weightily. He’s a strange boy.

  ‘Yes. Of course. It’s just a little project.’ I don’t know what else to say. I turn to go.

  But he has one more thing to say.

  ‘I didn’t mean that. Listen. Er… The directional microphone might not be that effective. If it’s too noisy round where you are. It can be tricky if there’s noise between you and your target. Didn’t you say there were building works going on round near you? You might want to think about that. Just a thought.’

  I don’t remember telling hi
m that. Possibly I did. I don’t remember. But he’s not the sort of person I want knowing exactly where I live. Just to be on the safe side.

  His advice lingers in the air as I mull over the subtext.

  Fuck me or fight me. Fuck me? Or fight me.

  I nod and leave.

  It may not work, of course. But I’m going to give the microphone a damn good go anyway. Despite the crunch of the building works all around me.

  Despite the heavy drone.

  The constant rumble.

  Rumble. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.

  7 days till it comes. And here we are.

  Something crashes against my window. I fall and put my back to the solid white wall. Out of plain sight. I’m breathing so hard now. Shaking. The hairs on my arm stand on end. My heart is beating out of my chest.

  The glass is cracked. I daren’t turn my head. But in my periphery I can see something. Pressed against my now cracked window. Don’t Turn Your Head, I tell myself.

  I can see something. Sliding down it. Slowly. Dreadfully.

  So I breathe in through my nose. Bite down hard on my tongue.

  I turn my head. And look.

  Claret. Against my windowpane. Blood and something else. Oh, God.

  Greying feathers mashed up against the glass. What looks like a beak too. The stocky body of a pigeon, dead, slides down and down.

  I study it closely. It’s horrible. It seemed to fly straight into the glass. Pigeons aren’t the smartest of the avian community, but they tend to steer clear of large buildings.

  The rats of the air. I look at it now and it does resemble a rat. The rat I nearly put my knife through. It might just be because the rat at Jean’s door is the last thing I saw dead and bleeding. But, as I look at now, with its plump body that some humans eat, it does resemble the gristle of a rat.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  It’s still beautiful though. It’s still a beautiful creature of the air. I look closer at it and at the tiny crack its body has made in the glass. I put my finger to the glass. It only takes the tiniest crack to let the rest of the world in. To ruin everything.

  This tiny bird’s broken body breaks my heart. I love them so. It slides so delicately to the balcony floor.

  Bang! Another one. I turn my head away and scream. Every muscle in my body contracts. I shake as I turn back and watch it slide down towards the balcony too. It struck the window higher up and to the left. This one’s smaller more compact body not cracking the glass this time. Its innards dangling out of its chest. Its terrible face stares in at me. I can see the whites of his eyes. I hold my mouth and try to stop myself from being sick.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  I rise and move towards the phone, staying low. In case more birds decide to fling themselves unprovoked at my window.

  Bang!

  A third hits and falls straight back to the balcony, its body not sticking to the glass. I let out another scream as I crawl towards the phone. My chin scraping along the floor, as I stay low.

  I wonder if there’s any way of getting my number that I wouldn’t know about. I’m sure people can get that kind of information if they want it badly enough. Maybe someone important wants to talk to me. The police. Or Brenner. Maybe he’s some sort of telecoms expert. Maybe he’s decided it’s time to have a word with me.

  It could be anyone in the building opposite, in a way. Anyone that’s seen me watching them and wants to get their own back. Wants to invade my privacy and show me how it feels.

  Bang! Maybe this is my comeuppance. Bang! I scream.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  My hand quivers over the phone. Maybe I shouldn’t answer at all. I pause to look at my window, now covered in feathers and blood. It can’t be real. I close my eyes and breathe. In through my nose for fifteen, out for ten. It can’t be real.

  Bang! Bang! A fifth and sixth come almost from below and crash into the window. They’re homing in on me. Why are they attacking me? Are they fighting back too?

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  I have to answer. It can’t be any worse than this. The noise of the two bodies sliding down the glass squeals at me as they serenely fall to where the other dead ones lie. Such a terrible sound.

  I grab for the phone and get low. My breath held. My eyes closed. I pull the receiver up to my ear. And listen.

  ‘If you or a loved one has had an accident in the past six years then you may be entitled to compensation. Please press Three if—’

  I drop the handset to the floor and with it goes the disembodied voice. My hands instinctively go to my head and I begin to cry.

  ‘…one of our advisers would be happy to speak to you and make a recommendation about the best way to…’

  The disembodied voice carries on. The phone lying on the floor, staring at me. I grab for the cord that attaches it to the wall and pull hard, my face and cheeks a ruddy red. I yank it from its socket. A madwoman crashing around alone in her home. For a moment it all subsides and I hear the naked but comforting sound of my own breath. Frantic and heavy.

  A growl and snarl from inside the house. I jump again. Then Terrence, hiding in the bedroom all this time, wanders in and licks my hand. I pick him up and hold him in my arms like cradling a baby. He licks my face and I almost manage a laugh.

  Then he turns and tries to lick the window. He sniffs it, trying to get to the blood and feathers that lie on the other side. This makes me wipe my face. I suddenly realise he is ultimately an animal. Not my child. Who knows where his mouth has been.

  I stand and go back to the window. I touch the crack but it isn’t so bad, the windows are double glazed and you can’t feel it on this side.

  I try to look out, back to Brenner’s flat where I’d seen the girl taken just moments before. Through the gap between the feathers and blood. I see that flat number eighteen – his flat – has drawn up its blinds.

  I turn and make a grab for the directional microphone. I bought it earlier this morning. When things were so much calmer.

  I put my headphones on and play with the dial. Just in case I can hear something in there. Inside number eighteen.

  I tried listening in earlier but the rumble of the building works blocked out the distant sounds, as Phil said they might. I did have some luck before that though. I listened to some music in Alfred’s flat, number four. It was like I was in there with him. Sharing the moment. The two of us. Huddled together. A team. As the world floated by. He had The Planets suite by Holst on for some reason. It soundtracked my morning for an hour or so. The music dipping and rising. As I watched on. Considering his bare feet on his cold wood floor.

  The device works. But the delicacies of the human voice are too much for it. Particularly backed by the cacophony of the rumble of the building works, amplified further through the transmitter.

  Rumble. Rumble. Crackle.

  I play with the dial anyway. Just in case. Just to see whether I can hear the faintest sound of a voice through the airwaves.

  Crackle. Crackle. But nothing.

  As I fiddle with the dial I think I should call the police. It’s time. If I saw what I really think I saw I should call right now, this is concrete. The girl in the window. The burn marks on her legs. The hand that grabbed her. This is what I wanted, something real.

  But it was so dark in there. Oh. Now I’m starting to doubt seeing anything at all. No, I’m sure I did. I should call the police and tell them. But would they believe me? I don’t want to look like a fool, not again.

  Perhaps it’s all a sordid sex game. Or maybe he’ll be able to get rid of her before the police come. I’ll look like the strange one. Then the police will be on to me. And he will too. I’ll be the only one who’ll get caught. No. None of this works.

  As I play with the dial, suddenly I do get something. Noises. Voices. Nothing as long range as all the way over to Brenner’s flat. But something from the space in between the buildings.

  Howls. Screams of laughter. Just outside. I drop
the equipment to the floor and peer down through my cracked window.

  7 days till it comes. Outside.

  WMs – Outside Riverview Apartments – Overcast, 10 deg – 5 flock – Adidas, Fila, Dunlop – Various heights – Chattering, twittering, boisterous.

  Below, the tracksuits from the café stand there. Laughing their heads off. They wipe pigeon blood on each other’s hands. Playfully. One of them has feathers all over him, he hops around for the others’ amusement. Another has a bucket and they all wear gardening gloves.

  My blood rises. I see red. Without putting shoes on, I grab my keys and Terrence and head down and out into the street to confront them.

  I tear out of the building and I’m on them, taking them by surprise. I’m trying to intimidate as I did in the café, but my face is hot and I’m clearly flushed and upset. They’ve got their revenge. They’ve got their rise out of me. And they’re revelling in it.

  Terrence, however, is unwilling to give up without a fight. He snarls and barks. He wants to bite back. Eventually he does. I loose him a touch and let him chomp down on the back of one the kids tracksuits, tearing a hole in it. Which I regret letting him do, instantly.

  They swarm over me, this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This wasn’t the plan. I hold Terrence close and crouch down, hands over my head, readying myself for their blows. One of them tries to grab the lead, the other kicks Terrence hard in the body. One of the others at the back reaches for something in his pocket.

  ‘Oi, you lot, what the hell are you doing?’ a voice shouts from behind me.

  The kid grips something tightly in his pocket. His wrist tenses and shivers. He pulls out his phone, takes a picture of me and runs off. They all scatter, laughing like jackals.

  ‘Enjoy your birds!’ they shout as they disappear around the corner.

  ‘Get lost! Or I’ll call security and you’ll all be arrested,’ comes the voice again. Firm and strong. Officious.

  I look up through my tears. There stands Lowell and one of the concierges.