The Watcher

by Ross Armstrong

  ‘Come on. I just want a bit of chat. What’s wrong with that?’

  I don’t like it. With him in here. Me and him. Alone, perhaps. In the dark. In my private domain. I didn’t ask him in. And I didn’t want him in here. I reach for the hall lamp. The light flickers on.

  ‘Ahh. Sorry. You. You scared me,’ I say. He was closer to me than I thought he was. I want him where I can see him.

  The light still flickers between us. Lighting only the outlines of us, in the silence.

  The hall lamp’s never been bright. But I think now it’s broken. It’s dim. It flickers. It buzzes slightly. Feels like the bulb is about to burst. I look at him. He’s so comfortable with silence. With my discomfort. He breathes, heavy. He’s a mouth breather. He doesn’t want to go. It’s like a question hangs in the air. But I don’t know what that question is any more. Then he raises his hand.

  ‘Another time, Phil. Not now. Not now,’ I say. Calm as I can.

  His hand rises and pushes his hair behind his ears. He looks like he wants to kiss me. He could overpower me and take one from me if he wanted, looking at him now, he’s big enough. He stands rigid. Neither of us sure what comes next. Aiden must be just behind one if these doors. Surely. I force my keys in between my second and third fingers and make a fist.

  ‘Aid, we’ve got a guest for a cup of tea,’ I say, moving suddenly to the bedroom door and opening it.

  Light spills in, the blinds are up in there and Aiden is nowhere to be seen.

  Phil stares at me. He squints, his eyes adjusting to the light. He seems disturbed by me. My energy is a little frantic. Maybe I’m showing him I’m scared. My movements are urgent, like an SOS.

  ‘Aid? Where are you, love?’ I shout, opening the living room door. He’s gone. He’s nowhere.

  Phil stares at me. Trying to work me out. Trying to work something out. Then he turns, shouting over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back. I shouldn’t have come.’

  The door slams. And he’s gone too. I breathe hard. I put my fingers to my neck. My pulse is fast and strong. I close my eyes. Trying to compose myself. Willing my heart to beat steady.

  Then I step into the bedroom. And stand there.

  I take in the silence. The room’s natural sound. The walls. Nothing here. Just absence. It unnerves and comforts in equal dosage. He’s gone. They’re all gone.

  Then Terrence bounds in, his bowl in his mouth. Completely empty. No one fed him last night. Or this morning it looks like.

  Perhaps Aiden left last night. Perhaps he’s gone for ever.

  4 days till it comes.

  White male – Missing – Rain – Left the 2 flock – Denim shirts and cords – Fair hair – 6’ – Playful, calm, newly introverted.

  I’d call his parents if they were still alive. Even with a thirty-six-year-old man, the first port of call is always Mum and Dad. I’d call his brother but I don’t have a number for him. They don’t speak much anyway. I doubt he’d ring him up after three years to tell him where he was going.

  Last night, I made a deal with myself and I was sure it would work. I was sure that if I went to bed. Watched a couple of movies. Tried to forget about Brenner. Then Aid would be here again when I woke up. Do you get those vain wishes sometimes? The ‘if I get this apple core in the bin everything is going to be OK’ thought. I thought I’d wished him away with my stupid behaviour. But I thought that if I forgot about it all, pretended I didn’t see what I saw. Left it alone. Resolved to leave it all alone. Then he’d come back.

  So I just trained my eyes on the glazed moving pictures on my laptop, until my eyelids drew heavy and suddenly night turned to day, and when I woke, I watched some more. Waited for my headache to go away. I waited all day.

  But he’s still not back.

  I stare at the still closed blinds of number eighteen. He’s shut up shop again. I wonder if he knows it was me. That I’ve been in there. In his home. In his head. Seen the samurai sword up close. Seen the green metal case. Seen everything, in the flesh.

  He’s put his tortoise head back in his shell. And he won’t be coming out any time soon.

  It is definitely true that I could be behaving irrationally. I read some of this back after I sent you my first week’s journal and I know how I sound. It doesn’t sound good. You’ll know this by now. You’ll have got my first four or so weeks of entries and you’ll have been judging me for a while already.

  The police have probably stormed Brenner’s place. Found nothing. Pegged me as a certified crazy. And moved on. In fact, what am I thinking? They’ve almost definitely pegged me as crazy straight away, and haven’t bothered storming anything. I wouldn’t believe me if I was them.

  Maybe you wouldn’t recognise me. My eyes are always bloodshot. I get so little sleep these days. I’ve changed.

  I’m making a pact with myself to leave all this alone. Yes, I think that’s the right thing to do. It was dark in number eighteen, after all. And I was quite far away. When I saw what I saw. I don’t even know for sure that Jean’s killer lives around here. The kids were pretty vague and Thompson could’ve been just feeding me what I wanted to hear for a bit of a money and a headfuck for all I know.

  I’ve been giving everything the benefit of the doubt. Encouraging the worst sides of myself. But if I just add a bit of doubt, then everything feels different. And in a way that’s easier. Far more manageable. I might just need a few more days off and Aid will come back. When he knows I’ve come to my senses, he’ll come back. After giving me some room. Everything will be all right. I miss him so much.

  I made a list of all he places he could be, starting with the most likely and mundane and ending with the more high concept. It went like this:

  —he’s gone away to research something for his book. Forgot to leave me a message. I’m so distracted and he is too. He probably thought I wouldn’t notice.

  —he’s gone away to teach me a lesson. He’ll be back later today. He’s staying with his friend Tom in Anglesey. Whose number I don’t have. He’s always saying he should go and see him.

  —he’s been having an affair for years, couldn’t face telling me, he’s just hit the road to be with his other family. A wife, a cat and two children, in Epsom.

  —he went for a ride on his motorbike finally and has been involved in some sort of crash. When he comes around he will call me. If he hasn’t suffered severe amnesia and completely forgotten who I am.

  —he’s been kidnapped by Brenner. Or someone else. Someone with a vendetta. Someone from the neighbourhood. Someone who wants to shit me up. Soon I’ll get a letter written in newspaper clippings, asking me to lay off my search or Aid will get it. Or asking for fifty thousand quid and a getaway car, which they’ll use to get to the ferry. They’ll start a new life in Belgium. They’ll buy a vineyard. I know fifty thousand isn’t much to go on. But they’ll manage.

  It all sounds pretty stupid.

  But a version of the last one sticks in my head. I look at the building opposite. I stare at the blinds. Thinking of Aiden being stuffed into that green metal chest just behind them. The chest I saw and touched. I turn away to get a hot towel for my face. My sinuses are aching. I’m getting a lot of headaches at the moment. I need to drink more water. Get more exercise. Stay fresh. Maybe I’m ill. I think I just need some rest. But there’s no time for that now.

  Crackle. Crackle. White noise. A voice.

  ‘We just need to get rid of it. We need to get rid of it now.’

  Then the voice is gone. It unnerves me. I turn, look around, nothing.

  Where did it come from?

  Crackle. White noise and static. The same voice comes again.

  ‘I can’t have another body around here,’ he growls.

  The voice is coming from inside my flat. It’s definitely here. It’s speaking to me.

  ‘Help me get rid,’ says the voice.

  I’m hearing voices. I’ve finally completely lost it. This is exactly what
happened with Mum. Hearing things. Delusions. This was how it all started. The beginning of her demise. That led to her decision.

  No. No, that’s not it.

  Crackle.

  I turn to my washbag and pull out the receiver. It must have been left on and has kicked into gear, picking something up.

  Crackle.

  I play with the receiver dial. I play with the tuning and volume. I can hear him. At least I think that’s him.

  Crackle. Murmur.

  I fiddle with the dial until he’s as clear as a bell.

  Murmur.

  I get into my position in the hide. I don’t pull down the blind but I crouch just in case. I look out. The blinds are still down. But behind them I can hear his voice. I can hear him walking around.

  ‘They’re piling up, man. What did you expect? It’s a bloodbath.’

  I gasp. I’m wide eyed. The bug has kicked into life just at the right moment. At last, some luck.

  Between his wine cooler and the fridge. That little box in three pieces must be alive enough to pick things up.

  ‘But it’s this fucking… this fucking girl. She’s been in here. Yeah, I got a call from the police, they told me some girl had been in here.’

  My ears are burning. I watch on, just in case the blind rises a touch, enough for me to see inside, or for him to see me.

  I keep listening. He goes on.

  ‘Yeah, I think I know who she is. I’ve seen her before. She’s a spooky-looking thing. Always staring. Twitching. She’s got this little fucking twitch. Ha ha. Yeah. Oh, I don’t know, I wouldn’t fuck her. I wouldn’t touch her with yours.’

  I listen. His ordinary-sounding voice, spitting at my microphone. It picks up everything. He’s loud now. It’s like he’s in the same room as me.

  ‘I did what you wanted, now it’s time to pay up. Yeah, the student, I did her over. They can stick up all the Missing posters they like. She ain’t coming back. And she ain’t missing. She’s around. She’s in tiny little bits. She’s all over the place. I’ve ferreted away bits of her all over the place. I’ve got a bit of her here now. I’ve got a couple of other bodies here too. A few old ladies…’

  If only I could record this all somehow. Should have bought some equipment for that too. I can’t believe it. I picture the gory details. He’s giving me everything I need. His guilt is there for all to hear. It’d be an open and shut case. If only everyone else could hear this too.

  ‘Next, I’m gonna shut that girl up. That little twitcher that keeps sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted.’

  Oh, God. I listen. He sounds so close. He must be closer to the microphone. His voice booms back at me. I hear the full depth of it. The darkness behind it. This man is a son. Maybe a brother, a friend. But also a murderer. A serial killer. On the loose. It’s all situational.

  ‘I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to break into her flat. Wait till she comes home. And when she does, I’m going to jump out at her… Give her a kiss on the cheek. And shout, Surprise! Then I’m going to… give her a big hug. That’s right, that’s what I’m going to do. If that’s all right with you, love. That’s right. I’m talking to you. What do you think about that? Hey? Well, come on. I’m talking to you.’

  The blind rises and I lock eyes with him. He talks into the bug. Its pieces in his fist. He stares into me. Speaking to me directly.

  ‘Come on then. What do ya reckon? Cat got yer tongue?’

  My breath catches in my throat. I’ve been caught, worse than before. I feel white with shock. I’m still. I’ve never felt so exposed.

  ‘Yeah, I love murdering me, darling. I murder this. I murder that. You can’t stop a bloke like me. With all me murdering and such,’ he says.

  And with that, he throws the pieces to the ground. My sound disappears. But he still faces me from over there.

  He creases up. He’s laughing at me.

  2 days till it comes.

  I feel stupid. I’ve been moping around for a couple of days. Doing very little. Feeling embarrassed that I got caught red-handed. Got toyed with and humiliated.

  Embarrassed by my spy equipment. Embarrassed my husband has gone away and doesn’t seem to be coming back.

  I’ve been lying on my back. Staring at the walls. I thought about calling the police but I trust them less now than I did before. They’ve probably been having a good old laugh at me too. I can almost hear it. In my ears. They must’ve told Brenner about me and my claims. Told him to check around to see if anything was missing. He gave the place the once-over and found my crudely placed ‘bug’.

  It was idiotic to think that I’d been able to hide it from him, that it’d come back on, all by itself. He must be having a real laugh at me now. In there. He got his own back. His practical joke couldn’t have come off better. Now he’s celebrating by playing sex games in there with his skinny European girlfriend.

  One thing I managed to do was some Internet research. I found all this material about the missing girl. The truth is I haven’t thought about her enough. Until now.

  I am trying to drop all of this. Well, I did try. For a few hours. But I can’t.

  I can’t believe how little I thought about her, her name and picture in that poster. Until now. An appeal for witnesses generally means I look the other way. I don’t even give it a second thought. I was blaming everyone else for not caring about Jean’s death but I’m just the same. As if ‘missing’ actually means ‘don’t worry about it’ in some subconscious human language. Don’t bother casting your mind over it. You probably didn’t see anything. You probably don’t know anything about it.

  Just ten minutes Internet research told me why I should have been thinking about her a lot sooner.

  She lives at number forty, Canada House. Right next to Jean. Sonya Sharma. She was soon to become a criminal barrister, had grown up in those flats, the shining light of a hard-working Asian family.

  She’d recently taken on a project too. A bit like me.

  She was looking into the legalities of the contract that the development company, Princeton, had secured from the government to carry out the regeneration project. I don’t know the ins and outs, but something didn’t seem right to her. The possibility of money changing hands, government officials with sticky fingers. Something like that. The specifics don’t really matter.

  What matters is that she was asking questions. Putting pressure on people. There was a petition. Talk of an inquiry. She was a strong-willed girl. Looking to buy the residents of the estate some time at the very least. She was smart. Really smart. But just like Jean, she disappeared, and no one seems to have a clue about what happened to her.

  Like Jean, her family lived abroad, India in this case. They’d moved there as they knew their lives were about to come tumbling down around their ears, the recession had caused both parents to be laid off and they weren’t finding it easy to get back into the kind of decent jobs they had before. Then they were told they’d be given a meagre sum for their family home, which in under a year would be nothing but rubble. They decided to get out while the going was still relatively good. But they’d managed to buy their flat using a government scheme and their daughter had stayed behind until the bitter end to finish her pupillage as a barrister. In her family home. For as long as she could. Which turned out to be not as long as she planned.

  I need to get out of here. Just for a while. I’m becoming like he was. Aiden. I’ve spent too long inside. I feel like natural light, the sort that goes from the sun to your face, with no glass in between, might sting my eyes and body. This isn’t right. These are agoraphobic thoughts. A shut-in’s manifesto.

  I tear myself away from my laptop screen. Years ago I would have had to go to the library to find out all that information. About her. About the girl. I’d have to sort through the microfiche. One of my favourite words that. But the romance and drama has left the research. A few taps on a keyboard, or the touch screen, and there you are.

  I drag myself
down to the shop next to the café. I need coffee and bacon and bread and avocados and juice. This will make me feel normal again. A potion to bring me back to the land of the living.

  The fluorescent lights bear down on me in there. They seem to buzz at me. I am detached from my fellow humans. They see me but take nothing in. My face means nothing to them.

  But I know so many of them so well. It seems odd that they don’t know me at all.

  Alfred is in front of me in the queue, buying cereal and toilet roll. Vincent comes past looking serious, making a call, closing a deal. The Greek guy that owns the restaurant nips in and grabs some milk and winks at the girl in the shop. She nods. She’ll put that on his tab.

  The girl bleeps through Alfred’s essentials and smiles a ‘Hello’ towards me. She’s worked here for six months. One hundred and seventy-eight days to be exact. She does five days a week, but three are days (7 till 3.30) and two are evenings (3.30 till midnight). I remember when she ran through some eggs, spinach, tomatoes and a chocolate milkshake for me on her first day. That’s how I know all this. I made a note of it.

  She’s good. She’s good at her job. She’s got better.

  She’s efficient. She has a place to be. She seems happy.

  She serves Alf, then me. I smile, try to resemble a normal person. Try to look at her and smile. Try not to frown with the corners of my mouth. Even though they feel weighted down. Try not to stare at her hands and analyse them, as I have been doing to everyone this last week, just in case. I try not to give anything away. I try not to crack.

  I get out of there as quick as possible. They can tell. They know I’m not normal. They know my husband has left me. They know I’m an impression of a human being. People must see I’ve broken down the million tiny things people do unconsciously to survive and I’m doing them one by one, carefully stacking them on top of each other, aware of everything, micromanaging myself into submission, pushing the cogs and turning the wheels by hand to push myself through the day. I open the door and nearly scream.