I connect with his nose. Which gives in easily against my forehead. I can feel it.
It’s like cracking an egg. Easy.
It’s a messy blow and it hurts me too. But it hurts him more. I don’t know what I’m doing really. It’s all animal instinct now.
My head throbs. His festoons with blood. His hands immediately reach for his face, releasing his hold on me. I grab at the door, force myself through it and run. Then I hear it open and know he’s not that far behind me.
He’s so close, I can’t stop. He’d be on me again before I even got my key out. I pass my door. No time to grab my knife from my bag, the only moment in my life I actually need it. I jump down flights of stairs. I don’t have a plan. I can hear him shouting but I don’t listen to the words. Flecks of his blood fall from his head in between the flights of stairs and onto the ground floor carpet.
I knock on one or two doors on the ground floor as I come past, desperately hoping someone might hear the commotion and come out. It might slow him down at least. I want to get to the concierge office. That’s my den. He can’t get me once I’m there.
No one answers. No one stirs. Everyone keeps themselves to themselves in this place. Most of the flats aren’t even occupied. The others are filled with people who wouldn’t lift a finger for anyone else. Living their solitary lives. With their broadband and their Netflix. I hit the green button. And I run. Desperately. For my life.
I cut through the air. I scream and shout. As Lowell gains on me a little. Surely someone will hear the racket. A Samaritan. Or a security guard. They caught me quick enough in broad daylight. But racket means trouble. Means ‘this is nothing to do with me’. Means ‘I’m sure it’ll blow over in the morning’. Like the noise of cats fighting or foxes having sex.
If I keep going straight towards the Concierge office he’ll cut me off before I get there. He’s faster than me. So I head left. Towards the dark. Towards the estate. It’s the sort of choice that often doesn’t end well. We’re coming to his domain. Where he killed the last ones. But I’ve at least got a bit of a head start this way. Maybe I can lose him. In the dark.
I go past Alaska House. I want to shout. To see if anything might come out to help me. But they may be gone by now. I remember the wrecking ball is about to bring the place down in a matter of hours. I turn to see him as the light stops and we enter the part of the estate that is only darkness. His face, red and desperate, any smile he had when I was in his lair now gone, fades into the black. And mine does too.
I kick off my shoes to mask the sound. He’s behind me. Something sharp, maybe glass, crunches under my feet. But I daren’t cry out. I have to keep running. Then I see a skip. Left there by the workmen. I think about how I can get to it.
‘Lily! Lily!’ He screams.
Guttural and raw. Deep from within him. Devilish. It terrifies me.
‘Come back here you mad bitch!’
Breathe in through your nose. For fifteen. Out through your mouth. For ten. Stay calm. I feel my feet bleeding onto the concrete.
And then his hand grips my waist from behind. He gets a hold of my shirt. He has me. I feel his skin, wet with his blood. His voice echoes around the buildings. I’m sure we can be heard for miles. But no one comes.
I’m going to die here. Metres from people’s homes. The million pound penthouses. To the new media middle classes in their first flats. To the people hanging on to their homes in the estates. Right in front of Canada House. With its residents with little time left on one side and it’s swathes of evacuated rooms on the other. In a few days. A missing-poster sign will go up. People will walk past it. And no one will care.
He grapples me to the ground. We roll along the tarmac. His hands go for my throat again. His left hand gets to me and starts to squeeze. I feel the tenderness and bruising around my neck. He straddles me. Holding my hands down while laying his forearm across my throat, all with his left arm. He’s so much stronger than me.
I lie under him. Powerless. As he grabs his cosh with his right hand. A distant car passes and lights up his face. He seems happier. He feels like it’s all over. He must’ve shut the student up this way. Sonya, who wanted to fuck up his life. Wanted to bankrupt this capable man. To destroy him. Well, Lowell’s the pragmatic type. He solves problems.
A car comes past again. I see the cosh raised in his fist. I’ll bet he used that on Jean and the student. Who then lay stuffed into the suitcase until he thought the time was right to get rid of her. I manage to get my left hand free. But he brings the cosh down.
I dodge out of the way of it. It thumps the concrete next to me with incredible force. It’s a long, tough leather strap, which forms into a large ball at the top. Easy to hold. Heavily weighted. He probably read a book about one. He probably got one on ebay. It’s all part of it. For him, I imagine. The gear. He’s still got me.
He mumbles and I squeal. We fight. Like brother and sister. Like man and wife. He brings it up again. I see the cosh. Bloodied from your head. And God knows what else. A car comes past on the road far behind us and it’s distant headlamps light him again. I grab something from my pocket.
He starts to bring it down. But I get there first. Stabbing into his side with everything I have, just under his ribs. A Princeton Homes pen. They’re always giving them out. It’s lucky I picked one up. I push him off as he pulls it out of him and moans.
I run to the other side of Canada House. The deserted side. But I hear his echo. He’s back up and I can’t see where he is. He could be to my left or right. It sounds like there are two of them. It could be my mind playing tricks. The sound seems to get closer from either side. I feel my keys in my pocket. I don’t want to use my torch and give myself away. He’s still coming.
Then I see the skip. I run over and place my hands on it. I would normally be very careful about this. Who knows what’s in there. But this isn’t an ideal situation. I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off. I need to wait for back up. I lift myself up and into it. As quietly as I can.
Then dive down into the muck. The sawdust and mattresses. The nails and wood cut offs. I try to control my breathing. I can hear him getting closer.
29 September. 6.45 a.m.
I put my cheek against the cold metal on the inside of the skip. I don’t feel like crying. I don’t feel like feeling sorry for myself. I feel like getting out of here alive. For a moment I think I hear distant sirens, but it could be my imagination. They may not be for me anyway. They may be going down to Green Lanes or along the Seven Sisters Road. This is London, after all.
A piece of wood pokes into my shin. It’s uncomfortable but hasn’t broken the skin. There is a mattress under me and I try to hold my body away from some sharp metal springs on my left. My body quivers as I try to maintain this position. There aren’t many hiding places here. He would’ve heard my footsteps if I’d left the area. As I would have heard his.
Somewhere above me is Canada House. It strikes me how strange it is that half the building is occupied, the other half evacuated and growing mould, waiting for its executioner. Like Siamese twins – one living, one long since deceased. I smell something. Is there something leaking below me? Or bleeding? I move my left hand around and touch what feels like skin. A shiver takes over my body. I think there’s someone next to me. I want to look. But I don’t want to scream. I reach for my tiny torch key.
My hand feels up and I think I have their clothes. A dress. I think what I can feel is its leg. It’s cold. Now I come to think of it, I think I can smell the same scent that was in Lowell’s house. It must be human flesh. I try to ignore it, but that’s a tough thing to do.
Don’t look, I tell myself. Don’t look. The footsteps can be heard again. Two lots. Or one? I can’t tell. Keep quiet.
I have to look. I’m deep under wooden boards and a mattress so the chances are he won’t see the key light. I turn my head to meet whatever this is next to me. Then I press the button. Light streams onto a face.
I screw up my eyes and try to keep my breathing slow. I put my hand to it. Who is this? The woman I saw Lowell with? Another victim? My mind races. I touch her cold face. I am so close to it. I hear the footsteps closer. Maybe they’ve passed by me.
It’s plastic. I tap its cheek once, quietly. To make sure. It’s a mannequin. It has no legs. Just a torso. A red velvet dress stretched across its body. I breathe a sigh of relief. This place is uncomfortable enough without sharing it with a dead body. I free my hand. I relax for a moment. Lean into the mattress and pull my leg away from the piece of timber and my side from the metal. I breathe a silent sigh. Then the wooden board is torn from above me.
I rise, holding the timber. What once was part of a bunk bed, I think. I smash it over the figure’s head. It reels back in shock. For a moment I wonder who it is I’ve hit. It could be a security guard or passing stranger come to help me.
It’s Lowell. I look into his eyes. I throw my makeshift weapon at him, jump out and run, as he collects himself after my blow. If there was someone else around I don’t see them now.
I run towards the derelict side of Canada House. I see a grate wrenched open and I lift myself inside. I turn and try to push the grate closed but he gets his fingers under it in time. I see him through the gap. His eyes stare at me. Inhuman now. All of my old neighbour gone. His face, a bloody mess. I slam my fist against his fingers and run.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he shouts.
I turn as I go up the stairs. Lighting my way with the torch. There’s no going back. Only going up. There must be people just on the other side of this building, getting ready to start their day, it’s nearly beginning to get light outside. I keep going up. I hear the sound of him pulling the grate open again.
I slip. My bloody feet squelch against the moss and weeds as I get back to my feet. Maybe if I can get far enough ahead of him I can hide out in one the rooms. Or maybe I can get to the roof.
‘Come here! Lily!’ he shouts.
This place suddenly seems like an asylum. Two people of questionable sanity chasing each in a concrete playground. I’m tiring. He sounds quite far behind me. I go up and up. On the eighth floor I open the door to the corridor and close it behind me.
I look for a stick or something to bar it with but I can’t see anything. The windows are completely broken open here and the dim light trickles in. No metal slats on these windows.
Light, the smallest glimmer from the distant streetlights. Enough to for me to see the desolate space. Bits of it already knocked down. Wires peep out from in between bricks like weeds. I duck into the last room on the left and keep my back against the wall.
Then the door opens. He steps inside. Nowhere to run.
I grip my key in my fist.
29 September. 6.55 a.m.
My back leans against the cold, damp wall. I shiver. Summer is over. Balcony furniture will be taken in. Barbecues, not strictly allowed anyway, will be put in storerooms. Summer clothes will go into suitcases and jumpers will get stuffed into draws. I breathe in the damp.
The footsteps are lethargic. I beg them to come closer. I can’t stand the waiting. Then they seem to get further away. A pause. Silence. Outside it has begun to rain. I can hear it. See it slightly if I chance a look out of the hole next to me. What was a window. The rain drifts in, half lit. And I hear the door close.
I count to ten. He must have gone upstairs. If I can creep downstairs and out of the building fast enough I can make a break for the concierge and they can call the police. We have all we need. We have a body in a suitcase. Scars he’s given us. Blood he’s spilt. Mine and yours.
Nine, ten. I lift my body and go to the doorway. Smoothly, slowly, I peek out into the corridor. His hand engulfs my face and he takes me into the room. He has me now. I try to scream but I can’t. Even if I could no one would hear. This is it. I’ve fallen into his trap. I think of you. Whether you’ll have called it in already. But I don’t hear any sirens any more.
He has me. He shakes his head as he holds me down. This time. For the last time. My body has given up. He bleeds, but he’s not weak. He’s not going to let me go. He has me right where he wants me. He could do anything. Strangling is difficult I’ve heard. But he might have enough in him. Or he might beat me to death with the cosh. He holds it up. I’m so scared.
I start to shake. A fit that consumes my body. He stops. He stares at me. He steps back. He’s wondering whether any more violence is necessary. Whether I might expire without him having to go to the trouble of exerting himself any further. I stare at him as my body convulses. I think he might smile for a moment but he’s also confused. Disgusted. His nose is broken, I think. His right nostril sags. It bleeds. He said the kids were animals. But that’s exactly what he looks like.
Every bit of my body vibrates. My head bangs against the concrete floor. I might swallow my tongue. I gag. I splutter. He sees it all. Watching, fascinated. All I can do is stay alive. Hope it stops. But even when I do, he’ll still be there. My body smashes against the floor. My eyes fall back in my head, just as they did last time. I close my eyes and wonder whether death will come next.
Blackness.
When I open them, it has subsided. He stands over me. I am still in the nightmare. But now I can’t move. I breathe in with effort. I am catatonic again. I want to shout out but I have nothing. My key light flickers somewhere next to me, lighting us both. Me. Still. Paralysed. Him. Just looking.
‘You’re going to die here,’ he says.
I try to speak. Blink even. I try to shout back. But I can’t.
He kneels over me. He holds my face in his hands. ‘You’re going to die here because you couldn’t control yourself.’
He touches my hair. He kisses my mouth. Salty. Blood and sweat. I lie still.
‘I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, Lily. But you should’ve stayed out of my fucking flat! What else can I do now, but this?’
He lies down next to me and speaks softly. It’s like we’re sharing a bed. ‘You women just can’t do as you’re fucking told, can you? Sonya couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Everyone else just quietly moved on. Let us all live here and took it. The free market. Right? But no! She couldn’t do it. She had to be a bitch about it. So what could I do? Tell me. What can I do? My hands are tied.’
It’s intimate. Like therapy.
‘You’re quiet. It’s nice. It’s better.’
His smile fades.
‘I’m going to get what I deserve. I’ve worked too hard for some stupid, weak cunts to take it away from me on a technicality. Those animals around here. You know what those fucking rats are like. You hate those fucking cockroaches as much as I do, right? They can’t control themselves! They disturbed me when I was trying to do a few chores over there. I could’ve got rid of the suitcase there… do you see? So, it’s their fault you’re in this mess. Not mine! I’ll have to finish a few of them off too, eventually.’
His eyes are wet. He wants forgiveness. He wants my blessing. As a friend.
‘Oh, Lil. Look at you.’
He holds both my thighs. Leans over me. Looks into me. It’s intimate. I’d grab him if I could. Grab his balls. Or his face and pull at the skin till I ripped something. But I can’t.
‘Anyone would’ve done the same. When put in a position like mine. You think the old neighbour would think twice? I mean, she stuck a poker in me. Look at that!’
He lifts up his shirt and there, indeed, under his ribs on the right side, the other side to where I stabbed the pen into him, is a healing scab-like mark under his ribs.
‘It’ll all be over so soon. This won’t even hurt, I promise. You won’t feel a thing.’
He rises and grips the cosh. This is it. All I can do is feel and hear.
His voice. The sound of distant cars. And rain.
‘You know, I just really wish I hadn’t seen you coming back from her house that night. Because then I couldn’t be sure about you either. That really cut me up, I swear.’
A t
ear rolls down my face. It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt that feeling. I say goodbye to you mentally. To Aiden. To this place.
‘In a way, you killed her by going over there. Making me suspicious. So it’s your fault too… when you think about it… we’re in this together. But I forgive you. So, forgive me too?’
He grips his weapon. And raises it. I close my eyes. I close them.
‘You know. I see everything round here too. Absolutely everything.’
It all happens so quickly. He breathes in to summon himself to do it. Then I reach for my key light. Grab it. And ram my key into his right eye. It sticks in firm. Like a nail into a wall. But easier. Like a golf tee into turf. He falls back. Blood leaks out from him.
His legs wriggle. I see them as I rise. I stand over him. He seems to wink at me. He winks at me, Dad. I’m not making it up. One eye a goner. The other one still staring at me. Just to let me know he’s still watching.
I look. It’s fascinating. But grotesque. Even I have to turn away. I hear the sirens closer now. You see, when I closed my eyes I knew I could move again. I feel so much better now.
He tries to get up, but he can’t. Now he’s the one that can’t move. I’m not sure if he’s conscious or not, but I speak anyway.
‘They’re going to lock you away. I’m going to find that body now, Lowell.’
I turn to go. But then I hear him speak.
I turn back, calmly. I know he can’t get up. His body is in shock. He’s in so much pain.
‘What did you say?’ I say, standing over him.
His face is half smile, half fear. From the floor. He summons what sounds like a laugh. Through the blood.
‘There is no body,’ he drawls. Snake-like.
His head rolls back and thuds against the floor. He passes out. I turn to leave. Fast. I have to go and get that case. I have to. I’m going back to his flat. I’m not mad. I know what I saw.
The Watcher Page 24