Watching You, Watching Me (Back-2-Back, Book 2)

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘Isn’t he just?’

  ‘So why aren’t you in there, man?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Head over there with a cup of sugar. Enrol him into the local Neighbourhood Watch. Sign him up for the Brownies. Use your imagination!’

  ‘Small problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum and Dad have already decided he’s big, bad and not-nice-to-know.’

  We were interrupted at that point by a loud ‘Cooooey’ from below. ‘Supper-time!’

  We made our way downstairs.

  ‘Do you want to stay, Rosie? There’s plenty to go round.’

  Rosie eyed Mum’s veggiebake, which was standing steaming on the table.

  ‘Thanks Mrs Campbell, but Mum’s expecting me back.’

  Mums cooking was a bit of an embarrassment. I mean, there’s a limit to what you can do with vegetables. I expected Rosie and her mum were having one of those lush M&S meals. I’d seen inside their freezer, it was stacked with stuff — ready-made meals all with posey foreign names. Some people had all the luck.

  But it was one of Mum’s better bakes. As a matter of fact, I even had a second helping. When Dad had eaten enough of his meal to put him in a receptive mood, I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.

  ‘What happens to squatters, Dad? If they’re caught? Do they get fined or go to prison or what?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Dad. ‘If the property’s derelict and they’re in there long enough, they can establish something called ‘squatter’s rights’. Then it can be really difficult to get them out.’

  Gemma eyed me over her food. This was good news.

  ‘But there must be some way to get rid of them,’ said Mum.

  ‘If you can prove they’re causing damage or are a nuisance you can.’

  ‘This one’s not a nuisance. He’s quiet as a mouse. He doesn’t even have lights on,’ said Gemma. ‘I think he’s lovely.’

  ‘Stop messing about with your food and eat it properly,’ said Mum irrelevantly. Her irritation showed in her voice.

  ‘I don’t like the horrid black bits. They’re all wibbly.’

  The black bits are aubergine and there’s no such word as ‘wibbly’,’ said Mum.

  An argument broke out as to whether or not ‘wibbly’ was in the dictionary and Gemma insisted on finding it to check. So the subject was dropped for the time being.

  Post-dinner Gemma was on drying-up duty, so I headed back upstairs as fast as I could.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  Mum’s voice floated up from the kitchen.

  ‘No … what?’

  ‘Your turn to empty the green bucket.’

  The green bucket — the yukk-bucket, or ‘yucket’ for short as we’d renamed it — was Mum’s big bid to save the world. Absolutely everything that didn’t get eaten went into it — the more disgusting the better. Every day it had to be emptied into her compost-maker. This stood in the front garden like a great green dalek. Other people had bay trees or statuettes or nice tubs of flowers in their front gardens. But we didn’t. We had to be different. We had a green plastic dalek standing on guard outside our house — announcing to the whole world that this family was basically peculiar.

  ‘I’ve got my slippers on. Can’t Jamie do it?’

  ‘Jamie’s on cat duty this week.’

  ‘Gemma then.’

  ‘I’m drying up.’

  I tried a new tactic. ‘I’ve got to do my oboe practice.’

  Mum was standing at the sink with the yucket in her hand.

  ‘Well that won’t take all night. What precisely is the problem?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I muttered and went and collected the beastly thing from her.

  I shot out of the front door as fast as I could, praying that our squatter wasn’t looking out of his window at the time. I just knew he was, though. I could feel his gaze positively boring into the back of my neck. It was so mortifying.

  Chapter Four

  Three whole days went by and I didn’t get a single sighting of him. School was one big yawn once the novelty of starting a new year had worn off. Teachers were starting to put the pressure on. A year to go before GCSEs — now was the time to panic early — big deal. Every day I trudged home with a massive bag full of books. I reckoned I was going to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame by the time GCSEs had come and gone.

  And on Thursdays — the day I had my music lesson — I had to carry my oboe and my music as well. I’d been really keen on the oboe to start with. I’d begun learning on the school oboe years ago, and I’d begged and begged my parents to buy me one of my own. I’d even saved up part of the cost myself. At the time the idea of getting into the school orchestra had seemed the ultimate in achievement. I’d really worked hard and got through loads of grades. Miriam my music teacher had started talking about applying to a music school.

  But recently I was beginning to have second thoughts. The orchestra wasn’t such great shakes anyway. Nearly all the girls wanted to play woodwind — we always had loads too many flutes — and the strings were dreadful. Now I was in Year Eleven everyone was really dismissive about the orchestra. You didn’t need to be clairvoyant to realise that playing in it labelled you as a nerd. So I’d taken to carrying my oboe disguised in a big sports bag. Weighed down like this, that I was approaching the shops.

  I dropped into the shops every day on my way home from school. I’d devised this plan to survive the week by punctuating it with comfort treats. Sad but true, these pathetic little gestures gave me something to look forward to every day. Monday — first day of the week — generally left me weak from exhaustion, so I’d treat myself to a Creme Egg on the way home. Tuesday it was Pastrami Flavour Bagel Chips to eat in front of Heartbreak High. Wednesday — more than halfway through the week, so cause for body-pampering — a luxury face pack or an intensive hair treatment. Thursday — that was the day I treated myself to a magazine.

  Hang on — it was Thursday today.

  Rosie was reading a Hello from the racks while she waited for me.

  It had become a kind of ritual that Rosie and I would meet in the newsagents every Thursday. If Rosie, say, bought Mizz, I’d buy a J17. and that way we could do a swop when we’d read them. I also had another reason for the ritual. Mum and Dad would have had an absolute fit if they knew I was spending my pocket money on magazines. Sounds pretty innocent doesn’t it? I mean, magazines — it’s not as if I was buying cigarettes or booze or hash or anything. Just think what I could be into at my age.

  But it’s not what’s printed in the magazines they fuss about. It’s what they’re printed on. I said we were a pretty peculiar family, didn’t I? Well, Mum and Dad are absolutely paranoid about using paper. They reckon magazines are a total waste of the world’s resources - and as for junk mail …! Don’t start them on that. I mean its virtually a criminal act in our house to blow your nose on a paper tissue. They go on as if you’d been caught chopping down a prime sapling in the rainforest or something.

  Anyway, I’d decided to keep the older generation happy with this convenient little fiction that it was Rosie who bought the magazines and I borrowed them from her. We were coming back from Mr Patel’s that evening and exchanging vital chunks of media gossip when Rosie paused and nudged me.

  ‘Guess who’s right behind us?’

  I knew immediately without turning round.

  ‘Keep walking,’ I muttered to her. I’d made a big plan about how I was going to look when we met. A plan that included a major make-over, newly washed hair, sophisticated-but-subtle make-up and my latest stack-heeled sandals. Not as I was at present, in my standard gross school uniform. I even had my hair up to keep it out of the way for my music lesson. It was in ludicrous childish bunches that bounced like spaniel’s ears every time I moved my head.

  ‘No,’ insisted Rosie. This is our chance to get to know him.’

  I could have killed her. I mean, she was looking OK — she’d been home
and changed and had her new mini skirt and skimpy T-shirt on. Before I could protest further she’d stopped at the corner. She was loitering really obviously.

  ‘Hi …’ I heard her say.

  I stood, pretending not to be there. I was just praying he’d ignore us and go past. But, no. Thanks a lot, Rosie. He had to stop, didn’t he?

  Rosie was going on about how we’d noticed he’d moved into the street, as if we’d been spying on him or something — which we had of course.

  ‘You read that kind of stuff?’ He was staring at my magazine. I glanced down. It had the most embarrassing headline on the front. The things I’d like to do with boys’ — the kind of headline that’s designed to get you to buy the magazine but turns out to be really tame inside. It would probably be things like roller blading and scuba diving — but it didn’t imply that on the front. I flipped the magazine over.

  But he’d seen it already. I could tell he thought it was really, really naff. You could see it written all over his face. I mean, I don’t take these mags seriously — they’re entertainment for God’s sake — a little light relief in my dreary week. But it was just my luck. Not only was I standing there looking like a dog’s breakfast, but I’d come across as a total airbrain as well.

  ‘Want to borrow it?’ said Rosie, flirting with him like mad. I stared fixedly into the distance. Somehow, ignoring him made me feel less visible.

  ‘Hardly — its like girls’ stuff, isn’t it?’ I heard him say.

  ‘So how would you know?’ asked Rosie. She was trying to be witty but the comment fell painfully flat.

  ‘I wouldn’t know — I mean, obviously,’ he said. And he walked off down the street.

  ‘Egotist,’ Rosie muttered, watching him as he turned off into number twenty-five.

  ‘We really made a good impression. I don’t think.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t have to be so off with him.’

  ‘If I’d had my way we wouldn’t have spoken to him.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Honestly Rosie, sometimes you can be such a prat.’ I guess I was pretty fed up and I was taking it out on her.

  ‘So you’re the world’s expert on how to talk to boys, are you?’ she retorted.

  ‘At least I wouldn’t have offered to lend him a stupid girls’ magazine.’

  ‘That was meant to be a joke.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Oh honestly, Tasha. Loosen up. He’s not the only fit guy in the world.’

  ‘He’s the only one living in my street.’ I stared miserably in the direction he’d disappeared in. ‘I’m never going to be able to face him now.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Tash. Stop being such a drama queen.’

  I hitched my school bag further up on my shoulder. ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  I strode off leaving Rosie standing there. We never argued as a rule. But this time she’d gone too far.

  Chapter Five

  It was some days after this excruciating first encounter that he was sighted again. But not by me this time. It was by Mum.

  I was doing my French homework curled up on the sofa. I usually did this downstairs, hoping to glean a little help from Mum’s shaky command of French. She was pretty good on anything to do with food or travel.

  I looked up and found her poised with the Hoover mid-way through cleaning the sitting room carpet. She was staring out of the window.

  ‘What is it?’

  She switched the vacuum off.

  ‘Just take a look at that.’

  ‘What now?’ I was sorting a particularly difficult bit of past tense into imperfect and passé composé and didn’t want to lose the thread.

  Jamie joined her. ‘Huh,’ he said with six-year-old disapproval. ‘He’s drinking out of the bottle.’

  ‘But it’s what he’s drinking …’ said Mum.

  I could resist no longer. I joined Mum and Jamie and stared out as well.

  Sitting on the wall outside number twenty-five, there was this boy with his hair shaved round the sides and cut in a sort of slab on top. He was taking swigs out of a bottle — a Smirnoff vodka bottle.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Mum. ‘Let squatters into the street and there’ll be nothing but trouble. I should call the police.’

  ‘No!’ I said. You can’t do that. He’s probably nothing to do with the house. I expect he’ll move on in a moment.’

  This statement was immediately contradicted by the window two storeys above opening. A figure leaned out. It was him.

  ‘Come on up. I’ve found something better up here.’

  I left the window in a hurry and went and sat on the sofa well out of sight.

  Mum glared at me. ‘See?’

  ‘No, I don’t see,’ I said. You’re jumping to conclusions.’

  Mum continued peering out of the upper window. ‘Look upstairs. It’s that boy from the other morning. The one I nearly ran down rollerblading. The one who had such a cheek.’

  ‘Oh … is it?’ I asked, trying not to sound in the least bit interested.

  ‘He’s our squatter,’ said Gemma, giving me a nudge. ‘Come away, It’s not fair on Tasha to stare at him like that.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Mum.

  ‘Tasha really fancies him,’ said Jamie in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Gemma nudged Jamie hard.

  ‘I do not!’ I said hotly.

  ‘That would be just so typical!’ said Mum. ‘A girl with no problems whatsoever. Doing well at school. And then someone like that moves into her street and …!’ She paused, peering out again. ‘Oh that’s too much.’

  ‘So what’s going on now?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s smoking a big fat cigarette,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Stay well away from them. That’s all I’m going to say,’ said Mum. She started vacuuming again in a haphazard way with one eye on the window.

  Mum thinks she knows it all. She’s got this part-time job as an educational psychologist. She’s used to seeing kids that have gone off the rails. She spends her whole time sorting out disputes, counselling people who’ve been expelled and helping to fix up places in special schools. I reckon it makes her over-react sometimes.

  ‘I’m going upstairs where I can get some peace to finish my French,’ I said.

  I settled down lying on my stomach on my bed facing the window. My room was in shadow so I knew no-one could see in. The guy with the flat-top haircut was leaning out of the attic window opposite, smoking now. And it didn’t look like an ordinary cigarette. He still had the vodka bottle in his hand. He looked down and waved it in the direction of our living room. He must have caught sight of Mum watching him.

  The two boys appeared to be fooling around the ways boys do when they think they have an audience. I could have killed Mum. She must be staring out through the window. And they were certainly making the most of it.

  The boy waved the bottle again. It was nearly empty now. How on earth could squatters afford to drink vodka like that? That’s if it was vodka, of course. I was starting to have my doubts. The way the boys were fooling around didn’t look totally convincing to me. The chap with the flat-top haircut was really camping it up. He stood at the window and made his eyes go completely crossed and then fell over flat, backwards. I was killing myself.

  Mum must’ve been going ballistic down below.

  The falling-over act seemed to conclude the show. They’d disappeared from sight. I wondered what it was like being a squatter. What did they live on? Social Security? Was the house filthy and vermin-infested like Mum said? If I lived in a squat I’d make the place exactly how I wanted it. I’d paint the walls black or silver maybe. Perhaps I’d paint murals all over them — and I’d find things in skips and do them up. It must be absolutely fantastic being able to do exactly what you want with no parents around. Being able to stay in bed as long as you want, for instance — eat what and when you like — play
music as loud as you like — go out wherever and however late you like.

  My parents are really repressive. I reckon it has a lot to do with the fact I’m the eldest. I haven’t had someone up ahead of me to kind of break them in — establish the ground rules. They’re always easier on Gemma — she can do things I was never allowed to do at the same age. By the time Jamie’s my age they’ll probably have given up rules entirely. It’s so unfair!

  The boys didn’t reappear. I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling. Out of all the girls in my class I reckon my parents are the strictest. Maybe some of it’s boasting, but from what I’ve heard, other girls my age are allowed to go out loads more than me. They dress up and get into pubs and clubs. My parents would have a fit if I did any of those things. They still think I’m a child.

  I sat up and stared at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. I even look young for my age. I didn’t stand a chance with a guy like the one over the road. He’d hardly want to be seen around with some kid.

  You know what Mum says? It’s the most depressing and infuriating thing anyone can say: ‘Your turn will come, Natasha.’ Well, I simply don’t believe it. By the time it’s my turn, it’ll be too late.

  I lay there for quite a while trying to summon up the energy to finish my French homework. I strained my ears for sounds from the house opposite but I guess the boys must have gone out or something.

  It was a warm evening and my window was open. I could hear the anxious cheeping and scrabbling of the house-martins. They made a rough mud nest under the eaves of our house every year. This one was just above my bedroom window. Gemma was doing a nature project on them for school and was always barging into my room to check on them. It had been a bit of a pain to start with, but then I couldn’t help getting involved. This summer the parents had brought up three separate broods of fledglings. So there had been constant comings and goings as the parents tried to keep up with their demand for food. I could see a couple of martins darting back and forth across the street catching insects right now. I loved the way they always looked so neatly dressed in black and white — like an anxious pair of waiters in a smart restaurant, with a load of diners grumbling about the time they took bringing the food. And it wasn’t just the adults who did the work. Later in the year — like right now — the earlier, older fledglings would join in and help feed the younger ones. You’d think they’d prefer to be off on their own somewhere, wouldn’t you? Flying down to Spain perhaps, sorting out where they were going to spend the winter? Instead, they were stuck at home doing chores for Mum and Dad. I’d started to identify with some of those martins over the course of that project.