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

by Chloe Rayban

  I was nearly down to the end of the lager and about to turn in, when the curtains opened in the attic room just across the street, dead opposite mine. Hey … come back to the window! Yeah that’s better. It was that girl again — the Babe. She was opening the window — fresh air fiend eh? Oh no, she was pulling the curtains again. Don’t please — want to get a better look.

  But the curtains closed for good this time.

  Chapter Two

  Woke next morning in virtual dark. Couldn’t think where I was for a moment. Then I caught sight of daylight glinting through the gap in the boarded-up window.

  Hell, what time was it? I was going to be late. My first day, too. And I was over a week late already — the North Thames term had started ten days ago. Last thing I wanted was to be late! I only had what — Jeez! Fifteen minutes to get there. Still, it was walking distance. But which way?

  I was flinging my clothes on distractedly. Wished I’d looked it up in the A-Z the night before. Roller blades, yep — that was the answer. Get me there in half the time. See Mum, it was worth the weight of carrying them up here. Knew they’d come in handy. Wash? No time, had one last night — freezing water as I recall — definitely no time! Teeth yes, quick brush on the way down. Breakfast? Absolutely no way.

  I sat on the last stair and did up the blades — knotted my trainer laces and swung them round my neck. Walkman — didn’t go anywhere without that and it had my latest compilation in it, Durassic — real wake-up stuff.

  OK world — here I come!

  Our nice little suburban street was deserted. Useful, must’ve missed the rush hour. I looked from left to right, turned up the Walkman to comforting decibels and I was off. Pavements had those nasty kerb drops at every driveway — murder on the blades. Only thing for it was to go dead down the centre of the street — fastest way, anyway.

  I was just approaching the T-junction at the end of Frensham Avenue when this lunatic milkman came round the bend. Maniac in a milkcart, shouldn’t be allowed. Waving both arms, not even bothering to steer. Man, he had some problem!

  I skidded to a halt.

  Nearly got a car up my backside! Jeesus there were some dangerous drivers around — this woman came from nowhere! I did a painful wobble and nearly landed under her wheels.

  I took the Walkman speakers out of my ears. Couldn’t hear a word she was saying for a moment.

  Then I caught sight of the girl in the back. It was the Babe — and she was killing herself. I tried to regain a bit of cool. I blurted out the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘Look, you don’t happen to know the way to West Thames College, do you?’

  That useless woman driver was ranting on about the way to some cemetery. I tried a little gentle irony to put her in her place. I mean, what did she think she was doing sneaking up on me like that?

  She wasn’t a fan of irony — said she’d run me down next time. Boy, the natives weren’t exactly friendly.

  So I did a big fake bow and waved her on.

  ‘You have a nice day too!’ I shouted after the car. But I don’t think she heard.

  The milkman put me right about the way to West Thames and gave me an earful about using blades on the road too. So I stuck to the pavement till I was out of sight round the bend. I didn’t wear my Walkman though — guess they had a point there.

  West Thames College was a great big red-brick barracks of a place. People were streaming in from all directions. A first glance established I was right about one thing — it was absolutely nothing like school. Half the people looked old enough to be my dad or mum, and there weren’t many from my side of the colour spectrum either. Quite a culture shock after Stroud. A second glance confirmed that the ambience was nothing like a cool American college. It was more like a prison as a matter of fact — bars everywhere. There was even a guy who stopped me at a barrier when I tried to get in through the door.

  ‘ID?’ he demanded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Lost your card?’

  ‘Never had one mate, I’m new today.’

  A couple of girls passed, swiping things that looked like credit cards through a machine. The barrier opened for them. They each gave me a stare and went on. One of the girls was really good-looking. Dark-skinned and with long dark curly hair. She had a stud through one nostril and it was joined by a chain to a stud in her ear. But the thing I noticed most were her lips. They ranked among the most luscious I’d ever come across — and she was making the most of them with an unmissable lipstick.

  ‘And you can take those off …’ The guy on the door indicated my blades.

  I sat on the low wall outside and switched over to my trainers. The two girls hovered a few yards inside, chatting and casting glances at me over their shoulders.

  ‘Right, mate. Go to the office for Registration. Up to the first floor, then follow the signs.’

  I made my way across the lobby feeling self-conscious. There were people heading in all directions. Everyone seemed to know where to go, apart from me. The place echoed — footsteps, doors slamming, voices bouncing back off the rough brick walls. Sounded like a swimming pool. There seemed to be signs everywhere. But none of them mentioned Registration. All around me people were meeting up and greeting each other. Loads of high-fiving and ‘Where you been man”. I stood there like a total wally — couldn’t see a staircase anywhere.

  ‘Looks like this one’s lost.’ It was the girl with the chain.

  ‘D’you know the way up to the first floor …?’

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one? We’re going that way. Want to tag along?’ said the other girl, and she gave me a look from under her lashes.

  ‘Thanks, that’s good of you.’

  The two girls walked ahead of me swinging their hips in a noticeable way. There was a lift in a really obvious place at the end of the lobby. Don’t know how I could’ve missed it. We got in and the two girls leaned against the handrail that ran round the inside and eyed me up and down. The girl with the chain was throwing her chest out in a way that showed her boobs off. They were worth showing off actually. She had one of those tight T-shirts on that never seem to quite meet up at the waist. Maybe this place was a step up from Stroud Grammar after all.

  ‘Haven’t seen you around.’ The chain had a cross with a blood-red stone set in it. As she spoke, the cross slid backwards and forwards. It drew attention to her lips. It was kind of hypnotic.

  ‘Missed the first week. Only just got back from abroad …’

  Our lift reached the first floor and pinged. She put a finger on the “Close Doors” button and held it there.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘All over. France, Italy, Germany, Greece …’

  ‘Bit of a globetrotter eh? You must be loaded,’ said the girl. She was sending me up.

  ‘Not really. I earned some — and my dad chipped in …’

  ‘You live round here then?’ asked the other girl.

  ‘With your dear generous ‘chipping-in’ daddy?’ asked the lippy one. She was taking off my accent. I could feel myself getting hot with embarrassment.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact I live on my own,’ I said with some dignity.

  That seemed to impress them. The girl took her finger off the button and the doors slid open.

  ‘See you …’ she said and mouthed a kiss at me. The two of them strode off down the corridor in that self-conscious way girls move when they know they’re being watched and appreciated.

  The woman in the office took forever locating my details on her computer. New application, late entry and two-year A-level student seemed to be a combination that was totally beyond the system. In the end I suggested she typed in my name and tried ‘Finder’. It did the trick.

  ‘You’re a bit of a whizz on computers, aren’t you?’ she said. She was big and black and every bit of her wobbled when she laughed. ‘Call me Debra — I’ll come bursting into your class and drag you out when I get in a mess next time.’

&n
bsp; ‘Using “Finder” usually works,’ I said. I wouldn’t actually have put it past her — dragging me out, I mean. That was the last thing I needed. I was feeling conspicuous enough as it is.

  ‘Only jokin’, darlin’. Now look, I’m going to draw you a map to get you to your first class. People get lost in this place. Now we’ve sorted you out we don’t want to lose you, do we? Heres a prospectus — got all the classes and rooms and times in. You can see how you go with that. And I’ll want you to read these …’ She handed me a sheaf of leaflets entitled: Drugs, Aids, Health and Safety. ‘Oh, and this is your locker key. I’ll need a deposit for that. Take my advice. Don’t put anything down unless it’s screwed to the floor or you’ll never see it again. And remember — absolutely no knives of any kind are allowed on the premises. You’ll have to get two photos for your ID. Keep it on you. You’ll need it to get in through the college doors — meant to keep out undesirables …’

  By the sound of it they had a few of those inside, but I made no comment.

  ‘OK, that’s it. If you have any problems there’s a college counselling service. But they’re only in last Friday of the month … three till six.’

  ‘I think I can pretty much handle things — thanks.’

  Using Debra’s map, I tracked my way through a labyrinth of corridors and found Room 108 — site of Second Year A-level English. I’d been a bit surprised the college did A-level English. But it seemed West Thames did everything. I expected the English crowd to be tame-ish — arty types and probably girls mainly.

  A glance through the little round porthole on the door established that ‘tame’ was not an adjective anyone would use to describe the English students. I hesitated, wondering whether to knock on the door or just barge in. Hey, ‘Lippy’ — the girl with the chain — was in the front row, she was nudging the girl beside her and staring in my direction. The teacher turned, and catching sight of me through the porthole, came over to the door.

  ‘Hello? Can I help you?’

  ‘Is this Second Year A-level English?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’m meant to be in this class.’

  ‘You’re not on my register.’

  ‘I’m not on anything — there seems to have been a bit of an admin mix up …’

  ‘And you’re a week late.’

  ‘I know, I was out of the country …’

  The class was stirring — I seemed to be causing a welcome diversion. The sea of faces was set in motion as everyone exchanged views. You didn’t have to work too hard to guess what they were about. By the look of the faces, not all the comments were flattering.

  ‘OK, there’s a seat free at the front. We’ll sort all this out later. Have you got a copy of the play?’

  She held up a paperback of Hamlet.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then you better share with someone, OK. Zalia?’

  The lippy girl — Zalia — moved towards me and sat a lot closer than absolutely necessary.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said, thrusting her boobs and her book in my direction.

  ‘So you better introduce yourself,’ the teacher continued.

  ‘Matt,’ I muttered.

  ‘Can’t hear you mate’ came from the back.

  ‘My name’s Matt. Matt Brookes.’ I practically shouted this time.

  ‘OK. We’re not deaf.’

  This started up general mayhem in the class.

  ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Stroud.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘The West Country.’

  ‘The Wild We-est, yipp-eee.’ Someone was playing the fool.

  Another joker started whistling ‘Home on the Range.’

  ‘Watcha think of London, Matt?’

  ‘Hey Ms Sawyer. Want me to show him round?’

  ‘Wanna know where to buy stuff?’

  ‘Want me to set you up with some talent?’

  ‘That’s enough …’ Ms Sawyer was banging on her desk. ‘Let’s get back to the play. Now, Will was just making a point about Ophelia. Will?’

  A skinny guy who had lips like Mick Jagger answered in a sullen manner.

  ‘She’s a drip … She’s a drip and he’s a nerd — they effing well deserve each other …’

  ‘Right, so that’s your point of view. Anyone got any other comments?’

  ‘He’s wrong. They’re not like that at all …’ It was a skinny guy with pock marks and long hair — blond stringy hair, looked like it had been dragged through a threshing machine. He came out with this unbelievable accent — sounded like he came from some posh public school or something. I had to look twice to make sure it was actually coming from him.

  ‘Yes, Josh?’

  ‘They’re both victims of circumstances …’

  ‘So what d’you think this Hamlet freak would have been like if his old man hadn’t been murdered?’ demanded another boy.

  ‘Yeah, and what if that Ophelia babe hadn’t been such a frigid cow?’

  ‘That’s outside the scope of the play, Miss.’ Another girl had spoken up.

  ‘An interesting point, Tamsin. How far should literary criticism take us? Any views?’

  Everyone started talking at once at this point. Most were filling us in on highly-coloured views of Hamlet and Ophelia’s potential sex life …

  While chaos reigned, I started to take stock of my surroundings. Boy, the class looked rough. What the hell were people like this doing studying English? Half of them looked like trainspotting (the cinematic version) would be more in their line. There was a guy with hair shaved round the sides and cut into a kind of table mountain on top, who had a fixed expression that I could only describe as — frightening. It wasn’t helped by a broken tooth which featured prominently every time he opened his mouth. I reckon I was the only person in the room who wasn’t into body-piercing or tattooing or both.

  I had to admire the way this Sawyer woman handled the class. At the height of the uproar she managed to pluck a valid point out of the air and get the discussion back on line. Don’t think I took much Shakespeare in though — the drama going on all around me was far more riveting.

  I just kept quiet, hoping not to be too noticeable. But I was noticed, if body language is anything to go by. I was coming to the conclusion that Lippy, or rather ‘Zalia’, thought I was good news. She kept twiddling with the little bits of hair that had escaped from where she’d clipped them and leaning towards me to get a better view of the book. A guy two desks back had noticed too. It was the skinny fella with the big Mick Jagger lips. He kept flicking glances at her under his lashes and turning pages as if he was about to tear them out. Looked like trouble was brewing.

  Sure enough, the minute the bell had gone and Ms Sawyer had left, he sidled over.

  ‘Cool blades …’ he murmured, staring fixedly at where I’d hung them over the back of my chair.

  Then quick as a flash, he yanked at the laces so that the knot flew apart and my roller blades took to the air. I dived for the one nearest me as it was flung to a boy in the back row. But the game was on. Everyone seemed to be in on it, and the harder I tried to intercept the better the game got. Whoops and cheers and cat-calls came from all around. Then all of a sudden I spun round to find everyone had gone — complete with my blades. There was no way I could tell who’d actually left with the trophies. I was standing alone in the empty classroom with the sound of their jeering voices echoing down the corridor. I slumped down on my desk and reached for my Walkman. My Walkman! They’d bloody well nicked that too. Jesus!

  I walked slowly after them. What did one do in a situation like this? Report the incident to the Head. Instinct well and truly told me that this would not be a good move. Try Debra in the office maybe? Nah, still too official. Appeal to their finer instincts — i.e. crawl — they’d love that. Finally, I decided the best course would be to weather this with dignity — keep my cool.

  Where was everybody anyway?

  By tracking the general
noise level, I arrived at a canteen. One half of it was so dense with smoke you could barely see in. The other half was protected by a peeling no-smoking sign which had two fingers added to the top, looking like a pair of rabbits ears. A few isolated groups of non-smokers sat in this no-man’s land drinking out of paper cups. I bought myself a coffee and chose an empty table on the boundary of the smoking area. I could positively feel myself being watched, but I just drank my coffee steadily and flicked through the prospectus Debra had given me, hoping I looked a lot cooler than I felt.

  Two guys somewhere behind me were having a heated discussion about music. One of them was coming over really heavy. Talking like he knew everything there was to know. Man! And the other guy was just lapping it up — like he thought this ego-tripper was God Almighty. Or did he? Maybe he was just humouring him — hard to tell.

  I snorted once or twice with amusement. I mean, the ego-guy didn’t really know his stuff. I mean he knew stuff, some stuff, but not nearly as much as he was making out.

  ‘That’s not Garage, that’s Deep House, man — you want to get your facts straight.’

  ‘So if you’re such an expert — what’s the difference, precisely?’

  I switched chairs to get them in my sightlines. Hey, I recognised the ego-guy — he was the one called Will with the Mick Jagger lips, the one who’d bloody well initiated the theft of my blades. The other guy had dreadlocks and looked, well — ferocious.

  ‘Go on then — tell me, I’d really like to know,’ he prompted.

  I was still trying to tell whether the dreadlocks guy was winding Will up or not.

  ‘The difference?’ said Will in his intentionally sullen voice. ‘S’like House that’s the generic. ‘N Garage — that’s like a derivative — but if you can’t tell the difference, mate, you’ve got a problem … Anyhow, no-one’s into that scene any more. Its like gone commercial — like dead, man.’

  ‘OK — so if no-one’s into that scene any more, what we arguing about?’

  ‘Yeah. What are we arguing about?’

  ‘I just wanted you to tell me what you think the difference is …’