I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  The last email blabbered on about the system needing time to settle down, as if it was a perm that needs a few days to drop. We’re talking electronics. Science. I gave it to him with both barrels, threatened to call Trading Standards. The return email said that mice can set off the alarms. Mice? Can you believe it?

  I had to go out to the shop at two o’ clock this morning, leaving poor Luke for a bit. So here’s the confession. Instead of resetting it, I switched the stupid thing off. I know. But it’s making things worse, not better. Waste of space.

  It is 5 a.m. now, and I need to leave immediately if I am to get these flowers done in time for the delivery van. I make two cups of tea and take one up to Luke’s room.

  He is sitting up in bed, still dressed in yesterday’s tracksuit.

  ‘I made tea.’

  He looks at me as if I am speaking another language. As if he doesn’t recognise me.

  ‘Do you think everyone in school will find out?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. I hope not.’

  ‘Me too. I couldn’t bear that. For Emily, I mean.’ He puts his head in his hands.

  ‘Look, love. I don’t expect you to come to the shop with me. But your dad – he’s going to be cross if he finds out I’ve gone in on my own again, so best we not tell him.’

  Luke turns towards me with a strange blank look in his eyes.

  ‘Is it safe for you to go in alone?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course. Don’t worry about it, love. We’ve got the alarm. It’s perfectly OK. The police are sure the postcards were just from some attention-seeker. Nasty but harmless.’

  ‘You sure? You want me to come?’

  ‘No, love. You look terrible. I want you to rest and promise me you’ll stay safe and, well, to remember that this is all going to be OK in the end. We are here for you. And I know it feels really sad and confusing right now, but it will get better.’

  ‘Are you still worried . . . about that girl? About Anna?’

  ‘No, love. I’ve tried to stop thinking about it. I’m worried about you now.’

  I tell him then that I will be on my mobile and he is to ring or text immediately if there is any kind of worry. I won’t open the shop today. Once the wedding flowers are in the van, I’ll put the closed sign on the door and come straight home.

  ‘Is that OK, Luke? Will you be OK for a few hours?’

  He nods.

  ‘Keep your phone on, love.’

  Another nod.

  There is never any traffic this time of the morning, and very soon I am sitting in the car outside the shop. Ridiculous, but I have started travelling with the door locks on. I haven’t told Tony this, and I don’t know what I am expecting to happen.

  The truth is I keep getting this feeling at the shop that I am being watched. You know – that odd physical sensation, as if someone has ever so gently tapped you on the shoulder before you turn round to find there is no one there. I expect it’s paranoia. I’m not as convinced by the police’s reassurances as I’ve told Luke and Tony I am. I keep thinking about those secateurs.

  I have thought about phoning Matthew again, but he has been out of the loop since his wife went into labour and I don’t want to trouble him. In any case, he is a private investigator, not a security guard.

  I look around the car. No one seems to be stirring. The lights in the flats above the shops are still off. There are probably no more than a dozen to twenty paces between the car and the shop. I have done it a million times, day in and day out. I can’t let myself be like this.

  Get a grip, Ella.

  I take a deep breath, press the lever for the door locks, and get out of the car as quickly as I can. Shop keys already in my hand, I wait until I am in the doorway before turning to fire the key to lock the car. Heart still pounding, I am very soon inside the shop, making sure the door is pushed tightly so that the Yale lock connects. It is a special new lock that needs a key once it is closed, a bit like a hotel bedroom door. During the day, I keep it open with a flower bucket filled with daily specials. For now, I double-check it is fully closed and secure. Good. I leave the blind on the inside of the door down. You can see in through the window display, but that can’t be helped. I will be working out the back mostly, anyway.

  I move quickly through to my prep area, taking off my coat and hurling it onto a chair while flicking the switch on the coffee machine. I am an order bunny. Last night I loaded the coffee machine ready for this morning while I was doing the six matching table displays which are sitting on the middle shelf of the flower cooler. The blooms for the three wedding bouquets are all carefully set out in water on the bottom shelf, in the order I will make them up. The two bridesmaids’ bouquets first, and then the bride’s.

  When I first started my business, I used to do all wedding flowers the day before. I was worried about running out of time and making a mistake. Now I know exactly how long everything takes and have more confidence. I prefer everything to be super fresh, so I only do bridal bouquets the day before if there are delivery issues or exceptional problems with flower selection.

  I used to do the deliveries myself, too, but now I have an excellent guy helping me. Tom is cheap and reliable, he handles the flowers carefully, and he has never let me down. He’ll be here in less than three hours, so I need to get cracking.

  Today’s order is for three informal bouquets with roses and large daisies – flowers that are easy to source. Informal hand-tied arrangements are my forte, but this bride wants traditional binding with ribbon. The bouquets don’t take long, but I always build in spare time and I know I will be fine if I get going.

  I love that the bride has gone for simplicity. Her dress has a lot of lace so she is sticking with very simple flowers for the contrast. Very wise.

  Hot pink gerberas mixed with some tight rose buds for the two bridesmaids. I set everything ready at my workbench, cutting off strips of sticky floral tape and attaching them to the edge of the counter. Next I begin the first bouquet, selecting the best single flower as the centrepiece, and working outwards in a spiral to build up the arrangement. It goes well. The flowers are terrific quality and I am in a good rhythm. This doesn’t always happen. Very soon I have the required shape and move over to the mirror that is set up specially so that I can check how the bouquet looks held in front of me. Good. Yes. I am really pleased. Excellent shape. I return to the workbench and use the tape to secure the stems: not too tight, you need to be careful not to damage them. Then I pop this first arrangement back in one of the vases ready on the workbench, glancing across to see that the coffee is ready. I pour a large mug, adding milk from my mini-fridge, and sit down.

  It’s only now, as I stop thinking of the flowers, that my mind wanders. The hook on the ceiling catches my eye – it’s the one we used for Luke’s bouncer when he was little, and I picture him bouncing and smiling. So happy.

  I tried so hard to comfort him last night, but I just couldn’t find the right words. And now I think of how close I came to being a grandmother and it is too much. Tears. No sound: just the sensation of wetness on my cheeks. I let myself cry while drinking my coffee, the saltiness of the tears running into my mouth and mixing with the drink, and then I shake my head and reach for tissues from my bag on the counter. I wipe my face, sniff and turn to look back at the flowers.

  Automatic pilot again. I dry my hands carefully on the towel by the sink and select double-sided ivory ribbon from the drawer – the expensive roll set aside for weddings – and the little packet of pearl pins. This bit needs real care.

  I lift the flowers from the vase and use my favourite red-handled secateurs to trim the stems to an even length. Then I very carefully spiral the ribbon to cover the stems, turning back the end of the ribbon to make it neat, securing with the pins. I hold the arrangement at waist height to ensure it feels comfortable and check it again in the mirror, then I run my fingers up and down the ribbon to ensure there are no protruding pin edges. All good. It looks beautiful.

  T
he next part is a little more challenging, as I need to make sure the second bridesmaid’s bouquet matches exactly so there is no variation or imbalance to skew the wedding photographs. These are the things you learn with experience. How crucial attention to detail is.

  I am just glancing at the clock above my sink when I hear it. I keep very, very still, frowning as the noise makes no sense. It sounds exactly like a key in the door.

  From where I am standing, it is not possible to see around through the opening into the main shop.

  ‘Luke, is that you?’

  No one else has a key.

  Again, I keep very still, as if this will somehow negate my presence. Stop something bad from happening.

  ‘Luke – you’re scaring me. You all right, love?’

  Again, no answer, and so quietly I reach for my bag, take out my mobile and dial for the police.

  ‘Whoever’s there, I’m phoning the police. You hear me?’

  There is another sound, the door handle being rattled and then footsteps. I move to the doorway so that I can see through to the shopfront, where there is the glare of headlights outside. A car apparently reversing and then pulling quickly away.

  Heart beating and my mobile still in my hand, I hear the emergency call connecting at last, just as I see it . . . through the glass. On the floor, just outside the door.

  ‘Police, fire or ambulance. Which emergency service do you require?’

  I stare at the object on the ground, less than two feet beyond the door, and a tumble of confused images is suddenly whirring around my brain. None of the pictures make any sense to me.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I dialled by mistake.’ I hang up and walk over to the door. I unlock it, step outside and pick the object up, and then quickly lock the door again from the inside.

  I press my other hand tight against my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow down as the questions boom in my head.

  I hold the object in my hand and stare at it, as if this may somehow change what it is. I turn it over, incredulous at the familiarity of it. All the memories it so vividly stirs.

  Then I dial Luke’s number.

  It rings five, six times before he answers, his voice groggy. ‘What is it, Mum? I was asleep.’

  ‘You at home still?’

  ‘Yeah. Course.’

  It makes no sense. Why would he lie to me? Why would he want to come down here and scare me?

  I stare at the solid piece of plastic in my hand, stroking its outline with my thumb. I know that it is Luke’s. And I try to work out what on earth I am going to do now.

  CHAPTER 26

  THE FATHER

  Henry stares at the fly on the wall. He has no idea why the police are asking questions about Sarah. They won’t explain.

  He has been locked up for what feels like hours and the fly is driving him nuts. For a moment it is still and then it jumps – first diagonally about two feet, and next a second hop vertically. Henry narrows his eyes and tries to process the odd familiarity of this scene, searching his brain until the connection finally dawns.

  He laughs out loud. Norman Bates. He laughs again, shaking his head at the surreal absurdity. The acoustics in the police cell are bright, and he listens for the echo of his laugh to fade, first externally and then inside his head. He waits for absolute silence, leaning forward to place his head in his hands momentarily before making a decision and standing up.

  OK, Norman, so how about this time we kill the fly.

  Heartened suddenly by this new resolve – the notion at last of something to actually do – Henry glances around the room to answer the next challenge: namely, what he might use as a weapon. For a moment, he considers removing his shirt and flicking it at the fly, but he imagines the custody sergeant peering through the viewing window at his slightly flabby bare torso and rejects this option. They still have his belt on grounds of safety. Hmmm. And then it comes to him. He looks down at his feet.

  Henry removes his left sock, testing its stretch. The fabric is satisfyingly elastic. Good. Thankfully it is a cotton and wool mix, none of your nasty man-made rubbish. It will do very nicely. Next he keeps very still, seated on the blue plastic mattress, and waits. The fly moves several times again and then comes to rest halfway down the wall directly opposite him.

  Slowly Henry takes aim, keeping the rest of his body as still as possible. Patience, Henry. Patience. Wait . . . wait . . . and fire. Damn. The sock strikes the wall at impressive speed but misses by just a fraction, the fly whizzing right across the small room.

  Henry stands to retrieve the sock and sits back down on the bed, a new irony dawning. His lifetime battle with flies.

  Ever since he was a little boy, he has hated to watch them bothering the cattle. Felt just a little bit nauseous to see them crawling towards a cow’s or calf’s eyes as the poor animal flicks its tail and its ears.

  He was made well aware of the risks, and not just to the livestock. In the kitchen his mother moaned loudly about the terrible diseases flies carried. High on the wall, she had a miniature version of the industrial fly zappers seen in restaurant kitchens. Henry would gaze at it, both mesmerised and ever so slightly sickened as the glowing blue bar buzzed another death sentence.

  Meantime, out on the farm, his father schooled him in the options of fly control for the herds. It was an essential part of herd management, as the flies were not simply unpleasant but caused eye disease and low yield and all manner of problems. Once he finally took over the farm himself, Henry had grown used to the ghastly reality of assigning a sizeable chunk of budget each year to sprays and ear tags.

  I truly hate flies, he is thinking now as he scans the police cell for his new foe. He guesses that it will be attracted to the horror that is the stainless-steel toilet bowl, and sure enough within a few minutes there it is, settled on the rim. Henry for a moment wonders how long before they release him, praying that it will happen before he needs a crap. He cannot bear the thought of the custody sergeant unlocking the door in the middle of that most personal of predicaments. Do they perhaps have a protocol? Peer through the viewing window first to let you finish?

  The fly does not move. Henry stretches the sock for the second time, trying very hard to keep the rest of his body still. Now the fly is walking, at first inside the bowl but then back onto the rim – there is no seat – and anticlockwise. Finally, it settles again and Henry takes aim.

  This time he is not only triumphant but absurdly jubilant.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  It comes out louder than he intends, and very soon there is a new face at the viewing panel in the door. A different, younger custody officer, confirming a change in shift.

  ‘So what’s going on in here?’

  Henry is now grimacing as he realises the price of hitting his target. His sock is now in the water with the dead fly.

  ‘My sock’s in the toilet bowl.’

  ‘And why the hell would you put your sock down the toilet? Trying to cause a blockage, are we?’

  ‘No. I was killing a fly.’

  ‘Well, you can fish it out yourself.’ And then the new face moves away from the door.

  Henry ponders this for a moment, turning the phrase over in his head and wondering how he may use this to his advantage. They can’t surely make him put his hand down the toilet? No. He will make a formal complaint. He will tell his solicitor. He will write to the authorities. To the local paper.

  He is just about to pipe up again with this absurd complaint when there is the sound of the door being unlocked and the new duty sergeant, apparently having reconsidered, appears wearing protective gloves, carrying a plastic bag and a plastic toilet brush set.

  ‘Stand over by the wall.’ The tone is clipped and Henry immediately obeys. Next he watches the young man fish out the sock using the toilet brush, placing it in the bag before pressing the flush button.

  ‘Did you see the dead fly?’ Henry is keen to be believed.

  ‘Never mind the flippin’ fly, how about you
give me your other sock so we don’t have a repeat performance.’

  ‘I’ll have cold feet.’

  ‘Well you should have thought of that before you messed with our plumbing.’

  Henry sighs, removes his remaining sock and hands it over.

  ‘When is my solicitor due back? He said first thing this morning. And have you checked out what I told the inspector last night? About where I really was when Anna went missing? Are you going to let me go now? You can’t just keep me here. I know my rights.’

  The custody sergeant lets out a long huff of breath as he leaves the cell, relocking the door then speaking from the other side.

  ‘It’s not up to me, is it? Me?’ He holds up the plastic bag then. ‘I just do the dirty work.’

  CHAPTER 27

  THE FRIEND

  Sarah is watching intently as Lily fusses with a kettle on an ancient Aga – a smaller and shabbier version of the range in Anna’s family kitchen. The Ballards’ Aga is dark blue and much wider, with more ovens. Anna’s mother was forever wiping down the chrome and the covers to make it gleam. This one is a grubby cream colour, with chips and a general air of neglect.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ Lily delivers the question without turning, opening a cupboard alongside the range to take out two striking ceramic pots, dark green with large white daisies.

  ‘Er, coffee please.’

  Lily is entirely different from Sarah’s memory of her. Much skinnier, funkier and with almost waist-length hair cut into a V-shape at the back, the ends dyed a very garish and unattractive pink. The hair colour and her new look have been the principal topic of conversation between the sisters since Lily arrived to collect her from Tintley railway station, each of them notably avoiding the issue of why Sarah is here.