I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘So it is my fault. Either way, I messed up, Lily. I completely let Anna down.’

  CHAPTER 39

  THE FATHER

  ‘I’m wondering if you should phone the family doctor. Maybe a sedative or something? To help Barbara calm down?’ Cathy, the family liaison officer, is stroking Barbara’s back as she sits, head between her knees, on a chair at the kitchen table.

  Henry is standing, hands on both hips, crippled by his own turbulent and twisted emotions. Fear. Guilt. Shame. You disgust me. That awful image on the television, which in the end he had to turn away from. That crazy lunatic with a gun to his daughter’s head. All he could think of in that moment was of his own shotgun, which the police have confiscated. Of wanting it back. To point and aim. To shoot him. Karl. Dead. There. Take that. In the chest. In the head.

  He paces as Cathy soothes his wife and keeps looking up at him for direction.

  ‘I don’t want a doctor. I don’t want a sedative. I need to know what’s happening. Oh my God. My baby . . . my poor baby.’ Barbara’s voice is rising again and Cathy is shushing her, telling her to breathe calmly. To take long, slow breaths.

  ‘She has sleeping tablets but she doesn’t like taking those.’ Henry feels his lip trembling as he watches his wife’s shoulders heaving with the strain of trying to maintain control.

  ‘I really think you should lie down for a bit, Barbara. Upstairs. We’ll bring you any news. As soon as we hear anything at all.’ Cathy is still stroking Barbara’s back. ‘Are you sure you don’t want the doctor?’

  Barbara looks around the room then, as if not seeing what is in front of her. ‘No doctor. I want to be in Anna’s room. I’ll lie down in Anna’s room.’ She gets up with an odd and worrying look on her face, trance-like, at this new purpose.

  ‘Get Jenny to go with her.’ Cathy is directing this at Henry, her eyes wide with concern. Henry, meantime, is helpless. Pacing. Not quite processing the information. ‘Get your daughter to go upstairs. Sit with Barbara. She mustn’t be on her own.’

  Cathy’s mobile is ringing once more, and Henry again feels the shudder that coursed through him when he first saw the picture on the television. Cathy says she must take the call, and so Henry moves back into the sitting room to tell Jenny to go upstairs, please, to help her mother.

  Tim stands, clearly wondering what he should do. The television is now muted but the picture is of sports coverage. Henry feels a punch of outrage that the world is moving on already. Less than half an hour since that maniac stood his daughter by the window, gun to her golden hair, and the world has moved on to the football.

  ‘I really think you’d better go, Tim. Sorry. But it’s all just too much for us.’

  Tim just nods, white and shaken, grabbing his coat from the back of the sofa. Henry hears the click of the front door as Tim leaves at last, then moves back into the kitchen, trying to listen in on Cathy’s call. She has gone through to the boot room and closed the door. Infuriating. Her voice is muted by the thick oak door.

  Sammy has taken the opportunity to sneak through from the boot room, and sits now at Henry’s feet, eyes pleading for permission to stay with him in the kitchen. Henry looks at his dog. The glint of amber in his dark eyes. The loyalty. The concern, picking up the tension in the room. He is remembering the puppy on the front lawn, yapping and bouncing to and fro as Anna completed cartwheel after cartwheel on the grass. Look, Daddy. I can do three in a row . . .

  Henry moves even closer, leaning right by the boot room door, but it is hopeless; he still cannot hear. Cathy is whispering. The desperation to know what is going on burns in Henry’s chest like a tearing of the flesh. He closes his eyes. His breath comes loud and laboured through his nose. Sammy is at his side again, nuzzling his leg. Can I stay, master? Henry pats his dog’s head and feels something inside him break as the dog’s tail begins to wag.

  Finally, Henry moves over to the scrubbed pine table, on automatic pilot, sitting in the high-backed farmhouse chair vacated by his wife. Only now does he notice that the blue-checked cushion normally on the chair is lying on the floor, just under the table. For a moment he becomes fixated on the cushion, trying to decide if he should pick it up. For a few seconds this decision feels momentous; too difficult to make. And then he is telling himself how stupid and futile and ridiculous it is to even think about this; how little it matters if all the cushions are on the floor. Every stupid thing in this stupid room on the floor. He glances around, clocking all the china, the plates and the jugs and the bowls, and the paraphernalia on the dresser, thinking for a moment that he would like to sweep his arm across it all. Send it all to the floor, to join the cushion. At last there is the familiar squeak of the boot room door, Sammy standing, tail stilled, wondering if he is going to be exiled.

  ‘That was one of my colleagues.’ Cathy walks across the room to stand alongside him.

  ‘News from Spain? From the team? What the hell are they waiting for? Don’t they have tear gas or something? When are they going to end this?’ Henry is surprised at his tone, which is more leaden than angry, not quite matching the words. His head feels the same and he lets it hang down again, looking back at the cushion, noticing a small stain in the left upper corner. Ketchup probably. Another image that makes him close his eyes. Anna lathering ketchup on a bacon sandwich.

  ‘Nothing more from abroad. No. But there is something . . .’ Cathy’s tone is unusually hesitant. A pause.

  ‘What now? A ransom?’ He has been waiting for this, actually, and opens his eyes. ‘Because if he wants money, we can get money. As much as he wants. We can sell the farm.’ Henry’s mind is suddenly racing, thinking of all the people he might ring. Who might chip in. Lend. Help.

  ‘No. Not a ransom. That’s not something the team in Spain would want to countenance, anyway . . .’

  Stupid of him. How did he think that would play out? Henry stops all the imaginary calls to friends and banks. The local church. The online appeal for cash. He lets go of the scene in his head. A bag of money for Karl. Anna being released from a car, running towards him. Daddy . . .

  His mind is exhausted from all the chopping and changing. The runaway ideas. The hopes raised and dashed. The horrible imaginings. From the news. All these blessed pictures on social media. The police aren’t going to let Karl go, ransom or no ransom. There is no obvious way to make Anna safe. Nothing he can do. That burning in his chest again. Fists clenched tight, eyes fixed again on the cushion.

  ‘I was wondering if I could ask you to look at a photograph, Mr Ballard.’

  Henry notices the formality. Cathy has encouraged them to use her first name. She always calls Barbara by hers. At first she called him Henry, all tea and sympathy and tilting of the head. But since the barn and the shotgun and the interview, he is Mr Ballard. Will probably stay Mr Ballard from here on – a whisker from suspect status – until this is all resolved.

  You disgust me, Dad.

  ‘This photograph, Mr Ballard. It hasn’t been shared widely. I should warn you, it’s another shot of Karl at the window with the gun. The very upsetting image. The one that was understandably too much for your wife. But it’s taken from a different angle. And it would help if you would look at it very carefully for me. If you think you’re up to that?’

  ‘Of course I’m up to it.’ A lie. Henry braces himself. He does not want to look.

  Cathy passes him not her iPhone, but her larger iPad.

  ‘It’s a shot taken from the flats opposite. From a higher angle. It’s been tidied up a bit and there’s a zoom.’ She sweeps her finger across the screen to show him the second version.

  Henry feels his lip trembling. ‘So what am I supposed to say? Supposed to be seeing?’ Torture. He doesn’t want to look at it. The gun. The hair.

  ‘Karl has refused to let his hostage speak to the negotiator. Also, he hasn’t sent a photograph through to the police team, which they have requested several times. It’s standard procedure. To calm things down and to reassure th
at the hostage is OK. It’s an exchange process. Bartering. If you send us a photograph or let us speak to the hostage, we will do this . . . Send in food, or another phone, or headache tablets or asthma inhalers or whatever it is he needs.’

  The hostage? Why is she saying that? Why isn’t she calling her Anna? How dare she. This is his daughter. She should use her name . . .

  ‘What I’m asking is this. From this photograph, how sure can you be, Mr Ballard, that this is definitely Anna?’

  And now Henry’s head is in a whirl. Is she serious? A maniac on a train talks his daughter into some seedy club after her theatre trip. He gets her drunk and God knows what. He kidnaps her. He takes her to Spain. He holes up in a flat with a gun and . . .

  ‘Please look at the photograph very carefully. Especially the girl’s body shape. Her waist. The width of her shoulders in particular. Is that Anna?’

  Henry looks at the image, feeling the ache of his frown. Shape? What does she mean – shape? Only in this moment does he realise he has a terrible headache. Maybe a migraine; he has had it for hours now, ever since the police station.

  The photograph is grainy, not good quality, especially in the zoomed version. The hair is definitely Anna’s.

  ‘I don’t understand. Who the hell else could this be?’

  ‘Please. Just look carefully.’

  Henry stares at the girl, back to the window with a gun to her head. He finds that he is rocking his body now. He is thinking of Anna facing away from him, looking out of the kitchen window. Look, Daddy, there’s that magpie, back again . . .

  What is he supposed to be seeing in this picture? Body shape? What kind of person asks a father to think about his daughter’s body shape?

  In this photograph, Anna is wearing a tight jumper. Grey, though that might be distorted by the camera, the picture almost certainly taken on a phone.

  Henry looks, as instructed, at the waist. The shoulders.

  A jarring. Something not right. Oh my God . . .

  ‘Are you saying she might be pregnant? Is that what you’re implying?’ Henry is fighting very hard not to lose it. He does not want to lose control in front of this woman. He looks again at the photograph and again feels the jarring. Something he cannot quite understand.

  ‘No. That’s not what I mean to imply. Her shape. Shoulders. Waist. We all have a set shape, Mr Ballard – a ratio which doesn’t change even when we lose weight or put on weight. Or even pregnancy, though that isn’t what I meant at all. Shoulder-to-hip ratio. Does this look like Anna to you?’

  And now Henry is holding his breath as the enormity of the question and the consequence is sinking in. ‘I think we need to call Jenny down here.’

  CHAPTER 40

  THE WITNESS

  I am relieved that Tony has finally gone upstairs to change.

  ‘He doesn’t mean to be like that.’ I am staring at Matthew, but my thoughts have followed my husband upstairs, watching him put his suit carrier behind the door. His toiletry bag back in the bathroom. Tired. Sitting on the bed. Worried for me.

  ‘No, don’t apologise. It’s good that he’s protective. I’d be exactly the same if it were my wife, and I’m actually very glad we’ve met now. It’s better. For you, I mean.’

  I smile at this as Luke comes into the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboard for the biscuit barrel. I consider stopping him; I really should make something proper to eat, but the strain of everything has thrown me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matthew. How rude of me – I haven’t even asked about the baby and your wife. How are they doing?’

  The change in Matthew’s face is immediate, that bright and bemused sense of pride and disbelief, the punch-drunk expression of wonderment you carry in those early days. It’s touching. ‘Great, thank you. Really great. She had a C-section so is a bit fed up and a bit sore. Stuck in hospital for a few days.’

  ‘Tell her to make the most of the rest. This is Luke, by the way. My son. Luke – this is the private investigator. Matthew. Remember I told you?’

  I watch closely as Luke eyes Matthew with a wariness to match his father’s. I feel defensive of both Tony and Luke suddenly. Matthew is right. It is good that they look out for me. I think of all that Luke has been through these past few weeks with his girlfriend, and feel disloyal and foolish for my suspicions over the stupid map-magnifier. How on earth could I have gotten myself into such a muddle? I will not tell Matthew and I will not challenge Luke. Maybe the wretched thing was in my own pocket somehow. Yes. Maybe I was the one who dropped it.

  ‘Are we having supper?’ Luke is blanking Matthew and staring at me.

  Sometimes I wonder if life would have been easier for Luke with a sibling. Someone to confide in. Nearer his own age. We did try for another child. They never found anything wrong but it just never happened.

  ‘To be honest, I think I’ll order something in. Do you fancy Chinese, Luke?’

  ‘Great.’

  Once he has left the room, I confide in Matthew just how big a trial it has been for the whole family this past year. My fault. Me not being myself; so preoccupied with this case, especially since my name was leaked. The wretched postcards. Longing for it all to end.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else you need to tell me? About someone watching the shop? You didn’t notice a car colour? Anyone odd hanging around? At the shop? Or here?’

  ‘No. Just an odd feeling, really. You know – that sensation when you feel someone is watching. Like I say, I’ve been so jumpy. Probably paranoia because of those stupid postcards.’

  ‘OK. Well, I’m sorry, Ella, but for now I’d better go.’ Matthew is checking his watch.

  ‘You’d be welcome to stay. Share the takeaway?’ Even as the words slip from my mouth I regret them.

  ‘No. Very kind but I have chores to do. But you know you can call me any time. If anything happens. If anything worries you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I find I am embarrassed by the extremity of my relief that he will not be staying for the meal. It will be so much more relaxing for Tony and Luke. I really must learn to put my family before my blessed manners. I like Matthew, but I have to remember this is his job. I switch the channel on the television so we can just quickly check there is no update from Spain before Matthew leaves. As he reaches into his pocket for his car keys, I hear a text buzz on his phone.

  ‘Is it the case?’

  He nods and is reading, his face darkening, before looking up at me.

  ‘OK. So this is in the strictest confidence, Ella. But there is some quite difficult news. I suspect it will be a while before this breaks openly. But I have a contact in touch with the Ballard family and . . . Well. I feel you should know this now.’

  I brace myself, muscles taut in my stomach. Also my arms, palms pressed flat into my thighs. I am looking at the television, where the shots of the flat in Spain show that the curtains are now drawn. The scrolling headline along the bottom of the screen says there have been no new developments. But I am afraid that Matthew is going to tell me the worst. The bubble of hope burst.

  ‘Is she dead? Has he killed her?’

  ‘No, Ella. The woman in the flat. The hostage. It isn’t Anna. We have no idea what the hell Karl is playing at. But it isn’t Anna.’

  CHAPTER 41

  THE FRIEND

  Sarah is lying in Lily’s bed, staring at her sister asleep on the blow-up mattress alongside. Lily is doing the same sweet thing she did as a small child, the index finger of her right hand pressing the tip of her nose. When they were little, Sarah would tease her.

  Why do you do that, Lily? Push your nose up when you sleep?

  Helps me breathe better.

  That’s ridiculous.

  I don’t care.

  The bracelets are still around Lily’s wrist, and Sarah is wondering if she at least takes them off in the shower. Moon popped in earlier; Sarah is certain now that they are an item, but she is relieved he has backed off for now. Maybe Lily had a word when Sarah took a
bath.

  Sarah is exhausted, and though the bath was soothing, she always knew she would struggle to sleep. She wanted to take the mattress on the floor but Lily insisted. Even managed a joke. I can keep an eye out for monsters under the bed.

  The room is thankfully not in pitch darkness. There is a small pane of glass above the door, letting in gentle light from the landing. Lily explained that a couple of others in the house suffer insomnia and bad dreams, so a gentle light is plugged in on the landing so they don’t feel afraid when they have to get up in the night.

  Caroline, the woman who owns the house, is apparently returning in the morning and Sarah is nervous. She needs to ask if she can stay a while. She can’t bear the thought of returning to her mother, not after all she has learned from Lily. There have been more text messages, pleading for her to come home, but Sarah has been curt with her replies, saying only that she is fine and that she is with Lily. Leave me be.

  But Sarah is torn – like Lily, she is relieved that her father is not involved in Anna’s disappearance and yet it is a temporary relief, not a full stop. They surely have to do something about their father. They can’t just pretend that the past didn’t happen. What if he targets someone else? Won’t that become partly their fault if they don’t step up?

  Sarah can’t believe that their mother wouldn’t believe or support Lily when she told her. And now she feels her eyes scrunched up tight as she realises she should have spoken up herself – done more to reach out to Lily, rather than blaming her for abandoning the family.

  She moves as quietly as possible onto her back and tries to calm her thoughts, to examine the shadows around the room again. In the corner there is a shop dummy made of some kind of bamboo that Lily uses as a clothes stand, draped mostly with scarves and a patchwork poncho. In daylight she had admired it – very boho – but in the shadows it looks foreboding, like a headless person, and Sarah has to concentrate hard to pick out and identify all the items individually to make them less ominous. Scarf. Scarf. Poncho. Just clothes, Sarah.