I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  All the time he is saying things over and over. Mad things. That she is safe with him. Only him.

  His voice, muddled and mad. And dreadful. That she needs to let him look after her. Watch over her. That it was much better when they were children. Easier to keep her safe when they were children . . .

  She tries to crawl. That brass letterbox.

  And then she hears a new sound, a sort of lashing through the air. He has grabbed at something from the coat hooks to their left. For just a second his hold on her is loosened. She lunges forward. The door. The latch. Please . . .

  But there is something around her throat now, pulling her back. The smell of leather. Then a new pain. Much worse.

  She can’t breathe. Choking, choking. She puts her hands to her neck. Tries to squeeze her fingers between the belt and her flesh.

  She sees pictures suddenly, all swimming and changing and blurring. Her dad in the car. You disgust me. Primroses on the lane at home. Sammy, the dog – his head turned to look at her.

  She is fighting and squeezing with her fingers. Trying so desperately to get back to them.

  Her mother in the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon. Plum slices. Ready, Anna . . .

  Squeezing, squeezing with her fingers.

  Her father with Sammy on the lane. Walking back to the house. Ruffling her hair. Primroses for Mummy . . .

  She is calling out to them, to all of them in turn, but they cannot hear her. Instead, this terrible gurgling in her throat. Pain in her chest. Still she fights and fights and fights . . .

  Cartwheels on the lawn. Jenny smiling at her. Sammy yapping at her heels . . .

  Please. She has to fight. She has to tell her father that she loves him really. She has to get back to them.

  Please.

  CHAPTER 47

  THE WITNESS

  ‘I’m telling you he was in Scotland.’ Mrs Ballard is just muttering. ‘I saw a picture on Facebook. Tim in Scotland. You’re wrong . . .’

  I am staring at Matthew, bile suddenly in my mouth.

  ‘Tim has been devastated over Anna. He has always adored her . . .’ Mrs Ballard continues to babble. ‘No. No. Tim was in Scotland.’ All confusion. All terrible and dreadful confusion as Matthew takes out his mobile . . .

  He is all sharp focus, and I am both impressed and somehow terrified by this – Matthew’s tone so clipped and urgent and fuelling the terrible dread inside me. He has his contact Melanie Sanders on the phone and is running conversations in stereo.

  ‘I’ll explain later. New key suspect, Anna Ballard case. Family friend. We have to get round there right now, Mel . . . Tim – what’s his surname?’ He has turned to bark the question at Mrs Ballard, who is still dazed, muttering about how wrong we are. That Tim has always worshipped Anna. Ever since they were little.

  ‘Tim’s surname. And address . . . now, Mrs Ballard.’

  ‘Blackhouse. Ryder Lane . . . I can’t remember the number . . . He’s a nice boy, a nice boy. I tell you. You’re wrong about this.’

  ‘Tim Blackhouse. Ryder Lane. Same village . . . Stay on the line, Mel, and I’ll tell you more as I get it. He was on the train to London with Anna. Other end of the train. Lied about being in Scotland . . .’

  There is a pause as Matthew listens . . .

  ‘Don’t know, Mel. Hang on . . . Is there anyone who might know where Tim is today? If he’s not home. This is urgent, Mrs Ballard. Look at me, please. Really urgent . . .’

  ‘Jenny, I suppose. Jenny might know. She’s upstairs watching a film. I didn’t want her down here while I talked to you . . . I don’t want her upset.’

  ‘Call her down. Right now.’

  Two minutes later and Jenny, taller and darker than her sister, is standing in the doorway, all angry, confrontational body language. Arms folded.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m an investigator, Jenny, and I need to know urgently how to find your friend Tim. I don’t have time to explain. Do you know where he is today?’

  ‘Devon.’

  ‘Where in Devon? Why is he there?’

  She shrugs at first. Pulls a face. Uncooperative. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘This is really important, Jenny. The police need to know urgently.’

  ‘Dunno exactly. About a job. He didn’t say. Someone he met at the Ten Tors. He’s been on and on about it lately . . .’

  ‘About what? The job?’

  And now there is a cold tremor through me. I am staring at the photograph from the Ten Tors. The date confirms it was the same year as Luke.

  Confusion. A frown.

  I am thinking suddenly of that map-magnifier that I found on the floor by the shop. It was given to all of them. All the teams who made good time. Dear God . . .

  ‘No. The Ten Tors. He’s been going on about the Ten Tors.’ Jenny’s voice, still angry.

  I am standing up again now. Bile in the back of my throat.

  ‘What job?’ The panic in my voice makes everyone turn towards me.

  ‘Some shop. He didn’t say where. Look – he’s been very upset lately, OK? You need to leave him alone. Leave us all alone.’

  ‘Look, Jenny.’ Matthew’s tone is firm. ‘I don’t mean to frighten you, but this is about Anna. And we need to find Tim very, very urgently. Why has he been upset?’

  ‘He was getting out all the old photos. Of when he did the Ten Tors with Anna and everyone. He was looking for someone in the photos. Some boy he reckons Anna fancied. I don’t know why. I told him to leave it. Look – he’s just upset, OK? We’re all upset . . .’

  ‘Luke . . .’ It comes out like a cry for help. I want to be gone. In the car. I have to get back to him . . . I start to move towards the door. I don’t understand this . . . It makes absolutely no sense, any of this. But I have to get back to him. And suddenly I can see them all milling about. Hundreds of them. I am looking again at the photograph and can see it. Anna getting her medal. All of them getting their medals . . . Luke. Tim. Everyone laughing. Everyone so happy.

  ‘My son Luke. He did the Ten Tors. The same year. He’s at the shop. On his own. Luke. We have to go, Matthew . . .’

  ‘Stop, Ella. Talk to me. Look at me.’

  ‘He’s seeing some people about taking over his job. Oh dear God. He said they were from a Ten Tors Facebook group. And I found something outside the shop, Matthew. I thought it was Luke’s. But I’m worried now . . .’

  ‘Right. Ring him. Ring Luke now on his mobile.’

  I do as I am told, my hand trembling. Come on, come on, Luke.

  ‘There’s no answer.’ I turn to Matthew, heart pounding. The taste of bile still. All the muscles in my face hurting. Not understanding . . . Luke’s voicemail in my ear.

  ‘Try the shop line. Try to stay calm. Try to keep your voice calm, Ella . . . Did your son know Anna?’

  ‘No. No. Definitely not. I mean – he would have said . . .’ I am looking at the date on the photograph. The same year . . .

  I dial again as Matthew is talking once more to Melanie Sanders. ‘Right – long shot, Mel. But Tim may be at the witness Ella Longfield’s flower shop. Trundale High Street. Her son’s alone there, Mel. He’s called Luke. I’d call it in as urgent. But no sirens . . .’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ I am the one now muttering. The line is ringing but no answer. ‘My Luke? Why my Luke . . . ? I don’t understand any of this.’

  CHAPTER 48

  LUKE

  Luke is pleased with himself. Jessica seemed quite nice. A little bit on the small side and didn’t seem too keen on lifting. Moaned about the Ten Tors doing her back in. That might be a problem, helping with the deliveries. She also had very long nails, he noticed. Might stop her from getting stuck in. But she was nice. Local. Friendly manner. Says she doesn’t mind early starts and needs the cash. Mum would like her, so he will definitely pass on her CV.

  He checks his watch. Tim next. Running a bit late. Not a good sign. Mum likes punctuality.

  From the
Facebook group, seems they both did the Tors the same year as him, though he doesn’t remember them. Jessica or Tim. So many people. But anyone who could face the Tors has stamina. And commitment. So a good vetting process. Yes. Luke feels chuffed with himself for thinking of this. Nice part-time job. Trundale shop. Interested? Message me . . . He is glad things are slowly improving at school, and doesn’t want to leave his mum in the lurch – wants to thank her for her support. But not many young people want to get up so early for a job. If she doesn’t like Jessica or Tim, he’ll leave it to her.

  Luke glances through to the back of the shop to see that the coffee machine is nearly done. Good. He’s gasping. He tidies up the clutter on the counter and notices a rose in the display on the floor, head hanging in shame. He takes it from the bucket and moves it into a vase out the back. Will try to rescue it later. For a moment, it makes him think of Emily. He gave her a rose last Valentine’s Day. They have had a coffee together since everything and he is glad to have talked properly; that she knows how much he cares. How very sorry he is for all she went through. She is taking a break from school – a trip to stay with an aunt in France. She still doesn’t want a relationship with anyone for a bit but has said he can write. He is pleased about that. And then the shop bell tinkles. Luke smiles, thinking again of his mum. She so loves the old-fashioned sound . . .

  At first he doesn’t imagine it can be Tim. Thinks it’s a customer. He looks older . . .

  ‘Hi. My name’s Tim. Here about the job?’ He stretches out his hand and Luke takes it, trying to conceal his surprise. Everything about this boy is sort of older than he expected. Clothes. Hair. Skin – a bit grey. Sunken eyes, too.

  ‘Right. Yeah. Great . . . Thanks for calling by.’

  Luke babbles about the job. The hours. The duties. He asks Tim to sit at the stool by the counter. Just ten minutes and they can close for lunch for half an hour and have a proper chat.

  A woman comes in, looking for a bargain. ‘Anything discounted?’ Luke shows her the sunflowers. Striking. Gorgeous – twenty per cent off. She takes them. Tim watches as he wraps them in tissue and sorts the cash and the change.

  Luke is telling Tim that his mother needs someone early Saturdays and occasional Sundays to help with boxes and general sorting; also front of shop while she finishes the displays.

  ‘You happy serving?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, yeah. Worked in a newsagent.’

  ‘Good. That’s great.’

  But there is something about Tim that is a bit off. Difficult to pinpoint, and then as Tim leans forward, the smell hits Luke. Really bad BO. That’s a no, then. Luke pulls back and forces a smile. His mum won’t like that. Tim’s out, then. But he will be polite. Diplomatic, but he’ll keep it short.

  ‘So you don’t remember me? From the Ten Tors?’ Tim is staring at him.

  ‘No, mate. Sorry. But so many people. I did it twice, actually. The longer route the second time. You?’

  ‘Just the once. I did it the same year’ – he pauses – ‘as Anna Ballard.’

  And now Luke is stilled. Tim is staring at him very deliberately, unblinking.

  Luke stares back and is starting to get it. He narrows his eyes and thinks for a moment. Tim is looking at him really carefully; really oddly.

  ‘So – you a journalist?’

  ‘No. I’m not a journalist.’

  ‘Well, do you know what, Tim? I don’t think this is going to work out, mate. No offence, but—’

  ‘You telling me you don’t remember Anna Ballard?’

  Luke is stilled again. What the hell is going on here? ‘Look. I don’t know what this is really about. But I’m not having anyone here upsetting my mum any more over the Anna Ballard case. So how about you just leave, please.’

  But now Tim has taken a photograph out of his pocket.

  ‘Explain that, then.’

  Luke is temporarily nonplussed as Tim slaps the photograph on the counter. The picture is from the melee after the medal ceremony at the Ten Tors. Scores of people. Luke scans the faces, narrowing his eyes to finally spot himself with two of his mates on his walking team. Andy and Geoff. To their right is a group of girls. One of them . . . Yes. He leans closer. It does look like Anna Ballard. It’s a shock. He’s of course seen her picture on the news. But Luke had no idea they did the Tors the same year . . .

  ‘Look. I had no idea Anna Ballard was there that year. And I have no idea why you’ve brought this photograph. But I’m not going to discuss this with you. Understand? You need to go. Right now.’

  Tim then backs away and Luke thinks, Thank heavens. The guy’s some kind of nutjob. But instead of leaving, Tim puts the bolt across the door. Turns the sign to ‘Closed’.

  Excuse me?

  Just standing by the door now, staring at him.

  ‘Wooah.’ A wave of more serious realisation through Luke now. He moves forward to sort this – the guy is not big, not strong, and Luke reckons he can shoulder him out of the shop and see if he will piss off. Or maybe he’ll have to call the police. But Tim has slowly pulled a knife from his right pocket. His eyes are bulging and locked on Luke’s.

  ‘Through to the back. Now.’

  Luke looks at the knife’s sharp blade. He is thinking of his options. The back door. Phone. Kicking the knife out of the guy’s hand. For now he puts his hands up slowly, just at waist height. ‘OK, mate. So how about we calm this right down—’

  ‘Through to the back, I said.’

  Luke walks slowly backwards. He can’t risk turning away from the knife. Remembers now that the back door is bolted. Christ.

  ‘You and Anna. She liked you. She was talking to you. I watch. I see things. I watch and I remember—’

  ‘No, mate. Really. I’m sorry but you’re wrong. I don’t remember her. It was just everyone happy together.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ And now Tim’s eyes are wild. Furious. ‘I watch her. I know—’

  And then very suddenly Tim lunges forward and skims Luke’s right arm with the knife. A surface slash, but instant and excruciating pain. Blood immediately.

  Luke is standing alongside his mother’s workbench and glances left. Remembers. Luke grabs for the coffee jug really fast and hurls the scorching fluid at Tim. Some of it flows down Tim’s leg and he calls out in pain. But it misses his face, and there is another lunge with the knife. This time a searing pain in Luke’s thigh. The fast seeping of blood onto his trousers.

  They are on the floor now, and Luke is struggling to get up. Feels his thigh so wet. Tries to stand but the pain is terrible and next – a blow to his shoulder.

  And then he sees just a glimpse – the glint of red, reflected in the mirror his mother uses to check her displays. The handles. Her favourite secateurs. The bright red handles just visible on the edge of the lower shelf. He uses the reflection to feel for them – stretching, stretching – and swings backwards. The terrible feeling of the blade deep into flesh. And then blackness.

  EPILOGUE

  ELLA

  Again the trends change. Autumn brides seem to want more white this year. Instead of a swathe of the rich, warm palette, they want just a splash of it for accent – the orange, burgundy, rusts and pumpkin colours. I am opting for the softer, creamy whites, which work better in this mix – also in photographs. We have a really good supplier for gerberas and dahlias in the strong, statement colours. Gorgeous. I’m using masses of them.

  I don’t mind more white, actually. So simple and classic, and I love that there are so many variations. Tony says, White is white, surely. Tell that to a paint chart, I say. Tell that to a rose. Or a tulip.

  Today I have a whole range of whites spread across the workbench for a top table centrepiece. A favourite design – white roses just opening from the bud, with burnt orange calla lilies for the splash of colour. Very simple, but very striking.

  I’m on my third coffee, working more slowly than usual. Seems to be the way these days. I daydream a lot, cannot help it, my thoughts often drif
ting to places I would rather they did not.

  And now I pause, staring at the new secateurs in my hand. They still feel strange. Still unsure if the police will ever return my own. Evidence. Don’t want them back, actually. What I want back is the old version of our lives.

  Before . . .

  I check the clock. Just one more hour until closing. A sigh. I must press on, get this done and into the cooler. We don’t tend to get much trade at the end of the day, especially in the rain. Funny that the weather so affects what people buy.

  And now I hear a rustle outside the door. The surprise of a late customer. The tinkle of a bell and the shaking of an umbrella. I stand and move through to the counter to catch her eye . . .

  A shock. One of so very many.

  For a time we just stand, eyes locked, and I do not know what to do. I can feel tears welling – the shock, I suppose, but it feels unhelpful. I wonder why she is here. Am nervous that she is here.

  I am looking at her and I can hear my heart racing. I am remembering Matthew’s voice on the phone.

  They found Anna’s body in a freezer. At Tim’s secret flat – the flat that, according to the terms of his father’s will, he was supposed to let, to help fund himself through university, but which, instead, he used as a secret bolthole. The flat where they found his diaries full of photographs and mad and shocking rants. Watching and photographing Anna since she was very young. Hating her to talk to anyone else. Keeping a record. Watching. Always watching . . .

  Apparently he would sometimes have dinner with the family and pretend to go home, but instead would camp out in an old stone shepherd’s building high on the ridge. Watch them all in the kitchen below. Watch Anna until she went to bed, making notes in his diaries.

  ‘Ella. I’m sorry to surprise you like this. Do you have a moment?’

  What to say?

  I look at her, eyes sunken and sad and changed forever, and I wonder if there is anything to say between us. Wonder why she is here.

  ‘Of course. Come through to the back. I was due to close soon anyway.’ My manners again. Always with the manners.