The Camera Man

by Amy Cross

  He stops and aims the camera this way, before turning and aiming it the opposite direction, and then he turns as if he might be about to go inside.

  He stays completely still, and then he steps out of view.

  He's lost me.

  I feel a rush of relief as I realize that the guy isn't omnipotent after all. He's lost me, so at least I know it's possible to give him the slip. Frankly, I was starting to worry that I'd wandered into an episode of The Twilight Zone and that the guy would be able to track me down wherever I went. Now, however, I seem to have lost him, and a moment later I hear his footsteps heading a little further away.

  Leaning around the corner, I see that he's walking toward the street, although after a few seconds he stops and looks around, as if he's trying to see which way I've gone.

  I wait, holding my breath, not daring to make a noise.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as the camera man disappears around the next corner, I hurry along the street. There's nobody else about, and even the local shopkeepers haven't started raising their shutters yet. In fact, I've been following the man with the camera for twenty minutes now, and I still haven't seen another living soul.

  It's almost as if the rest of the world really has gone away.

  Not that I want us to be alone out here. I want the police to show up so I can finally get this guy arrested, but it's not like I could just loiter outside the office building until they arrived. The man searched for me for a while before setting off, and I figure that at least this way I might be able to find out where he lives. I feel torn between an instinct to play this safe and stay well back, and a desire to be brave for once and to get to the bottom of whatever's happening.

  Reaching the next corner, I look around just in time to see the man climbing some steps toward the door of a building. He looks weary, exhausted even, and he's let the camera hang loose from a strap around his neck. That doesn't mean I can see his face, of course, although I watch his silhouette for a moment as he pushes the door open and then disappears into what looks like an old apartment building. The place looks so ordinary and unremarkable, but I guess I shouldn't really have expected anything too strange.

  This guy just seems like a normal man who happens to have a penchant for following me around with a camera.

  I could turn back right now, of course, but instead I start making my way along the street. Even though nobody else is around, I know I can scream if I need help, and I want to find out a little more about the guy with the camera. As I reach the bottom of the steps, I know full well that I'm putting myself in danger, but I figure I can handle myself just fine so I start making my way up toward the door, which I assume will be locked anyway. Reaching out, I try the handle and then push the door, and to my surprise I find that it swings open.

  Okay, fine. I'll go inside, but I won't confront the man. I just want to try to find out which apartment he lives in, so I can tell the police. Then I'll leave.

  Inside, there's nothing but an old, dusty foyer, but I can hear the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps heading higher up into the building.

  It's him.

  He really is exhausted.

  It's not just the sound of his steps that tells me that. I can also hear his wheezing breaths, as if the effort of climbing up the stairs is almost too much for him. Stopping with my hand on the banister, I look up and immediately spot a hand high above, but it's the hand of an old, old man. As he gets to the first floor landing, he stops for a moment, as if he's trying to get his breath back, and then I hear the jangle of a set of keys.

  A moment later his hand disappears from the railing.

  I start slowly making my way up after him, while telling myself that I can easily run from this guy if he spots me. By the time I'm halfway up the stairs, I can just about make out the back of a hunched figure at one of the doors, and I can hear a key scratching inside a lock. Then there's the faint click of the door starting to open, and I watch between the staircase's wooden bars as the man stumbles into a dark apartment. The last thing I see, before he pushes the door shut, is a camera dangling on a strap over his shoulder.

  Number three.

  He lives in number three.

  That's all I need to know.

  I hesitate, telling myself that it's time to leave now, but at the same time I'm curious. I wait, listening to the silence of the apartment building, and then I start slowly creeping up toward the landing. One of the steps creaks slightly under my right foot, but not loud enough to bring anyone running. By the time I reach the top of the stairs and find myself face to face with the door to apartment three, I'm starting to feel a little bolder. I can also hear a voice coming from the other side of the door, so I step closer and finally I realize the man seems to be speaking to someone on the phone.

  I can't make out what he's saying. All I can hear is his faint, muffled voice. I step closer to the door, hoping that I might be able to pick up a few words, but as I do so I step on another creaking board. This time I freeze, worried that I might have drawn attention to myself, but the man's voice continues to speak as if he didn't hear anything at all. There's another brief clicking sound from his front door, however, and I realize that he didn't quite swing it shut properly.

  His front door is open. Just a crack, but it's open.

  Okay, I can hear that he's far off in his apartment. There's no need to turn and run and panic just yet. I'll just try to learn a little more about this guy, and then I'll be off.

  Leaning closer to the door, I place two fingers against the wood and give it a very gentle push, just enough to open the crack so that I can see inside.

  The place is mostly dark, although I flinch as soon as I see the man's distant silhouette. He's sitting slumped in an armchair next to a window, and he has his back to me. He's still talking to someone on the phone, and I can see now that it's one of those old-fashioned phones with a long antenna. I can hear the guy's muffled voice, but I still can't make out a word that he's saying.

  Okay, I just want to hear a couple of sentences. I want to hear what he's talking about. Then I'll go and call the police. My instinct is to turn and run, but I can't be so timid, not when I've finally tracked this guy down.

  I push the door open a little further, and then I lean through the gap. The apartment smells of tobacco and garlic, which reminds me of my Dad's place when I was a girl. It also smells a little fusty and damp, as if this guy is no fan of vacuum cleaners, and the air seems very still. The entrance hallway is dark and unlit, but I can just about make out a large cupboard with no doors, filled with overflowing plastic boxes stacked haphazardly on top of one another. As I lean a little further inside, the aroma of tobacco and garlic is joined by another, stronger stench: sweat.

  The man is still in his chair, still with his back to me, and I still can't make out a word he's saying. He seems to be mumbling a lot, and although it sure sounds like he's talking English, I really can't decipher any of it at all.

  I should go.

  I should get out of here and call the police.

  Then again, the police haven't exactly been very useful.

  Pushing the door open a little further, I step all the way into the entrance area. Okay, the guy seems pretty frail, like it'd take him a while to even get out of that chair, so I figure I can turn and bolt if necessary. I just want to hear what he's saying, so that I can begin to figure out what's wrong with him and why he's been coming after me. After a moment, however, I spot several different types of camera hanging on straps from a hook next to the door, and there are various tripods propped against the wall. This guy seems to be a serious camera buff, although I'd kind of guessed that already.

  Reaching the doorway, I stay out of sight while listening to the continued mumbles coming from the armchair.

  He's definitely speaking English, but I still can't pick out a goddamn word. I don't think he has a strong accent; instead, it's more like the words are tripping over one another, as if he's barely even openi
ng his mouth properly. I can't understand how anyone on the other end of the phone can even understand him, but he pauses regularly and seems to be carrying out a normal conversation. Maybe he's speaking to someone who mumbles in the same way, and they just understand each other.

  Suddenly I hear the unmistakable loud squeak of someone getting up from a leather chair, and I realize to my horror that the guy is on the move.

  Holding my breath, I stay pinned to the wall, and I listen to a series of slow, shuffling steps. To my immense relief, I realize that he seems to be heading into another room, although I'm starting to realize that maybe I've been incredibly dumb. I should never have come here, and now I just want to get out and call the police. The front door is still open just a crack, and I could get there in two or at most three steps, but I figure I should wait a moment longer until I'm sure that the guy isn't going to spot me.

  I think I can hear him bumping about in one of the other rooms, although after a few seconds the sound stops.

  I'm getting out of here.

  I wait a moment longer, and then I step toward the door. My hands are shaking as I pull the door open, and by the time I get back out onto the landing I think I'm about to have a full-blown panic attack. There's a part of me that wanted to confront the guy, but at the same time I feel as if I already took a massive risk by even coming into this building. In fact, as I make my way down the stairs toward the lobby, I can't quite believe that I was foolish enough to follow the guy all the way into his apartment. I don't even know what I was thinking, but I guess I made lots of weird little choices that added up to make one huge, dumb mistake.

  Finally reaching the door and heading down onto the street, I find that morning light has begun to spread across the city. There are even other people starting to emerge from nearby buildings. Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial 999 and wait to get put through to the police, so that I can get someone to come out here and arrest this freak.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Someone will come to your home later today and speak to you about what happened,” the bored-sounding woman says on the other end of the line, as I walk toward my apartment building. “Then the -”

  “You have to go and arrest him right now!” I say firmly, exasperated by her refusal to understand what's happening. “The guy's a creep! He's been following me for days now, he's probably planning something!”

  “Are you in immediate danger?”

  “That's not -”

  “M'am, are you in immediate danger?”

  Sighing, I look around and see several people heading off toward the tube station. There's no sign of the man with the camera, and I guess I already know what the woman is going to say next. I mean, if I was in her place, and if somebody phoned her up and started rambling on about all this stuff, I doubt I'd take the situation very seriously. I must sound like a fool.

  “I appreciate that you're concerned,” she continues, “and someone will come to speak to you at the earliest possible opportunity. That's the absolute best I can do for you right now.”

  “I called during the night,” I point out, glancing toward the abandoned office building and spotting a security guard unloading some boxes from the back of a van. “I asked someone to come out at around 4am.”

  “And as I explained, we have no record of that call.”

  “You don't have a record of many things, do you?” I snap, before realizing that this isn't going to get me anywhere. “Fine. I'll be home, I'll be waiting. Just please, please make sure that someone comes this time. I'm starting to feel like I'm being deliberately ignored.”

  After the woman has assured me that I'm not being ignored, and that there really will be some officers at my door before the middle of the day, I end the call and head toward my building, before slowing and then taking a detour over toward the office block where the security guard is still unloading some boxes.

  “Hi,” I say cautiously as I reach him. “Have you seen a guy named Julio this morning?”

  “You just missed him.”

  “So you saw him? He's okay?”

  “Shouldn't he be?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before realizing that maybe Julio searched the building last night and came to the conclusion that there was no-one there after all. Maybe he came to find me when he was done, and I'd already left.

  “That's fine,” I reply, realizing that I'm still not quite sure what's happening. “I'll catch up with him some other time.”

  ***

  Turning the key in the lock, I make sure my front door is secure before sliding the bolt across. I try the handle, just to make sure that nobody can force their way inside, and then for a moment I actually consider dragging some furniture across the doorway before realizing that maybe that'd be overkill.

  I'm home.

  I'm safe.

  I just have to wait for the police to come and talk to me. And they will come. They have to, this time. Besides, they came when I called the other day, when I reported the camera that I found hidden in my shower. Maybe they don't come when I call them from anywhere else, but at least I know for a fact that they come when I call them from home. Then again, that doesn't make much sense, and I need to be logical here.

  They'll come.

  Everything's going to be okay.

  After checking my phone for messages, I decide to try calling Chrissie again. I don't really expect her to pick up, but at the same time I know that at some point she has to resurface. All I need is to hear her voice, and then I'll know that these nightmarish few days are coming to an end. Chrissie always knows how to make things better, and how to calm my fears, and right now I need her more than ever. Even the sound of her voicemail makes me feel a little more assured right now.

  “This is Chrissie,” she announces confidently, “and it's pretty obvious that I can't answer right now, so leave a message.”

  There's a beep, but I'm not quite sure what to say.

  “So it's me again,” I manage finally, with a faint, nervous smile. “Chrissie, I don't know what you're up to right now, and I don't know where you are or why you can't give me a call, but I really need you to let me know you're okay. It doesn't have to be much, but just let me hear your voice, okay? Things have been pretty crazy over the past few days and I feel like I'm being followed or stalked and I don't even know whether any of its real. I'm sure it's just a big coincidence that you're keeping your head down, but please, just give me a call or send me a message or something. Anything.”

  I pause, trying to think of anything else I might be able to add.

  And then there's another beep, and my chance is over. I could call back, of course, and leave another message. I could call and leave a hundred messages, but they wouldn't mean anything, not until Chrissie calls me back. That's what I need, more than anything in the whole world. I need to hear her voice, and to know that she's okay.

  “Come on,” I whisper, staring down at my phone, willing it to ring and for Chrissie's name to appear on the screen, along with that photo I took of her at the street carnival a few years ago. “Please God, just let her call me.”

  I'm not even religious, but if Chrissie could just get in touch right now, I'd become a true-believer in an instant.

  Finally, setting the phone down, I head through to the kitchen.

  Suddenly, hearing my phone ring, I hurry back over and look down at the screen. To my immense shock, I see Chrissie's name and picture flashing.

  “Chrissie?” I stammer as I answer. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I flinch as I hear a burst of static from the other end of the line. Moving the phone away from my ear a little, I wait as the static pitches and fades, and finally I realize I can hear a voice struggling to break through.

  “Chrissie?” I whisper cautiously, moving the phone back to my ear as the static dies down.

  “- and everything's fine,” her voice says suddenly, becoming clearer by the second. “I'm sorry I won't be at the wedding, but you'll be fine. Y
ou'll have a whale of a time.”

  “Where have you been?” I ask, feeling an immense rush of relief. “Are you insane? I went to the police and reported you missing after you vanished during lunch the other day! I've been worried sick!”

  “You know me,” she replies. “I just got caught up in some other stuff?”

  “Caught up in other stuff? What other stuff?”

  “It's complicated,” she continues, and for a moment the static surges before fading again. “Come on, Jess, don't overreact. People are allowed to wander off from time to time. I was only -”

  A sudden surge of static blocks her voice for a fraction of a second.

  “- and I understand why, but I really hope you have a good time. You don't need me at the wedding, Jess. You'll have a better time if I'm not there. You'll be forced to mingle more, and you never know, you might even meet a guy. Now I hate to rush, but I've got to get going.”

  “Wait,” I reply, “where are you?”

  She replies, but her voice is caught up in another surge of static.

  “Chrissie?” I shout. “I'm really worried about you and I need you to tell me where you are!”

  I can hear her saying something, but the static continues for several more seconds before finally fading again.

  “- and he's waiting for me,” she says, “so I've really got to go. We'll speak soon, Jess, and I know you're gonna have a great time at the wedding. Don't worry about me! I'm fine!”

  “But if -”

  Before I can get another word out, I hear a beep that indicates the call is over. I immediately bring Chrissie's number up and try to get back in touch with her, but now her phone seems to be off again. I try a couple more times, before finally setting the phone down as I realize that at least I know she's okay.