The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist. Ross Armstrong

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘Well, whoever you are, they can spot you a mile off. You’re a different species. And you’ll be an endangered one if you hang around here at night. You lot need to stick to your side. They don’t much like me. So they certainly won’t like you. And if they don’t like you, you know about it.’

      ‘Who are you talking about?’

      ‘The kids. The ones they couldn’t find places for. They’re still here. They broke back into their own homes, some of them. Mostly in the Alaska House. Sleeping on newspapers. Making their way any way they can.’

      ‘But I thought everyone had new places to live?’ I say quietly. Guiltily.

      ‘Yes. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. They got us out all right, with promises of bigger flats “just that little further out”. The ones that stayed, our places are falling down and no one is coming out to fix anything no matter how much I ring up the council and threaten them. The others ended up in places like Ipswich. I mean, where’s Ipswich? It’s not my home. But some came back and stayed anyway, hiding in the building. ‘Cos their lives are still here. Their jobs are still here. Whatever they consist of. I’m not saying they’re criminals. Least, they weren’t before. But once things start to slip. Once you break the first couple of rules, the rest don’t seem so hard to break either. Every morning I wake up and someone has pissed opposite my door. Every morning I clear it up. I see everything round here. And I’ve seen some things. Drugs and drink is just the start of it. I’ve seen blood on the pavement. And I’ve seen it shed in front of my eyes too. But no one cares about the things that people like me see. Don’t hang around here, you silly cow. Get back to your end. And lock the door when you’re there.’

      You couldn’t call her kindly. She probably once was, but her manner had been hardened by the last couple of years. She looks ten years older than the photo in the paper. Her hair wasn’t so grey then. But inside, the place is still a home. Pictures of children and grandchildren smile out at you from behind floral frames.

      ‘They’re in Portugal now. They only call once a month, at most. I should’ve joined them. Bloody freezing this country.’

      She’s right, it is cold in here. I’m not sure how, outside is quite warm, summertime spreading smoothly through every other corner of London. Jean’s place has its own Arctic microclimate. Like the cold has soaked into the walls. She explains the price of fuel has gone up and her state pension doesn’t allow her to be reckless, even with heating. Everything has to be thought out. Everything perfectly stacked. Enough tinned food for a nuclear holocaust. And, along with the metal pipe that sits next to the door, a cricket bat and an old fire poker are there for self-preservation.

      For a moment, my eyes linger on a statue that sits on her kitchen sideboard. A cream-coloured monkey, sitting on a rock. Serenely smiling out at me. His ears are a curious shade of lime green. His belly is brown. And, on his head, the monkey balances a bowl. Which Jean uses for spare change.

      Below the bowl, the monkey’s hands cover his eyes.

      A noise from the other room. I stand and grip my bag again, placing myself in front of Jean, ready to do who knows what.

      ‘Ha ha, that’s just Terrence,’ she says. Now highly amused. Her King Charles spaniel puppy bounds into the room. She reaches for a treat and strokes his head. He comes to greet me too. I was never good with dogs, but luckily Terrence is good with me. Jean seems brighter suddenly with Terrence around. Younger. She is a different person all of a sudden. You can see what she would’ve been like with a family around her.

      ‘I was up late. I saw your light on. I know it’s strange, but I just wanted to say… I read the article, and I would never cross the road to avoid you. I’m sorry all this has happened to your home. I like it round here. But I’m sorry me being here means that… means that you’re being forced to leave. I think that’s awful. Terrible. And, in some way, I feel responsible. I’m sorry. For that.’

      ‘Oh, don’t worry about us, love. We’re already sunk. We’re just waiting till we hit the bottom. And there’s nothing anyone can ever do about that.’

      I am embarrassed to say it, but I want to come again. To help with things. If there is anything she needs help with. She doesn’t look happy about it but she doesn’t say I can’t either. I punch my number into her phone and promise her again that I won’t walk through the estate after dark. It’s a promise I plan to keep.

      I decline her offer to borrow one of her makeshift weapons, saying I’d run back and be safe. Not revealing I have a knife with me. Or that I had been a few seconds away from plunging it into her side when we first met. I chance a hug. She doesn’t move for a second. But I hold on. Her body, at first rigid, softens. There we stand, two people who can’t sleep, holding each other up. Gradually, her arms come up and curl around me. I haven’t hugged anyone like this since Mum. As this thought passes through my mind, I squeeze harder and she does too. Her daughter was a long time gone. Something distinct passes between us. A noiseless whisper. Or a secret. Then I feel and hear her breathe, as some held emotion drifts up from her chest and then out and away. We all need a hug. She touches my shoulder and then ends the clinch abruptly, almost with a push. But, when I look up, I see a grudging acknowledgement in her watery blue eyes. I nod, both of us avoiding full eye contact as my feet scuff her floor and I turn and put my hand on the door handle.

      I turn back for a second because I think I hear her say something. But I don’t think she did. This, however, gives me a chance to smile at her properly and she gives one back like she’s out of practice. I stroke Terrence, open the door and hear it close and lock behind me as I hustle off quickly down the concrete stairs. The stench of piss fills the air.

      I run, while trying desperately not to look like I’m doing so. I can see my flat and imagine being safe in bed with Aiden any second. I look around me, even more self-conscious on the return journey than I had been on my trip over here. I am ready for someone up to no good. Ready to give as good as I get if anyone tries anything. I try to stay inconspicuous but my own breath seems deafening in my ears, echoing hard around the estate, making me a target. It’s hard not to feel paranoid when someone has just told you to watch out. Then, from the corner of my eye, on the fourth floor of Alaska House, I see a metal slat pull open. A car speeds past, beeping its horn wildly in the distance, and its headlights illuminate the outline of a face. Startled by the starkness of the noise and silhouette in front of me, my breath falls away. I feel like I’m winded. As I stagger back to catch it and breathe deep, I look closer. A pair of eyes glisten in the window. I look straight into them. As they look back, accusingly. Then I turn and run.

19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.

      I head out of work and hurry to the Tube. Marching towards home and to my bed. Every day at work is exactly the same. I don’t know if I can take much more. I just have to zone out and let it happen to me, I suppose. Sorry. I’m falling asleep even now. I need to sleep.

      ‘Is that blood on your shoes?’ A shout comes from behind me.

      It’s Phil. A bit indiscreet. What if I was a serial killer? He would’ve just blown my cover. I give him a look. How does he know I’m not one? He could be getting himself into a lot of trouble.

      ‘Sorry. I sort of blurted that out, didn’t I?’ he bumbles.

      ‘Yeah, you did,’ I say coldly. I’m tired.

      ‘Whose СКАЧАТЬ