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

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СКАЧАТЬ it is. I know that’s why you think we’re not talking. But hear me out, OK? I want to say a few things and be heard. That’s all. A friendly ear, without the glare of your eyes. Without any judgements.

      I hope this doesn’t sound too severe! It’s not meant to be. You know, it might be fun. To help you remember a few things. Maybe hear some new things too. Things you don’t know. I had this sudden urge to tell you. So much has happened since I made my decision.

      I know the notation isn’t always right but cut me some slack, OK? This is how I’ve always done it and you know I like to do things my way. Also, don’t get all ‘the way you do’ if I’m telling you things you already know, you’re never too old for a refresher. I don’t mean to chastise, you are always so patient with me. You always have been. I just need someone to talk to. Someone at a distance to share my findings and the way I’m feeling, so maybe we can make sense of it all. Together. Someone level-headed. I know you’re not a trained therapist! But we used to talk, when we were out there. Look. I think I might be getting myself into some trouble.

      I don’t know. Aiden thinks I’m stuck in a rut. Mentally that is. That’s what he says. Mentally and emotionally. And financially. And creatively and career-wise. Which is always nice to hear. I didn’t ask, he just volunteered this information. Apropos of nothing. He wasn’t just being a dick. But he wasn’t joking either. He’s almost definitely right.

      Aiden told me all these things this afternoon. God, he’s a clever arsehole, isn’t he? It’s like he can see the inside of my head. He’s staring at me now, grinning slightly as he leans against the window. He looks handsome as the light streams in around him. We’re both tapping away opposite each other on our celluloid keys. A proper modern, alienated couple.

      He’s on his laptop and I’m on Mum’s old typewriter. Maybe you remember the typeface. The font. I found it in the move and thought it’d be nice to get the old thing out. Aren’t I retro? I feel like the woman from Murder, She Wrote. Only problem is I can’t make any mistakes on this thing or I’ll need Tippex and I hate Tippex. It stinks. So I type carefully. And if I say things I regret. Well, they just have to stay.

      He shoots me a look and a smile that says ‘make me a latte would you?’ and I will, because that’s always my job now for some reason. We’ve got this new machine, it’s like we live in a coffee shop. I’ve bought some hazelnut syrup, to add some definition to our flat whites. And some sprinkles to lightly dust over our cappuccinos and cortados. It’s all very middle class. We’re Cameron’s children, you’d wince.

      I don’t move a muscle. If he wants a coffee he can ask, like a normal person would. He looks away again. But even though his eyes are down he knows I’m looking. I can tell. His face lit by his screen. Smiling so smugly it’s practically demonic. Cross-legged like I am, as if each other’s reflection. He’s silently trying to get a rise out of me.

      ‘Coffee, please, ducky,’ his look says.

      He can tickle me by barely moving a muscle. Make me giggle with the way he sits or the rise of a single eyebrow. He can clear his throat and it feels like a jab in the ribs. A soft hum can be a gentle hug. That’s how close we are. We send each other our thoughts by the smallest vibrations.

      He’s found a new way to make me laugh. He uses this stupid voice he’s been practising. I can tell when he’s going to do it. I see the thought drop in. Then I see him smile when he’s about to do it. I see right through him. He looks up now to give me the full force of it. Here it comes.

      ‘You tapping avay your leetle thoughts, huh? Using zee leetle grey cells?’

      I smirk, despite myself. Cheeky bastard.

      ‘I am zinking about the brown mark, above your elbow, on the back of your arm.’

      He’s decided it’s time to stop for a moment, for one of our micro chats. A tiny ellipsis before we dive back into our worries and fears. A wry smile envelops my face.

      ‘My birthmark?’

      ‘Yez. Your mole.’

      ‘My… freckle.’

      ‘Your tea stain. Yes.’

      He’s dropped the voice now. He’s got serious. Or as close as he gets anyway.

      In the silence, his eyes wander over me.

      ‘I was just thinking about how it’s like a small button. I’ve always thought of it like that. Then I remembered I had a dream where I could press it and it would make you lose your memory. What do you think about that?’

      I pause, breathe in through my nose and consider this. ‘I think you’re a very strange individual.’

      ‘Interesting you should say that. Very interesting,’ he says. Nodding, narrowing his eyes and archly taking me in as if he’s some sort of Buddha-Yoda, enlightening me with his abstract bullshit. He strokes my ankle, then makes to go back to his work.

      ‘Did you then?’ I say.

      ‘Did I what?’ he says.

      ‘Did you press it?’

      ‘It was just a funny dream. I thought I’d tell you.’

      ‘You pressed it! And now you’re being evasive,’ I say, throwing my shoe at him. It’s meant to be playful but I hit him in the head quite hard.

      ‘Ow! Oh God. Oh, my God. My eye. I think it’s going to have to come out,’ he says, overreacting wildly in search of a laugh. Which somehow he gets out of me.

      ‘Oh, my God. Tell me what happened next in your lame old dream?’

      ‘It’s not a lame old dream. It’s a nice dream,’ he says.

      I hum to myself. Then breathe audibly. Rolling a bowling ball of disdain between us.

      ‘It’s not a nice dream. Is it? It’s not lovely, is it? It’s actually quite horrible.’

      ‘I think “horrible” is a tad extreme, honeybear,’ he says. This is one in a line of creative love names he’s taken to calling me. He uses them because we’re not the kind of people who would use them.

      ‘Well, I only say that because it’s a controlling, manipulative, latently sexist dream, in which I am essentially a doll-like creature to be played with at your whim. But, now I say it out loud, maybe you’re right, maybe that’s fine.’

      His face contorts in thought. Then pauses. Then gives me a look like he’s about to cut through this whole conversation with something utterly brilliant. A real showstopper.

      ‘Don’t let anyone else’s dreams control you, Lily. For you are the master of your dreams,’ he mumbles with a degree of earnestness.

      The room cringes.

      ‘Wow, that’s great, Aid. You should put that in front of some clipart of a sunset and whack it on the Internet. People love that sort of shit.’

      ‘Well, laugh it up, Lil. But your reaction to all this is very telling. You care too much about weird signifiers of what you are to others. You are the master of your fate and your–’

      ‘Yep, СКАЧАТЬ