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

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      ‘We’ve bought our first flat here, Lily, we are pretending manfully… and womanfully… to be adults and you are out there… er, perving on Jeremy…’

      ‘Can we call him Gregory?’

      ‘On… OK, Gregory… on Gregory the account manager as he bellows at you in his skintight underwear while the woman below dashes out to see you crawling back inside on your hands and knees…’

      I can see him smiling though, all the while. Just that tiny smile in the corner of his mouth that lets me know he still loves me. That it’s all OK really. That little smirk I fell in love with. Followed by the smallest snort and snicker. He’s still there. That man I fell in love with.

      I know it seems awful, but it was funny. It’s amazing what people do when you’re not looking. Not the pant squats as such, I understand that, but it was the look. That expression on his face that he must only use when he’s on his own.

      It’s like the birds. But they know they’re being watched, they’re ready for it somehow, they’re ‘natural show-offs’. We used to say that. But humans are incredible. They’re these amazing, living breathing things, that get up to things and have these looks on their faces. I’m not going to prescribe spying on people as a remedy for your aches and pains, but I do have to say there is something about it. Just something. Something thrilling.

      I think we got in just in time here you know. The whole thing’s being regenerated, it’s a twenty-five year project. And yes, that is another word for gentrification and no I don’t think that’s awful, it’s nice round here, it’s beautiful. And we scraped together the money so we deserve to live here.

      I do feel sorry for the people in Canada House, though. Some of them have lived there for thirty years and they’re being turfed out. Half the place is boarded up already. The others are just waiting until they get the shove too. ‘Rehoused,’ they say, but who knows. You hear stories about people being forced to pay rent in new builds they can’t afford. You hear stories of people becoming homeless. Or, worse still, getting moved to Birmingham. That’s a joke, I know you were born in Birmingham. I went to one of the exhibition centres for a conference and it was fine. I mean, nice, it was nice. Yes, I know there’s more champagne drunk per square mile than anywhere else in Britain, so they must be celebrating something. Yes, I know. And they have more canals than Venice. Although I’ve always thought it was the quality of the surroundings people enjoyed in Venice, not just the raw statistical length of the canals, but there we are. But it’s really nice here, you’d like it. It’s so sad to think that people who grew up here can’t stay.

      There was a quote in the paper that read:

      ‘… the people in the newbuilds across the road tend to avoid the people in the old council estate…’

      And, if that’s true, it’s awful. But I’m sure it can’t be. I mean, as soon as I got off the Tube today, I crossed to the newbuild side of the road, but that’s because they spray water cannons on the building site, to disperse the dust or something. I didn’t want to get soaked by the mud and brick dust from the houses. It gets in your face and hair. I don’t want to be covered in what’s left of those poor people’s homes. I mean those poor people. Not ‘poor’ people. Poor as in their plight. Not economically. I do. I do feel bad.

      But I only mention this because just as I crossed the road… This is awful. Just as I crossed the road I looked up and that’s when I saw her. I looked her straight in the eye. Jean. She’d been used as an example in the Guardian. She’s the one who’d given the quote. There was a photo and a big piece about her feeling like she was

      waiting in line for the guillotine, seeing homes demolished all around me. Seeing the building works get closer and closer. As I wait my turn to be slung out. It’s like a death sentence.

      It’s awful. It really is. But what did she want me to do as I left the Tube, stay on her side of the road with the mud and brick from those houses spraying me just so I could give her a hug or something? Because, that’s pretty much what I plan to do now actually.

      I can’t tell Aiden because he’d be worried about the rumours of what goes on and the sort of people that we’re told lurk around those flats at night. But I’m sure it’s scaremongering. It’s not like I’ll be wandering about looking for her. I saw her. I saw her go into her home. I saw her and I thought, Now I know. So as soon as I’m ready, I’m going to go and see her. And apologise. For crossing the road. For everything. I’ll see how she is. What she’s like. It’ll be interesting. Maybe take her some soup. Would that be condescending? People like soup, right? Perhaps we’ll be friends.

      I saw a Missing poster today, stuck crudely to a lamp post as I cut through the estate. A girl from over there has disappeared. It seems. Into thin air. I won’t tell Aiden. People go missing all the time. But he worries about that kind of thing. He really worries.

      One last thing. You really can’t tell anyone about what I tell you when you read all this. Not Aiden, not anyone. In fact, especially not Aiden. If I ever do change my mind about seeing you. And we come over to you or we decide to have you here. If that does happen. You can’t say a word about this.

      It will always be between us. Just us. You and me. For ever. Just like our bird stuff. OK? I’m serious. So, no matter what happens. No matter how old and senile you get.

      Remember that.

      My phone goes. Bleep bleep. And we both know who’s texting. And we both know what about. But no. No thanks.

      I’m not ready to talk yet.

30 days till it comes.

      WFC – Tippi and Janet – Waterway – Blonde and red – 2 flock – Relaxed, feminine, serene – 19 degrees, under cover of night, a light breeze – Both around 5’ 6”.

      I turn off the light. Binoculars in hand. Aiden has a beer on the go and he’s giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. I was looking at the moon through them. Sipping some wine. He finally noticed what I was up to and mistook it for something more sinister. I don’t know what. Having another perv at Gregory perhaps. But now he knows he can be involved and it’s all quite silly and fun, he loves it. He’s really up for it now, in fact. It’s become a game. It’s so funny.

      We roll down the blind and leave ourselves the smallest gap at the bottom to look through. We make sure all the lights are off and I walk him through it all. You would love this. It’s like being back in the hide, but better. I get my elbows in place on a magazine and look up, playing with the focus dial and looking for a light on in the Waterway building. I flash past a couple of darkened ones, probably owned by overseas investors, so many flats are empty here. Then I see it. Lit up like a Christmas tree. A couple. At it. Not sex. Just at it. Living. You can see their whole room.

      ‘OK, get the notebook out. The one I got you from the Japanese shop. Come on. What do you see?’

      ‘The Waterway building?’ he says, flatly.

      ‘Good, that’s habitat, make eight columns and put “Waterway” in the third slot. What else?’

      ‘They’re fashionable looking, they’re pristine, like they’re in costume. Maybe they work in—’

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