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

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      ‘Oh, I’d imagine so, babe. I imagine they sell them online actually. That’s what I imagine. Babe.’ He loves it when we do this.

      ‘Oh yup, that’s what I imagine too. It’s probably reclaimed. From some suburban yard, somewhere you wouldn’t have heard of, mate.’

      ‘Oh yeah, mate. I imagine it’s difficult to tear Tippi and Janet away from the reclamation yard. There’s so much there you can… er… er…’

      ‘Reclaim, babe?’

      ‘Well, exactly, mate.’

      I’m not sure who we’re making fun of really. Everyone, I suppose. And ourselves.

      Oh dear! Oh no. Cary. You poor thing. You poor little hip, upwardly mobile thing, you’re bleeding. Ouch.

      No sooner had ‘the lads’ put ‘cloth-gate’ behind them, when catastrophe struck again. I caught it in my sights perfectly. I could see it before they did. Those boys in their high spirits were larking about on their Wii. And Cary was standing way too close to the action. I thought, someone’s going to get hurt here. And bang! He caught a controller right in the face.

      He’s bleeding quite a lot. From his top lip. The one with the mohawk is looking for something, maybe ice. While ‘Mate 1’, still clutching the blood-flecked controller, apologises profusely while pacing from foot to foot.

      I’d call an ambulance but I don’t think it’s my place to. It might prompt a few questions. Like: ‘Who the hell called this ambulance?’ ‘Dude, is one of us sending messages out into the airwaves without knowing it? By mental telepathy? Or, like, some other discreet human transmission process we’re as yet unaware of?’ And ‘Hey, bloody hell, man, who’s that woman staring at us through her binoculars over there?’

      I think an ambulance might be a bit extreme anyway. I’m sure it’ll stop bleeding in a moment. I still wish I could help. I’d go and give it the once-over myself if I was a doctor. But I’m not. No. I’m not a doctor.

      ‘You’re obsessed,’ Aiden mumbles.

      ‘No, I’m not. People always say that sort of thing about women. She’s mad, she’s mental, she’s obsessed. You should know better. You write good women.’

      ‘I think I just write people. Hopefully. But you’re right. Sorry. I won’t say that. It’s stupid.’

      ‘I’m just interested.’

      ‘Yes, and you’re good at it. It’s probably from your past as an “avid birdz votcher”. You big old geek.’

      ‘I was never a birdwatcher.’

      ‘What? Of course you were. Told me on our first date you were.’

      ‘I certainly never said that. Let me educate you a bit. Birdwatchers: go to their local park, with standard gauge binoculars and mark down all the little birds they see in the local area. Birders: may go to other countries, recreationally or professionally–’

      ‘Professionally? Who pays them to do that?’

      ‘—or wherever, in search of more birds they haven’t seen to add to their Life List. There are around ten thousand varieties of bird, even the most ardent birder is unlikely to see as many as seven thousand in their lifetime. Now, those that go birding: may visit specific hides and spots to see birds for an afternoon and may also keep a book or list of what they see, like the birders do. And lastly, twitchers—’

      ‘Ah, twitchers!’ He snorts.

      ‘Twitchers: set their sights on a particular rare bird and travel specifically to find it.’

      ‘Oh right, and which one are you?’ he says.

      ‘Well, you couldn’t say I was a twitcher. Which, incidentally, my friend, is so named because one of the most famous rare bird searchers, Howard Medhurst, had a rather nervous disposition, if you must know.’

      ‘Like you. You have a twitch. Yes, so that’s what you are.’

      ‘No I don’t. No, I’m not…’

      ‘See, there it goes. It’s a long blink and your cheek goes a little too!’ he says, grinning again, the cheeky sod. Thinks he’s ruffled me.

      ‘Really? I… I’ve never even noticed I do that.’

      ‘Vell, you doo. So zere,’ says my Austrian psychoanalyst. His eyes narrow as he takes on a darker tone. He smiles, half concerned, half like a predator, sizing me up. Then speaks exactingly: ‘So… I suppose ze real qvestion iz… vot are you… searching vor?’

      A knock at the door. I’m saved from my interrogation. I answer it. Aiden sits there not even thinking about getting up to answer it. He simply stays there on his arse, like plankton, like he always does.

      ‘Dr Gullick?’

      Aiden suddenly shoots up, excited, shifting himself into a position where he can see me but the woman at the door cannot see him. He is wide eyed and open mouthed. He eyeballs me.

      ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say.

      ‘Could you please help me. It’s an emergency,’ she says.

      ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I say, swallowing hard and reaching for my black leather washbag. Here we go.

      I told you. I am not a doctor. As you well know. But this does tend to happen from time to time.

19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.

      WM – Phil – Desk by the door – Brown hair – Very singular – Open, friendly, maybe too friendly – Air con broken, sweaty, temperature unknown – 5’ 11”.

      There’s a tall fern in a plain white porcelain pot in every corner of the room, you know the kind. Blackening bananas litter an enamelware fruit bowl. And people have started to sit on awkward seats that force you into a position somewhere between ‘riding a penny-farthing’ and ‘kneeling while being held at gunpoint’. It’s good for the back they say, but what you gain in posture you must lose in dignity. There’s no place like home. And this really is no place like home. They say that in twenty years’ time everyone will work from home. We’ll communicate with colleagues and clients purely through the net and companies will save millions on the office space. I’m counting the days.

      I turn off my phone because it’s been ringing again today. I don’t want it interrupting me now. There was even a voicemail. And we both know who’s calling. Don’t we? But, no. I’m not ready to talk, yet. Take the hint. I spend most of my time at work talking on the phone. To people in far off countries. People I don’t know. And have no desire to. This is how it goes:

      ‘Could I ask how you found the seating arrangement during the conference?’

      ‘Was there enough seating in the relaxation СКАЧАТЬ