Lisa Stone: Stalker

In the past he’d suggested buying a microwave but she’d refused on the grounds they were unsafe, and, anyway, she’d never learn to use one.

‘I could teach you,’ he’d offered.

‘No, thank you,’ she’d said in a tone that left no room for negotiation. ‘We don’t need a microwave.’

He took a mouthful of the cottage pie and chewed slowly. Another stab of irritation. He resented having to eat her overcooked processed meals nearly as much as he resented being put in the position his father had left him in. When he’d abandoned them, Derek had become solely responsible for his mother. He’d been just eighteen and his own life had stopped. He doubted it would ever get going again while she was alive. He’d had to leave school to get a job to support them both, and had become his mother’s emotional crutch too – her lifeline. It was crushing and sucked the lifeblood out of him.

Then he felt guilty for thinking these things, and hated his father even more.

‘Sorry, lad,’ his father had said on the day he’d walked out, taking only one suitcase and never returning. ‘She’s not the woman I married. I’ve stood it for as long as I can but it’s a loveless, sexless marriage. You’re an adult now and can take care of yourself. I want something better while I have the chance. I don’t deserve this.’ But neither did he, Derek thought bitterly.

As the only man in her life, his mother took out her frustration on him so that over the years he’d grown to feel as his father must have done and could almost appreciate why he’d left. But Derek didn’t have the option of leaving. It was unthinkable. She’d never survive alone, which was not a consideration his father had had to contend with because, of course, Derek had been there.

Having eaten half of the glutinous tasteless heap on his plate, he stood, went to the pedal bin and scraped the rest in.

‘Wasteful,’ his mother called from the living room. ‘Throwing away good food when there are kiddies in the world starving. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

He didn’t respond – he rarely did – but crossed to the sink where he filled the bowl with hot water, added a squirt of washing-up liquid, and washed his plate and cutlery thoroughly. Drying his hands, he returned to the table and, in a well-practised routine, removed the salt and pepper pots and put them in their place in the cupboard, folded the tablecloth and placed that and the napkins in the drawer in the bureau.

He poured himself a glass of water, left the kitchen and began across the hall.

‘I’ll be upstairs if you need me,’ he called.

There was no reply; he hadn’t expected one. He probably wouldn’t see her again until the next day when she would be downstairs in her dressing gown making breakfast. They sometimes had dinner together, which was the nearest they came to interacting; otherwise he followed his routine and she hers.

As he neared the top of the stairs, his spirits lifted at the prospect of what lay ahead. It was his ‘calling’, his vocation, and what kept him going and made his life worth living. It created a feeling of being valued, of being in charge, and gave his life some purpose. Without it he’d be nothing, a nobody like his mother, but in this he knew he excelled.

Opening the door to his bedroom, he flicked on the light switch then closed the door behind him, sliding the bolt into place. The cheap outdated furniture, threadbare carpet, single bed (his since childhood), and faded curtains were of no significance now. His surroundings were inconsequential compared to the work he did – keeping people safe.

He crossed to the one piece of new furniture in the room, the pine workstation that stretched almost the length of one wall. Reaching under the desk, he threw the switch and then sat in his office chair and waited for the monitors to power up.

The expectation of what lay ahead was uplifting, nearly orgasmic in its intensity. Nothing else gave him a buzz quite like this. His desk and the monitors resembled a control centre. Houston calling. This was his domain. Here he had a god-like status: all-seeing and powerful. Omniscient, and looking down on the minions that were the human race.

Four screens; he might buy more, although he was already working flat out. There just weren’t enough hours in the day. Each monitor was responsible for twelve sites, forty-eight sites in all. He would be stretching himself to take on more and he didn’t want to let anyone down. He changed the sites from time to time. Updated the selection as and when necessary. If he got bored with one or if the client no longer required his service, then he replaced their site with another. He was never short of choice. There were always people in need of monitoring, guidance and assistance. It was just that they didn’t know it.

The screen savers appeared simultaneously on all four monitors and Derek entered the password, then clicked on the icon to launch the software for the live images coming from his clients’ cameras. His senses tingled with delight as forty-eight thumbnail images presented themselves and the screens were alive with little people scurrying around like ants.

He peered more closely, scanning each briefly, deciding who to visit first. This was often based on where he’d left off the night before when he’d had to force himself away from the dramas unfolding before him and switch off and go to bed. How his mother with her addiction to television soaps would have loved his work; if only she knew, he thought. Real people living out real lives; not actors working from scripts. So much better to have the real thing.

He was sure she would have appreciated it and it might have bridged their divide and brought them closer – united in a common pleasure. But she was far too much the gossip to be trusted with something so precious. A slip of the tongue over the garden fence or when she was on the phone to her sister. It was a pity she couldn’t be trusted, for this was probably the one thing that might have made her proud of him. Might, but then again he wasn’t sure.

With his hand resting lightly on the mouse, Derek concentrated on screen one and zoomed in to The Mermaid, his first port of call tonight.

Betty, the proprietress of the ‘massage parlour’, was the only one of his clients who knew he was watching and she appreciated it. He always tried to spend time with her and her girls in the evening. He’d done a deal with her to install their CCTV after one of her girls had been badly assaulted by a client who hadn’t understood that ‘no’ meant no. Betty had wanted cameras in all the bedrooms to keep the girls safe, but his competitors had shied away from the work, saying it was probably illegal. He hadn’t had the same reserve – far from it. It was what he did, although Betty didn’t know that. So they’d done a deal. He’d installed the surveillance system at cost price on the understanding he could watch the girls with their clients whenever he wanted. Sensing she had found a kindred spirit, she’d suggested another deal and now gave Derek 30 per cent of the earnings she made from her website, where she charged clients to view the girls performing. He’d been surprised to learn how many clients were willing to pay to just watch. It made him feel less of a freak.

He felt he enjoyed a good relationship with Betty and considered her a friend. Often she’d give him a little wave or say hello to the camera if it was at a time when he was likely to be watching and she wasn’t entertaining. She’d offered him the chance to experience their service first-hand, but he’d declined. He’d seen how the girls gossiped in their spare time, sometimes laughing about their clients. He’d only had sex with a woman once and that had been disaster. Doubtless it wouldn’t be any different the next time.