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

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.

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 blood is it?’

‘Not mine.’

‘OK.’

‘All right?’

‘You make me pretty nervous.’

I’m walking hard and he’s struggling to keep up. I’m not slowing down though. If he wants to talk so much he’ll keep up. I’ve got to get back and have a chat with Aiden. I’m worried about him. He’s deep into his book. He barely leaves the house. I said I’d support him while he wrote it, so I’m the one paying the rent. I’m the one paying for the food deliveries too. He’s done the same for me in the past, but this is different. He’s a shut-in. He doesn’t go out on his motorbike or anything any more. He never talks about our possible baby. He just sits by the window tapping away at his laptop. Morning, noon and night. He’s really letting himself go.

‘I know this isn’t perfect timing but I wondered whether you fancied a drink some time?’

‘What? What kind of drink?’ I say, as if the word ‘drink’ seems somehow alien to me.

‘You don’t have to decide that now. You can have anything up to the value of six pounds. Which will get you most things these days. Well… in Yates. Not other places. But we could go other places.’

‘You know I’m married right?’ I stop for the first time and look him in the eye.

He looks back at me. I’m not sure I like how he looks at me. He’s very keen.

‘Er… yes, of course,’ he says, falteringly. He stops altogether for a second.

Then tries again. ‘I mean as friends. Just for a chat. Just to pass the time.’

‘Oh, a friendship drink. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘I am.’

I’m through the barrier and he knows he gets a different line to me so he’s talking very fast.

‘But if you need to let off steam any time. After work. Someone to talk to…’

‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’ I’m civil as I head off in the other direction. He’s nice. I’m tired.

‘Not that you need anyone to… Wait!’

That does stop me in my tracks. That was loud. A few people make faces as they pass by me and head down to the elevator. He’s making a scene. I make a face that says, Go on then. What?

‘I’ve seen you. I watch you. When we’re at work.’

Oh, God. He’s either searching for a romcom moment or he’s about to throttle me. People flow past me and onto the escalator and down to the Underground. And I have to stay there. In his awkward tractor beam. Until he’s finished.

‘OK, Phil. See you tomorrow.’

He stares at me. Meaningfully. But I’m not entirely sure what the meaning is.

‘I just like you, that’s all,’ he murmurs. It would be cute if it wasn’t so awful.

Romance is a curse. The amount of unwanted gestures that get foisted on women in this city is incredible. All those sensitive London blokes that think they’re in a kooky movie. Someone should tell them, Real life isn’t like that, love . Supposed ‘romance’ has become an excuse for men to do what they want. To shout across crowded rooms. To talk in stupid voices. And, worst of all, learn to play the ukulele. Today’s version of ‘romance’ is just another thing women have to withstand.