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

I point at him, make a gun sign with my fingers and fire. Pow, pow. Then I step onto the escalator.

‘See you tomorrow then, Li…’

I’m halfway to the Victoria Line as his voice fades away in the crowd.

I wonder what he wants with me. Maybe he doesn’t even know, at this stage.

At home, I collapse into bed. Kick off my trainers and turn my head to Aiden. He barely even looks up. Just taps away, his back leaning against the window. Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ I’m not sure who he’s become. I barely recognise him. I breathe out heavily. My head falls back onto my pillow. Last night has given me such strange thoughts.

I don’t know what it is about last night. But it’s bringing things back to me. Some unresolved things. Again, I know you’re not a therapist.

But if I do let you see me again. If I let you. If you do pay us a visit. If you really must cross the Channel and come and see us. If you can manage that trip over on the ferry. And everything else.

You’ve got to promise not to say those words. You will promise me that. You have to. Or you’re not coming anywhere near me. No matter how much you say you can help.

I know you think I’m overreacting. But please. Don’t say them.

Those words I’ll never forget.

Don’t say: This is how it started with her too.

Part Three:

I slept for fourteen hours straight. I look at my phone and, luckily, it’s Saturday. I had no idea. The days seem to merge into one. Aiden must be in the bathroom. He’s not making much noise in there. Maybe he’s in the bath. Stagnant. Like a soup. Still tapping away at his laptop all the while.

‘You OK in there?’

No response. I slept too long. My head hurts and my brain is heavy. My limbs feel like they’re carrying weights. I pull on some jeans and a shirt. I hate the feeling of putting on clothes when I haven’t showered. I hoist up the blinds and let the light flow in. It’s so bright. My eyes struggle to focus and then a crowd come into view. In the top right hand of my window. In front of Canada House.

‘Just going out for a second, you need anything?’

No response. I still need to talk to him about his behaviour recently. Who am I to talk? I know. But, still.

I squeeze my trainers on and head into the hallway and then the lift. Using it for a few flights of stairs always seems pointless but I want to check I don’t look too mad in the mirror. I tie my hair back, spray under my arms and throw my black bag into my rucksack. I guess I’m using it more in the way that Superman uses his telephone box. I tap my fingers against the metal rail as I wait for the door to slide open. When it does, I hurry to the glass doors, push the green release button to let me out of the building and the fresh air hits me, making me feel a bit sick.

I squint in the bright daylight. The crowd gets thicker as more bodies join it. I could call Jean and ask her what it’s all about rather than join the rubberneckers but I only think of that when I’m virtually there. On second thoughts, I don’t even have her number, I only gave her mine. There are faces I know from the newbuilds milling around, people from the council side too. It’s a real community get together. But, God knows what it’s all in aid of.

Then I feel it. There it is. That chilly feeling is here. The one that goes through the flesh and into the bones. The sort that makes animals stampede. The ‘we need to talk’ text. The Unavailable number that calls and asks for you by name and beckons you to ‘sit down’ because ‘we have some news that might be difficult to hear’. Cary is eating a Cornish pasty at the edge of the group. Perhaps someone has erected a snack stand. He gets up on tiptoes to try to get a better look but doesn’t want to venture in any further. I’d say hello but that would be odd. He’s never met me.

I walk past the Missing poster and glance at the blurred picture of a young woman’s face on it. It says she was a local student. The number of the local police sits underneath her photograph. I wonder where she went. I wonder when she went. I feel like this poster has always been there. Much like a flyer for a gym or cheap long-distance calls, I always imagine these things are not meant for me.

I push through the bodies. They seem to be crowded around an open door. It’s a weird sight. They stand in neat rows like a perfect audience for a Covent Garden street magician. But they’re being held back by an invisible force that allows them only so close. Some police tape that exists only in their imagination. Because the police are nowhere to be seen. Maybe no one has thought to call them yet. Maybe no one wants to, far better to keep that level of danger in the air, like a theory dangling, unanswered. It’s more thrilling that way. Or maybe it’s just not that serious. I’ll join the throng and find out. I like to sit and watch as much as the next man.

My breath gets shorter though as I get closer and see they’re standing, looking up at the open first floor door to number forty-one. Further up the stairs, directly outside her door, more people stand, gawping and ruining the view for those on the ground. Too many bodies in the way. They’re stock still, staring at what I can’t see. They part suddenly and a young boy shouts as something flies past everyone at knee level. It’s Terrence. I feel like he’s an old friend even though we only met a few hours ago. The night before last. When I was here.

Terrence barks wildly. Spooked or just seeing an opportunity to play. He finds me and comes to say hello. I stroke his head and peer past the faces and into the flat. Then I see her. There, face down in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by her family pictures and an overturned dog bowl, Jean. It’s strange how stupid people are in crowds. How insensitive to the moment. The import of the situation ripples through their bodies but their brains struggle with ‘what’s appropriate’ and the result is an open-mouthed gawp. Some hold phones, unsure whether to use them. A bloke in shades scratches his arse. They are all overcome by this unusual Saturday morning drama and have no way of coping with it.

A man is venturing into Jean’s flat, watched by the crowd. He heroically shrugs, looking down every so often, afraid to touch her in case he gets whatever she’s got, then wanders out again. Women mumble. Men rub the back of their necks and scrunch their faces. There are boys in hooded tops here too. A bearded man in his pyjamas, with a French bulldog, who definitely lives on our side. Even the nervous woman is here, who I taught to count to fifteen. She sees me and reacts, eyeing me, excitedly. Instinctively, I turn to leave.

‘Doctor! Let this woman through. She’s a doctor!’ she bellows.

Oh, God. They perk up now. Their indecision has a leader. I turn, hold up a hand, as if to say, Yes, it is I, your saviour . Someone even starts to clap, but it doesn’t catch on. I am jostled up the concrete stairs and inside number forty-one. Despite ardent promises to myself that I would come clean, that I wouldn’t let this happen again, it’s happening again. I suppose this isn’t the ideal moment to mention to everyone that I’m not actually a doctor. That it all came from a misunderstanding with my phone and Internet cable. Public declarations are for Richard Curtis films. And I’m not good in front of crowds. I’m the kind of girl that would rather skulk around in the wings.

They all have their eyes trained on me. I want to get out of this as quickly as possible, but it’s difficult not to take a look around while I’m here. It’s very much as I left it. The cupboard, half open, shows her array of tin cans still tightly packed. I crouch down, sensing I’ve spent a moment too long surveying the place, rather than tending to the matter in hand. I must get back to playing Dr Gullick. Dr Gullick, who has certainly never been in this flat before and isn’t wondering what exactly happened here in between the time she left and now. Dr Gullick, who heals the sick. I crouch down to tend to her, without any idea what Dr Gullick will do next, but I have to do something, to please the assembled masses. After all, she may still be alive. But then, people who are alive aren’t usually blue.