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

They waited for the verdict. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Just a hiss of air. They leant in. The moment seemed to linger on forever. Words failed me. Stage fright. The three of us exchanging glances. In this abstract ménage à trois. Me, dressing up. Them, waiting. They have no idea. There’s an intruder in their home.

My silence was starting to seem like the harbinger of bad news. The doctor with the test results wields such power. For a moment, I enjoyed the thrill of this. But I had to speak. I finally found the standard NHS Direct response falling from my lips:

‘It’s difficult to make any assumptions without getting an X-ray. It’s your call, if you think this is a 999 emergency then I would pick up the phone now. If you think it can wait till tomorrow, go straight to your GP and wait in line to be seen that day. They’ll usually fit you in at some point in the morning.’ Like a bad actor, I fumbled through it.

Then I went back up to the fourth floor, crawled into bed and went back to sleep.

But now, here was another patient altogether, standing in my doorway with a subtle tremble moving through her lower half. A classic neurotic. Her problem? She couldn’t sleep. Imagine for a second being a real doctor and being woken up for this when you have a double heart surgery the next morning. Or whatever doctors do.

She took me to her room, told me stories of stress. I think there was a rash involved. I don’t know if she was hoping I had a secret pill stash or whether she seriously is ill. Physically or mentally. I wouldn’t know. I’m not an expert. I’m not a doctor.

Either way, she can’t have been so upfront with the concierge. Surely he wouldn’t have revealed my ‘identity’ for that. Or maybe this was a classic palm off.

I made her sit down. Put my hand to her head. Then took her pulse and nodded sagely and improvised.

‘I’m afraid even if I did have something to help you sleep it wouldn’t do any good. I know this isn’t what you want to hear but you need lovely, natural sleep. Just breathe in through your nose for fifteen and out through your mouth for ten. It’s the best medication I can provide. Try it now, in for fifteen. Good. And out for ten.’

As I knelt at her bedside I was reminded of Mum.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ I got a warm feeling when she said this.

‘As for the rash, I can give you something for that.’ I searched in my washbag for a cream I sometimes use for athlete’s foot. I wonder what that’ll do for her. Cure her maybe. Or maybe there’s something in it that’s bad for her. I hope not. But I don’t know. Not a doctor.

I keep my bag low so as not to reveal that rather than a stethoscope and thermometer my ‘doctor’s bag’ contains only tampons and hair clips.

‘You can keep the cream. Now, please, get some rest.’

I head back to bed again, stowing the bag under my arm and trying to seem inconspicuous.

My phone goes and I hit reject straight away. Then there’s a voicemail. Another one. I have a brief listen on the way back to upstairs.

‘If you don’t answer, I’m going to come round there. I will. No matter how far it is. I’m coming. You know what? That’s it. I’m coming—’ I hit Delete.

Then I see a figure in the hallway.

The guy next door: Lowell.

Knock, knock.

Phil knocks on my desk and asks if I want to go for a cigarette. I wake from another daze. I don’t really want to go. But it’s awkward not to. ‘Awkward’ is the predominant word I associate with him. I look at him and imagine it emblazoned across his forehead.

I don’t smoke but he says if I hold one I get a free ten-minute break, so I do that. Outside the sun shines and he talks. Which is nice because it saves me doing the heavy lifting.

‘. . . Until you’re feeling like, hmm, I don’t think I can actually take it any more, because my ribs are hurting. Then the movie gets kind of thoughtful. Then a little weird. Then kind of sad. Which is… you know. Then it gets really funny again and then it ends.’

‘Sorry, what were we talking about?’

‘Adam Sandler’s Click .’

‘Is it good?’

‘Yes, of course it’s good. He can pause and play time. He finds a magic remote control. It’s probably my favourite Sandler film. You like films?’

‘Yes, I do. Never seen one of his films though, to be honest.’

‘You like films, but you’ve never seen an Adam Sandler film? Oh, my God! What…? What’s your favourite film, would you say?’

‘ Psycho .’

‘Wow. That’s… I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Is that a black-and-white one?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t tend to watch those ones.’

There’s an awkward pause.

‘Listen, just so you know. We all know.’

A pause.

‘We heard. We know. So, I just wanted to say that,’ he says.

‘You… know?’

‘Yeah. We… we know. And it will get better. I promise.’

We head upstairs again. What do they know? I suppose I haven’t been hiding it well. I want to leave. I have to leave. That must be it. Everyone in this office has been looking at me and they know. I hate my job. And no, Phil, it won’t get any better.

I can’t concentrate on anything. For a moment I think back to Cary and his poor face. I hope he’s all right. He always calls his mother, every night at seven, like clockwork. I’m not a great lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he always signs off with ‘I love you’.

Phil is nice. He’s a good guy. A simple guy. Certainly. But there’s nothing wrong with that. Just looking at him calms me down. He’s like a lava lamp. He’s a bit like Lowell in that way. Ah, Lowell.

I like Lowell. Lowell lives next door. Which brings us back to last night.

Back to Last Night

WM – Lowell – Riverview – Fair, curly – Unusually, in a 2 flock – Dependable – Interior – 6’ 2”

He is American, I think. Actually it might be one of those international school accents, which means he could be from anywhere. Switzerland or Swaziland. Hong Kong or Hawaii. Singapore or Kuwait City. He is balding but has a good head for it. He is subtly well built, muscular. Would seem formidable, imposing, if it wasn’t for his kind face. Which puts everything else into context. It’s worn like a travelling salesman, but soft like a foster parent. He seems bookish but with a superhero jawline. He’s the kind of man that could never be an accountant. But in actual fact I think he is an accountant. But some sort of posh one. For a big charity, I think. He does some work for a local organic bakery too. I don’t know what, but I don’t think he bakes the bread. Management, advice and sums. You’d want him on your University Challenge team. He’s a winner. You’d trust him to hold your baby.

He glides past me in the hallway. It’s nearly midnight. He has casual khakis and a white shirt on. He looks like he should be sanding a boat on a beach somewhere. Barefoot, with a little dog running around his feet. He looks like a ’90s Gap advert, designed specifically to show you that he is a man. A healthy man. He’s with a woman. They’re sensibly dressed. Equally dependable looking. In a gentle, middle of the road way. He is holding her up and she has had more to drink than him. He’s an extreme moderate. Always a couple of G and Ts but not so many that he’s ever out of control. I imagine – we’ve never been out for a drink. He’s never been in our flat and I’ve never been in his. We’re not close. But we’d like to be. Aiden has a man crush on him, I think. He jokes that he once saw him cycling and he swooned. We have friend ambitions on him. He’s always good for a ‘stop and chat’. I’ve never seen him with a girl before. Good for him.