The Watcher (12 page)

She turned on the computer and heard its quiet hum as it booted up. A quick glance out of the window. Still no sign of Samson. The monitor went blue. As she had feared: a box asked for a password.

Of course, he was not completely stupid. Millie thought quickly. Most people used the name of someone close to them as their password. Children, spouses, pets. Unfortunately there was no one like that in Samson’s life. His brother was his only living relative. She tried
Gavin
but it didn’t work.

He will hardly have used my name, she thought. Damn it, who else does he know?

That was not an easy question when you were talking about someone as socially awkward as her brother-in-law. On the other hand, at least it reduced considerably the number of candidates.

There was that friend of his from the chauffeuring service. The one he sometimes met on Friday in the pub by the river. What was his name? Bartek. She typed in
Bartek
, but that was rejected too.

She did not want to give up. It was the first time that she had gone this far: attempting to get into his computer. She had to think. If he was not using a made-up word or a combination of numbers, then it must be possible for her to crack his damned security.

She looked around the room, as if the white walls and the clean grey carpet might offer some hint. The wardrobe was full of jumpers knitted by his mother. Mum had sewn the curtains too. Mum had bought him the adventure stories on his shelf that he no longer read. That was what the room told her: of the powerful love between Samson and his mother. A love that had survived her death. It told of the limitless care of a woman for her difficult, suffering son. And of the pain that the son still carried with him after having lost the only person he could relate to.

Millie’s mother-in-law’s first name was Hannah.

She typed in the name. The computer opened with a melodic sequence.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ said a voice behind her.

Millie spun around. Gavin was standing in the doorway and looking at her in horror.

She immediately turned off the computer and stood up. As she believed that attack was the best defence, she hissed at him, ‘Do you have to creep up on people?’

‘How can you root around in my brother’s computer?’ asked Gavin, looking uneasy.

She shrugged. ‘I think it’s necessary for our security.’

‘Security? Samson wouldn’t hurt a fly!’

‘How do you know? Do you have any idea what he spends hours doing every evening? Perhaps he downloads violent games. Or watches porn.’

‘He’s a grown man. He can watch what he likes.’

She pushed past him and started down the stairs. Gavin was forced to follow her.

‘I don’t agree,’ she explained. ‘He’s disturbed. You have to keep an eye on people like that. And on what they do. Or do you want your brother one day to run amok in a school or whatever?’

‘Why would he do that?’

They had reached the kitchen. Millie opened the freezer, took out a ready meal and banged it down on the table. Gavin flinched.

‘Either you don’t read the papers or you don’t understand them. Most of the time, when someone suddenly flips and mows everyone down, the relatives explain afterwards in astonishment that they would never have imagined it of the person. But when the journalists drill down a little, they find out that the guy had always acted a little strangely and if others had paid more attention, then the catastrophe could have been avoided.’

‘But Samson—’

‘It’s just a matter of being careful, nothing else,’ said Millie.

How stupid she had been, to let Gavin catch her, she thought. If he told Samson about it, Samson would change his password immediately and next time he would choose one that she would never be able to crack. However, she knew instinctively that Gavin would keep his mouth shut. He shied away from conflicts more than anyone else she knew. He would think twice before pouring fuel on the already volatile relationship between his wife and his brother.

‘So, do you want to carry on griping, or would you like me to make you something to eat?’

It seemed that he wanted to say something else about the problem, but he decided not to. He looked tired. His day had begun at five in the morning. He had transported screaming kids and raucous teenagers to school in his bus. He felt completely exhausted. She could read in his face how he had closed the topic because he did not have the energy for an argument.

‘I’d like to eat,’ he said obediently.

Tuesday, 8 December, 10.10 p.m.

She’s no better than other women. Not at all. Michelle Brown. Now I know her name and what she is like. She’s arrogant, just thinks of herself, and is ungrateful. Nor is she particularly pretty. At least, not when you’re standing next to her. She looks better from a distance. Her face was blotchy and tearful. Her mascara was smudged. If I compare her to Gillian Ward! Recently in the Halfway House it was obvious that
she
had just been crying, but that didn’t take anything away from her beauty. It made her ethereal, fragile. You wanted to take her in your arms and protect her. Whereas I would never want to hold Michelle Brown in my arms. She’s not my type at all. Even so, there was absolutely no reason to treat me in such a dismissive fashion.

I’m sitting here and have wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck. I’ve got a big mug of hot lemon juice and honey in front of me. I can feel a cold coming on. I feel like death warmed up. It looks like the price for my Michelle Brown adventure is going to be flu.

I was at her place at half past five. At half past four I had started to make my way home. I wouldn’t have been able to stick being outside in Shoeburyness any longer. The cold had crept into all my joints. I had the feeling I could only walk like an old man. I was desperately hungry too, but it was too far to walk to the centre of Shoeburyness, and in any case I didn’t know where to find a supermarket. In the summer you can buy sandwiches on the beachfront, but not in December, of course. I should have thought of making myself a sandwich that morning. Millie does always say it’s painful to see how stupid I am. She’s probably right. I still had a little piece of sausage left, but it was for Jazz. Even though I was feeling funny, I couldn’t bring myself to eat his titbit. Especially as he had been so good and patient. It was touching to see how he let everything just happen, even though he was freezing too, and maybe also afraid he wouldn’t see his owner again. I felt really bad for him. So he got the sausage. Just the smell of it made me feel faint. I had been so nervous that morning I hadn’t really had any breakfast.

I hung around at the beach for a while. There was absolutely no one there but me. If it hadn’t been so cold, I would have enjoyed it. It was dark and the waves breaking on the shore were black and mysterious. The fog was lifting and you could see that behind the wetness in the air, a beautiful day had been waiting to come through. I even experienced the end of the sunset. A fiery red winter sun was sinking into the yellowy-grey fog over London. The river was in the foreground. A tugboat was gliding slowly towards the estuary. Whenever I turned around, I could see in the last light of day the high, pale grass slowly swaying in the quiet wind. There was a wonderfully melancholic atmosphere. I wished so much that Gillian was around. I wished I could share this special mood with her.

At half past five I rang Brown’s doorbell, after having dragged my tired bones all the way back along the beach to Thorpe Bay. She threw open the door and stood in front of me, looking at Jazz, who wagged his tail like mad. Then the two of them were in each other’s arms – or rather, she crouched down and he whined and wriggled and licked her tearful face. She did not pay me any attention at first. Finally she got to her feet again. She looked even more ruffled than before and seemed somehow . . . embarrassed.

I don’t know what I had been hoping for. I think I had imagined at times during the previous night that she would hug me spontaneously. Beaming. Overflowing with gratefulness. Instead she was inhibited. Perhaps now that she had her treasure again she would have really liked to slam the door in my face. But she was too polite to do that, of course.

‘Where did you find him?’ she asked.

I made a vague gesture towards the river. ‘I’d gone for a walk. A long way towards the sea, almost to Shoeburyness. Suddenly he came up to me.’ As I spoke, I felt the colour rising up my neck. I hoped that Michelle didn’t notice my embarrassment.

She looked at me in confusion. ‘What was he doing there? I don’t understand . . . I don’t understand why he ran away. He’s never done that before!’

‘Perhaps he smelt or saw another dog somewhere and followed him,’ I conjectured.

She did not look too convinced, but naturally she did not cotton on to what had really happened.

‘How lucky that he has a tag on his collar with my address and telephone number,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to find me easily. Although I have already registered him as missing with the police and an animal rescue centre. They could have told you who his owner was.’

She had no idea how well I knew her already. Her comment hurt. For over half a year, when she walked her dog early every morning, we had passed in close proximity of one another and she obviously had not seen me at all. She did not exclaim something like ‘Oh, aren’t you the one I always see in the morning?’

Instead she thought I was a complete stranger. It was typical. Women do not notice me. And if they notice me, then they forget me again the very next second. I am a man they do not waste a second thought on – and their first thought is one of scorn. That is how it is. In my despairing moments I know that nothing will change.

‘Well, I’m glad I found him and could bring him back to you. He’s a lovely dog!’

‘He’s like a baby to me,’ said Michelle in a soft voice.

I was so cold, chilled to the bone, and I thought, you could at least invite me in for a coffee. Of course she did not know I had spent the day outside, but I had brought her ‘baby’ back, after all! Wasn’t that worth a coffee?

We stood there facing each other a little embarrassedly, and then Michelle said, ‘So, thanks once again, Mr . . . ?’

‘Segal. Samson Segal.’

‘Mr Segal. I’m Michelle Brown. I’m so relieved. It was a terrible day. I was already imagining Jazz run over or captured for animal testing. I was seeing horrible things . . .’

‘Then I can only wish the two of you a nice evening now,’ I said, and turned to go. She did not stop me.

She called out one more thanks as I went out the garden gate.

And then that was it. When I turned towards the house from the street, the door had already closed.

And there I stood. Freezing. Hungry. Completely exhausted. For nothing.

The worst thing is that I always think such situations only happen to me. That it is my fault and no one else’s. I imagine what would have happened if Bartek had taken her dog back. Bartek with his black hair, his dark-brown eyes, his piercing stare and his slight accent. Bartek, who can really dazzle a woman. Who can be witty and charming and to whom people are immediately drawn. She would have invited him in. Probably they would have toasted the dog’s happy return with a glass of bubbly and perhaps Michelle would even have lit a few candles or the fire, if she had a fireplace. Bartek would not have had to drag himself home like a bedraggled poodle.

Of course her behaviour says a lot about Michelle Brown. She would have thrown herself at a man like Bartek – she got rid of me as if I were a bothersome salesman. As if I had tried to sell her a newspaper subscription. It says something about women in general. Most of them are pretty superficial. A strand of black hair casually falling across the forehead, an East European accent – and hey presto, you can have your way with them. Bartek is not a bad guy, but there’s not much to him, he just does what’s in his own interest. Whereas I am deep. I could give a woman much more warmth and emotion than he can. I just need someone to give me a chance. Mum used to say that too. Samson is a man you see when you take a closer look. He has a big heart, but it’s not obvious at first glance.

But women don’t take time. They see a shy man, who blushes easily and who cannot come up with witty comments. When they hear I’m unemployed too, then it’s decided. Women are gold-diggers. Michelle too, no doubt. She examined me. She noticed that my clothes are not expensive and are rather worn. That was it for me. I was just good enough to catch her dog and bring it back. But she was not up to inviting me in, even for a moment.

She is like all the others. All those damned women who show you what you are in their eyes: trash. A nobody.

I think I hate Michelle.

I hate everyone who hurts me.

Even the longest night, thought Anne, finally reaches an end.

It was six in the morning when her tension finally abated. It was still black as pitch outside and would remain so for the next two hours, but Anne had always got up at six; on weekdays in order to go to the surgery, and at the weekend to have two undisturbed hours in which to paint before she prepared breakfast. Whether it was light or dark outside, she started her day at six. She liked to be awake while others were still sleeping. Although now that she lived all on her own in this house in a wood, little remained of her feeling of moving in a luxurious silence through a sleeping world. The noises, voices and whispers of the wood sounded different at night from in the day and yet it was not the same as looking out on dark silent houses. In her solitude out here there was the danger that day and night, waking and sleeping, would melt into each other. Especially in this dark time before Christmas.