The Watcher (16 page)

‘You’re a brave woman,’ he said as he left. ‘Just make sure you bolt your doors.’

‘I do. But I’m hard as nails, I’ll be fine.’ She watched him as he disappeared between the bushes that surrounded the path. She had put on a show of being braver than she felt. The night before, she had not seen lights or heard the noise of an engine and yet, strangely, that did not let her breathe more easily. She almost felt more nervous. She neither believed that she had imagined it nor did she assume that it would all blow over. Instead it seemed to her as if something was waiting out there. She could not define this
something
at all and she had no idea what the point of the waiting was. But she felt that she was in danger and the consciousness of it made her see her familiar surroundings in a completely new light. It was as if the trees were crowding in on her. As if the moaning of the bare branches in the wind had taken on a threatening tone. As if floorboards that she had never heard before now started to creak. As if the world full of people had retreated further away from her.

She carefully bolted the front door and went back to the kitchen. It was brightly lit, with candles on the table and fairy lights around the window. From outside, her house with its lights and Christmas decorations must look warm and cosy, but who would be out there anyway?

She pushed aside the thought. That was just what she did not want to think about: about who could see inside.

She put the kettle on and turned to the brochures that Luke Palm had left for her. Flats for sale in London. She was excited.

‘I’ve got some great options for you,’ he had said. ‘Bright, spacious flats. With beautiful sunny balconies. Just take a look when you’re ready. We can meet as early as next week to view them.’

My first really independent step, she thought, and looked contemplatively at the glossy sheets in front of her. She had been twenty-six when she and Sean married. From then on they had decided everything together. Her whole life she had needed to come to a compromise with another person. Now she was going to buy a flat. Her personal dream flat, in her own dream location. And she would decorate it just as she saw fit.

She suddenly felt more exhilarated than she had for ages. For the first time since Sean’s death she was gripped by an almost forgotten desire to get going, by a happy expectation and excitement.

She poured the tea and lit more candles. It was going to be a wonderful evening. She would plan her future, look at photos, study floor plans, drink tea and, perhaps later, to celebrate the new start, have a glass of sparkling wine.

She sat down at the table.

And in that moment she heard the noise.

The wood outside and the house were always full of noises, but long ago Anne had filed them away in a separate level of her consciousness. She knew the creaking of the roof timbers, the glugging of the heating pipes, the wind rustling in the trees and the sounds of the animals in the woods. But this noise was different and it made her jump.

It sounded as though someone was on the terrace outside the kitchen.

Her first thought was that Mr Palm might have forgotten something and come back, but there was no reason why he would not have rung the doorbell at the front.

Anxiously she peered through the panes. It was pitch black outside and bright inside. She could only see her kitchen, the candles, the pot of tea and a woman sitting at the table with her eyes wide open.

Why had she not closed the shutters when the estate agent was still nearby, before she was so desperately alone here?

Why had she not packed her things long ago and gone to stay at a friend’s house or a hotel in the city?

She got up, holding her breath. She could not hear anything apart from the usual noises.

Perhaps I was just imagining it, she thought. My nerves are all shot.

It was vital that she closed the shutters. Then she would feel safe. Anyone trying to get in would need a lot of strength and time to break them. It would be noisy too. The only thing was that Anne would have to open the terrace door and step outside in order to unhook the shutters from the wall.

Don’t act like a hysterical old woman, she admonished herself. You heard an unusual noise. At least, that’s what you imagined. Maybe it wasn’t anything at all. Even now you can’t really remember how it sounded. You are going slowly mad out here. You can’t let afford to let that happen. So go outside and close the damn shutters!

You didn’t just hear some noise or other. You heard a car. In the middle of the night. Something’s not right here. It’s got nothing to do with hysteria and a wild imagination!

She ignored her inner voice.

She had to close the shutters. Then she could think about all the unusual things that had been happening recently. Once she was safe, she could give in to her fear and her gruesome imaginings. For now, she could not let herself be paralysed.

She opened the door determinedly. It was snowing more heavily now. A thin white carpet lay on the grass in the garden. And on the steps that led down from the terrace.

She stared at the steps.

Her brain was working strangely slowly. There were footprints in the snow. Big, clumping footprints. Someone in winter boots had stomped up the steps. It was not her. She had not used the steps all day. She had been in the garden with Luke Palm, but they had gone round from the front of the house. And the snow was only just starting to settle.

Someone must have been here recently.

Sometime in the last ten minutes.

A shadow appeared by the wall. Anne saw it from the corner of her eye. In what felt like slow motion, she turned around. She saw a thick anorak and a woolly hat pulled down low over a forehead.

In a strangely analytical way she thought, there’s no explanation why someone would be here on my terrace in the dark.

At least, no explanation that seemed harmless to her.

She understood that the last thing she should have done was to go outside.

Saturday, 12 December, 7.05 p.m.

Millie and Gavin are downstairs watching the news. Millie has already got dressed. Coat, boots. She has a night shift at the care home and has to go in half an hour. She is in a correspondingly grotty mood. The evening meal was unbearable. She is always as irritable as a pit bull when she has to work, but at the weekends it is even worse.

During the meal I was the lightning rod again, of course.

When I helped myself to a second portion of chips, she asked when I was next planning on contributing to the household kitty. The few pennies from last week had been spent long ago. She stared at me as if she were ready to pounce. She said that I got ‘support’, after all.

‘You write applications regularly, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘And you’re trying to get a job? So you must be getting money!’

‘Of course,’ I lied. I blushed, but as that always happens to me when I say something, it did not attract attention.

I’m worried that she can smell it. Millie is a bitch, but she’s not stupid. I’m out and about too much. She’s been wondering for ages what I get up to. She is hardly going to believe that I go from door to door asking for work. It would be good if I could hang around at home for a few days – just as Millie expects of an unemployed person.

But I can’t. I’d go mad.

Money’s getting tight. I never buy anything for myself, but I have to pay my share of food, heating, electricity and water, and my few savings are evaporating. I even scrounged off Bartek last night in the Halfway House. He complained a bit – he’s a bit hard up now too; his fiancée seems to be pretty demanding and expensive – but he gave me fifty quid in the end. I made a big gesture at dinner of getting it out and passing it to Millie.

‘Is that enough for now?’ I asked, and she nodded, looking confused. It didn’t exactly make her less suspicious of me, but she had lost her attacking momentum and she couldn’t quickly work out how to get at me.

As usual, Gavin didn’t say anything. He nibbled at his food and hoped that the situation didn’t escalate.

At lunchtime I saw Gillian, Tom and Becky. It looked like they were about to go on a walk. I was standing right in front of their house when they came out, so I had to say hi. I had not exactly managed to blend into the background, but I hope they didn’t think anything of it. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed that I’d been standing there for some time already. Perhaps they thought I had just chanced by. In any case, they said hi back in such a distracted manner that I obviously didn’t need to worry. Nevertheless I resolved to be more careful. These short dark days in December can lead to carelessness, because the twilight lets you feel protected. But you are more visible than you think, and what’s more, there is still some light, even if it’s murky. The summer is as distant as it can be.

At first glance the Wards appeared to be the happy, intact family that I first saw them as. They were wearing anoraks, boots and brightly coloured woollen hats and you might have thought that they were all looking forward to their outing. But by now I had learnt to study them more carefully. Something isn’t right with them. Thomas Ward looks terrible. His face is grey. He appears exhausted and at the same time wide awake in an unhealthy way. Too much awake. His whole body is always jiggling. That can’t be healthy in the long term.

Becky looks like a teenager in a bad mood. She doesn’t exactly seem happy, but instinctively I would say that there is no really serious or dramatic tragedy lurking in her. Growing up is difficult. I know that only too well.

On the other hand, Gillian really worries me. It’s not that she looks as tired as her husband. You wouldn’t be worried about her health. Nor is she just grumpy like her daughter. She is . . . perhaps the best description would be ‘restless’, although that’s not quite it either. ‘Restless’ sounds too weak. She is tense, nervous, excitable. To me she’s like someone who is torn inside, and I ask myself: why? What in her life has torn her in two?

She flashes a smile at me without any real warmth. She doesn’t really know me. She doesn’t know how heavily she features in my thoughts, in my daydreams, and how deep in my unconscious she is at night. How I wish I were near her. Not that I want to destroy her family! Every family is sacred to me. I find it terrible how quickly people today separate, divorce and plunge into another relationship. As if marriage were some pretty little staging post that you leave when things are not all that great. That’s why I would never try to woo a married woman. I would despise myself even for considering it.

I just want to be a part of Gillian’s life. Of her family. It’s a longing to experience something that I myself will never have. I will never manage to start a family. I’ll never marry or be a father. I’ve known that for ages, even when Bartek never gives up hope and yesterday started talking about Internet dating again. It just won’t work. I can’t do any more than observe other people.

I watched them as they drove off. I stood there in the cold, as the odd flurry of snow fell, and felt how I went very cold inside too. That had to do with the Wards. Something was going to happen. I could feel it clearly. I can still feel it now.

Then I carried on with my usual rounds, but I couldn’t concentrate. There was this intense feeling of impending doom. I’m no clairvoyant, but I sense things. I suddenly remembered the guy who had been in the pub with Gillian. I can’t work it out yet, but I didn’t like him. Somehow he was part of the whole unfortunate situation that seemed to hover over the family.

Downstairs the front door lock clicks into place. I hear Millie’s steps on the garden path. Angry, energetic steps. She could have closed the door more gently too. I expect she and Gavin had another fight.

I also expect that it was about me.

Perhaps I really should move out. I make Gavin’s life difficult, and mine too. It’s terrible to be so unwanted. At the end of the day, it would be better to be on my own.

Best of all would be not to be myself at all. But someone else entirely.

She dialled his number before she could lose her nerve. It was after ten in the evening, but she guessed that John was not the kind of person to go to bed early. And the time was not the issue here. The big issue was that she was calling at all. That she was calling a man who had told her how much she fascinated him.

Who was clearly looking to have an affair with her.

While she was clearly married.

Tom had already gone to bed. They had driven over to Windsor for the day. They had gone for a long walk and drunk coffee in a country pub. When they had come home they were in good spirits and had colour in their cheeks. Gillian baked garlic baguettes and they all ate together. Afterwards, Becky was determined to watch
Twilight
on DVD. Gillian sat down with her in the living room and tried to understand why her daughter and all her friends were so addicted to this film. The walk that afternoon in the cold air had made Becky tired. At some point she fell asleep and cuddled up to her mother. Gillian stroked her fingers. It was what she had always done when Becky was small. Becky breathed in and out gently, looking as sweet and rosy as a little girl.

Gillian, who had not been looking at Edward and Bella on the screen for a long time, considered her daughter’s peaceful, tender face. Its usual stubborn, angry look had completely gone.

How I love her, she thought.

However, it did not leave her any less restless.

She finally took her drowsy daughter up to bed, carefully tucked her in, which Becky actually permitted, and then went back down to the living room. After two glasses of wine, she felt a little more relaxed. She rarely drank, so a little had quite an effect; two glasses was almost boozing to her.