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The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist
ROSS ARMSTRONG is a British stage and screen actor who has performed in the West End of London, on Broadway and in theatres throughout the UK. Among others, he has acted opposite Jude Law (Hamlet), Joseph Fiennes (Cyrano de Bergerac), Kim Cattrall (Antony and Cleopatra) and Maxine Peake (The Deep Blue Sea). His TV appearances include Foyle’s War, Jonathan Creek, Mr Selfridge, DCI Banks and most recently, Ripper Street.
After gaining a BA in English Literature and Theatre at Warwick University, Ross joined the National Youth Theatre where his contemporaries included Matt Smith and Rafe Spall. A three year course at RADA followed and whilst there he won the RADA Poetry Writing Award. The idea for his debut novel The Watcher came to him when he moved into a new apartment block and discovered whilst looking at the moon through binoculars that he could see into his neighbours’ homes. Thankfully for them, he put down his binoculars and picked up his pen.
He is an avid cricket fan and hosts a regular podcast for All Out Cricket magazine. He also has a monthly column in You and Your Wedding magazine as he prepares for his own wedding in 2017.
For Catherine
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Catherine for her wonderful thoughts, general wisdom and a world of other things too.
To Al and Antonia, and particularly their children Evan and Darcy, for being the most consistent source of real life danger and violence I face on a regular basis.
To Jim for not going ahead with the long-mooted novel Lennon and Presley Detective Agency, leaving me as the sole author in the family to date.
To Juliet Mushens for being the best trinity of editor, agent and friend one could wish for.
To all at the Woodberry Wetlands for teaching me about the birds.
Everyone at HQ for their incredible support, dynamism and hard work from the very first moment we met.
My parents for everything, particularly for working for 50 years so their son could have the temerity of doing two Batchelor of Arts degrees when it was still economically possible to do so, which only qualified him to read books and act in detective-based TV shows. And for being my greatest champions and friends.
In ways big and small, there have been many people kind enough to read or listen to my words and not berate me for wasting their time. Every moment was immeasurably valuable to me. So, thanks to: Chris Farrar, John Hollingworth, Tom McHugh, Jules Stevens, David Hart, Fred Ridgeway, Jo Kloska, Richy Riddell, Natasha James, Jack McNamara, Jane Boston, Alex Odell, Dan Ings and Ben McLeish.
If there is anyone else who thinks themselves largely responsible for me getting to write this thing that has given me so much pleasure whom I have neglected to mention, I’m sure you’re right and I apologise unreservedly.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
7 days till it comes.
Part One: The Look
42 days till it comes.
35 days till it comes.
33 days till it comes.
30 days till it comes.
Part Two: The night. And the day that followed.
20 days till it comes. Night. 10 p.m.
19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.
20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m.
19 days till it comes. 2.30 p.m.
Back to Last Night
20 days till it comes. Night. 11.45 p.m.
Night. 12.30 a.m.
Night. 3 a.m.
19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.
Part Three: The Woman in Canada House
18 days till it comes. 10 a.m.
16 days till it comes. The Ivory-billed Woodpecker.
Part Four: The Twitch
15 days till it comes. 2.02 a.m.
15 days till it comes. 2.32 a.m.
15 days till it comes. Time: Unknown.
15 days till it comes. Far too late.
14 days till it comes. 7 p.m.
Part Five: Birding
13 days till it comes. 8.30 a.m.
12 days till it comes. 4 p.m.
9 days till it comes.
Part Six: The Big Stay
Day 1: In short, I got nothing.
Day 2: Flat 11. Blind open. Vincent.
Day 3: Flat 4. Alfred; Flat 7. Liz and Dicky.
Day 4: A complete shut-out.
Day 5: Jonny’s hands.
Today.
9 days till it comes. Evening.
8 days till it comes. Single white male.
7 days till it comes. And here we are.
7 days till it comes. Outside.
Part Seven: In My Sights
6 days till it comes. Morning.
6 days till it comes. Afternoon.
6 days till it comes. Evening.
5 days till it comes.
4 days till it comes.
2 days till it comes.
1 day till it comes.
1 day till it comes. 2 p.m.
The Day It Comes.
Part Eight: The Woman on the Fourth
The day it comes. Afternoon.
The day it comes. Evening.
The day it comes. One minute later.
The day it comes. Evening.
28 September. 9 a.m.
Part Nine: The Tick Hunter
28 September. 12 p.m. The Bad Kids.
28 September. 12.45 p.m. Nathan.
28 September. 1.10 p.m. Sandra.
28 September. 1.40 p.m. Thompson.
28 September. 3 p.m. My saviour.
28 September. 3.30 p.m.
28 September. Evening. 6.30 p.m.
Part Ten: The Hastings Rarities
28 September. 7.15 p.m.
28 September. 8.55 p.m.
29 September. The small hours.
29 September. 6.35 a.m.
29 September. 6.45 a.m.
29 September. 6.55 a.m.
29 September. 7.35 a.m. Sunrise.
Part Eleven: The Life List
1 December.
Copyright
I look in her direction. About fifty metres away behind a sheet of glass stands a woman. Looking out at the reservoir. She’s in the building opposite. I’ve spotted him in that building before, but not her. I’ve been watching him. She’s about my height, my build. She could be my reflection. Except she couldn’t because she’s a little darker, has an air about her. European. Her hand rests on the frame of the door, softly. She is lost in thought. No, she is concerned. She scratches her bottom lip with her teeth. She wears lipstick. She has a tousled fringe. She has a light blue dress on, for the summer. I adjust the dial on my binoculars, to sharpen the focus. Her eyebrows, perfectly plucked, knit in displeasure. Her face is half lit by the early evening sun streaming through her window. North facing. Or perhaps it’s not her window. I certainly haven’t spotted her before. In there. With him. Which is strange.
She takes a careful step backwards. Steady, feline. The sun recedes now, kissing her features goodbye. The dark of the room smooths over her face, like a sheet, enveloping her. She’s harder to read. But I can still see her. She’s so still. Careful. Intense. Pensive. Every muscle in her face firm and poised. Rich with intent.
She’s still lit by the gentle glow of the room. But only just. Softly, so softly. A single lamp perhaps. A femme fatale. Shadowed. Like from a 1954 movie. How quickly they all turn into models. Through my eyes. All the people behind the windows in the building across from where I am now. Like they’re posing for me. For a photo shoot. How well they perform. How beautiful. It’s almost like they know.
Without thinking, my fist at my side turns into a gun. I lift it. Slowly. Until it points right at her. If I pulled the trigger now perhaps the glass of my window would shatter, then hers would too and the bullet would strike her between the eyes, one inch above the bridge of her nose. Her skull would break. And she would fall.
Bang. Bang.
Oh, God. She’s looking. She looks in my direction. And she sees me. She’s got me. In her sights. Her face tightens. But it’s her body. Her body doesn’t move a muscle. And neither does mine. I’m still. But not frozen. I’m ready. Poised. My elbow rested on the sill. My left hand gripping my apparatus. The right fixed in its gun-like pose. I hold firm for some reason. I’m not embarrassed.
She breathes in through her nose. Her chest lifts just a touch. Through my sights I see her eyes refocus. Her pupils shrink a fraction of a millimetre. And she stares me down.
Meaningfully, she raises her hands to her dress and, keeping her eyes on mine, she delicately lifts it and shows me her right thigh. A purple bruise. And above it, further still, a burn. She’s looking right at me. Oh, God. Showing herself to me. She holds it there. Then glances behind her. Sees something. Lets her dress fall. Maybe she’s not alone. It’s so still here.
Then, from behind me, the rumble of building work begins. Metal crushes concrete. Maybe it was always there but I’d drowned it out. With my focus. They’re still working on the last few buildings between this one and the park. As I stare at her, the noise of machines and the crunch of the wrecking ball goes on. Behind my back. They crescendo and then dip inexorably. A heavy drone. A wall of sound, dipping and rising. I look at her. And she at me. She could be trying to tell me something. Is she play-acting? Is she pleading for her life? Trying to communicate something? Woman to woman. The corners of her mouth rise into a kind of smile.
Rumble. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.
I’m going to call her… Grace.
From nowhere, a hand fixes around her throat and pulls her into the darkness. Her arms and dress flail forward as she’s dragged out of sight. She disappears. My breath, which only now I realise I was holding, leaves me suddenly.
My home phone rings. I jump, clutching my sweater. Resisting the urge to cry out. It gets louder and louder. As if it’s getting closer. Homing in on me.
It’s strange. My phone ringing. Because it never has before. Not since I moved in. I’d forgotten it was even plugged in.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
My hands grip my jeans, needing something to hold on to. As I brace myself. And turn to look at it.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
It’s strange, you see. Because no one even has the number. No one.
Not even you.
Something crashes against my window. I fall and put my back to the solid white wall. Out of plain sight. I’m breathing so hard now. Shaking. The hairs on my arm stand on end. My heart is beating out of my chest.
The glass is cracked. I daren’t turn my head. But in my periphery I can see something. Pressed against my now cracked window. Don’t Turn Your Head, I tell myself.
But I can see something. Out of the corner of my eye.
Don’t Turn.
I can see something. Sliding down it. Slowly. Dreadfully.
So I breathe in through my nose. Bite down hard on my tongue.
I turn my head. And look.
Part One:
HS – Passer domesticus – Wetland – Good vis, wind light, 12 deg – Singular – 2 leucistic patches, buffish, pale supercilium, rich dark streaks on mantle, female – 16 cm approx. – Social, dominant.
I thought I’d send my findings over to you in particular. As I hoped you of all people might understand. We haven’t seen a lot of each other recently of course, but I’ve had a think about it and there are a few things I want to say. Even if I’m not that keen to say them to your face exactly. Or on the phone. Or Skype, or the other platforms.
I’m not up for it. I don’t want a scene. I’m not keen to ‘have it out’. Woman to man.
I had thought I’d made everything pretty clear. Had said my piece. Is it piece or peace? I never know. But either way, I thought I’d said it. And I thought that was it. For ever. Between me and you.
But now I think about it, there are a few more things I want to touch on. Want to prod at maybe. Without having to look at you and feel guilty or inhibited while I’m saying them. Without you butting in or anything.
It’s probably all my fault. I know. I know you think it is. I know that’s why you think we’re not talking. But hear me out, OK? I want to say a few things and be heard. That’s all. A friendly ear, without the glare of your eyes. Without any judgements.
I hope this doesn’t sound too severe! It’s not meant to be. You know, it might be fun. To help you remember a few things. Maybe hear some new things too. Things you don’t know. I had this sudden urge to tell you. So much has happened since I made my decision.
I know the notation isn’t always right but cut me some slack, OK? This is how I’ve always done it and you know I like to do things my way. Also, don’t get all ‘the way you do’ if I’m telling you things you already know, you’re never too old for a refresher. I don’t mean to chastise, you are always so patient with me. You always have been. I just need someone to talk to. Someone at a distance to share my findings and the way I’m feeling, so maybe we can make sense of it all. Together. Someone level-headed. I know you’re not a trained therapist! But we used to talk, when we were out there. Look. I think I might be getting myself into some trouble.
I don’t know. Aiden thinks I’m stuck in a rut. Mentally that is. That’s what he says. Mentally and emotionally. And financially. And creatively and career-wise. Which is always nice to hear. I didn’t ask, he just volunteered this information. Apropos of nothing. He wasn’t just being a dick. But he wasn’t joking either. He’s almost definitely right.
Aiden told me all these things this afternoon. God, he’s a clever arsehole, isn’t he? It’s like he can see the inside of my head. He’s staring at me now, grinning slightly as he leans against the window. He looks handsome as the light streams in around him. We’re both tapping away opposite each other on our celluloid keys. A proper modern, alienated couple.
He’s on his laptop and I’m on Mum’s old typewriter. Maybe you remember the typeface. The font. I found it in the move and thought it’d be nice to get the old thing out. Aren’t I retro? I feel like the woman from Murder, She Wrote. Only problem is I can’t make any mistakes on this thing or I’ll need Tippex and I hate Tippex. It stinks. So I type carefully. And if I say things I regret. Well, they just have to stay.
He shoots me a look and a smile that says ‘make me a latte would you?’ and I will, because that’s always my job now for some reason. We’ve got this new machine, it’s like we live in a coffee shop. I’ve bought some hazelnut syrup, to add some definition to our flat whites. And some sprinkles to lightly dust over our cappuccinos and cortados. It’s all very middle class. We’re Cameron’s children, you’d wince.
I don’t move a muscle. If he wants a coffee he can ask, like a normal person would. He looks away again. But even though his eyes are down he knows I’m looking. I can tell. His face lit by his screen. Smiling so smugly it’s practically demonic. Cross-legged like I am, as if each other’s reflection. He’s silently trying to get a rise out of me.
‘Coffee, please, ducky,’ his look says.
He can tickle me by barely moving a muscle. Make me giggle with the way he sits or the rise of a single eyebrow. He can clear his throat and it feels like a jab in the ribs. A soft hum can be a gentle hug. That’s how close we are. We send each other our thoughts by the smallest vibrations.
He’s found a new way to make me laugh. He uses this stupid voice he’s been practising. I can tell when he’s going to do it. I see the thought drop in. Then I see him smile when he’s about to do it. I see right through him. He looks up now to give me the full force of it. Here it comes.
‘You tapping avay your leetle thoughts, huh? Using zee leetle grey cells?’
I smirk, despite myself. Cheeky bastard.
‘I am zinking about the brown mark, above your elbow, on the back of your arm.’
He’s decided it’s time to stop for a moment, for one of our micro chats. A tiny ellipsis before we dive back into our worries and fears. A wry smile envelops my face.
‘My birthmark?’
‘Yez. Your mole.’
‘My… freckle.’
‘Your tea stain. Yes.’
He’s dropped the voice now. He’s got serious. Or as close as he gets anyway.
In the silence, his eyes wander over me.
‘I was just thinking about how it’s like a small button. I’ve always thought of it like that. Then I remembered I had a dream where I could press it and it would make you lose your memory. What do you think about that?’
I pause, breathe in through my nose and consider this. ‘I think you’re a very strange individual.’
‘Interesting you should say that. Very interesting,’ he says. Nodding, narrowing his eyes and archly taking me in as if he’s some sort of Buddha-Yoda, enlightening me with his abstract bullshit. He strokes my ankle, then makes to go back to his work.
‘Did you then?’ I say.
‘Did I what?’ he says.
‘Did you press it?’
‘It was just a funny dream. I thought I’d tell you.’
‘You pressed it! And now you’re being evasive,’ I say, throwing my shoe at him. It’s meant to be playful but I hit him in the head quite hard.
‘Ow! Oh God. Oh, my God. My eye. I think it’s going to have to come out,’ he says, overreacting wildly in search of a laugh. Which somehow he gets out of me.
‘Oh, my God. Tell me what happened next in your lame old dream?’
‘It’s not a lame old dream. It’s a nice dream,’ he says.
I hum to myself. Then breathe audibly. Rolling a bowling ball of disdain between us.
‘It’s not a nice dream. Is it? It’s not lovely, is it? It’s actually quite horrible.’
‘I think “horrible” is a tad extreme, honeybear,’ he says. This is one in a line of creative love names he’s taken to calling me. He uses them because we’re not the kind of people who would use them.
‘Well, I only say that because it’s a controlling, manipulative, latently sexist dream, in which I am essentially a doll-like creature to be played with at your whim. But, now I say it out loud, maybe you’re right, maybe that’s fine.’
His face contorts in thought. Then pauses. Then gives me a look like he’s about to cut through this whole conversation with something utterly brilliant. A real showstopper.
‘Don’t let anyone else’s dreams control you, Lily. For you are the master of your dreams,’ he mumbles with a degree of earnestness.
The room cringes.
‘Wow, that’s great, Aid. You should put that in front of some clipart of a sunset and whack it on the Internet. People love that sort of shit.’
‘Well, laugh it up, Lil. But your reaction to all this is very telling. You care too much about weird signifiers of what you are to others. You are the master of your fate and your–’
‘Yep, got it. Don’t worry, I’m fine as I am. But, thanks for the pop psychology, Pops.’
I’m irked but it soon turns to flirtation. It always does in the end.
‘That’s OK, honey… badger,’ he says.
He absorbs my mocking. It’s one of the many things I like about him. His discretion. His lightness of touch. He’s self-effacing and utterly pretentious at the same time. And somehow I’m still intrigued as to how exactly he does it. It’s a puzzle. The sort of thing that keeps a relationship going. He glances back at his screen again. Six, eight, ten taps.
‘Oh, one more thing. What happened when you pushed the button?’
‘Ah. Hmm,’ he mutters. ‘Dunno. As soon as I pressed it, I woke up.’
Without formal ending, Aiden’s eyes fall onto his computer. I am to consider this conversational cul-de-sac over, as we segue seamlessly back to our own worlds. Then he peers up over his device and smiles at me for a second. Full beam. All of him there, without any side. Then he disappears behind it again. And the tap-tapping goes on.
As I look at him, I see the binoculars sitting at his side and I get up and grab them in an instant and see what I can catch. I’m limiting myself to two sightings a day; I don’t want to get obsessive. You know how I get. That’s why I’m writing to you above anybody else. Because you know me, what I’m like. I fancy seeing one more bird while there’s still a little light. A wood pigeon or a goldfinch. Just a little one. You know. Just for a bit of fun.
BT – Cyanistes caeruleus – Grassland – Magic-hour sunlight, still, 18 degrees – 10 flock – Bright yellow breast, black chest line, male – 12 cm, perhaps – Excitable, jerky hops and aphid swoops.
I’ve never been creative. I’m more a facts and figures type. My oeuvre is no great loss to the artistic world. I’m the only person I know that literally cannot paint. Not on a canvas, or wall, nothing. You may say this isn’t a thing, but it is. Even when I started painting the flat Aiden would say ‘long, smooth strokes’ and I’d try to do it but somehow I couldn’t and he ended up doing the whole room himself, telling me to ‘just watch and make funny comments to keep me going’.
