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The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist
I told you. I am not a doctor. As you well know. But this does tend to happen from time to time.
WM – Phil – Desk by the door – Brown hair – Very singular – Open, friendly, maybe too friendly – Air con broken, sweaty, temperature unknown – 5’ 11”.
There’s a tall fern in a plain white porcelain pot in every corner of the room, you know the kind. Blackening bananas litter an enamelware fruit bowl. And people have started to sit on awkward seats that force you into a position somewhere between ‘riding a penny-farthing’ and ‘kneeling while being held at gunpoint’. It’s good for the back they say, but what you gain in posture you must lose in dignity. There’s no place like home. And this really is no place like home. They say that in twenty years’ time everyone will work from home. We’ll communicate with colleagues and clients purely through the net and companies will save millions on the office space. I’m counting the days.
I turn off my phone because it’s been ringing again today. I don’t want it interrupting me now. There was even a voicemail. And we both know who’s calling. Don’t we? But, no. I’m not ready to talk, yet. Take the hint. I spend most of my time at work talking on the phone. To people in far off countries. People I don’t know. And have no desire to. This is how it goes:
‘Could I ask how you found the seating arrangement during the conference?’
‘Was there enough seating in the relaxation areas?’
‘Interesting, what sort of seating would you like to see for the conference next year?’
‘OK. OK. Uh huh. Right. Did you… Ha ha. Oh, of course. Well, I… of course.’
Did you ever hear that rumour about office temperature? That an ancient office law comes into play during summer if your air con is broken? Which is probably more likely to be enacted if your windows don’t open. Apparently they worry in this place that if they did open everyone would spontaneously jump out. Opting for the sweet release of death rather than filling out another spreadsheet.
That rumour. About that law. That states that if someone is officious enough to take an official reading with an approved thermometer. And the mercury inside hits that magic number. You all get to go home on full pay? Yes? You’ve heard that one? Well, apparently, that rumour is complete bollocks. I’m so tired from everything that happened last night. I just want to sleep.
I know that rumour is bollocks. Because Phil, who has the desk by the door, has just attempted to invoke this medieval law. He used a thermometer he oddly happens to have in his drawer. He’s that kind of guy. Then he went to confront our line manager with his findings. He did all this because I asked him to. He’s the only one I speak to. The only guy in the office that seems even vaguely interesting. The only one who shows any sign of a possible personality, now Lena and Rob have moved on to better things.
In a moment of desperation I Skyped him a cry for help. It was a nice moment. It went like this:
Gull1978: Get me out of here.
KentishPhil: Why?
Gull1978: I’m sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. It’s like I’m bathing while I sit here.
KentishPhil: Graphic. You look tired.
Gull1978: Thanks. Couldn’t sleep last night. Again.
KentishPhil: I understand.
Gull1978: Get me out of here. I’m serious!!!!!
KentishPhil: OK. Have a plan.
Then he tried it. He reached for his thermometer. Took a reading. Then very skilfully and with the utmost charm took the findings to Deborah, in a valiant attempt to bust us all out of here. Deborah laughed, said: ‘That isn’t really a thing. I’ve literally never heard of that rule. Sorry to disappoint you all.’
We all laughed it off and secretly seethed. She patted him on the shoulder. And asked him if she can get the Friday report by Thursday.
‘If you were to design a perfect conference for cardiologists, what would it look like?’
‘Well, just, say anything you like.’
‘Really?’
‘Lots more toilets. OK.’
‘Hotel provision closer to conference centre, good.’
‘Free hot dogs? Ok. Ha ha. Very funny. No, you never know.’
‘How about a water slide? No, just joking there.’
‘No, I know that wouldn’t be appropriate.’
‘Yes, I know heart disease is Britain’s biggest killer.’
‘Yes, I do know that.’
‘Sorry.’
From out of the window I see a plane go by that could be headed anywhere. The sky is so blue. The plane cuts through it at tremendous speed. Everyone in it has a comfortable seat and someone is bringing them coffee and a decent enough meal. They are heading to Barbados, or Tenerife, or Ibiza, or Honduras, or Tuscany, or Agadir, or Cephalonia.
I think about that Missing poster again. It flashes into my mind occasionally.
I look down at my trainers. I’ve still got blood on them from last night.
WF – Me, Lily – In an apartment at night – Light brown hair – Married, but utterly singular – In the mirror – Could be a doctor, in another life – 5’ 7”.
To cut a long story short sometimes our Internet goes down. We had to call out a local guy in the end because our provider takes so long to actually send someone to fix it themselves. Our guy says there aren’t quite enough sockets in the building for everyone. So every so often someone’s Internet guy changes around the sockets, pulling one out at random so there is a free socket for whoever is paying them that day.
It’s like there were three in the bed and the little one said roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. Maybe that’s not a good analogy. There are twenty-two flats and twenty-one phone ports, so it’s like musical chairs, let’s put it like that. At any one time, someone in the building doesn’t have a phone or Internet connection. And you can’t even get a mobile signal round here because we’re too close to the water, apparently. They can’t get a transmitter close enough or something. So you have to boost your phone signal using an app and your Internet connection. So if you don’t have the net you haven’t really got anything. You’re stranded.
So our guy, nice guy, Dexter, big guy. He has the idea of putting a sticker on our port that reads ‘doctor on call’. He’s done it before he says. It works.
The first time we got a knock on the door was four months ago, 4 a.m.
‘Please, the concierge told me there was a doctor in the building and he gave me the flat number. I’m so sorry to disturb. It’s my husband.’
Aiden was flat out, so I was the fall girl. Dr Gullick. It sounds good, doesn’t it? Trustworthy somehow. You can imagine a Doctor Gullick. I don’t know any of the Dutch side of the family. Maybe there aren’t any anymore. I know it’s a Dutch name but I feel as British as they come. But I’m sure the original Gullicks, the Dutch Gullicks, were good people. Maybe they were doctors. Who knows, maybe something will kick in. It’s not the prettiest name of course. It means ‘small bald man with no beard’. Did you know that? Hardly flattering for a gal. But there we are.
I looked at her as my brain adjusted to being awake. I finally figured out what on earth the woman was talking about. The thoughts connected in a couple of seconds. A concierge must have stuck his head in behind the phone port panel at some point and clocked the sticker. Made a mental note to tell people not to pull that one out at all costs. Which was our plan. This, however, was not.
I considered explaining, imagined her face as I told her about the ruse. Maybe I could tell her it was Dexter’s idea. Lay it all on him. He’s a big guy. He could take it. Maybe she’d see the funny side. But I didn’t do that. I couldn’t take the shame of it. Not that I loved the alternative either. Both were pretty shitty options. It was a less heart-rending but more socially awkward version of Sophie’s Choice. Anyway, somehow I instinctively reached for my leather washbag, which could be generic enough to have my ‘doctor’s equipment’ within it. Nodded. And we left.
I gave her husband the once-over. Sharp abdominal pains had kept him up all night. I put my hands on his bare stomach. What a strange interloper I am. It’s funny where one little lie can take you. His skin felt clammy and warm. I’m not sure what I was feeling for. A rumble. Or a kick. I applied gentle pressure and then dug my fingers in. He groaned. Skin is the kindest of fabrics. It felt like more intimacy than I’d had for a while. He breathed heavier and my breathing changed too. His stomach tensed. He groaned again. It wasn’t arousing or anything. But it was something.
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.
‘Lily. How are you this evening?’
‘Hey, I’m good. You? Up to no good I assume?’
‘Oh yeah, you know how it is. This is Sarah…’
‘Hello,’ she says, perfunctory but warm.
She smiles. Weather girl teeth. I hope she sticks around. Maybe he’s unlucky in love. Or just has exacting standards. Who knows? He’s dependable more than exciting. Maybe that’s it.
‘Well, we’ll love you and leave you. As they say,’ he quips.
‘Do they say that?’
‘Yeah. Yes, I think they do. They do to me anyway.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second. ’Night.’
The funny thing is I do believe that. He has the extraordinary skill of looking just a touch downtrodden even with a perfectly nice woman next to him. Maybe he never makes it to the second date. Maybe once they see the inside of the flat they run a mile. Maybe there’s terrifying taxidermy everywhere. I wonder what it’s like in there. Inside his flat. And inside his head. For that matter.
I was thinking of all these things as I slid into bed. Trying not to let on I’m thinking about another man. I wonder what exactly he’s doing to her next door. I wonder if Aiden would be jealous If he knew that’s what I was thinking about. He’s dead to the world anyway. As I lie there considering Lowell’s possibly poor sexual technique.
These walls are well insulated. But not that well. But still, you never hear anyone cry out in passion. No banging from his side of the wall. Poor Lowell. And poor Suzanne? Sandra? Simone? Cecily? Sally? Samantha? Sophie? Sarah!
That’s the one.
I don’t want to boast, but I’m sure we’ve made our bedposts bang against the partition wall a few times. I’m sure he’s heard us. But you never hear a peep out of him. Not to be crude. But I assume you know how it all works. You know we were trying for a baby after all. Up until recently.
Midnight is long gone.
One a.m. comes along and goes. I think of Janet and Tippi’s orchid. I think of Cary’s bloody lips. I think of Phil’s lava lamp face. I breathe in for fifteen. And out for ten. Like I used to tell Mum to. But it doesn’t work.
Two o’clock arrives. And I am still in the land of the living.
I think of how many others in this building are staring at their ceilings as I do now. How many are dead asleep? I wonder how many of these rooms are even occupied. It’s tough to keep track of your neighbours in a place like this. No matter how hard you try. It’s hard to make connections. That’s not what everyone wants. Hardly anyone wants that these days. They mostly just want an Internet connection and a funny video of some cats or a horse.
People come and go here. No sooner are they set up than they’re looking to get out. The prices are going up all the time, which somehow translates into impermanence. People are renting for now, but looking to buy. People are buying, but looking to get something better soon. I overhear people talking about Flipping the Place On and Making a Tidy Profit in a Year or Two. I hear them say I Might Buy Another One Off Plan and By the Time That’s Built I’ll Have Flipped That One On Too. People are here for the week but jump in the car to get away for the weekends. People looking for a chance to leave the city for good. Everyone seems to be trying to escape this place, in one way or another. But me. I’m here to stay.
Then there’s the people in far away countries who buy places for their kids to move into some day. Or just have them as an investment. Never bothering with the hassle of renting the place out. So they sit there like empty shells. As if haunted. Sometimes I wonder if they are haunted.
It’s difficult to see back into a building you’re already in. To see what’s going on above. Or below or to the sides. Binoculars don’t work like that. You’d hear the sounds if the rooms weren’t pretty well soundproofed. Sometimes I think I hear crying through the walls. From above or below. Then I think it’s just my imagination. But even crying would at least be something.
So I never know who lives here. I never hear them or feel them. Suddenly around a corner will appear a guy in flip-flops with a trendy full beard and an Antipodean accent. I’ll have never seen him in my life before. I may never do again. Does he really live here? Is he an intruder? Is he a ghost?
Maybe ghosts haunt spaces, rather than rooms. I often think this. What I mean is, even though the four walls around me have only existed for a little over two years, and we’re led to believe your home must be at least twenty years old, preferably fifty, to qualify for a haunting, someone did once live here. In this space. In the old block. The one they tore down so they could build this one instead.
The other one was built in the early fifties. Plenty of time for anything to occur here. What were their lives like? What did they do in here? In this space where I’m lying. Were there births? Deaths? Sex and arguments? In this space. Are these things the ghosts?
This morning, on the way to work, I stopped and watched the wrecking ball bash open a building, like paper. Brutal, efficient. You could see the insides of two or three homes in a row next to each other. One was painted dark blue, its walls now facing the open, its chest to the wind. Their flat became one big balcony.
The people inside never considered it would turn out this way. No ceiling or exterior wall. Only a tiny ledge of floor left at the back.
The next one was wallpapered. Probably in the seventies by the looks of it. Browns and beiges. The light switches were still there. I noticed. But I knew by the next hit they wouldn’t be. They fell forty-five feet to the ground and were swept efficiently into a skip.
The third flat was a garish pink. Like the inside of a body. Light colours, to make the most of the meagre space.
The three homes sat there. Blown open. For me to see the remnants and adornments of the lives that used to live inside. Like a cross-section or a doll’s house. It’s a ten-minute glance, just for any lucky bystander that happens to be there at the time. By the eleventh minute, the three will be completely destroyed in two firm swings of the forged steel ball.
On the wall of the pink flat was a crucifix. It glinted in the light. Visible to the naked eye. I watched the metal sphere hit it. I watched it drop, along with the concrete, dust and wires. And, without stopping for a second to consider what they had destroyed, the machines swept past and gathered everything up. Next, it went into the skip. Then into a lorry. Then the landfill.
Yes. Without a thought. The little cross. The residents prayed to. Would be buried beneath tons of nameless rubble and debris.
As I lie here, thinking these night-time thoughts, I wonder how many people are thinking the same things, at this very same time. Awake. Somewhere in another part of London. What if we could find each other and connect. Just as I’m thinking these things I notice something in the top right corner of my window. A single light still on. In a flat in Canada House. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s number forty-one. Jean’s flat.
