Watching You, Watching Me

Nothing happened for a while. Then Dad hammered again, harder this time. Number twenty-five seemed absolutely silent — uninhabited. And then, I tightened my hold on the portable. The light on the first floor was on the move again, floating and glimmering through chinks in the boarding. It was descending through the house.

I waited tensely, expecting the front door to be split asunder any minute and some equivalent of the Incredible Hulk to come bursting through. But it didn’t. Dad just stood there. He seemed to be talking animatedly through the door, waving his arms around. I could tell by his back that he was speaking but I couldn’t catch what he said because Mum was letting the bathwater out. Then Dad seemed to give up — he shook his head and came back across the road.

I heard our front door slam.

I headed down the stairs.

‘What happened? What did they say?’

Dad cleared his throat. ‘Bloody confident little bastard, whoever he is. Said he had every right to be there. Told me I was an interfering old busy-body. And suggested that I … Piss off.’

I could tell by Dad’s tone that he felt put-down. Guess it was a male pride thing — he’d gone over that road in the spirit of a well-wisher, a comrade-in-arms, and he’d been told to get lost. I managed to stifle the impulse to giggle. He went to the fridge and took out a can of lager, snapped it open and sat down, thoughtfully sipping it.

‘What did he sound like — this bloke? A great big bruiser?’

‘No … not at all. Quite young …’

‘How young?’

‘Hard to tell but couldn’t be more than, say seventeen … eighteen?’

‘Who?’ Gemma had left off watching the TV and was helping herself to juice from the fridge.

‘Someone who seems to have moved in over the road, number twenty-five.’

‘What, in the spook house?’

‘It’s not a spook house, remember. No such things as spooks. Gemma,’ said Dad, taking the juice container out of her hand and returning it to the fridge before she drank the lot.

‘Seventeen or eighteen. What does he look like?’ asked Gemma. Already I could see she was assessing his romantic potential. Gemma was positively addicted to romances. Love Stories, Sweet ValleyHigh, Mills & Boon — Gemma consumed all this stuff at the rate of three books a week.

‘I haven’t actually seen him yet. We talked through the door.’

‘Oh … but you must be able to tell. You can from voices, you know. I read this book about these two people who fell in love over the telephone. They’d never even met and it was the real thing …’

‘Gemma listen,’ I said. This is like some tramp or something. Wild-eyed, unshaven, overweight maybe. He probably smells … Really rough.’

‘He didn’t sound rough. Just annoyed,’ said Dad. ‘Funny business.’

We could hear Mum coming downstairs. Dad obviously wanted to bring the discussion to a close.

‘Hey Gem. Your bedtime. Off you go.’

‘Must I?’

Mum appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Yes, you must. Term starts tomorrow, remember?’

Later that night, when I went up to bed, I opened my window as usual. Dad has this real thing about fresh air. Unless its about ten degrees below, he absolutely insists we sleep with the windows open. He says we can pile on as many duvets as we like but young lungs need fresh air and the air is freshest at night when there’s not so much traffic around. He’s got this big thing about traffic too, but I won’t bore you with all that right now. I stared out of the window. The light was still there, flickering in the top room now. With the curtains drawn around behind me, I settled down to watch. Nothing much was happening — only the light was moving around a bit. And it was pretty chilly too.

‘What’s going on?’ Gemma’s small warm body thrust itself against mine.

‘Ssssh!’ I said unnecessarily, as he could hardly have heard us from across the street. ‘Nothing.’

‘I reckon he looks like Liam Gallagher. Unshaven, you know, and kind of hungry-looking. Dead sexy.’

‘What would you know about it?’ Gemma was only nine.

‘What would you?’ she retorted. You’ve never even had a boyfriend.’

She was right really. At fourteen I didn’t score too highly on the ‘boyfriend’ front. Unless you counted being kissed at Christmas by Stephen, my cousin, but he was a total dweeb and since it was under the mistletoe, I guess it didn’t count anyway. Girls at school had been going out with guys since they were twelve practically. I was teased about my single status the whole time. But short of bumping into the boy of my dreams in the local shopping mall, I didn’t have that much opportunity for male conquest. Mum and Dad were dead strict about pubs and clubs, and even parties were vetted. It really wasn’t fair.

‘Look, it’s gone out,’ said Gemma. The light had suddenly been extinguished. We sat in silence for a few minutes more. Watching a flickering candle was pretty boring, but watching a totally dark house was ridiculous. So we went to bed after that.

I lay in bed unable to sleep for hours. My mind kept on making up different photo-fits of our mysterious new neighbour.

I had just got to Mystery-Man Photo-Fit Number Eight which was a bronzed kind of Baywatch guy who’d escaped from Hollywood and come to Britain because he was being hounded by Interpol for a murder he hadn’t committed and was trying to clear his name. I featured prominently in this one, working as an undercover agent and doing amazingly heroic acts for which he was stunned and grateful and he was just about to …

When I must have fallen asleep.

Chapter Two (#ufbc92d8e-ce70-57ff-8971-011421628926)

Mornings in our house are always pretty unbelievable. But the first morning of any term gets the chaos award.

I left as much time as I reasonably could before I made my appearance downstairs. Mum had called six times. I climbed into my loathsome uniform. Grey skirt made as short as I dare by rolling round the waistband (a quick unroll adds that vital inch on uniform inspection days). Hideous white shirt you can see your bra through, yukk! I’d forgotten the gross feel of the nylony fabric — the kind of stuff that gives off electric shocks like forked lightning when you undress in the dark. Dangerous if you ask me. Tie — now I reckon it’s kinky making girls wear ties. And to complete the ensemble, scratchy nylon and acrylic mix grey cardie — ghastly!

I stomped downstairs. Gemma was sitting on the third step practising her recorder. The ‘tune’ she was attempting to master was ‘London’s Burning’. Every time she got to the two final notes — ‘Fire, Fire’ — she played two painfully wrong ones.

‘Shut up Gems — you’re giving everyone a headache!’

‘Miss Dawson said we had to have it perfect over the holidays.’

‘But you’ve had all summer!’

I climbed over her. Mum was dressed in her smart ‘I’ve got a meeting at work’ outfit and making sandwiches distractedly.

‘Oh, there you are. You couldn’t be an angel and find Jamie’s football gear for me, could you? It’s brand new, should be in the drawer but …’

‘He’s been wearing it as pyjamas,’ chimed in Gemma, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

‘I have not …’ said Jamie going red — and an argument broke out.

Mum tore open a tin of tuna and Yin and Yang started up a chorus at her feet.

‘Jamie, its your job to feed the cats this week. Why aren’t they fed?’

‘Mum!!!!! …’ Gemma was staring at the sandwiches practically in tears. You know I can’t stand mayonnaise. It makes me want to throw up. The very sight of it and I puke …’

‘Oh goodness yes … I forgot. OK … Tasha, you feed the cats and Jamie, you get your football gear.’