Watching You, Watching Me

‘That’s technique. Taken years to perfect. Sod-all going on over there — budge over.’

Rosie grabbed a pillow and settled herself down end-to-end on my bed. She leaned over and shoved a CD in my player, then sat well-prepared for a girly chat.

‘So … what is he like?’

‘Turn it down a bit — they’ll hear.’

‘God, I’d give anything for a ciggie — do you think they’ll notice?’

‘Yes, Dad’s got a built-in smoke detector up his nostrils.’

‘OK, shoot. Is Gemma making it all up? Said he looked like that guy who used to be on Blue Peter — you know …’

‘Tim Vincent? The one she nearly died of a crush over? She needed counselling when he left the programme …’

‘Well is he …?’

‘Nah. He’s a bit more mature-looking than that. Not so baby-faced.’

‘Mmmm … Tell me more.’

I suddenly had an insight that if Rosie got in on the act I wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘I didn’t get that good a look at him. Not that fit. Maybe he had dandruff …’

‘You must’ve got a pretty good look at him to notice that!’

‘Look, hold on — we don’t know a thing about him! He’s a squatter for God’s sake and he’s probably really rough. He goes to West Thames.’

‘A squatter who goes to college?’

‘Well, seems like he was going there this morning. I guess it is a bit odd.’

‘Maybe he’s a cleaner there or something.’

‘Mmm.’

Rosie had grabbed my eyelash curlers and was studying her reflection in my hand mirror. She was concentrating on putting the curl back in her lashes.

‘Hey … Something is going on over there.’ She stopped with one lash done — the hand mirror was trained over her shoulder.

I craned towards my window. The boards which had been nailed up over one of number twenty-five’s upstairs windows — the one at the very top, opposite mine — were being split apart. It looked as if someone was trying to break through.

Rosie had leapt from the bed and was hovering by the window.

‘Do we have a sighting?’ I asked.

‘Uh-uh, nothing yet,’ Rosie whispered, waving a hand at me to keep quiet. Then she added: ‘Down lights. Down music. Action!’

I switched the bedside light off and joined her.

The squatter was leaning out and wrenching at one of the boards which was proving hard to shift. He was wearing a torn old T-shirt. The light of the street-lamps had just come on and were catching him from below like footlights.

‘I thought Gems was exaggerating. But he is really scrummy.’

‘Isn’t he just?’

‘So why aren’t you in there, man?’

‘How?’

‘Head over there with a cup of sugar. Enrol him into the local Neighbourhood Watch. Sign him up for the Brownies. Use your imagination!’

‘Small problem.’

‘What?’

‘Mum and Dad have already decided he’s big, bad and not-nice-to-know.’

We were interrupted at that point by a loud ‘Cooooey’ from below. ‘Supper-time!’

We made our way downstairs.

‘Do you want to stay, Rosie? There’s plenty to go round.’

Rosie eyed Mum’s veggiebake, which was standing steaming on the table.

‘Thanks Mrs Campbell, but Mum’s expecting me back.’

Mums cooking was a bit of an embarrassment. I mean, there’s a limit to what you can do with vegetables. I expected Rosie and her mum were having one of those lush M&S meals. I’d seen inside their freezer, it was stacked with stuff — ready-made meals all with posey foreign names. Some people had all the luck.

But it was one of Mum’s better bakes. As a matter of fact, I even had a second helping. When Dad had eaten enough of his meal to put him in a receptive mood, I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.

‘What happens to squatters, Dad? If they’re caught? Do they get fined or go to prison or what?’

‘It depends,’ said Dad. ‘If the property’s derelict and they’re in there long enough, they can establish something called ‘squatter’s rights’. Then it can be really difficult to get them out.’

Gemma eyed me over her food. This was good news.

‘But there must be some way to get rid of them,’ said Mum.

‘If you can prove they’re causing damage or are a nuisance you can.’

‘This one’s not a nuisance. He’s quiet as a mouse. He doesn’t even have lights on,’ said Gemma. ‘I think he’s lovely.’

‘Stop messing about with your food and eat it properly,’ said Mum irrelevantly. Her irritation showed in her voice.

‘I don’t like the horrid black bits. They’re all wibbly.’