The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist

I’m walking through the estate at night. It’s warm out here tonight. One of those warm restless nights. But I’m surprised to see no other lights on in any of the apartments. Or the estate. No other night owls in Canada House. Just number forty-one.

I skulk around, staring at the building. Many of the other flats are boarded up. Metal slats applied firmly to windows to keep things out. The weather, squatters, animals. The left side of the building is almost completely empty. Its guts hanging out for everyone to see. Glassless windows, dusty exposed brick, graffiti. There was a rumour that these houses once doubled for Warsaw in Schindler’s List and, looking at them, I can believe it.

A yellow ADVANCED WARNING NOTICE tells us that the demolition of Alaska House, the largest of the blocks and the next one to go, will begin on 29 September. One of the roads behind it will be closed off for a while. This is their biggest job yet. Their masterpiece. Until then we have a few weeks’ silence and grace. Before the rumble starts again. I pass the Missing poster too. It flaps away gently in the wind.

Jean lives on the right side of the building. The occupied side. Still waiting to be rehoused. There’s definitely an eerie feeling round here. The place is too empty. Or maybe not empty enough somehow. I can’t decide which yet. But as I’m thinking this I hear something and stop to listen. My thoughts drift away, I stand there listening. I could be imagining it. But I think it’s the sound of someone breathing.

I turn and brace myself. Nothing. I keep my senses open. Searching for whatever is telling me everything’s not quite right. Then I hear the sound of shoes scraping across gravel. Shit. I turn again to face it. Nothing. Perhaps the echo of my own feet. Rebounding off the concrete buildings that surround me.

The steps to her place are only twenty metres away, but I decide to break into a jog. My heart is beating hard, it’s gothic out here. The street lights are out. Either turned off by the council or smashed out by someone more sinister. This is stupid. I’ve never done anything like this before. What is it I’m looking for? No time to think. Come on. Move your feet.

I get to the stairwell, breathing hard now. Cars intermittently light me up as they fly past thirty or so metres away. By their passing beams, I put one hand against the wall and tread carefully up the flight of concrete stairs that leads to her floor. I can’t see the hand in front of my face when the car headlights drift away. I tread carefully. No light for five seconds, fifteen seconds. Nearly there.

I hear a distant engine that should soon light my way. Then something wet underfoot. I squelch in it. I try not to look down. The car approaches, I don’t want to look back now. This is Jean’s route home. Every night. Jesus. The flash of light comes. Blood on the ground. I look back.

Dead. Covered in hair. I put my hand to my throat and then mouth and only just manage to avoid screaming, knowing that would echo loud and long into the distance. I rumble and shake on the inside. It’s a huge rat. Ripped open. Over thirty centimetres long. Dead. I gag a little. Disgusted but sighing in partial relief – it could be worse. I get to the top of the stairs.

I turn forward again. Then hear the sound of something fly past my head. Bats. There are a lot of them round here as we’re near the water. They’re cute in a way. Then a metal pipe swings past my ear and I dive to the side. I hear the sound of the air as it narrowly misses me. I reach inside my bag instinctively and grip the knife. A blood-curdling scream. A car passes, lighting the pipe again, clearly held in a gloved hand. It’s like a nightmare. But I am definitely awake.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you!’

I breathe deep, gasping from somewhere deep within my lungs as I ready myself to attack. The one advantage of the dark is that my attacker can’t see me either. I stay quiet, jumping back out to face them head on. My fist tightens as I flick open the knife, keeping it concealed within the bag until the last moment. I breathe in once more.

‘You fucking—’

As the car comes past I stare at her face to face. Both our hearts pumping fast. The cold, damp night air filling our nostrils. Jean holds a pipe above her head. She’s a biggish woman. I would say it would crack my skull right open. If she uses her full force. I hope she doesn’t, but then maybe that’s what intruders get.

‘You stupid cow. What are you doing?’ she says, letting the pipe fall to her side.

I can barely get the words out. I hold up my hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t… er… hurt me.’

She looks at me and recognition flickers across her face. A frown.

‘Get inside. We should get inside. Now.’

Night. 3 a.m. (#ulink_662d6072-2255-5f59-97ff-f3d8b100e422)

WF – Jean – Canada House – Grey perm – Alone – Wary. Tough. Gives as good as she gets – A warm evening, with European breeze, Pitch-black night – 5’ 6”.

‘People like you shouldn’t be hanging around here in the dark. You stupid girl,’ she says, suddenly becoming a Mother Superior.

‘People like me?’

‘Beehives. That’s what they call you. Bloody beehives. After that posh pub – the Beehive – they opened that all you yuppies go to. I knew when that arrived it was the beginning of the end for us.’

‘I’m not. I’m not a… yuppy. That’s not who I am.’

‘Well, whoever you are, they can spot you a mile off. You’re a different species. And you’ll be an endangered one if you hang around here at night. You lot need to stick to your side. They don’t much like me. So they certainly won’t like you. And if they don’t like you, you know about it.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The kids. The ones they couldn’t find places for. They’re still here. They broke back into their own homes, some of them. Mostly in the Alaska House. Sleeping on newspapers. Making their way any way they can.’

‘But I thought everyone had new places to live?’ I say quietly. Guiltily.

‘Yes. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. They got us out all right, with promises of bigger flats “just that little further out”. The ones that stayed, our places are falling down and no one is coming out to fix anything no matter how much I ring up the council and threaten them. The others ended up in places like Ipswich. I mean, where’s Ipswich? It’s not my home. But some came back and stayed anyway, hiding in the building. ‘Cos their lives are still here. Their jobs are still here. Whatever they consist of. I’m not saying they’re criminals. Least, they weren’t before. But once things start to slip. Once you break the first couple of rules, the rest don’t seem so hard to break either. Every morning I wake up and someone has pissed opposite my door. Every morning I clear it up. I see everything round here. And I’ve seen some things. Drugs and drink is just the start of it. I’ve seen blood on the pavement. And I’ve seen it shed in front of my eyes too. But no one cares about the things that people like me see. Don’t hang around here, you silly cow. Get back to your end. And lock the door when you’re there.’

You couldn’t call her kindly. She probably once was, but her manner had been hardened by the last couple of years. She looks ten years older than the photo in the paper. Her hair wasn’t so grey then. But inside, the place is still a home. Pictures of children and grandchildren smile out at you from behind floral frames.

‘They’re in Portugal now. They only call once a month, at most. I should’ve joined them. Bloody freezing this country.’

She’s right, it is cold in here. I’m not sure how, outside is quite warm, summertime spreading smoothly through every other corner of London. Jean’s place has its own Arctic microclimate. Like the cold has soaked into the walls. She explains the price of fuel has gone up and her state pension doesn’t allow her to be reckless, even with heating. Everything has to be thought out. Everything perfectly stacked. Enough tinned food for a nuclear holocaust. And, along with the metal pipe that sits next to the door, a cricket bat and an old fire poker are there for self-preservation.

For a moment, my eyes linger on a statue that sits on her kitchen sideboard. A cream-coloured monkey, sitting on a rock. Serenely smiling out at me. His ears are a curious shade of lime green. His belly is brown. And, on his head, the monkey balances a bowl. Which Jean uses for spare change.

Below the bowl, the monkey’s hands cover his eyes.

A noise from the other room. I stand and grip my bag again, placing myself in front of Jean, ready to do who knows what.

‘Ha ha, that’s just Terrence,’ she says. Now highly amused. Her King Charles spaniel puppy bounds into the room. She reaches for a treat and strokes his head. He comes to greet me too. I was never good with dogs, but luckily Terrence is good with me. Jean seems brighter suddenly with Terrence around. Younger. She is a different person all of a sudden. You can see what she would’ve been like with a family around her.

‘I was up late. I saw your light on. I know it’s strange, but I just wanted to say… I read the article, and I would never cross the road to avoid you. I’m sorry all this has happened to your home. I like it round here. But I’m sorry me being here means that… means that you’re being forced to leave. I think that’s awful. Terrible. And, in some way, I feel responsible. I’m sorry. For that.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about us, love. We’re already sunk. We’re just waiting till we hit the bottom. And there’s nothing anyone can ever do about that.’

I am embarrassed to say it, but I want to come again. To help with things. If there is anything she needs help with. She doesn’t look happy about it but she doesn’t say I can’t either. I punch my number into her phone and promise her again that I won’t walk through the estate after dark. It’s a promise I plan to keep.

I decline her offer to borrow one of her makeshift weapons, saying I’d run back and be safe. Not revealing I have a knife with me. Or that I had been a few seconds away from plunging it into her side when we first met. I chance a hug. She doesn’t move for a second. But I hold on. Her body, at first rigid, softens. There we stand, two people who can’t sleep, holding each other up. Gradually, her arms come up and curl around me. I haven’t hugged anyone like this since Mum. As this thought passes through my mind, I squeeze harder and she does too. Her daughter was a long time gone. Something distinct passes between us. A noiseless whisper. Or a secret. Then I feel and hear her breathe, as some held emotion drifts up from her chest and then out and away. We all need a hug. She touches my shoulder and then ends the clinch abruptly, almost with a push. But, when I look up, I see a grudging acknowledgement in her watery blue eyes. I nod, both of us avoiding full eye contact as my feet scuff her floor and I turn and put my hand on the door handle.

I turn back for a second because I think I hear her say something. But I don’t think she did. This, however, gives me a chance to smile at her properly and she gives one back like she’s out of practice. I stroke Terrence, open the door and hear it close and lock behind me as I hustle off quickly down the concrete stairs. The stench of piss fills the air.

I run, while trying desperately not to look like I’m doing so. I can see my flat and imagine being safe in bed with Aiden any second. I look around me, even more self-conscious on the return journey than I had been on my trip over here. I am ready for someone up to no good. Ready to give as good as I get if anyone tries anything. I try to stay inconspicuous but my own breath seems deafening in my ears, echoing hard around the estate, making me a target. It’s hard not to feel paranoid when someone has just told you to watch out. Then, from the corner of my eye, on the fourth floor of Alaska House, I see a metal slat pull open. A car speeds past, beeping its horn wildly in the distance, and its headlights illuminate the outline of a face. Startled by the starkness of the noise and silhouette in front of me, my breath falls away. I feel like I’m winded. As I stagger back to catch it and breathe deep, I look closer. A pair of eyes glisten in the window. I look straight into them. As they look back, accusingly. Then I turn and run.

19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m. (#ulink_a5d29530-96f9-5124-a75e-5490832be4d9)

I head out of work and hurry to the Tube. Marching towards home and to my bed. Every day at work is exactly the same. I don’t know if I can take much more. I just have to zone out and let it happen to me, I suppose. Sorry. I’m falling asleep even now. I need to sleep.

‘Is that blood on your shoes?’ A shout comes from behind me.

It’s Phil. A bit indiscreet. What if I was a serial killer? He would’ve just blown my cover. I give him a look. How does he know I’m not one? He could be getting himself into a lot of trouble.

‘Sorry. I sort of blurted that out, didn’t I?’ he bumbles.

‘Yeah, you did,’ I say coldly. I’m tired.

‘Whose blood is it?’

‘Not mine.’