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

‘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.

20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m. (#ulink_7348335d-8053-5870-97ca-3b00c523765d)

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.

19 days till it comes. 2.30 p.m. (#ulink_9f67493b-6aa3-50ae-84e5-54390f8c6d0d)

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.’