Читать книгу Watching You, Watching Me - Chloe Rayban - Страница 12

Just so you get the picture of the full extent of my family’s madness, I’ve got to tell you about Dad’s pet project.

Dad’s pet project is up in the loft. He’s taken over the whole loft area and he’s pinned out all the pages of the A-Z road atlas side by side, each page butting to the next so that we’ve got an incredibly detailed plan of London, street by street. He’s working on his own alternative traffic plan. He seems to think that the future of the planet lies in pedal power. So he’s tracing all these little cycle-ways through the city. Most weekends you’ll see us setting out as reluctant researchers on one of his reccies. First Dad on his mountain bike. Then Mum on her old upright. Followed by Jamie and Gemma and lastly me on my cringe-making pink Raleigh. To complete the picture, we all have to wear these really nerdy cycle helmets and pollution masks. Give us ears and we’d look like a group outing of koala bears.

Anyway, the Saturday after Matt had moved in, I happened to be up in the loft with Dad spending an ecological evening. I was helping him by sticking on rows of little green sponge trees and creating parks and open spaces. I’ve got rather fond of Dad’s project over the years. We used to get into long arguments over traffic control. I’m all for a couple of east-west one way systems which take you past all the cool shopping streets, but Dad’s plan is to filter all the traffic south of the river and ban everything from central London apart from public transport, taxis and of course, bikes. On this particular evening we’d designed a ring over-pass right round London that was like a cycle superhighway.

‘What’s that din?’ asked Dad, looking up from the calculations he was feeding into his lap-top.

It was a deep throaty boom-boom-boom that was reverberating through the loft.

‘Umm … sounds like music.’

‘But where’s it coming from?’ He was already making his way down the loft ladder.

I followed, realising only too well what was up. By the time I reached my room he was leaning out of the window staring at number twenty-five.

People were milling round outside trying to get in through the crush round the front door.

‘It’s only a party,’ I said.

‘But listen to the noise!’

‘Oh well, I don’t expect it’ll go on for long.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dad.

It was about 2.00 am when he totally flipped. I hadn’t got much sleep. In fact, I hadn’t got any. I’d wrapped myself in my duvet and sat in the window with the lights off and the curtains closed behind me — watching. I wouldn’t have believed so many people could have crammed themselves into one house. In fact, they couldn’t. There was a constant overflow of people into the garden. They were the kind of people who were a bit of a novelty in Frensham Avenue. It looked like the whole of Camden Market and Portobello Road had decided to migrate south-west. Through number twenty-fives shadowy windows you could see the waving forms of people dancing. I strained into the gloom for a sighting of Matt but it was pretty well impossible to make out anyone in the flickering candlelight.

And then, just as I was giving up and deciding to crawl into bed, I saw her — the girl who had been with him at the cinema. She’d come into the garden and she was sitting on the low wall smoking a cigarette. A few minutes later, he came out. He was standing in front of her saying something. Then he waited for some minutes with his hands on his hips while she obviously said something back. It was impossible to hear any of the discussion against the music. They appeared to be having some sort of argument. He looked as if he was about to make off when she suddenly stood up and slipped her arms around his waist. For a moment he seemed to be pulling away. But then they went into a clinch. You couldn’t really see but I could tell by the way his back was hunched they were snogging. I came away from the window and slumped miserably down on the bed.

That was when I heard Mum and Dad’s door open. Mum was saying to Dad that she’d had enough and that they ought to call the police. Dad was answering back, saying he’d give them one more chance. I heard our front door slam. I was back at the window in a flash.

But someone had got there ahead of Dad. It was grouchy old Mr Levington from number twenty. Mr Levington was about the most miserable interfering old so-and-so you could ever hope not to live next door to. A real semi-detached Sunday morning car washer. The Levingtons were a kind of family joke — Mum claimed that Mrs Levington washed out the insides of their dustbins each week. They had this garden that looked like a municipal park — a square of grass with symmetrical beds all round and all the plants tied to stakes like torture victims. Mum and Dad had an ongoing battle against their putting out noxious weed-killer and poisonous slug pellets. They were the kind of people who thought — if it moves, it must be a pest, kill it.

Mr Levington was having a go at Matt and the girl by the look of it — waving his arms around and saying something I couldn’t decipher. And now Dad had joined him. He was standing in the middle of the road in his dressing gown and slippers — cringe. The worst thing about it was Dad and Mr Levington seem to have teamed up over this one.

Dad had gone right up to Matt and the girl. Matt still had his arms around her but they’d stopped snogging. She took one look at Dad as if he was the lamest thing or two legs and then made off into the house. Matt was gesticulating, talking back. But Dad and Mr Levington stood their ground. It looked like some row. When they left. Matt went back into the house and the music was turned down.

The music stayed turned down for all of ten minutes. And then there was a crash of shattering glass and a load of shouting. The house seemed about to erupt and a kind of people-explosion burst through the front door. It looked as if a fight had broken out.

I heard Dad’s bedroom door being flung open again, and this time he did go down to the phone. I heard him dial three times and wait.

The crowd flooded out on to the street. There were about six massive guys bearing down on someone who had his back to me. He tripped and fell backwards. And then I caught sight of him under a street light. It was Matt. He was getting to his feet again, shouting things, but none of the guys were taking any notice. Then something glinted in the light of a street lamp. One of them had a broken bottle in his hand.

I stood helplessly at the window. I wanted to scream or shout but I stood frozen to the spot, afraid that any sound from me would cause a fatal lunge or slip.

And then, just in the nick of time, two police cars came careering down the road with their blue lights flashing.

I’ve never been so relieved to see a police car in my whole life.

After the police had gone the party broke up. I lay there listening as people left. At last, the final stragglers made their way down the road, kicking cans and shouting to each other and eventually singing in a slurred sort of way as they rounded the corner. Gradually the street subsided into silence.

Number twenty-five was in darkness apart from a single candle flickering in that top room. I wondered whether that was Matt in there and whether he was alone. I wondered whether he was all right. I sat watching the light for a moment. And then it went out.