Читать книгу The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist - Ross Armstrong - Страница 22

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.’

‘OK.’

‘All right?’

‘You make me pretty nervous.’

I’m walking hard and he’s struggling to keep up. I’m not slowing down though. If he wants to talk so much he’ll keep up. I’ve got to get back and have a chat with Aiden. I’m worried about him. He’s deep into his book. He barely leaves the house. I said I’d support him while he wrote it, so I’m the one paying the rent. I’m the one paying for the food deliveries too. He’s done the same for me in the past, but this is different. He’s a shut-in. He doesn’t go out on his motorbike or anything any more. He never talks about our possible baby. He just sits by the window tapping away at his laptop. Morning, noon and night. He’s really letting himself go.

‘I know this isn’t perfect timing but I wondered whether you fancied a drink some time?’

‘What? What kind of drink?’ I say, as if the word ‘drink’ seems somehow alien to me.

‘You don’t have to decide that now. You can have anything up to the value of six pounds. Which will get you most things these days. Well… in Yates. Not other places. But we could go other places.’

‘You know I’m married right?’ I stop for the first time and look him in the eye.

He looks back at me. I’m not sure I like how he looks at me. He’s very keen.

‘Er… yes, of course,’ he says, falteringly. He stops altogether for a second.

Then tries again. ‘I mean as friends. Just for a chat. Just to pass the time.’

‘Oh, a friendship drink. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘I am.’

I’m through the barrier and he knows he gets a different line to me so he’s talking very fast.

‘But if you need to let off steam any time. After work. Someone to talk to…’

‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’ I’m civil as I head off in the other direction. He’s nice. I’m tired.

‘Not that you need anyone to… Wait!’

That does stop me in my tracks. That was loud. A few people make faces as they pass by me and head down to the elevator. He’s making a scene. I make a face that says, Go on then. What?

‘I’ve seen you. I watch you. When we’re at work.’

Oh, God. He’s either searching for a romcom moment or he’s about to throttle me. People flow past me and onto the escalator and down to the Underground. And I have to stay there. In his awkward tractor beam. Until he’s finished.

‘OK, Phil. See you tomorrow.’

He stares at me. Meaningfully. But I’m not entirely sure what the meaning is.

‘I just like you, that’s all,’ he murmurs. It would be cute if it wasn’t so awful.

Romance is a curse. The amount of unwanted gestures that get foisted on women in this city is incredible. All those sensitive London blokes that think they’re in a kooky movie. Someone should tell them, Real life isn’t like that, love. Supposed ‘romance’ has become an excuse for men to do what they want. To shout across crowded rooms. To talk in stupid voices. And, worst of all, learn to play the ukulele. Today’s version of ‘romance’ is just another thing women have to withstand.

I point at him, make a gun sign with my fingers and fire. Pow, pow. Then I step onto the escalator.

‘See you tomorrow then, Li…’

I’m halfway to the Victoria Line as his voice fades away in the crowd.

I wonder what he wants with me. Maybe he doesn’t even know, at this stage.

At home, I collapse into bed. Kick off my trainers and turn my head to Aiden. He barely even looks up. Just taps away, his back leaning against the window. Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ I’m not sure who he’s become. I barely recognise him. I breathe out heavily. My head falls back onto my pillow. Last night has given me such strange thoughts.

I don’t know what it is about last night. But it’s bringing things back to me. Some unresolved things. Again, I know you’re not a therapist.

But if I do let you see me again. If I let you. If you do pay us a visit. If you really must cross the Channel and come and see us. If you can manage that trip over on the ferry. And everything else.

You’ve got to promise not to say those words. You will promise me that. You have to. Or you’re not coming anywhere near me. No matter how much you say you can help.

I know you think I’m overreacting. But please. Don’t say them.

Those words I’ll never forget.

Don’t say: This is how it started with her too.