Watching You Chapters Five and Six

Chapter Five

 

Black sat in the porchway of a disused shop, kicked away a discarded takeaway carton, scattering the remnants into the street. He could see the camera on him, but he didn’t care; apart from keeping the council cleaners in business, he was only sitting around, no harm in that, and he felt obligated to provide the cameras with his usual sneer. Though the people behind them were faceless, he could see her, and he knew she wasn’t working now.

It was a curse, this strange gift he had. If you could call it a gift. The only time it ever came to him was when she was there, in front of the camera. Sexy eyes, great tits, he could see her through the mist, see the sheen of yellow hair, the colour of corn. Until the lights went out like the wind had blown out the flame. She was beginning to bug him, and he didn’t like it one bit. He had other things on his mind, and she was stopping his concentration. And all the while, he could feel his mood sliding down towards the pits. If Delivery Boy kept him hanging around under the arches one more time, there’d be hell to pay.

But he’d had a profitable morning; the store detective in McKinley’s Electronics had picked up his track as he’d entered the store, dunce that he was. Because that’s where Adam Leggett came in, useful, pseudo-respectable, right down to his grey suit and horn-rimmed glasses. You’d never make him out for the jerk that he was, nerd maybe. But lack of association with the area aided his deceptiveness. Leggett had lifted and de-tagged a digital camera while the store detective’s eyes had followed him like little lead weights around the store before giving him a helping hand out.

He hadn’t minded that, not with three hundred and fifty quid’s worth of high-tech digital in Leggett’s grasp and soon to come in his direction. But Leggett was becoming increasingly costly. His stake this time had been thirty per cent. Greedy fucker. Still, it was Main Man who took the profit, as for his own reward, well, that came later.

Black crossed the square. A covered alleyway ran between the bank and a burger bar, leading to a dingy junction where two side streets met. He paused in the alleyway, lit a fag, moving away from the plate glass window at the side of the bank; the sods were staring out at him like goldfish in a bowl. But here, in the alcove, he was free of the roving eye of the cameras; all he had to look out for were the cops. He’d only seen one that morning, a fat guy whose uniform seemed about to burst. He’d been given the eye for a couple of minutes before the bloke had ambled off, direction of the chip shop.

He shuffled his feet, screwed his nose, could smell the stale stench; someone had pissed in here during the night. Wherever the damned street cleaners were, they weren’t worth a light.

At last, Mr Respectability strolled into the alleyway, his steel-tipped heels rapping on the concrete and worsening the ache in his head.

‘Thirty quid, right?’

Black glanced around. The passage was empty, apart from some old bastard on a Zimmer frame. Ignoring him, he forked out his hand, ‘Yeah, right. As soon as I dispose of it.’

Leggett’s hand retracted with surprising speed. ‘Now come on, Carl … you know the score. I’m away to Wellingborough. I don’t want to be waiting on the cash.’

Black stared him out, but the ugly fucker’s thin, four-eyed face didn’t flinch. One thing about Leggett, he had guts, grant him that much. He sighed, drew a thin roll of notes from his pocket, and slapped three heavily into Leggett’s hand.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ Black turned his back and walked to the junction, Leggett’s retreating steel-capped heels driving nails into his head. He doubted he would be in touch, but somebody sure would. Matter of time before he copped it.

Black managed a rare smile and glanced up. For once, the cameras weren’t on him; they were pointed at the town hall, where some creep in a costume was talking to a bloke in a suit. Black’s mobile phone played a tune in his pocket, and snatching it out, he recognised the voice straight away. Main Man.

‘Yeah, sure, I got somethin’ for ya like I said I would. Three hundred and fifty quid’s worth of digital. Where do ya want the exchange?”

‘The arches at dusk tomorrow.’ Main Man’s voice sounded like granite, breaking a moment of silence.

‘Can’t you make it sooner?’ Black’s brow knotted as he kicked a can across the dirt-ridden town bridge.

‘Can I hell. Tomorrow at dusk. Have it ready for Delivery Boy, and you’ll get your stuff.’

Black tossed his fag butt into the water beneath the bridge. Too much waiting around. ‘Delivery Boy took a couple of hours to show last time; he said you kept him hangin’ around.’

But the line was dead. Black checked his phone and thrust it back into his pocket. He’d call him straight back, but it wasn’t wise. Main Man’s number was sacrosanct, his operations so secretive no one had a clue what he was up to. Only Delivery Boy had access to his address, or so they thought, and that was restricted to the back yard. For now, Black told himself, for now.

On the opposite side of the bridge, a security guard was running, a brief glance across at him as their eyes met. There was a radio in his hand – it gave Carl Black a thought.

 

Chapter Six

 

Kelly crossed the street to the square. Early evening. The shoppers having gone and businesses closing up for the day, the road leading up to the square became a barren urban area, populated by wasters and their dogs, skateboarders, and littered with discarded takeaway cartons.

One thing when viewed through a monitor, quite another when you trod the streets as she was doing now. The intimidating feeling was as high as the discarded food wrappers blowing in the wind.

The coffee shop was thirty minutes from closing up. She had to thread through a posse of skateboarders parked on the steps. Great advert for business, though it seemed at this time of day the proprietors didn’t really care.

McCain wasn’t there. The raised wooden interior contained no more than half a dozen people, nobody bearing the slightest resemblance to McCain.

No earrings.

No ponytail.

She’d made up her mind not to hang around, even if Joe hadn’t left before she got back, and she had to explain the early night.

‘Hi, kiddo.’

He’d come through the side door, and the Irish brogue was like nectar in her ears. Relief mixed with a sudden surge of expectation – excitement, was that what it was? Whatever, it was a pleasant feeling, just the same.

‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Now why would you think that?’

She clasped her hands beneath her chin, elbows resting on the table. ‘Well, let’s just say it’s good practice for the man to arrive before the woman.’

‘Ah, to be sure it is, only something came …’

He’d been interrupted by a brisk waitress wearing a very short skirt; she thought she saw his look darken.

‘Just a black coffee for me, love, how about you kiddo?’ His gaze travelled from the waitress back to her, a glint of Irish green again. ‘I’ll have milk in mine, please.’

The waitress shot away, obviously in a hurry to be tidied up, cleaned up, and away. She watched her go; if her skirt were any shorter, it would stick in her crotch.

‘I think you were about to say something came up … like yesterday afternoon, for instance?’

‘What?’ She saw where his glance had gone and felt a stab of irritation. ‘Oh, you mean the meeting? Just a little shut-eye, that’s all, you don’t blame me for missing that, do you, sure to …’

‘No.’ She smiled, eyes on his. His face was like a magnet to her, rugged and yet intelligent, broad, but without making his features look square. ‘You should have let Arthur know. I don’t think he was too impressed.’

‘What, in my sleep, you mean – telepathy perhaps?’

He must have seen her look change; he took her hand and held it tight. ‘Hey, look, I’m sorry. I know what you’ve been feeling of late. We’ll just have this quick cup of coffee, and then I’ll take you somewhere much nicer, okay?’

‘Okay.’ So he knew how she was feeling. He might think he did, but what she was feeling was too difficult for her to understand, let alone him. Like pieces of a jigsaw she had to rearrange to stop seeing Carl Black’s face, but each way she tried, his eyes still stared at her. McCain hadn’t meant to, but his remark had brought it all funnelling back.

‘Jees, I’m sorry. I think with my feet sometimes.’

‘No. I’m fine; it wasn’t your fault.’ She glanced over to the counter, hurry up with the coffees; suddenly, she just wanted to get out in the fresh air, away from the claustrophobic confines of this place, this town …

‘Come on; let’s be having you.’ His grip on her hand tightened further. ‘I don’t think we’ll wait around for that coffee; we’ll just pay up and go.’

‘No, no, please, I’m okay, honest.’

‘But I can see that you’re not; my stupidity has made you pale. You need fresh air.’ He’d echoed her thoughts; she needed to be away from here, ‘Where’ll we go?’

‘Like I say, I know just the place. Fancy a little walk?’

‘You read me like a book, McCain.’ She shot a sideways smile. But of course, he didn’t really; all he’d seen was her shaken exterior. Her book was much too complex to read. All he’d seen was the cover.

The ‘little walk’ was one she knew well – once out of the dusty confines of town, you were on the north bank of the river, pleasant enough in the summer despite the murky brown colour of the water. She guessed where they were headed, a spot a mile upstream, where the river formed a secondary channel. Alongside it lay a chalet-style pub/restaurant with a large patio overlooking a basin, where the moorings at the bottom proved a popular docking place for houseboats and barges.

She was right. They were crossing a narrow humpback bridge fording a rivulet when she felt his hand in hers, and suddenly, her heart seemed to be having a bumpy ride. This shouldn’t be happening, not so soon anyhow, perhaps not at all, but she couldn’t draw her hand away; she didn’t want to. It just felt good; the air smelt fresh, and the evening was warm, clear, and pleasant. It made her feel better. A lot better.

‘It’s a fine evening, to be sure.’ McCain smiled at her, and the glint of green seemed brighter than ever in the evening sun. He was beginning to stir her in a way that shouldn’t be happening, but did she care?

From somewhere inside her head, an old Irish folk song came ringing. ‘Forty Shades of Green’, something like that. Kelly fought back the urge to sing it, kicking herself for the silly sensation within.

The patio was busy but not overcrowded; there were several vacant tables and chairs. McCain guided her to one near the water’s edge. He took a deep breath of the breeze blowing across the basin. ‘Drink?’

‘White wine, thanks.’ Kelly watched him disappear inside. It occurred to her he hadn’t asked whether she’d prefer inside or out, but on an evening like this, it didn’t matter.

For the first time in ages, everything was fine.

She glanced across the basin; the bank of willow trees dividing it from the river swayed gently in the breeze. A single houseboat had arrived at the moorings; its young occupant was securing it to the peg. Wearing an off-white baseball cap and baggy jeans tied below his waist, he could easily have been one of the scrotes from around town. She didn’t picture him as a houseboat owner – the real owner, possibly his dad, must be inside.

The boat was brown with a circular golden picture on the side; she thought the name running through the circle was ‘The Painted Lady,’ though the sun reflecting in its windows made it difficult to be certain.

The lad had finished tying up and gone back inside when McCain came out with the drinks and a menu. She saw his was tonic water.

He must have seen the look of surprise on her face, ‘What’s up?’

She took a sip of her wine, swept back a rogue strand of hair. ‘I thought you Irish were supposed to drink Guinness.’

‘Not when I’m driving you home afterwards.’

‘But …’

‘I thought you might appreciate a drive home. Now kiddo, choose from the menu.’

‘You’re full of surprises, McCain.’ Kelly smiled; that was considerate of him. All in all, she felt relaxed, and relaxation right now seemed like a long-lost friend.

Down at the moorings, the lad had re-emerged. He seemed to be waiting for someone.