Watching You Chapter Four

Chapter Four

 

Black shivered beneath the arches, drawing his hands together under his knees and locking them tight. It was cold for the time of year. The draught that funnelled through the graffiti-covered structures had plagued him for the past couple of hours, and it angered him. Because if he’d known the guy was going to be this late, he would have gone somewhere warmer. But five o’clock was the time Main Man had given him, first light. That had been two hours ago, and now as he looked out from the cover of the arches where security cameras couldn’t scan, across the grey expanse of car park that wouldn’t be deserted for much longer, there still wasn’t a sign of Delivery Boy. Not so much as a sniff.

He got to his feet, stamped them once or twice to force some life into them, turned around, and stuck his neck out of the arch. Damn Delivery Boy for keeping him hanging about on a freezing morning such as this. Still, what did he expect? Black sighed, fumbled in his pocket for a fag.

‘Carl, old son, I’m sorry I’m late.’

Black spun round. ‘What the fuck are you playing at creeping up like that, and why so bloody late?’

‘Safer to cross by the river bridge, out of camera shot,’ Delivery Boy said quickly as he lurched forward.

‘It wouldn’t have been if you’d have come at first light. I’ve been sat here for two bloody hours.’ Black loosened his grip on the youth’s lapels, snatching a package from Delivery Boy’s outstretched hand, examining the contents briefly before pushing it into his coat pocket. ‘So what took you so long?’

‘I couldn’t come any sooner, mate,’ Delivery Boy spluttered, glad to be free from Black’s grip, even gladder to notice the little consignment seemed to have pacified him. ‘Main Man wasn’t home. I had to hang around out back for a couple of hours like a lemon.’

Black glanced down at the object protruding from a tear in Delivery Boy’s coat pocket. ‘What’s wrong with your phone.’

Delivery Boy winced under Black’s glare, ‘Battery’s flat.’

‘Save your chat for the more important biz.’ He took his holdall from the ground, took out a carrier, and flung it into Delivery Boy’s hand. ‘Here – Main Man should be pleased with this, best wishes, courtesy of Boots.’ Black’s face cracked into a smile, ‘Three hundred quid’s worth, I reckon, de-tagged while the store detective was in the bog.’ The smile faded as his eyes flicked across the car park. The first of the early arrivals, and as a small motor circled the empty park, they came for a moment into the driver’s field of vision. He glanced up, caught the bloke’s momentary stare. An old guy, old enough not to want to be out so early on a morning such as this. What was it that made pensioners get up so early? No matter, the question wasn’t important enough to dwell on. He watched the guy struggle out and plod towards the ticket machine with another brief glance back. Nothing much in that; they were just a couple of dossers for all the bloke knew. The town was full of them, so why should they be any different?

Black took a couple of steps forward, glanced at the CCTV camera at the far end of the car park. It was turned north, towards town, but he wasn’t going to chance crossing the two hundred yards of empty space; it wasn’t worth the risk.

He knew he was a target for the cameras, one of the prime ones. He always knew when they were upon him, could feel it.

But sometimes, he could feel something special, as if he were looking through fog giving way to mist, then seeing a face behind the camera. One particular face that wasn’t watching him now.

Black turned, making his way under the arches and away from the car park, stepping up the embankment towards the towpath. Alongside him, the electricity station pylons were thronged with birds reminding him of an old film he’d watched, something about two lovebirds. Something uncanny.

As uncanny as his ability to see things that other people couldn’t. Extra sensory perception, was it? Something like that. But he couldn’t give a fuck what it was; he only knew he had it. And right now, he had a face in his mind, a face that was beginning to piss him off. There were times he could look at the cameras, know they were watching him, and not really care too much. You got used to it after a while. But there were other times when it bugged him because he knew she was behind them. He just knew when she was there. Just like he knew she wasn’t there now. There was no sense of awareness, no mental picture that reminded him of a faded, old-time movie. No experience of the heat that came at such times.

Black wrapped his parka tightly around his body, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his right one firmly clamped around the bundle that Delivery Boy had given him. His old parka should have been adequate enough to keep out the chill at this time of year, but to hell was it. Why did it have to be so damned cold? Still, the day centre would open soon; he’d doss in there for a while. Then later, head into town, do the rounds, outwit the store detectives. Most of the time, anyway. He yawned – what were the lines he’d seen printed on those stupid rear window car stickers?

Same shit, different day.

***

Delivery Boy stumbled out onto Oulton Road. The soles of his shoes were wearing thin, itching his feet like nobody’s business. He hadn’t been aware of it when he approached the arches, too wound up in thoughts of what Black might say or do as he’d been that late. Black was one strange dude; he always felt edgy being around him for long; in fact, most of the crowd he knew said as much, out of Black’s earshot that was. Even Main Man seemed to get agitated at the mention of his name. As if he was some bug that needed to be got rid of. He supposed somebody would do just that one day. No great loss.

But those eyes, it was the eyes that unsettled him, dark and broody like they were going to explode at any minute. They gave him the creeps.

Delivery Boy was glad to be going in the opposite direction, at least for a while. He reached a junction and turned right, down a slight gradient, past a sex shop that never seemed to open, its windows barred in a heavy red wire cage. But it did open; he knew that all right. A crappy little street called Wharf Road led him down to where the footpath crossed a steam railway track. Old nerds with their cameras hung out here, at least when the great iron antiques lumbered by. He scrambled up the banking on the other side, town behind him now, ahead, to the left and right lay long coarse grass and long-dead willows. His near soleless shoes sank deep into the quagmire surrounding the river. But home was in sight, an abandoned houseboat, long left to its watery grave until him and his mates had claimed it. He felt cold water ooze into his feet and ankles and cursed. He needn’t have taken this route. He could have walked under the arches and taken the towpath alongside the river. But that would have meant being in Carl Black’s company for five minutes longer than he would have liked.

 

***

Kelly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, reached out and took a comb from the cabinet. Tilting her head, she ran the prongs through her hair, watching as the fair strands tumbled across her shoulders. She’d always been proud of her hair, paid a good deal of attention to it. The golden sheen was natural, and people often commented on it. Sometimes though, it had its drawbacks. In one example, it took the form of a frequent visitor to the control room, a crusty old councillor she detested. Councillors seemed to enter the place willy-nilly, just pop up out of the blue as if they had some kind of divine right bestowed upon nobody else, and they always seemed either old or small. But this particular old guy, Ben something or other, came too often for her liking, and as usual without any particular reason other than he was on some kind of funding committee. They all had that excuse, councillors seemed to live for committees, but whatever, Ben-something-or-other never seemed to pay much attention to the cameras – his eyes were the roving kind, his pupils like tiny cameras of their own, probing for the unseen areas beneath her blouse, ready to take a mental X-ray while his stubby fingers prickled in her hair as he leant over her.

How strange it was that she didn’t mind that with McCain; he had a habit of sliding his fingers through her hair, but the feeling was soft and warm, or maybe it was just the way he made her feel. She blushed at the thought of that, and reservations surfaced about Friday night. Was this really such a good idea? Was this really just a friendly night out or something that might change her life completely? For a second, the thought disturbed her because she realised she didn’t really care. Change wasn’t always a bad thing. She’d been in the doldrums for too long, and perhaps this was what lay behind her absurd fixation with Carl Black. As if boredom had stimulated her mind in some unhealthy way and created an ogre out of your average street dosser. She knew that couldn’t really be true as she examined the swelling beneath her eyes.

Boredom didn’t explain the moving wall of flame that had seared through her mind just a few moments before, leaving her bolt upright in bed. She knew it had been another nightmare invading her subconscious, but this time, her conscious self had rebelled, blotting out the invading dream until it was just a blur of fragmented parts.

Well, so be it. It didn’t do to dwell on such things, no matter how much she might feel inclined. She glanced at her watch; she had a damned quarterly meeting to attend, but perhaps for once, it wouldn’t last too long.

Picture the scene. Clive Patterson, Tony Thompson, who always wore his shirt out of his trousers, scruffy git, Charlie Eggleston, sitting staring at the clock, counting down the days to his retirement, Dave Richards, eyes half shut and cast down towards the table hoping nobody would notice. Sure, they did; they just didn’t give a fig. Nobody except Arthur Cumberland, that was. But lately, even he’d seemed out of sorts; it was rumoured he’d personal problems of some kind, though nobody asked what. He was a nice bloke, but he wasn’t the sort who’d confide in you. Finally, McCain, blowing out his cheeks in a visible display of disinterest, dying for a fag. That was the only thing she didn’t like about him, not because he smoked; it was just the way the nicotine lingered on his breath like a spent incinerator. But all things considered, she could live with that.

But McCain wasn’t there. He was the only one who didn’t show, even though Arthur held the meeting up fifteen minutes waiting for him. She wondered why he hadn’t come, felt a stirring inside that wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t compulsory, but it was considered bad practice not to attend without reasonable excuse, and McCain had certainly not said anything.

It all served to make the meeting more of a chore than ever; the clock seemed to have an invisible hand stopping it from moving, and she was highly relieved when ninety minutes that seemed like a thousand later, it finally ended.

With eyes that could do with a little more sleep itching badly, she made her way to the foyer, ahead of the rest. She reached to close the security door behind her but found the resisting hand of Arthur Cumberland holding it open.

‘Did Brendon mention anything about not coming, Kelly?’

‘No.’ She screwed her eyes, feeling their heaviness. Why should he? Becoming aware of her face reddening, and then remembering that, of course, he’d been on with her the previous night – ‘I guess something must have come up.’

‘A phone call would have been nice,’ Arthur mumbled, uncharacteristically for him; he rarely commented on absences. She noticed the frown on his face and the look of concern in his eyes. It could have been tiredness; Arthur habitually worked long hours.

‘I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Kelly. I know you’ll be wanting to get away, but just a few minutes?’

‘Yes, of course,’ but the ready acceptance wasn’t heartfelt; what was it that couldn’t keep until her next day shift?

She followed Arthur in, and he closed the door, so it was a private matter then. She felt herself tensing and made a conscious effort to relax.

‘Take a seat, Kelly.’ Arthur spread his hand, gesturing towards one of the two swivel chairs in front of his desk. A faint smell of tobacco pervaded the room; she knew Arthur was prone to a pipe, but never had she seen him indulge in the office. Besides, it was strictly against the rules.

‘I wonder why we hold meetings sometimes.’ Arthur sighed, straightened his blotter. ‘You can almost feel the apathy, can’t you.’

‘Sometimes,’ Kelly lied, the answer was always. What was this leading up to?

‘I ask because I’ve come to regard you as one of my most, if not the most, efficient members of staff, but of late, you seem and look tired out. I’m not trying to pry Kelly, but is everything alright with you?’

‘Yes, a few things could be better, but most of us could probably say that. I hadn’t realised I seemed so down in the dumps.’ Well, what was she supposed to say, that her home life sucked, that she had stupid nightmares about Carl Black being able to see through cameras straight at her? She was really going to tell him that.

‘Because if there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know,’ Arthur persisted as if he hadn’t heard her, ‘my door is always open.’

Not today, it wasn’t. It was shut, just the same as her mind was shut to what she couldn’t tell him. Not unless she wanted to be certified, at any rate.

‘Okay, I just thought I’d ask.’ Arthur flicked a hand across the large bald dome of his head, gave a brief smile that when transmitted read, I’m not convinced, and opened the door for her. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting to spend some quality time before you’re back on shift.’ 

Kelly returned his smile, meeting his look head-on; quality time, was it? Huh, that was a joke, but no way was she going to let him see that.

She nodded her thanks. ‘See you later.’ But in her rush to leave the meeting, Kelly realised she’d left her shoulder bag in the control room. Perhaps it could have waited until she was back on shift, but she didn’t trust anyone with her personal possessions. Dave Richards was the operator on duty; he glanced down, saw what she had returned for, handing it to her before returning his gaze to the screen.  

There, in the porchway of the huge shapeless fortress they called a shopping centre stood Carl Black, engaged in conversation with a ‘Big Issue’ seller she hadn’t seen before. Something slipped between their hands, and then he turned, dark eyes focused. He was staring at her.

She just knew he was staring at her.

She felt a chill inside, exhaled breath that was more like a gasp.

‘That was odd,’ Richards muttered. ‘I mean the way he did that.’ One second engaged in a dodgy deal, and then the next–

‘What’s up, Kelly; you okay?’