The Watchful Eye (9 page)

The fug of cigarettes in the room almost knocked him back. That and what he suspected was the stink of Arnie’s feet. His shoes, grubby trainers, were neatly placed side-by-side at the far end of the sofa where Anna-Louise was propped up, her little tongue working, her eyes following him as Daniel crossed the room towards her. Only when he reached her and stood over her did she move her head very slightly. For a split second Daniel had the impulse that this tiny child was trying to convey something to him. The next he dismissed it as pure imagination.

He looked closer at her. There was something, a pleading desperation, a cowed terror. He suddenly felt both worried and powerless. What was going on with this child?

He knelt on the floor and looked up at her. She regarded him steadily, the only sign of movement the small, pink tongue, busily working round her upper lip and chin.

Today Anna-Louise was tidily dressed in a small, full, pink frock with a cream-coloured woollen cardigan, wrongly buttoned, stick legs stretching out in front of her.

Arnie was standing behind him, legs apart, arms folded, looking pleased with himself. ‘I thought as she might be cold,’ he said proudly. ‘So I put ’er the cardie on.’

Daniel took time from the child to swivel round.

He couldn’t help smiling to himself. There was something touching about the Beast of Eccleston struggling to dress his little niece in a cardigan.

But, looking back at Anna-Louise, Daniel didn’t feel like smiling any more. A toddler of this age should be running around, causing mayhem, getting ‘into’ things. Living up to the reputation of the ‘terrible twos’. Not simply sitting, gazing around passively as though wondering what in Heaven’s name the world had in store for her. And what
did
the world have in store for her? Daniel wondered, feeling an iced finger of dread stroke the back of his neck. Anna-Louise’s eyes flickered from him to her uncle still without displaying any emotion. The illusion of a plea from the little girl had vanished.

He gave her a full and thorough examination and again found nothing really wrong. She certainly wasn’t dehydrated now. He found nothing specific apart from her abnormally passive behaviour. He stood up. The only thing he could do would be to expedite the paediatric referral.

He arrived back at The Yellow House a little after one and made himself a sandwich then sat outside. The garden was slowly coming back to life after a long winter and a cold spring, helped by Atkins, an elderly patient of his whose great love was gardening but who was now confined in a gardenless flat off the High Street. Daniel paid him for his attentions but was conscious of the fact that he was doing the ancient widower a favour. Atkins would often call unannounced, on any fine day, to ‘potter’, as he called it. It was therapy for him. Daniel was grateful to the old man but having Mrs Hubbard to do his cleaning and Atkins keeping the garden neat he had nothing with which to occupy himself.

He knew what he wanted to be doing with his time – his
family around him. He wanted to be playing football with a son, taking the family on trips, holidays, outings to Alton Towers, Center Parcs. He wanted to swim, cycle, roller skate – anything and everything.

But not alone.

At half past two the telephone rang. To his pleasure it was Claudine Anderton. ‘Hello Daniel.’ Her voice was bright and friendly. ‘Bethan has asked me whether Holly is coming to you tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as far as I know.’ He was aware of how much he wanted the policeman’s wife to invite him to something. Anything – even a simple coffee.

‘Then would you like to come to lunch? Brian is working on night duty but Bethan was most insistent. She likes Holly very much.’ She gave her light, tinkly laugh.

Daniel laughed too. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t do to disappoint the little lady, would it?’

She giggled. ‘Most certainly not, Daniel. What time does she usually arrive?’

‘Late,’ he said grumpily. ‘I’m on call until twelve.’

‘Then I shall expect you at twelve-thirty.’

‘See you then.’

It was only after he had put the phone down that worms of doubt started to wriggle through his brain. Anderton struck him as a jealous man. Would he mind if Claudine and he were to spend the day together without him?

The next minute he shrugged. She wouldn’t have asked him if her husband was likely to object.

Surely?

Every now and then general practice can be very tough.

Maud Allen stumped in at five-thirty.

He greeted her and she sat down heavily. ‘I won’t beat about the bush, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’ve found a lump in my breast.’

He took a history, how long she’d had it, was it painful and then followed her into the examination room. Five minutes later his heart sank. He could feel it, hard and unyielding, in her right breast, what he was afraid might be a tumour. Worse he could also feel another hard lump in her neck, over the clavicle. She watched him fearfully.

He asked her to put her clothes back on and she returned to the consultation room.

‘We-ell,’ he said slowly, ‘you know as well as I do that I have to refer you.’

She nodded.

‘We have a rapid-access breast lump clinic. They’ll take a biopsy.’

‘Is it cancer?’

‘Maud,’ he said, ‘we don’t know. Not until we have the results of the biopsy.’

Her rheumy eyes looked back at him. ‘What do
you
think, Daniel?’

She was asking for his honesty.

He nodded. ‘It might be. I’ll sort out the referral.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for not even trying to soft soap me. I’ve had a long and good life.’ She touched his hand very briefly. ‘I’m not afraid.’

By way of contrast Chelsea Emmanuel was his next patient.

‘Yeah, well. I forgot to take it, didn’t I?’

As though it was his fault. Daniel shifted in his seat. This
kid was annoying him. He’d given her the pill and now she had forgotten to take it and was requesting the morning after pill.

He didn’t need to enquire whether she’d had intercourse recently. The little tart was dying for him to ask her that. She sat in her tiny denim skirt, inches of plump waist displayed, challenging him.

Wearily he tapped on the computer, gave her instructions.

One of these days Chelsea Emmanuel would be wheeling a pushchair down the High Street. He could see her future mapped out in front of him as clearly as though he could scroll down the computer consultations and see right through her entire life. Multiple children from multiple partners. Benefits, plenty of minor health problems from cigarettes, probable obesity, liver and lung disease. He could almost hear her wheezing and coughing her way into the future. And overlying this depressing life would be the thick sludge of depression for which she would, at some point, request – no demand – a tablet.

He tore his concentration away from the future and looked at the girl in front of him. She looked so young. Mrs Gillick may have fought her fight for just such a manipulated innocent as Chelsea Emmanuel.

The girl shifted, parted her legs so he could see to the top of her thighs if he’d wanted to.

‘Divorced, ain’t ya?’ She chewed her gum noisily.

His nod was the briefest of assents.

She leant forward, deliberately displaying her cleavage. ‘Was you cheatin’ on her then?’

It was none of her business but he still shook his head, signed the prescription and handed it to her.

‘She cheatin’ on you, was she?’ She had a sharp, grating voice and could chew and talk with the skill of a footballer running and dribbling the ball at the same time. She continued, ‘Shame that with you bein’ such a good lookin’ bloke and all.’

It was rare for Daniel to wish for a consultation to end so much that he actually left his chair and held the door open for the patient to leave but he did so now. She couldn’t go quickly enough for him.

She brushed against him in the doorway and gave him another clumsy, unmistakably inviting smile.

It was all Daniel could do to stop himself from vomiting into the sink.

Roll on Saturday.

He’d finished his evening surgery by six but was reluctant to return home. The evening seemed too long, the house too empty and the consultation with Maud Allen had depressed him. His mother would probably phone and, after criticising his ex-wife, she would launch into a long spiel about Holly before offering to come and keep house for him. He knew it would be the end of things.

Perhaps he could drive out to one of the local pubs. Not in Eccleston but a mile or two out, in Woodseaves. The Plough had a couple of friendly bar women and the food was good. Yes – that’s what he would do. But he didn’t want to sit in the pub alone.

On impulse he knocked on the nurse’s door. Marie
Westbrook was just ushering out her last patient of the day. She turned a tired face to him and it struck him that she was looking drawn and thinner. ‘You all right?’

She managed a smile. ‘Yes, Dan. I’m fine.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘In this?’ She indicated her navy nurse’s uniform.

‘Stick a coat over it. If I don’t mind I don’t see why anyone else should.’

The smile she returned was much warmer, genuine. He hadn’t seen her look like this for at least a year. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would. I could do with a drop of alcohol after the day I’ve had.’ She unhooked her coat from the back of the door.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Are you overworked?’

She sighed. ‘Isn’t everyone?’

The Plough at Woodseaves was a traditional pub. Open fires, friendly bar staff, good, home-cooked food. Daniel bought a pint and a white wine spritzer for Marie and they sat down, near to the fire.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s going on in your life?’

She grimaced. ‘Not a lot.’

He glanced at her left hand. He could have sworn she used to wear a wedding ring. Now it was bare. She noticed his look. ‘It happens,’ she said, ‘all the time.’ She gave a brief, cynical laugh. ‘Like you,’ she said. ‘Divorce.’

His instinct was to ask her whether she wanted to talk about it but somehow he wasn’t in the mood for any more tales of woe.

So they stayed and ate, gossiped about patients and tucked in to the food, unable to resist the tempting smells wafting from the kitchen.

He stood up and offered to pay, but, like Maud Allen, she too put a hand on his arm.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pay for myself.’

‘OK.’ Something prompted him to add, ‘We must do this again sometime.’

He was unprepared for the warmth and pleasure that transformed her from a plain woman almost into a beauty.

But as he drove home he was already aware that his open invitation had been a mistake.

Daniel was still agitated when he arrived home and his humour was not improved by picking up the two winking messages on his answerphone; both from his mother.

He felt his face tightening. Two. He’d
have
to ring back or she’d do something stupid like sending the police round to check if he was all right or even worse drive all the way down from Sheffield and present herself at his front door.

He dialled her number reluctantly. She picked up on the second ring so he knew she’d been waiting for him to call back, sitting, as she did, hunched on the bottom step of the stairs, eyeing the telephone like a mortal enemy – daring it to ring or not to ring.

She was initially aggressive. ‘Well, Danny,’ she said. ‘It’s taken you long enough to return my call.’

The hours of her day must drag.

‘Mum,’ he said wearily, ‘I was at evening surgery. You know I don’t finish until gone six.’

‘I don’t know why you can’t sometimes ring in the afternoons. You’re not
always
working,’ she accused. ‘Anyway, Danny,’ she said, softening, ‘how are you, poor, lonely thing?’

Her pity for him set his teeth on edge.

Without waiting for his reply she ploughed on. ‘I did wonder whether to come down and stay with you for the weekend. I haven’t got anything special on. Besides – I haven’t seen little Holly for months. And she is my only grandchild.’ The whine of self-pity irritated him further and not for the first time he wished that his sister would dump her career and have sextuplets.

‘Sorry, Mum. Holly and I have other plans.’

‘What?’ She sounded affronted.

‘We’re having some friends round to dinner.’ Claudine had asked him, but if Brian was on night duty they could come to him for the day. It would leave the house quiet so he could sleep. It was the first he’d thought of it but he quickly realised he liked the idea. Much more than having his mother down.

‘Oh.’ The exclamation was saturated with rejection quickly followed by curiosity so he responded.

‘It’s just the local policeman and his wife. They have a daughter the same age as Holly. The two girls seem to have hit it off. They had us for a meal last Saturday. I just thought I’d invite them back.’

‘The local
policeman
?’ That was another thing to add to the long list of
Things I hate about my mother
: her good
old-fashioned
snobbery.

But now he had said it he was resolved. That was what he would do. First job of the evening.

Ring Claudine.

‘They only live round the corner,’ he said.

‘How nice for you to have local friends.’ His mother’s voice was the equivalent of a bad smell under the nose. Which reminded him of something Elaine used to say.

‘
No bloody wonder our marriage didn’t work out. It never had
 
a chance. Your
mother
got in the way. She simply doesn’t want you to have anyone else in your life except her. She is – frankly – possessive
.’

Spoken with venom.

It had been hurtful then and he had denied it. But now almost every time he spoke to his mother or heard her voice on the answerphone, always urging for yet another phone call, yet another visit, displaying a total lack of interest in any aspect of his life, he inevitably recalled his ex-wife’s words and recognised the truth behind them. His mother could so easily swamp his life with her attitudes, her possession, her vicious snobbery and her total self-absorption.

Yet he was her son.

So he made further small talk, asked, without interest, how her bridge class was going and finally rang off with the usual sense of guilty relief.

A phone call usually bought him two to three days’ peace.

Then, straight away, he dialled Claudine’s number.

Unfortunately it was Brian who picked the phone up, sounding huffy and defensive. Even more so, Daniel thought, when he extended the invitation.

‘I’m on nights all weekend,’ he said grumpily. ‘I expect Bethan would like to come to you. She hasn’t stopped talking about her new friend all week.’

He even sounded resentful about this. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll go and ask her.’ He shouted away from the phone. ‘Beth-an. Would you like to go to Holly’s house?’

‘Yeah. Cool.’ The words floated down the stairs and into the telephone. They were said with a breathless enthusiasm that lifted Daniel’s heart far above the conversation he had just endured with Brian and before that with his mother.

He felt encouraged now and reckless. ‘Why doesn’t Bethan come over for the whole afternoon? The house’ll be more peaceful, Brian.’

‘Hmm.’ The policeman thought about it. ‘I think they said something about going into Stafford to see a film. Maybe you could go together. I’ll get Claudine to give you a ring. Actually’, Brian confided, ‘it
will
do me a favour. I always find it hard to sleep when I’m on nights – even when the house
is
quiet.’

So, Daniel could kill three birds with one stone. Fit in with Brian’s plans, please his daughter and best of all please himself.

He felt self-satisfied as he rang off. Now he had Saturday to look forward to.

It was still only eight o’clock and Daniel knew exactly what he was going to do for the rest of the evening.

Something about his life.

He was forty years old. Reluctantly single, although as he tapped in his access code on the computer, he really couldn’t imagine being married to Elaine any more. They had been students together but something in her had changed. Toughened, hardened. Somewhere along the line all the fun had gone out of her and been replaced by something else. Perhaps he had changed as well. People did. It had almost been a relief when they had finally split up. The Germans have a name for it.
Lebensabschnittsgefaehrte
. A German friend of his had told him the literal translation was partner-for-a-specific-period-in-time and it described the relationship between him and Elaine. They had grown apart from one another. Like ships in a fog they had collided, spent some time together and
moved on. He had no longer been what she wanted and he had been so focused on his new relationship with his daughter that he had not understood that it had replaced the love he had once felt for his wife.

He had no regrets.

Apart from losing Holly.

For a while he didn’t tap into any website but sat and stared into the screen without seeing anything but his daughter’s face. He missed her more than he could ever have dreamt. He would give
anything
to have her back, living with him all the time, not simply visiting at weekends, struggling that silly pink suitcase up and down his steps.

He sat and dreamt of the fun they could have had together.

He punched his fist into his palm in sudden anger.

Let
Elaine marry again. Fine. Let her have another
family
. Again fine.

But
he
wanted
his
daughter back.

He sighed and realised this was getting him nowhere.

He’d never really tried Internet dating before but he knew one or two people who had met partners through it and he wanted another woman in his life. Quite apart from everything else he missed sex. He missed the feel of a woman’s body against him, the smell of her, the entire female thing. It was dangerous to search close to home. Practically everyone from a twelve mile radius would turn out to be one of his patients – or, at his age, had been married to one of his patients. The local doctor is too well known.

So.

He started typing in his details.

‘Forty-year-old male.’ He cupped his chin in his hands.
That didn’t sound very enticing. ‘Forty-year-old
professional
male. Divorced.’ Again he frowned. He needed something different. ‘Staffordshire,’ he typed. ‘Romantic and tenacious but not a bulldog. Interests: country walks, theatre, music (eclectic from reggae to Schubert), cycling, books, cinema etc WLTM single woman 30s for…’ He wanted to type
sex
but resisted and instead found the word ‘relationship’.

There.

Now to look at what was available.

He found plenty of hits in Staffordshire. Rejected all the ‘cuddly’ ones, all the ones that were overtly sexual – ‘for rubber games’, ‘spanking allowed’ etc. Oddly enough, although he had wanted to suggest intimacy, seeing it blatantly advertised on the screen embarrassed him. The thought of not meeting up to their sexual needs made him squirm.

He scrolled down the list.

As often happens one particular entry caught his eye. He read it through twice. This sounded like his cup of tea.

‘Professional woman, mid-thirties, unattached, slim, sporty, with interesting outlook, WLTM man for walks, evenings out (anything from a night at the opera to a greasy spoon café), possible long-term relationship.’

She sounded the woman for him.

He clicked on the picture and screwed his face up.

It was hard to say what she looked like. Much of her face was hidden by a thick curtain of dark hair. Her lips were very pink and pouting. He made a face. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Well – there was only one way to find out.

He typed in his details, paid his enrolment fee, obtained a Box Number, sat back and smiled. It was as simple as that.

He felt he had made some progress, gained control.

What he was forgetting was that we do not have control of our lives at all. The entire roller-coaster, from cradle to grave, is a series of events, each one leading to a destiny of its own. We can turn and twist, but our fate will find us somehow.

He allowed himself a beer or two, watched some football on the TV, still with the smug, self-satisfied feeling, and dreamt.

His mother had always called him a romantic, using the word as an insult. And he knew he was. To use one of today’s favourite clichés,
he was a man in touch with his feminine side.
In his mind’s eye he was already picturing the woman of his dreams. The woman of the photograph, subtly altered. Smiling, not pouting, with clear skin and a positive, chirpy personality. Someone like…Claudine.

‘You don’t mind, do you, Brian?’

He was suddenly, unaccountably truculent. ‘And if I do?’

‘Come on,
cherie
,’ she appealed. ‘Be reasonable.’

The policeman nodded and dropped his head, almost in an apology.

His wife took it as such and they watched Bethan play with her dolls, dressing and undressing them in one outfit then another, always, Brian noted, taking great care to fold the clothes and coordinate the bags, the shoes, the trousers, the tops. As she played with the doll she muttered to herself.

‘I don’t think I’ll wear this…It’s far too cold for shorts…I never did like that handbag. I shall throw it away.’

Mother and father smiled at each other.

Which made Brian feel awful.

Why couldn’t he have kept his temper?

His mind flicked back eight years to the girl who had come into the station, begging for his help to free her from the man
who was so convinced she loved him he could not leave her alone.
His
help she had sought and he had failed her. She had been so vulnerable. While he had riled against the law which allowed situations to progress too far before it intervened, he had promised he would help, that he would defend her and that she could trust him to protect her.

To the death.

He had searched her face and seen terror. Not simply fright but an abject and paralysing fear.

He had wanted to protect her as had all the other officers in the station but it had been to
him
that she had turned and he had puffed his chest out.

He would have to beat the little shit up. Burn the bastard, he had thought.