Watching You (17 page)

J
oe’s last patient of the day is leaving—a middle-aged woman who is so frightened of the dark that she carries two torches with her everywhere in case her tube train plunges into blackness. The condition is called Nyctophobia and Joe has traced it back to Betty’s childhood, but no one single event. For her the darkness is like a virus that will consume her if she steps out of the light.

After writing up his notes, Joe takes Marnie’s Big Red Book from the top of the filing cabinet, along with Daniel’s diary and his list of names. Studying the pages again, he tries to decipher the cryptic shorthand of half-sentences, addresses, and dates. Marnie recognized all but two of the names: “Francis Moffatt” and “Dr. Sterne,” both of which are underlined. Perhaps Daniel couldn’t find these people, or he dismissed them as unimportant, or he found them and underlined the names for another reason.

Dr. Sterne has an initial, which has been scrubbed out or overwritten by one of the notes that Daniel jotted in the margin. Joe holds the page up to the light. He can read the outline of the letters beneath the scribbles. The letter “W” is legible. Joe types
W Sterne
into a search engine and comes up with nearly six hundred results. He tries putting “Dr.” in front of the name. Nothing.

Medical practitioners must be licensed with the General Medical Council. Joe searches the list of the organization’s website but comes up empty. Anyone with a PhD can call himself a doctor. W. Sterne could be an engineer or a physicist or a mathematician.

An idea occurs to Joe. From the moment he began treating Marnie, he had sensed that she might have been in therapy or psychoanalysis before. She seemed to predict so many of his questions before he asked them. And she knew how to avoid most of the obvious “tells” that would let slip her true emotions or reveal that she was holding something back.

Working on this hunch, Joe looks up the British Psychological Society and then the Royal College of Psychiatrists. There is a Dr. W. Sterne living in Chiswick in West London. A telephone directory reveals the number. An elderly woman answers on the fourth ring and Joe asks for Dr. Sterne.

“He’s in the garden.”

“Am I right in thinking he is a psychiatrist?”

“Retired, but you have the right man.”

She fetches him. Joe can hear a dog barking excitedly.

“That is the stupidest dog in England,” says a man’s voice, before he picks up the phone. “Hello, can I help you?”

“I’m Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I’m a clinical psychologist based in London and I’m making some inquiries about a man called Daniel Hyland.”

“What about him?”

“You know him.”

“No, not really, he came to see me.”

“When?”

“Last summer.”

“I’m treating his wife, Marnie Logan. Daniel Hyland has been missing since August of last year.”

The doctor has gone quiet. After a long break he clears his throat. “How is Marnella?”

“You know her?”

“Yes.”

Joe squeezes the phone tighter in his fist. “Is that why Daniel came to see you?”

“Marnie was one of my patients many years ago. She was just a child.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“You know I can’t discuss that. How did you get my name?”

“It was in one of Daniel’s notebooks. I’ve been treating Marnie for almost a year and she hasn’t mentioned seeing a psychiatrist as a child. I showed her your name. She said she didn’t recognize it.”

“She was lying.”

There is a long pause. “Can I come and see you, Dr. Sterne?”

“I don’t see what good that would do.”

“Marnie Logan is in trouble. I’m trying to help her.”

The doctor is about to argue, but something makes him change his mind. A memory. He gives Joe his address and suggests that he bring his clinical notes.

Joe remembers the break-in. “Someone stole Marnie’s file from my office six days ago.”

“How very strange,” says Dr. Sterne. The tremor is audible in his voice.

“Why is it strange?”

He takes a deep breath. “Perhaps we should wait until you get here.”

A
s she reaches the bottom of the stairs, Marnie hears a door open. Trevor is watching her, his pale face stark against the shadows behind.

“Why do you always do that?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“Listen for people coming and going.”

“I’m the caretaker.”

“You’re not a guard. You don’t have to monitor when people go in and out.”

Trevor licks his bottom lip. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m pretty busy.”

“It won’t take long.” He opens the door wider.

“Can’t we talk here?”

Although Marnie had never felt intimidated by Trevor, she usually avoided being alone with him. Occasionally he had fixed things for her or allowed her to use his computer, but she had never liked his hopeful, hungry stare. It reminded her of her adolescence, when she began to develop breasts and boys started taking an interest. One boy in particular, she can’t remember his name—it might have been Declan—was always trying to look at her bra and seemed obsessed with the color of her underwear. She took to charging him fifty pence for the privilege, counting to “three Mississippis” before pulling her skirt down and tucking it between her knees. She shouldn’t have been so stupid, but they were all of twelve.

“It’s about Zoe,” says Trevor.

“What about her?”

“Come.”

Marnie glances at her watch. Elijah is at a birthday party until four-thirty. She doesn’t need this now. Trevor steps back as she enters. He leads her to the sitting room, which is so airless and hot that the furniture seems to be sweating. He points to the sofa. Marnie perches on the end nearest the door.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I really can’t stay. You mentioned Zoe.”

He glances at his hands. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“You’re very nice, Trevor, but I’m not interested. Is that why you invited me here?”

He opens his mouth and pauses as though the words are hovering on the tip of his tongue. “I phoned the agency. I tried to book you, but they said you weren’t available.”

Marnie blinks at him rapidly, trying to recover. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can pay…if that’s what you want.”

She shakes her head from side to side. “You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anything about an agency.”

Trevor opens his laptop and the webpage refreshes, showing a gallery of women dressed in skimpy clothes: lingerie, corsets, camisoles, and sheer nightdresses. The main picture is Marnie wearing a black bustier that barely covers her nipples. She’s sucking on a strand of pearls, half leaning over a chest of drawers. Pixilation blurs her eyes, but she can recognize herself. She remembers the photograph being taken. The man with the camera was about sixty and sniffled through the session, telling her to look slutty, when all she wanted to do was go home to her children.

Blood has drained from Marnie’s face and the walls seem to shiver. “It’s not me,” she whispers.

“I can take away the pixilation.”

“No!”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. You look beautiful. See what it says:
An English beauty not to be missed.
They fudged your age, but everything else is true. Eyes: hazel. Height: five-seven. Vital statistics: 34C-24-34.
Gracious and elegant,
they call you.”

“I was desperate,” says Marnie. “We needed the money.”

“I can pay.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I
want
to pay. The agency tried to send me someone else, but I expressly told them it had to be you.”

“I don’t do it any more.”

Marnie wants him to shut the computer. How did he find the webpage? Why was he looking?”

Trevor moves closer to her on the sofa. “I can understand you wanting to keep it private. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve seen how lonely you are, Marnie. I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“You take money from complete strangers. Why not take it from me?” He puts his hand on her knee. Marnie lifts it away. She gets to her feet, moving toward the door. A sudden change comes over Trevor. It’s as though an invisible switch has been flicked and his shapeless body transmogrifies into something more grotesque and aggressive. “I’ve tried to be nice to you.”

“What?”

“I’ve been your friend, but you treat me like shit. Why are you such an arrogant bitch?”

“Fuck you, Trevor.”

“Does Zoe know?”

Marnie is almost at the door. She stops. Turns. Any softness in Trevor’s voice has gone. The transparent irises of his eyes seem to whiten for a moment.

“You’re not proud of it, I understand that,” he says. “A mother does what she has to.”

“I shouldn’t have insulted you,” says Marnie. “I’m going to pretend this hasn’t happened.”

“I’ve printed out the page.”

“Pardon?”

“The website—I’ve made copies.”

“Why?”

“I can email the link to Zoe or I could just post it on the noticeboard and put a printout in everybody’s mailbox. I don’t suppose Mr. and Mrs. Brummer will like a prostitute living in one of their flats.”

“Why would you do that? Please, I’m begging you…”

Marnie’s hands are pressed together. Trevor drops a cushion onto the floor.

“If you’re going to beg, best get on your knees.” He unzips his fly. His narrow erect penis is scribbled with purplish veins. His hands are on Marnie’s shoulders, pushing her down.

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I’ve tried to be.”

“Why then?”

“You fuck for money—you can fuck for mine.”

His penis smears a thread of seminal fluid across her cheek. His fingers grip her hair. Marnie opens her mouth. Trevor shuts his eyes, waiting for her lips to close. She drops her arms to her sides, bunching her fingers. Then she drives her right fist into his testicles, forcing his scrotum into his bladder. Trevor’s body goes rigid and doubles over. He crumples to the floor, unloading a strand of semen along her thigh.

Marnie stands over him and kicks him twice in the stomach, not wanting to stop. It feels better than it should. Empowering. Fundamental. Gratifying.

“If you threaten me again, I will tell the police that you tried to rape me.”

Trevor is lying curled in a ball, clutching his genitals.

“Don’t ever come near me again,” Marnie spits. “Don’t come near my daughter. You leave us alone.”

She reaches the door. Trevor is trying to say something, pain etched around his eyes.

“They’ll all know,” he moans.

Marnie is crossing the foyer.

“Your daughter, your father, your friends, they’ll all know…”

Marnie isn’t conscious of running, of her legs carrying her, or her feet striking the wet pavement, or tears being pushed across her cheeks. She dodges pedestrians and prams, sprinting along the asphalt paths until her lungs are hurting. At the same time she has a sensation of floating like a fish in a stream, swimming to stay in the one place as the world rushes past her on all sides, dense, clear, and swift.

The bastard! The fucking bastard!

Stumbling to a halt, sucking in air, she wipes her cheeks with her sleeve. A couple of old women come out of the Post Office, giving her a look of practised sympathy, as though tut-tutting and patting the back of her hand. A man walking a dog drops his head and hurries past, pulling the animal.

Having run blindly, Marnie now recognizes her surroundings. She’s near Little Venice, close to the Warwick Avenue Bridge over the Regent’s Canal. The wind has sprung up, shaking the trees and sending leaves scuttling to quiet corners or pinning them against the railings. In the distance she can see the A40 flyover and beyond that the curving rooftop of Paddington station. A thought occurs to her. For a split second she contemplates getting on a train and running away. Maybe this is how Daniel felt. He ran from his family and his mounting debts, leaving her to face the music.

Marnie looks at her watch and thinks of Zoe. Soon she’ll be getting home from school, walking past Trevor’s door. Maybe she’ll go to the library first. There’s still time.

Ten minutes later she’s waiting opposite the bus stop. Catching sight of her reflection in a nearby window, she wipes her eyes and brushes back her hair, looping an elastic band over her ponytail.

Students spill from the bus, some rushing for home, others in no hurry. Zoe is sitting near the back, next to a man whose face isn’t visible. She gets up and walks down the aisle, jumping down the last two steps.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d meet you.” Marnie gives her a hug.

“I’m going to the library.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

More rain clouds are rolling across the sky. Thunder rumbles like a distant train. They cross the road and follow Elgin Avenue, past the station and shops.

“Have you been crying?” asks Zoe.

“I do that sometimes.”

“Is Elijah OK?”

“He’s at a birthday party.”

Marnie shivers as sweat dries on her skin. “We need to talk.”

“If it’s about what happened the other night, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Marnie makes her stop. She blinks two or three times, building up her courage. “The job I used to do—I told you I was a waitress—that wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was doing something else.”

Zoe is waiting.

“We needed the money and I couldn’t see another way.”

“Do I want to hear this, Mum?”

“I promised to tell you the truth.”

“Why now?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to find out anyway. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

Zoe shifts her school satchel from one shoulder to the other and pushes her fringe from her eyes.

“Your dad owed people a lot of money. Dangerous people. That’s why I joined an agency.”

“What sort of agency?”

“I worked as an escort.”

Zoe’s jaw slackens and her eyes widen in a fusion of surprise and disbelief. “You were a prostitute?”

“An escort.”

“You slept with men for money.”

Marnie sighs. “Please don’t make this harder.”

“Pardon me. I’m so sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?”

Her sarcasm stings, but the look on her face is worse. It’s as though Zoe wishes she could expunge Marnie from her life, brush her away like something nasty on her shoe.

“You should have told me we needed money,” says Zoe. “I could have done a bit of drug-dealing at the bus stop or given blow-jobs behind the half-pipe.”

“Please don’t say things like that.”

Marnie reaches out for her. Zoe shrugs her away.

“What are you going to tell Dad when he gets back?”

“He’s not coming back.”

“You don’t know that. I can’t believe you’d fuck for money.”

“Please don’t swear.”

“Who did you do it with?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Is that why Mr. Brummer waived the rent?”

“No.”

Zoe drops her head. Hurting. “Why did you have to tell me? Why couldn’t you keep this bit to yourself?”

“Trevor found out. He threatened to tell you.”

“Oh, Jesus! Were you fucking Trevor?”

“No.”

“Liar!”

“I’m not lying. That’s the whole point—I’m telling you the truth.”

“Now! You’re telling me now! I’m fifteen, Mum. Don’t lay this shit on me. I don’t deserve it.”

Zoe turns away, brushing Marnie aside. She doesn’t want to hear any more. She doesn’t
have
to listen. Instead she blocks her ears and yells, “La, la, la, la, la,” drowning out the sound.