Watching You (7 page)

J
oe O’Loughlin lifts his head from his desk and glances at his vandalized office. The blinds are open and afternoon sunlight slants diagonally across the floor, painting a bright rhombus on the stained rug.

He has spent the past six hours rescuing files, collating the scattered pages, creating some semblance of order. Rising from his desk he goes to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, drinking every second mouthful.

A file is missing, his clinical notes on Marnie Logan. A tiny metronome of concern ticks within him, rocking from side to side in his mind. Something familiar. Something unbidden.

His left arm is jerking and his body begins to gyrate and twist. Joe takes a small pillbox from his pocket and swallows his medication. Then he waits for his brain to acknowledge the drugs. He imagines how forces of good are meeting the enemy in his cerebral cortex, circling like fighting fish, calling a truce. Mr. Parkinson is a patient man. He knows that science moves slower than the disease.

Back in his office, Joe picks up the phone and calls Paddington police station. He asks to speak to PC Denholm or PC Collie. Waiting, he watches the sun slip drunkenly behind the rooftops, stretching shadows from chimney pots and TV aerials.

Denholm answers. “Professor O’Loughlin, what can I do for you?”

“You asked if anything was missing. A file was taken. Clinical notes for one of my female patients.”

“Her name?”

“Marnella Logan.”

“What was in the file?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“What use would it be to anyone?”

“I don’t know.”

The constable sighs, bored rather than frustrated. “Thank you for your help, Professor.”

Vincent Ruiz sits on the edge of the Thames, watching the river turn various shades of gold before its features blend into the darkness. The former detective has always had a soft spot for London, which wears its history like a tattered cloak. The city is a motley collection of villages full of people with various accents, who support opposing football teams, pay assorted rates, and vote for different political parties. How is it possible to travel by black cab between Brick Lane and Richmond? Surely it should involve an ocean voyage or jetlag.

Solid rather than overweight, Ruiz has maintained many of his routines since he retired from the Metropolitan Police. He doesn’t drink before six in the evening unless he has company. He doesn’t watch daytime TV or anything masquerading as being based on reality. He reads the newspapers, does the
Times
crossword, and fishes from a deckchair without any bait on his hook. More importantly, he doesn’t argue or try to contend with the nature of the world. He prefers to appear ambivalent, as though he no longer gives a shit.

His mobile phone is ringing. He ignores it.

From across the road he hears the sound of a garage band rehearsing, displaying more volume than talent. That’s another sign of age, he thinks, believing that each new generation of music is inferior to the one before. And while the eternal song in Ruiz’s heart puts him at forty, the reality of his birth certificate puts him closer to a free bus pass. This doesn’t make him old—not in his own mind. Instead the years have brought a mixed bag—greater wisdom, less patience, and more bad memories than any man needs.

His phone rings again.

“Greetings, Professor.”

“Are you busy?”

“I’m flitting to and fro.”

“You’re in the pub?”

“Heading there now.”

“I was robbed this morning.”

“Mugged?”

“Burgled. The office. A patient’s file was taken.”

“Any idea why?”

“None.”

“What about the police?”

“Next to useless—no offense.”

“None taken.”

Ruiz takes a tin of boiled sweets from his pocket and unscrews the lid. Choosing a colored rock between his thumb and forefinger, he pops it into his mouth, enjoying the sweetness on his tongue and how it rattles against his teeth.

“And you called me because…?”

“The team needs you.”

“What team?”

“Pick a team—it needs you.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Sure you do—you can say
yes
any way you like. You can do it in a funny voice if you want to.”

“Very droll, for that you can buy me dinner, but it can’t be tonight. I’m otherwise engaged.”

“Tomorrow then.”

M
arnie waits until Elijah is asleep and Zoe is doing homework before she phones Daniel’s parents in Australia. She closes the door and sits on the sofa, drawing her legs beneath her.

The time difference is nine hours, which means she’s contacting people who have already woken tomorrow. Rosemary and Norman Hyland live in one of those gated-style resort communities on the Gold Coast with man-made canals, security patrols, hundreds of by-laws, and nothing but white, tanned faces.

Normally she calls Daniel’s parents once a week and puts Elijah on the phone to say hello to his grandparents. The conversations are polite and trivial with no mention made of Daniel until the very end because the news doesn’t change.

The phone is ringing. Marnie can picture the scene—the sunshine, pastel colors, and lawns that look like golfing greens. Norman will be dressed in long shorts, boating shoes, and a polo shirt. Rosemary plays tennis every day and looks like she’s slowly petrifying. Marnie knows what they think of her. She is the uppity English princess who stole their son’s heart and kept him away from Australia to punish them. She is also bossy, demanding, whiny, needy—everything she fights so hard not to be.

When Daniel went missing, Marnie waited forty-eight hours before she called them. In those days she could never get the time difference right and there is no harmless reason for calling someone at 3:00 a.m.

Rosemary answered the phone. “What is it?” she asked. “Is it one of the kiddies?”

“No.”

“Let me talk to Daniel.”

Marnie’s throat closed. “Have you heard from him?”

“No. Why?”

“I should have called sooner.”

“What’s happened?”

“He’s missing. Nobody has seen him for two days.”

“Oh my God. Norman. Wake up. Wake up. It’s Daniel.”

They barked questions down the phone. Marnie managed to keep her calm. She comforted them. She gave them a number for the police liaison officer. Before she hung up, she heard her father-in-law’s voice, saying, “It’s all that bitch’s fault—he should never have been in England.”

A week later they flew to London. Marnie met them at Heathrow, but they didn’t want to stay at the flat. Instead they took a hotel room around the corner. Norman talked to the police directly. He told Marnie he’d “put a rocket under them.”

Rosemary couldn’t understand why the British newspapers were ignoring the story. Why wasn’t Daniel front-page news?

Rhonda Firth tried to explain. “Do you know how many people go missing every year in this country: two hundred thousand. Most of them don’t make the headlines because they turn up eventually.”

But Daniel wasn’t just
anyone
. Norman stalked the streets like a vengeful boxer and put the police offside by accusing them of being idiots. Meanwhile, Rosemary rediscovered her English accent and added her middle name when she introduced herself to people. She came to the flat every day, baked and ironed, fussed over the children, told Zoe she was too pale and needed to spend some time in Australia. Marnie felt like a guest in her own flat.

She hated the way her in-laws talked to each other. Norman rarely used Rosemary’s first name. He called her “woman” or “wife” and disparaged her when she offered an opinion he didn’t agree with. “What would you know, woman?” he’d say, or “You’re talking nonsense, woman.” Or Marnie’s favorite: “Make yourself pretty, wife, and leave the thinking to me.”

After a month in London they flew back to Australia. Neither of them said goodbye or offered Marnie any words of encouragement. The gambling issue was the catalyst. Norman and Rosemary refused to believe their blue-eyed boy could have racked up such debts. They accused Marnie of lying or spending the money herself. It was only later that Marnie discovered that her in-laws had given a statement to the police before leaving, accusing her of having murdered Daniel. It was obvious, they said, because she “wasn’t crying enough.”

Despite her hurt and anger, Marnie hasn’t stopped calling them or sending them photographs of Elijah and Zoe. Twice she has asked them for money and each time Norman has lectured her about being more careful with her pennies, suggesting that they move to Australia.

The phone is still ringing. Rosemary answers.

“Hello, it’s Marnie.”

“I’ll get Norman.”

“Actually I wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Will it take long? I’m playing tennis this morning.”

“It won’t take a minute.”

The line has a delay, which echoes Marnie’s voice back to her. She’s planned what she’s going to say, but it comes out in a rush, sounding too strident and desperate.

“I talked to a lawyer today about how I can access Daniel’s life insurance. We need the money. Elijah isn’t putting on weight. He needs to see a specialist.” This bit isn’t a complete lie but Marnie still feels guilty. “The lawyer said it might be possible to get a court to declare Daniel dead if enough people swear to the fact. If a judge grants probate, I can administer Daniel’s affairs. I can access his bank accounts and get the insurance money.”

“You want his money?”

Marnie can hear a click. Someone has picked up the extension.

“It’s a life insurance policy. Daniel set it up for the family. I think he’d want us to have—”

Norman has been listening. “So this is your new plan? You want to steal his money.”

“It’s not
his
money.”

“Found a new boyfriend, have you? Want a divorce?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

“He’s our son and he’s not dead until we say he’s dead. You hear me? You try a stunt like this and I’ll fucking destroy you. I’ll sue for custody. I’ll take my grandchildren away from you. Are you listening?”

“I’m sorry,” says Marnie, her heart hammering. “I didn’t mean…I was trying to think of Zoe and Elijah.”

“Don’t you dare use our grandchildren as an excuse! We always knew what you were like. What he ever saw in you—God only knows!”

Marnie’s throat is closing. She can’t talk. Norman is still yelling at her. She hangs up. Shaking.

Zoe is standing in the doorway, framed by the light. She’s wearing three-quarter-length pajama bottoms and Daniel’s old pajama top. The sight of it plucks at something in Marnie, an invisible string seems to vibrate against her heart.

“Why were you talking about Dad being dead?” Zoe asks.

“I’m trying to make things right.”

“How?”

“If a judge says he’s dead, the insurance company will pay out.”

Zoe’s hair is flattened by the humidity. Her hands are resting defiantly on her hips. “You think he’s dead!”

“Daniel wouldn’t just leave us like this. He loved us too much.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s dead.”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“You’re giving up on him.”

“No.”

“Bullshit! You want to take the cash and forget all about him.”

“That’s not true.”

Zoe is a physical girl, quick to anger, quick to forgive. In the space of a heartbeat her expression changes. It’s like a curtain being drawn across her eyes or something darker taking control. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I saw a lawyer today.”

“You said you wouldn’t keep things from me.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“You can’t just do this. You can’t randomly decide to have him declared dead.”

“Where do you think he is, Zoe?”

“I don’t know.”

“The police have looked. Interpol. Immigration. Nobody has heard from him.”

“It’s only been—”

“Thirteen months.”

“So that’s it! Fuck off, Dad! Get out of our lives.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you mean.”

“Daniel had debts. He borrowed a lot of money from a gangster and I’m supposed to pay it back or something bad is going to happen.”

“Tell the police.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You’re making it harder.”

“With the insurance money we can start again. I can get Elijah well. You can have a laptop. We can get another TV.”

“I don’t give a shit about a TV.”

Zoe’s eyes are brimming. Marnie hasn’t seen her cry since…since…she can’t remember. Crossing the room, she holds out her arms, wanting to hold her.

Zoe shrugs her away. “Have you found someone else? Is it that guy who picks you up in his car?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“I’ve seen the condoms in your bag. You take them with you when you go out. Are you sleeping with him?”

“I’m not seeing anyone else.”

“You’re a liar!”

Zoe spins away, sucking in loud gulps of air, her face mottled with anger. Marnie tries to stop her, but Zoe ducks under her arms. Marnie tries again, hugging her like a drunken dance partner.

“Let me go!”

“Just listen to me.”

“Let me go or, I swear I’ll…”

Zoe drops her head. It feels like an act of surrender. Marnie relaxes. Zoe uses the moment, jerking her head upwards. The back of her skull smashes into Marnie’s chin. Her teeth crunch together. Her lip is caught in between, punctured, bleeding.

Zoe slips away, slamming her bedroom door. Marnie goes to the kitchen and takes ice from the freezer, wrapping it in a washcloth and holding it against her lip until the bleeding stops.

T
here used to be a cinema on Oldham Road called the Empress Electric Theater, although most people called it the Old Empress. It was a Grade II listed building until it burned down in 2006. When I was growing up, before I started school and afterwards during the holidays, my mother would drop me at the cinema every morning, buying a ticket and telling me to stay there until she came back. If I hid between sessions, avoiding the ushers and the projectionists, I could spend all day watching the same films over and over, sucking on sweets that fell between the seats.

I saw King Kong tumble from the Empire State Building and David Bowie fall to earth. I saw Sandy turning slutty for Danny, De Niro doing his best De Niro, Peter Finch getting mad as hell, and Ripley in her little white knickers nursing a cat while battling an alien. I saw sex movies and horror movies, psychopaths and heroes, killer sharks, mass murderers, bumbling detectives, adventurers, vampires, zombies, body snatchers, cowboys, Indians, boxers, prostitutes, gunslingers, gangsters, princesses, witches, wizards, dragons, and dragon slayers. I saw all life and death, love and hate, ruin and redemption.

One day I grew bored of seeing the same movie, so I sat in the orchestra pit with my back to the screen, watching the audience. I could see the front few rows, the wide eyes and pale faces, chewing on their popcorn and sipping their drinks with their faces canted backwards a little, lips parted, lost in blissful ignorance of self, of surroundings, of me…

After that I didn’t bother with the movies anymore. I spent every possible moment with my back to the screen, watching people as they watched. The twitchy light slid across their faces
and the images flashed in their eyes, as the projector spun in the small room above their heads, creating a beam of light that caught the dust motes and cigarette smoke. I saw them laugh at the wisecracks, sob at the sad endings, and scream as they peeked through their chinked fingers. I saw them pashing, fingering, and fucking. I saw a Tuesday pensioner close her eyes and not wake up; and a woman go into labor, her waters breaking on an upper aisle. I saw the dirty old men playing pocket billiards in their overcoats and prostitutes giving blow-jobs in the back row.

I have been back to that old cinema, which is now a pile of rubble behind a wooden fence dotted with flyers and posters. I have walked along the familiar streets, standing in all weathers to watch the places that punctuated my childhood. Most remain painfully recognizable. At one house in Manchester I carved my name in a Jacaranda tree. It’s still there. I’ve checked.

I have ridden the same buses looking through dirty windows at the same schools, recognizing every change of gear by the dip of the clutch and the sound of the engine. My life is like that. I listen for the vibrations and know where I am. Once I knocked on one of the doors and heard someone shuffling down the corridor. I felt myself straighten. My insides held. An old woman appeared. I thought for a moment I was going to recognize her. I thought she might recognize me. But it wasn’t anyone I knew. The family had moved on, she said. I looked hard at her faded blue eyes, seeing if she was lying.

When you watch someone like I do, you learn to read their moods and mannerisms, spotting the lies they tell and the ways they disguise the truth. Ever since I can remember I have seen how people lived and died, fellated and fornicated, loved and lost. I have followed their lives like I’m watching a soap opera—my own version of
Coronation Street
or
EastEnders
or
Days of Our Lives.

Mrs. Ferndale, a woman who lived two streets away, caught me looking through the window when I was eleven and beat me with a wooden spoon. Mum said she’d “tear the bitch a new one” if she ever touched me again. Then she hit me herself for being “a little pervert.” I had to look “pervert” up in the dictionary. It said I was someone whose sexual behavior is regarded as abnormal and unacceptable. I didn’t understand. I didn’t care about sex. I simply wanted to watch.