I Am Watching You(22)

I feel a punch of shock at this. Our grandchild . . .

Rebecca is looking her daughter in the eye. ‘We are still talking this through as a family. She has a lot to consider. A levels. University.’ Her voice breaks and I feel this terrible surge in the pit of my stomach.

‘Perhaps we can talk again about this?’ Tony clears his throat to continue.

‘We feel this should be Emily’s decision.’ Rebecca is now looking at her husband. ‘She will talk it through with Luke, of course. But we just wanted to check where we all stood. In terms of support.’

‘I’ve already told Emily that I’ll support her.’ Luke is looking straight at her. ‘I’ve told her that.’

‘Yes. Well maybe you should have thought about the consequences before you—’

‘Dad. Please don’t. Please.’ Emily’s voice is almost unbearably quiet.

‘So – is there anything else in particular that you need to know from us today? Other than that Emily and Luke have our full support?’ I can feel my left fist clenching with the tension.

‘No.’ Rebecca tilts up her chin. ‘I . . . We just wanted to make absolutely sure that everyone knows where we are.’ She stands, and I realise this is the cue for us to leave. That this was only ever about ensuring that Luke came clean with us.

I hand a piece of paper with my personal email address to Rebecca.

‘Thank you.’

And then we part in silence. No handshakes. Nothing more to say.

We drive back to the house in silence, too. It is real now. At seventeen years of age, Luke is about to become a father. I want to speak up – to say that I will bring up the baby. That they must not, under any circumstances, give the child away. Luke’s child . . .

And then as we pull into the drive there is another shock. Sticking through the letterbox is a new postcard. Half in. Half out. No envelope this time, and unmistakable. Black with bright lettering.

It is eight o’clock in the evening. Which means that whoever is doing this has been to the house.

I feel utterly overwhelmed as I stand outside the porch, imagining that other person standing in precisely the same spot. I am terrified of what this now means. For me – and for my family. I realise that I should have gone straight to the police. Told Tony. That I am properly afraid that everything is running away from me. I realise also that tonight shouldn’t be about me and Anna and whatever these postcards may or may not mean.

Tonight should be about Luke.





WATCHING . . .

9 p.m.

I like that she is not sure.

That is why I like to watch people. Have to do this.

I don’t even remember how it began anymore. Only that it has become important. You need to watch, you see, because it is extremely important – to work out the difference between how people behave when they know they are being watched . . . and when they don’t.

Some people, you see, are much the same whether they are being watched or not. But most people aren’t. You don’t get to find out for sure until you watch a lot.

Sometimes, and this is also important, you don’t need to do anything very much. People will simply come to know. Give themselves away. Then the watching becomes more interesting because they will eventually turn. To a window. Or in exactly the right direction, and they will pull a blind or the curtains. Turn on a light. Or check a door.

Other times I have to help them out a bit. Stir it up. Until I can see the look that I have come to understand and is probably the thing I like the very best.

When someone feels they are being watched but is no longer absolutely sure . . .





CHAPTER 14


THE FRIEND

Sarah is sitting up in bed, staring at the cold cup of tea on her locker. Why does her mother keep bringing her tea? She doesn’t like the hospital tea. It smells funny.

Her arm is still sore from the drip. At first she didn’t understand why all of this fussing had to go on for so long. She thought she would get her stomach pumped. Puke a bit. Say sorry. Go home. But no.

No one tells you the truth of this. But then – why would they? Anyone taking an overdose is supposed to want to die, so why would survival details matter? The problem, Sarah realises, still staring at the cold tea, is that she doesn’t ever remember thinking that she actually wanted to die. She no longer remembers precisely what she was thinking when she took the tablets. There was just all this panic about what would come out on the new TV appeal. That maybe everyone would find out about what happened on the train. What really happened in the club . . .

Yes. Just panic. Wanting everything to stop.

But not a conscious choice to check out. Die. Not that, not really. And she certainly doesn’t want to die now. Which is why it is so frightening to have to face up to the details. The obsession with her liver. All the tests. The whispering. The consultant looking so terribly grave when examining her charts.

Sarah can feel her hands trembling. When she looks down at them they are actually shaking, and she wishes that she had not looked it all up on the Internet. She wonders what dying really feels like. If it would really hurt. If you would know.

For a moment this makes her think of Anna, but she shuts this down. No. Anna is going to be found. Anna has to be found. It is like this twisted wrenching through her whole body. So torn. Wanting Anna back, but not wanting to be found out . . .