Page 41 of Watching You
She tumbled into sleep. Baarda watched her for a few more seconds then left, making absolutely sure the door was locked behind him and that Connie Woolwine was completely safe.
Chapter 29
The Watcher
10 June
Karl sat on the edge of his father’s bed and tried to spoon-feed him some soup. His father was getting weaker, no point pretending otherwise. The man had hated soup before his stroke, now it was almost all he could eat. Karl stirred the beef broth and wondered if everyone’s life played such ironic tricks on them or if it was just the unlucky few. He spooned another few drops into his father’s mouth and wiped the drips from his chin, aware that his mother was coming down the stairs again, the swish of her nightie bringing a cloud of a freshly smoked cigarette with it. He turned back to concentrate on his father. He couldn’t pretend she wasn’t there any more, but he could ignore her if he tried really, really hard, except now she was humming, and that had always set his teeth on edge. Today it was the fucking ‘Birdie Song’, of all things, not because she liked it but because she knew he’d always hated it, and that tune – no coincidence – was the one she’d been humming when she’d suddenly clutched her chest, cried out then fallen to her knees.
They’d all been at home together that day. His parents hadproduced a baby rather later in life than the norm, so both had been retired for a few years, but Karl had a job back then in the investment department of a pension fund. It wasn’t electrifying work but he was a fast learner and understanding how to grow money was an underrated skill.
Karl thought it was a Sunday, but perhaps it was a Saturday, not that it mattered. His father had been watching TV, Karl had been playing a game on his mobile, and his mother had been watching the new neighbours from the corner of the sitting room window. They’d arrived a month earlier carrying a toddler his mother hated on sight, having instantly decided that it would be screaming at all hours of the day and night, that they’d all have to pretend it was gorgeous, and God help those parents if they thought they’d moved into the sort of road where people were going to babysit their wee brat while they went out on the piss.
Neither Karl nor his father had said a word during his mother’s continuous spew of undeserved hatred. They both knew better. There was no point interjecting. If they agreed with her, she’d ignore them, and if they disagreed then life wouldn’t be worth living for the next few days. His father had developed the skill of nodding occasionally in all the right places while simply carrying on with whatever he was doing. Karl didn’t have it perfected quite, but he was getting better at it.
‘And look at that crappy plastic swing-set and slide they’ve put up on their front grass,’ his mother was saying. ‘Fucking red and yellow, like we need any more tat in this road. Shouldn’t be allowed.’
Karl’s father made a ‘mmm’ noise in the general region of agreement that avoided becoming an active part of the discussion.
‘Someone should put some fuckin’ razor blades on there is what I think. That’ll have ’em moving out pretty bloodysharpish.’ She laughed, and Karl winced. ‘See what I did there? Razor blades … sharpish.’
Karl couldn’t bring himself to make a single sound, and his father was looking in the opposite direction at a blank wall for no apparent reason.
‘Oh yeah, that’s right, the two of you sayin’ nothing again. Better than me, are you? Is that what you think? That I’m mean, that I’m nasty to the poor bairn.’ She screwed her face up and held up her hands like claws. ‘Want to see the nasty old witch-lady bite that little child, do you? What are you going to do, burn me at the fuckin’ stake?’
‘Stop,’ Karl said. He hadn’t even known the word was going to come out of his mouth. His father’s face was horror and disbelief.
‘What … the actual … fuck?’ his mother said, dropping the witch act and standing up straight, window forgotten.
‘I just meant—’
‘Aye, you tell me what you just meant. That’ll make everything better,’ she said quietly. Karl, taller than her, heavier than her, stronger and faster, felt the contents of his bowels liquidise under her furious gaze.
‘They should stop, is what I was trying to say. Not you. I’d never—’ The excuse was pathetic and they all knew it. His father turned away to stare at nothing again.
Karl’s mother took a step towards him across the sitting room. She was almost within striking distance, and now he needed to go to the bathroom really, really badly, but trying to leave the room, letting her see his desperation, would be disastrous.
‘Would you like a cuppa?’ he blurted. ‘I can put a whisky in it, if you like. A double. Treat you, maybe. Do something nice for you.’
His mother stopped dead, all the emotion gone from her face,hands dangling at her sides. If she ever became a zombie, like in one of those TV shows, Karl thought, in the first few seconds after she turned, that was how she’d look, with only the memory of having once been human. Still maintaining the shape of a person, but the soul having already flown.
‘Is that what you think I need, now, son?’
Karl finally managed to stop talking.
‘Is that what you think of me? Offer me a drink and I’ll shut up. Put some whisky in my tea and I’ll be good. Say it.’ Her voice was so soft he almost had to strain to hear it, but some ancient, self-preserving part of him didn’t let him stretch his neck out in her direction.
Karl said nothing. His father was actually shrinking into the cushions of his armchair.
‘Come on, boy. Don’t stop now. Cup of tea with a double in it at eleven o’clock in the morning. That’s what an alkie would want, am I right?’
Karl’s brain was on a mental merry-go-round: fight-or flight, fight-or-flight, fight-or-flight. At that point, he couldn’t have said a word even if he’d wanted to.
‘You tell me what I am, then, if you’re so clever now, Karl.’
She said his name, his actual name rather than boy, son, or idiot, and it made his testicles retract painfully. Karl thought it was entirely possible that he might be about to die.
‘I love you, Ma,’ he muttered.
