ROSS ARMSTRONG is a British stage and screen actor who has performed in the West End of London, on Broadway and in theatres throughout the UK. Among others, he has acted opposite Jude Law (Hamlet), Joseph Fiennes (Cyrano de Bergerac), Kim Cattrall (Antony and Cleopatra) and Maxine Peake (The Deep Blue Sea). His TV appearances include Foyle’s War, Jonathan Creek, Mr Selfridge, DCI Banks and most recently, Ripper Street.

After gaining a BA in English Literature and Theatre at Warwick University, Ross joined the National Youth Theatre where his contemporaries included Matt Smith and Rafe Spall. A three year course at RADA followed and whilst there he won the RADA Poetry Writing Award. The idea for his debut novel The Watcher came to him when he moved into a new apartment block and discovered whilst looking at the moon through binoculars that he could see into his neighbours’ homes. Thankfully for them, he put down his binoculars and picked up his pen.

He is an avid cricket fan and hosts a regular podcast for All Out Cricket magazine. He also has a monthly column in You and Your Wedding magazine as he prepares for his own wedding in 2017.

For Catherine

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Catherine for her wonderful thoughts, general wisdom and a world of other things too.

To Al and Antonia, and particularly their children Evan and Darcy, for being the most consistent source of real life danger and violence I face on a regular basis.

To Jim for not going ahead with the long-mooted novel Lennon and Presley Detective Agency, leaving me as the sole author in the family to date.

To Juliet Mushens for being the best trinity of editor, agent and friend one could wish for.

To all at the Woodberry Wetlands for teaching me about the birds.

Everyone at HQ for their incredible support, dynamism and hard work from the very first moment we met.

My parents for everything, particularly for working for 50 years so their son could have the temerity of doing two Batchelor of Arts degrees when it was still economically possible to do so, which only qualified him to read books and act in detective-based TV shows. And for being my greatest champions and friends.

In ways big and small, there have been many people kind enough to read or listen to my words and not berate me for wasting their time. Every moment was immeasurably valuable to me. So, thanks to: Chris Farrar, John Hollingworth, Tom McHugh, Jules Stevens, David Hart, Fred Ridgeway, Jo Kloska, Richy Riddell, Natasha James, Jack McNamara, Jane Boston, Alex Odell, Dan Ings and Ben McLeish.

If there is anyone else who thinks themselves largely responsible for me getting to write this thing that has given me so much pleasure whom I have neglected to mention, I’m sure you’re right and I apologise unreservedly.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

7 days till it comes.

Part One: The Look

42 days till it comes.

35 days till it comes.

33 days till it comes.

30 days till it comes.

Part Two: The night. And the day that followed.

20 days till it comes. Night. 10 p.m.

19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.

20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m.

19 days till it comes. 2.30 p.m.

Back to Last Night

20 days till it comes. Night. 11.45 p.m.

Night. 12.30 a.m.

Night. 3 a.m.

19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.

Part Three: The Woman in Canada House

18 days till it comes. 10 a.m.

16 days till it comes. The Ivory-billed Woodpecker.

Part Four: The Twitch

15 days till it comes. 2.02 a.m.

15 days till it comes. 2.32 a.m.

15 days till it comes. Time: Unknown.

15 days till it comes. Far too late.

14 days till it comes. 7 p.m.

Part Five: Birding

13 days till it comes. 8.30 a.m.

12 days till it comes. 4 p.m.

9 days till it comes.

Part Six: The Big Stay

Day 1: In short, I got nothing.

Day 2: Flat 11. Blind open. Vincent.

Day 3: Flat 4. Alfred; Flat 7. Liz and Dicky.

Day 4: A complete shut-out.

Day 5: Jonny’s hands.

Today.

9 days till it comes. Evening.

8 days till it comes. Single white male.

7 days till it comes. And here we are.

7 days till it comes. Outside.

Part Seven: In My Sights

6 days till it comes. Morning.

6 days till it comes. Afternoon.

6 days till it comes. Evening.

5 days till it comes.

4 days till it comes.

2 days till it comes.

1 day till it comes.

1 day till it comes. 2 p.m.

The Day It Comes.

Part Eight: The Woman on the Fourth

The day it comes. Afternoon.

The day it comes. Evening.

The day it comes. One minute later.

The day it comes. Evening.

28 September. 9 a.m.

Part Nine: The Tick Hunter

28 September. 12 p.m. The Bad Kids.

28 September. 12.45 p.m. Nathan.

28 September. 1.10 p.m. Sandra.

28 September. 1.40 p.m. Thompson.

28 September. 3 p.m. My saviour.

28 September. 3.30 p.m.

28 September. Evening. 6.30 p.m.

Part Ten: The Hastings Rarities

28 September. 7.15 p.m.

28 September. 8.55 p.m.

29 September. The small hours.

29 September. 6.35 a.m.

29 September. 6.45 a.m.

29 September. 6.55 a.m.

29 September. 7.35 a.m. Sunrise.

Part Eleven: The Life List

1 December.

Copyright

7 days till it comes.

I look in her direction. About fifty metres away behind a sheet of glass stands a woman. Looking out at the reservoir. She’s in the building opposite. I’ve spotted him in that building before, but not her. I’ve been watching him. She’s about my height, my build. She could be my reflection. Except she couldn’t because she’s a little darker, has an air about her. European. Her hand rests on the frame of the door, softly. She is lost in thought. No, she is concerned. She scratches her bottom lip with her teeth. She wears lipstick. She has a tousled fringe. She has a light blue dress on, for the summer. I adjust the dial on my binoculars, to sharpen the focus. Her eyebrows, perfectly plucked, knit in displeasure. Her face is half lit by the early evening sun streaming through her window. North facing. Or perhaps it’s not her window. I certainly haven’t spotted her before. In there. With him. Which is strange.

She takes a careful step backwards. Steady, feline. The sun recedes now, kissing her features goodbye. The dark of the room smooths over her face, like a sheet, enveloping her. She’s harder to read. But I can still see her. She’s so still. Careful. Intense. Pensive. Every muscle in her face firm and poised. Rich with intent.

She’s still lit by the gentle glow of the room. But only just. Softly, so softly. A single lamp perhaps. A femme fatale. Shadowed. Like from a 1954 movie. How quickly they all turn into models. Through my eyes. All the people behind the windows in the building across from where I am now. Like they’re posing for me. For a photo shoot. How well they perform. How beautiful. It’s almost like they know.

Without thinking, my fist at my side turns into a gun. I lift it. Slowly. Until it points right at her. If I pulled the trigger now perhaps the glass of my window would shatter, then hers would too and the bullet would strike her between the eyes, one inch above the bridge of her nose. Her skull would break. And she would fall.

Bang. Bang.

Oh, God. She’s looking. She looks in my direction. And she sees me. She’s got me. In her sights. Her face tightens. But it’s her body. Her body doesn’t move a muscle. And neither does mine. I’m still. But not frozen. I’m ready. Poised. My elbow rested on the sill. My left hand gripping my apparatus. The right fixed in its gun-like pose. I hold firm for some reason. I’m not embarrassed.

She breathes in through her nose. Her chest lifts just a touch. Through my sights I see her eyes refocus. Her pupils shrink a fraction of a millimetre. And she stares me down.

Meaningfully, she raises her hands to her dress and, keeping her eyes on mine, she delicately lifts it and shows me her right thigh. A purple bruise. And above it, further still, a burn. She’s looking right at me. Oh, God. Showing herself to me. She holds it there. Then glances behind her. Sees something. Lets her dress fall. Maybe she’s not alone. It’s so still here.

Then, from behind me, the rumble of building work begins. Metal crushes concrete. Maybe it was always there but I’d drowned it out. With my focus. They’re still working on the last few buildings between this one and the park. As I stare at her, the noise of machines and the crunch of the wrecking ball goes on. Behind my back. They crescendo and then dip inexorably. A heavy drone. A wall of sound, dipping and rising. I look at her. And she at me. She could be trying to tell me something. Is she play-acting? Is she pleading for her life? Trying to communicate something? Woman to woman. The corners of her mouth rise into a kind of smile.

Rumble. Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.

I’m going to call her… Grace.

From nowhere, a hand fixes around her throat and pulls her into the darkness. Her arms and dress flail forward as she’s dragged out of sight. She disappears. My breath, which only now I realise I was holding, leaves me suddenly.

My home phone rings. I jump, clutching my sweater. Resisting the urge to cry out. It gets louder and louder. As if it’s getting closer. Homing in on me.

It’s strange. My phone ringing. Because it never has before. Not since I moved in. I’d forgotten it was even plugged in.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

My hands grip my jeans, needing something to hold on to. As I brace myself. And turn to look at it.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

It’s strange, you see. Because no one even has the number. No one.

Not even you.

Something crashes against my window. I fall and put my back to the solid white wall. Out of plain sight. I’m breathing so hard now. Shaking. The hairs on my arm stand on end. My heart is beating out of my chest.

The glass is cracked. I daren’t turn my head. But in my periphery I can see something. Pressed against my now cracked window. Don’t Turn Your Head, I tell myself.

But I can see something. Out of the corner of my eye.

Don’t Turn.

I can see something. Sliding down it. Slowly. Dreadfully.

So I breathe in through my nose. Bite down hard on my tongue.

I turn my head. And look.

Part One:

The Look

42 days till it comes.

HS – Passer domesticus – Wetland – Good vis, wind light, 12 deg – Singular – 2 leucistic patches, buffish, pale supercilium, rich dark streaks on mantle, female – 16 cm approx. – Social, dominant.

I thought I’d send my findings over to you in particular. As I hoped you of all people might understand. We haven’t seen a lot of each other recently of course, but I’ve had a think about it and there are a few things I want to say. Even if I’m not that keen to say them to your face exactly. Or on the phone. Or Skype, or the other platforms.

I’m not up for it. I don’t want a scene. I’m not keen to ‘have it out’. Woman to man.

I had thought I’d made everything pretty clear. Had said my piece. Is it piece or peace? I never know. But either way, I thought I’d said it. And I thought that was it. For ever. Between me and you.

But now I think about it, there are a few more things I want to touch on. Want to prod at maybe. Without having to look at you and feel guilty or inhibited while I’m saying them. Without you butting in or anything.

It’s probably all my fault. I know. I know you think it is. I know that’s why you think we’re not talking. But hear me out, OK? I want to say a few things and be heard. That’s all. A friendly ear, without the glare of your eyes. Without any judgements.

I hope this doesn’t sound too severe! It’s not meant to be. You know, it might be fun. To help you remember a few things. Maybe hear some new things too. Things you don’t know. I had this sudden urge to tell you. So much has happened since I made my decision.

I know the notation isn’t always right but cut me some slack, OK? This is how I’ve always done it and you know I like to do things my way. Also, don’t get all ‘the way you do’ if I’m telling you things you already know, you’re never too old for a refresher. I don’t mean to chastise, you are always so patient with me. You always have been. I just need someone to talk to. Someone at a distance to share my findings and the way I’m feeling, so maybe we can make sense of it all. Together. Someone level-headed. I know you’re not a trained therapist! But we used to talk, when we were out there. Look. I think I might be getting myself into some trouble.

I don’t know. Aiden thinks I’m stuck in a rut. Mentally that is. That’s what he says. Mentally and emotionally. And financially. And creatively and career-wise. Which is always nice to hear. I didn’t ask, he just volunteered this information. Apropos of nothing. He wasn’t just being a dick. But he wasn’t joking either. He’s almost definitely right.

Aiden told me all these things this afternoon. God, he’s a clever arsehole, isn’t he? It’s like he can see the inside of my head. He’s staring at me now, grinning slightly as he leans against the window. He looks handsome as the light streams in around him. We’re both tapping away opposite each other on our celluloid keys. A proper modern, alienated couple.

He’s on his laptop and I’m on Mum’s old typewriter. Maybe you remember the typeface. The font. I found it in the move and thought it’d be nice to get the old thing out. Aren’t I retro? I feel like the woman from Murder, She Wrote. Only problem is I can’t make any mistakes on this thing or I’ll need Tippex and I hate Tippex. It stinks. So I type carefully. And if I say things I regret. Well, they just have to stay.

He shoots me a look and a smile that says ‘make me a latte would you?’ and I will, because that’s always my job now for some reason. We’ve got this new machine, it’s like we live in a coffee shop. I’ve bought some hazelnut syrup, to add some definition to our flat whites. And some sprinkles to lightly dust over our cappuccinos and cortados. It’s all very middle class. We’re Cameron’s children, you’d wince.

I don’t move a muscle. If he wants a coffee he can ask, like a normal person would. He looks away again. But even though his eyes are down he knows I’m looking. I can tell. His face lit by his screen. Smiling so smugly it’s practically demonic. Cross-legged like I am, as if each other’s reflection. He’s silently trying to get a rise out of me.

‘Coffee, please, ducky,’ his look says.

He can tickle me by barely moving a muscle. Make me giggle with the way he sits or the rise of a single eyebrow. He can clear his throat and it feels like a jab in the ribs. A soft hum can be a gentle hug. That’s how close we are. We send each other our thoughts by the smallest vibrations.

He’s found a new way to make me laugh. He uses this stupid voice he’s been practising. I can tell when he’s going to do it. I see the thought drop in. Then I see him smile when he’s about to do it. I see right through him. He looks up now to give me the full force of it. Here it comes.

‘You tapping avay your leetle thoughts, huh? Using zee leetle grey cells?’

I smirk, despite myself. Cheeky bastard.

‘I am zinking about the brown mark, above your elbow, on the back of your arm.’

He’s decided it’s time to stop for a moment, for one of our micro chats. A tiny ellipsis before we dive back into our worries and fears. A wry smile envelops my face.

‘My birthmark?’

‘Yez. Your mole.’

‘My… freckle.’

‘Your tea stain. Yes.’

He’s dropped the voice now. He’s got serious. Or as close as he gets anyway.

In the silence, his eyes wander over me.

‘I was just thinking about how it’s like a small button. I’ve always thought of it like that. Then I remembered I had a dream where I could press it and it would make you lose your memory. What do you think about that?’

I pause, breathe in through my nose and consider this. ‘I think you’re a very strange individual.’

‘Interesting you should say that. Very interesting,’ he says. Nodding, narrowing his eyes and archly taking me in as if he’s some sort of Buddha-Yoda, enlightening me with his abstract bullshit. He strokes my ankle, then makes to go back to his work.

‘Did you then?’ I say.

‘Did I what?’ he says.

‘Did you press it?’

‘It was just a funny dream. I thought I’d tell you.’

‘You pressed it! And now you’re being evasive,’ I say, throwing my shoe at him. It’s meant to be playful but I hit him in the head quite hard.

‘Ow! Oh God. Oh, my God. My eye. I think it’s going to have to come out,’ he says, overreacting wildly in search of a laugh. Which somehow he gets out of me.

‘Oh, my God. Tell me what happened next in your lame old dream?’

‘It’s not a lame old dream. It’s a nice dream,’ he says.

I hum to myself. Then breathe audibly. Rolling a bowling ball of disdain between us.

‘It’s not a nice dream. Is it? It’s not lovely, is it? It’s actually quite horrible.’

‘I think “horrible” is a tad extreme, honeybear,’ he says. This is one in a line of creative love names he’s taken to calling me. He uses them because we’re not the kind of people who would use them.

‘Well, I only say that because it’s a controlling, manipulative, latently sexist dream, in which I am essentially a doll-like creature to be played with at your whim. But, now I say it out loud, maybe you’re right, maybe that’s fine.’

His face contorts in thought. Then pauses. Then gives me a look like he’s about to cut through this whole conversation with something utterly brilliant. A real showstopper.

‘Don’t let anyone else’s dreams control you, Lily. For you are the master of your dreams,’ he mumbles with a degree of earnestness.

The room cringes.

‘Wow, that’s great, Aid. You should put that in front of some clipart of a sunset and whack it on the Internet. People love that sort of shit.’

‘Well, laugh it up, Lil. But your reaction to all this is very telling. You care too much about weird signifiers of what you are to others. You are the master of your fate and your–’

‘Yep, got it. Don’t worry, I’m fine as I am. But, thanks for the pop psychology, Pops.’

I’m irked but it soon turns to flirtation. It always does in the end.

‘That’s OK, honey… badger,’ he says.

He absorbs my mocking. It’s one of the many things I like about him. His discretion. His lightness of touch. He’s self-effacing and utterly pretentious at the same time. And somehow I’m still intrigued as to how exactly he does it. It’s a puzzle. The sort of thing that keeps a relationship going. He glances back at his screen again. Six, eight, ten taps.

‘Oh, one more thing. What happened when you pushed the button?’

‘Ah. Hmm,’ he mutters. ‘Dunno. As soon as I pressed it, I woke up.’

Without formal ending, Aiden’s eyes fall onto his computer. I am to consider this conversational cul-de-sac over, as we segue seamlessly back to our own worlds. Then he peers up over his device and smiles at me for a second. Full beam. All of him there, without any side. Then he disappears behind it again. And the tap-tapping goes on.

As I look at him, I see the binoculars sitting at his side and I get up and grab them in an instant and see what I can catch. I’m limiting myself to two sightings a day; I don’t want to get obsessive. You know how I get. That’s why I’m writing to you above anybody else. Because you know me, what I’m like. I fancy seeing one more bird while there’s still a little light. A wood pigeon or a goldfinch. Just a little one. You know. Just for a bit of fun.

35 days till it comes.

BT – Cyanistes caeruleus – Grassland – Magic-hour sunlight, still, 18 degrees – 10 flock – Bright yellow breast, black chest line, male – 12 cm, perhaps – Excitable, jerky hops and aphid swoops.

I’ve never been creative. I’m more a facts and figures type. My oeuvre is no great loss to the artistic world. I’m the only person I know that literally cannot paint. Not on a canvas, or wall, nothing. You may say this isn’t a thing, but it is. Even when I started painting the flat Aiden would say ‘long, smooth strokes’ and I’d try to do it but somehow I couldn’t and he ended up doing the whole room himself, telling me to ‘just watch and make funny comments to keep me going’.

Hey, you know what? This is creative. Ha, Aiden, ha! This will be my project that will lift me from the partial doldrums. Maybe engage my heart a little as well as my graph paper head.

But I think what he really wants to know is, when I’m going to get back to my book. I know this because he said it today. He said:

‘When are you going to get back to your book?’

To which I sighed. Then thought. Then replied.

‘Aid, enough sweaty academics have written Hitchcock essays, I don’t think I need to throw in my tuppence. It’s rehashing. It’s a remake of a remake. It’s just regeneration.’

He raised his eyebrows to this. I knew it without even looking up. I felt it.

‘Sure, agreed. Damn right. You give up on those dreams. Anyway, I mean, it’s not like nobody told you Film Studies doesn’t make anyone any money, honey.’

‘Oh, don’t do the dad jokes, Aid. My dad did them all at the time.’

‘You don’t need a degree to work in Saturday Night Video!’ He roared.

‘There we go. Thank you!’ I shouted. I read his mind. I always do. We’re that close.

‘Well, it looks like it’s Medical Market Research for you for ever then. Sounds like a strong plan. Is that the plan?’

‘Trust me, this was definitely not the plan.’

No, not even the most left field career adviser would have put me here. Except one. The left field career adviser that is London: with its ever-shrinking career opportunities and economic demands. Bugger off, London. I’d move back to Chesterfield, if I didn’t think it’d make me end it all. I’m serious. I would. But it would. The way I’m feeling now, at least. Everyone always said I was just like my mum. I hope I’m not too like her.

I go out on the balcony and my gaze runs past the trees to a flock of starlings, dancing around above the reservoir, swooping up into the bluing evening sky. I try to get a better look when they rise higher, hoping the moonlight will give me a better view of the plumage. Then I focus on the moon instead. We used to do that sometimes, didn’t we? It’s so clear tonight. If you look hard enough it actually looks like a place, not just a star or whatever. It’s mad to think people have had their feet all over that big rock in the sky, isn’t it? I know it sounds stupid, but it is weird, isn’t it? Then, absent-mindedly, I let the binoculars run to the block of flats on the right side, Waterway it’s called. All the blocks have got these serene ‘natural world’ names, to convince everyone they don’t live in a pigeonhole in North London and work in new media. We even have a concierge. Don’t ask me what they do. But he wears a uniform. I don’t think he can handle dinner reservations, like in a New York hotel in the movies. I think he mostly signs for post and solves ‘parking disputes’. Of which there are many. It’s that sort of building.

There’s a light on in the penthouse. And I’ve always wondered how big it is in there and I stand and stare. I stare at his Habitat curtains, which I saw in the shop the other week actually. They don’t look super posh or anything. Then I stare at the swing chair he’s got on his balcony, that does look expensive. And then I see him. Look at him. There he is. The million pound penthouse guy. Doesn’t look that impressive. In fact he looks downright odd at the moment. What’s he doing in there? I look closer. I analyse.

His back rises. Up and down he goes. A slight sheen on his back. He’s in his pants. This fair-haired (sweaty) man of average height, who has actual abdominal muscles, which I catch briefly in a reflection, is doing squats with dumb bells in his hands. With his back to me. No idea I’m here. Seeing it all. And he’s in his pants.

He looks ridiculous, a real cliché. He mechanically turns ninety degrees to his right, so I can see his moist, blush aspect in profile. He’s gurning, how bizarre, how odd. It’s like a music video now as Aiden’s ’90s Trip Hop spills out from our bedroom. He dips and straightens mechanically, as if to the music. It’s hilarious – does he have no shame? What curious manoeuvres. What an odd gait. How little shame he has in his natural habitat. Can’t he see that people can see him? If they look close enough.

And then he stands, turns and looks right at me. Without thinking, I duck, and I’m giggling like a schoolgirl. I disappear from his view. Gone in an instant. I peek up again and he can’t see me. I think he’s resolved his mind was playing tricks. He thought he saw something, me and my apparatus, but then resolved it was his imagination or… no, he’s venturing out, arse partially exposed. He’s on his balcony. He’s looking for me, but I’m behind a wooden garden chair, hiding like a child. He can’t see me. I’m safe. I’m in the hide.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Aiden shouts from inside.

33 days till it comes.

Chaff – Fringilla coelebs – Wetlands – Red-rust breast, female – 8 flock – Chirruping but sad-seeming – 16 degrees, light rain – 15 cm.

Oh, shit. I’m in trouble. Aiden called me into the bedroom after the peeping incident and took on a grave tone.

‘We’ve bought our first flat here, Lily, we are pretending manfully… and womanfully… to be adults and you are out there… er, perving on Jeremy…’

‘Can we call him Gregory?’

‘On… OK, Gregory… on Gregory the account manager as he bellows at you in his skintight underwear while the woman below dashes out to see you crawling back inside on your hands and knees…’

I can see him smiling though, all the while. Just that tiny smile in the corner of his mouth that lets me know he still loves me. That it’s all OK really. That little smirk I fell in love with. Followed by the smallest snort and snicker. He’s still there. That man I fell in love with.

I know it seems awful, but it was funny. It’s amazing what people do when you’re not looking. Not the pant squats as such, I understand that, but it was the look. That expression on his face that he must only use when he’s on his own.

It’s like the birds. But they know they’re being watched, they’re ready for it somehow, they’re ‘natural show-offs’. We used to say that. But humans are incredible. They’re these amazing, living breathing things, that get up to things and have these looks on their faces. I’m not going to prescribe spying on people as a remedy for your aches and pains, but I do have to say there is something about it. Just something. Something thrilling.

I think we got in just in time here you know. The whole thing’s being regenerated, it’s a twenty-five year project. And yes, that is another word for gentrification and no I don’t think that’s awful, it’s nice round here, it’s beautiful. And we scraped together the money so we deserve to live here.

I do feel sorry for the people in Canada House, though. Some of them have lived there for thirty years and they’re being turfed out. Half the place is boarded up already. The others are just waiting until they get the shove too. ‘Rehoused,’ they say, but who knows. You hear stories about people being forced to pay rent in new builds they can’t afford. You hear stories of people becoming homeless. Or, worse still, getting moved to Birmingham. That’s a joke, I know you were born in Birmingham. I went to one of the exhibition centres for a conference and it was fine. I mean, nice, it was nice. Yes, I know there’s more champagne drunk per square mile than anywhere else in Britain, so they must be celebrating something. Yes, I know. And they have more canals than Venice. Although I’ve always thought it was the quality of the surroundings people enjoyed in Venice, not just the raw statistical length of the canals, but there we are. But it’s really nice here, you’d like it. It’s so sad to think that people who grew up here can’t stay.

There was a quote in the paper that read:

‘… the people in the newbuilds across the road tend to avoid the people in the old council estate…’

And, if that’s true, it’s awful. But I’m sure it can’t be. I mean, as soon as I got off the Tube today, I crossed to the newbuild side of the road, but that’s because they spray water cannons on the building site, to disperse the dust or something. I didn’t want to get soaked by the mud and brick dust from the houses. It gets in your face and hair. I don’t want to be covered in what’s left of those poor people’s homes. I mean those poor people. Not ‘poor’ people. Poor as in their plight. Not economically. I do. I do feel bad.

But I only mention this because just as I crossed the road… This is awful. Just as I crossed the road I looked up and that’s when I saw her. I looked her straight in the eye. Jean. She’d been used as an example in the Guardian. She’s the one who’d given the quote. There was a photo and a big piece about her feeling like she was

waiting in line for the guillotine, seeing homes demolished all around me. Seeing the building works get closer and closer. As I wait my turn to be slung out. It’s like a death sentence.

It’s awful. It really is. But what did she want me to do as I left the Tube, stay on her side of the road with the mud and brick from those houses spraying me just so I could give her a hug or something? Because, that’s pretty much what I plan to do now actually.

I can’t tell Aiden because he’d be worried about the rumours of what goes on and the sort of people that we’re told lurk around those flats at night. But I’m sure it’s scaremongering. It’s not like I’ll be wandering about looking for her. I saw her. I saw her go into her home. I saw her and I thought, Now I know. So as soon as I’m ready, I’m going to go and see her. And apologise. For crossing the road. For everything. I’ll see how she is. What she’s like. It’ll be interesting. Maybe take her some soup. Would that be condescending? People like soup, right? Perhaps we’ll be friends.

I saw a Missing poster today, stuck crudely to a lamp post as I cut through the estate. A girl from over there has disappeared. It seems. Into thin air. I won’t tell Aiden. People go missing all the time. But he worries about that kind of thing. He really worries.

One last thing. You really can’t tell anyone about what I tell you when you read all this. Not Aiden, not anyone. In fact, especially not Aiden. If I ever do change my mind about seeing you. And we come over to you or we decide to have you here. If that does happen. You can’t say a word about this.

It will always be between us. Just us. You and me. For ever. Just like our bird stuff. OK? I’m serious. So, no matter what happens. No matter how old and senile you get.

Remember that.

My phone goes. Bleep bleep. And we both know who’s texting. And we both know what about. But no. No thanks.

I’m not ready to talk yet.

30 days till it comes.

WFC – Tippi and Janet – Waterway – Blonde and red – 2 flock – Relaxed, feminine, serene – 19 degrees, under cover of night, a light breeze – Both around 5’ 6”.

I turn off the light. Binoculars in hand. Aiden has a beer on the go and he’s giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. I was looking at the moon through them. Sipping some wine. He finally noticed what I was up to and mistook it for something more sinister. I don’t know what. Having another perv at Gregory perhaps. But now he knows he can be involved and it’s all quite silly and fun, he loves it. He’s really up for it now, in fact. It’s become a game. It’s so funny.

We roll down the blind and leave ourselves the smallest gap at the bottom to look through. We make sure all the lights are off and I walk him through it all. You would love this. It’s like being back in the hide, but better. I get my elbows in place on a magazine and look up, playing with the focus dial and looking for a light on in the Waterway building. I flash past a couple of darkened ones, probably owned by overseas investors, so many flats are empty here. Then I see it. Lit up like a Christmas tree. A couple. At it. Not sex. Just at it. Living. You can see their whole room.

‘OK, get the notebook out. The one I got you from the Japanese shop. Come on. What do you see?’

‘The Waterway building?’ he says, flatly.

‘Good, that’s habitat, make eight columns and put “Waterway” in the third slot. What else?’

‘They’re fashionable looking, they’re pristine, like they’re in costume. Maybe they work in—’

‘Woah, there, cowboy, let’s stick to the facts for the columns. How many of them are there?’

‘OK, Lil… there are two of them. One blonde, one redhead.’

‘Good! Two flock! Put that in column five and the colour of their plumage, blonde and red, in column four. We don’t know their names so we’ll pick some later for column two. We’ll do a brief weather description for column seven. Something about behaviour in six and an estimated height for the last column. I’m good at this so let me suggest five foot six for both. It’s a skill. You can get better with practice. It’s my party trick, have I never told you that? I’m usually right to the centimetre.’

‘Inch.’ He smiles. He loves corrections. He loves a bit of control. ‘Is zis your farzer’s method? Tell me about your farzer?’ he says.

I look at him, maybe a beat too long.

‘It’s my method. So. For column one I’m going to say… WFC. What do you think that–’

‘White… female… couple.’

‘Very good! Very. Good. Now…’

A lesbian couple. They’re a lesbian couple! How exciting! Not that it’s unusual or anything. It’s just that I don’t have any lesbian friends and I’d really like to. I would’ve voted for the marriage thing, if they’d asked me. Definitely. I’d have knocked on doors. If I’d lived in Ireland or something. I heard a podcast about people knocking on doors over there, changing people’s minds. It sounded really cool. It’s a no-brainer.

Look at them. We could be friends. We could have lesbian brunches. Or a lesbian book group. I’d love to have a lesbian book group. And now I have some lesbians.

‘They’ve got a globe that lights up. They’ve got a record player. They’ve got a retractable punchbag. On a stick. They’ve got… an oak bookcase. They have blue fairy lights. They have a Dualit toaster, like we do! Ooh, they’ve left the Country Life butter out. Perhaps one of them thinks they might fancy some more toast in the not too distant future. They’ve got… cushions from Heal’s, not cheap those ones, I’ve seen them online. They’ve got a tall fern in the corner where the exterior windows meet. They’ve got a pink orchid. They’ve got a twelve-bottle wine rack. They’ve got empty bottles ready to go down to recycling. They’ve got a bike in the corner, even though there are racks beneath the building. Oh. It’s a Brompton! It folds. They’ve got a Chinese-framed print of the original poster of Nights Of Cabiria, the Fellini movie, and I think… yes… it’s limited edition!’

‘How do you think they do it?’ he says.

‘What? Keep the place so tidy? They both do their fair share, I’d imagine.’

‘No, the sex. The two-woman sex… thing.’

‘It’s pretty much the same. Just with two of one thing, rather than the other.’

‘Yeah, but…’

‘God, you’ve led a sheltered life. Use your imagination. In fact, don’t. Don’t, do that. You’re ruining this.’ Sometimes he needs a scold.

‘I mean, do you think they’re a “get into their pyjamas” kind of couple? Or d’ya think at some random moment the blonde might just grab the redhead, throw her on that wooden table and just… give her one?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so, they’re varnishing it. They’re only half finished.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘The difference in the colour of the wood. There’s newspaper on the end there, look. And by the sink, brushes in a glass jug.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re good at this.’

‘And, now I come to think of it, I’ve seen these two before.’

‘Where?’

He holds my gaze.

I look away from him.

Shit.

‘Wow. You. Are. Mental,’ he says

‘Don’t say that. It’s not nice,’ I say, breezy, but firm.

Whoosh! A plane shoots overhead. They come very close here. It’s like they’re getting closer every time. The women look up. You can see their pale, white necks. Janet strokes Tippi’s red hair. She dyes it. Must do with that shade.

Footsteps plod along the hallway. We pause. And give each other that grinning look of recognition.

‘Uh oh. I zink our znext-door neighbour ist home,’ Aid says, his eyes twinkling.

Soon, I’ll tell you about the man who lives next door.

Part Two:

The night. And the day that followed.

20 days till it comes. Night. 10 p.m.

SWM – Cary – Parkway – Brunette – Singular – Pensive – 21 degrees, under cover of night, windy – 5’ 10”.

Cary has his favourite Breton top on. He’s recently got one of those new haircuts. It’s slick on top and shaved at the sides. It’s the haircut that would occur if De Niro from Taxi Driver became the third member of Wham! He probably works in Shoreditch. It’s probably a normal haircut there. He’s finishing the look with a red scarf/neckerchief. Which is bold. I get the feeling he’s been plucking up the courage to do this for a while and surprisingly it looks OK. He’s dancing around a bit, probably to electronic sounds. I wish I could hear what band or DJ. I really wish I could. To get a better idea of it all.

His mates arrive and they do ironic fist pumps. They’re probably going out somewhere actually. ‘Mate 1’ has a Hot Chip T-Shirt on. One of them disappears and then comes back and pinches his nose. Then the other ones disappear and do the same. They start playing on the Wii and it’s competitive. One of them licks his teeth as he flings his controller forward, lets go of it and it smacks into the window. It’s kicking off!

They’re all laughing but Cary doesn’t find it so funny, he probably only part owns this flat as part of that scheme. It’s not as posh as the Waterway flats but it’s nice, same floor plan as ours. He knows the window isn’t broken or cracked but he’s telling them:

‘Dude, careful, these windows cost a fortune.’

Yes, I think that’s what he said. And he’s right, I bet they do. They wouldn’t be cheap to replace. He thinks there’s a mark. There is a mark. He’s got a cloth. Oh, he’s pretty much got it. Oh, I see. It wasn’t a proper mark.

‘How’s Tippi’s table coming along?’ Aiden says, without looking up.

‘Er, not bad, I think. Looked like it was nearly done and drying about an hour ago.’

‘Do you think they sanded it first? I might do something like that.’

He never does anything like that. Not any more. He barely even leaves the house.

‘I’d imagine so, Aid. I imagine they’ve done it with a few tables before, mate.’ Doing my mock-urban-upper-middle-class voice.

‘Oh, I’d imagine so, babe. I imagine they sell them online actually. That’s what I imagine. Babe.’ He loves it when we do this.

‘Oh yup, that’s what I imagine too. It’s probably reclaimed. From some suburban yard, somewhere you wouldn’t have heard of, mate.’

‘Oh yeah, mate. I imagine it’s difficult to tear Tippi and Janet away from the reclamation yard. There’s so much there you can… er… er…’

‘Reclaim, babe?’

‘Well, exactly, mate.’

I’m not sure who we’re making fun of really. Everyone, I suppose. And ourselves.

Oh dear! Oh no. Cary. You poor thing. You poor little hip, upwardly mobile thing, you’re bleeding. Ouch.

No sooner had ‘the lads’ put ‘cloth-gate’ behind them, when catastrophe struck again. I caught it in my sights perfectly. I could see it before they did. Those boys in their high spirits were larking about on their Wii. And Cary was standing way too close to the action. I thought, someone’s going to get hurt here. And bang! He caught a controller right in the face.

He’s bleeding quite a lot. From his top lip. The one with the mohawk is looking for something, maybe ice. While ‘Mate 1’, still clutching the blood-flecked controller, apologises profusely while pacing from foot to foot.

I’d call an ambulance but I don’t think it’s my place to. It might prompt a few questions. Like: ‘Who the hell called this ambulance?’ ‘Dude, is one of us sending messages out into the airwaves without knowing it? By mental telepathy? Or, like, some other discreet human transmission process we’re as yet unaware of?’ And ‘Hey, bloody hell, man, who’s that woman staring at us through her binoculars over there?’

I think an ambulance might be a bit extreme anyway. I’m sure it’ll stop bleeding in a moment. I still wish I could help. I’d go and give it the once-over myself if I was a doctor. But I’m not. No. I’m not a doctor.

‘You’re obsessed,’ Aiden mumbles.

‘No, I’m not. People always say that sort of thing about women. She’s mad, she’s mental, she’s obsessed. You should know better. You write good women.’

‘I think I just write people. Hopefully. But you’re right. Sorry. I won’t say that. It’s stupid.’

‘I’m just interested.’

‘Yes, and you’re good at it. It’s probably from your past as an “avid birdz votcher”. You big old geek.’

‘I was never a birdwatcher.’

‘What? Of course you were. Told me on our first date you were.’

‘I certainly never said that. Let me educate you a bit. Birdwatchers: go to their local park, with standard gauge binoculars and mark down all the little birds they see in the local area. Birders: may go to other countries, recreationally or professionally–’

‘Professionally? Who pays them to do that?’

‘—or wherever, in search of more birds they haven’t seen to add to their Life List. There are around ten thousand varieties of bird, even the most ardent birder is unlikely to see as many as seven thousand in their lifetime. Now, those that go birding: may visit specific hides and spots to see birds for an afternoon and may also keep a book or list of what they see, like the birders do. And lastly, twitchers—’

‘Ah, twitchers!’ He snorts.

‘Twitchers: set their sights on a particular rare bird and travel specifically to find it.’

‘Oh right, and which one are you?’ he says.

‘Well, you couldn’t say I was a twitcher. Which, incidentally, my friend, is so named because one of the most famous rare bird searchers, Howard Medhurst, had a rather nervous disposition, if you must know.’

‘Like you. You have a twitch. Yes, so that’s what you are.’

‘No I don’t. No, I’m not…’

‘See, there it goes. It’s a long blink and your cheek goes a little too!’ he says, grinning again, the cheeky sod. Thinks he’s ruffled me.

‘Really? I… I’ve never even noticed I do that.’

‘Vell, you doo. So zere,’ says my Austrian psychoanalyst. His eyes narrow as he takes on a darker tone. He smiles, half concerned, half like a predator, sizing me up. Then speaks exactingly: ‘So… I suppose ze real qvestion iz… vot are you… searching vor?’

A knock at the door. I’m saved from my interrogation. I answer it. Aiden sits there not even thinking about getting up to answer it. He simply stays there on his arse, like plankton, like he always does.

‘Dr Gullick?’

Aiden suddenly shoots up, excited, shifting himself into a position where he can see me but the woman at the door cannot see him. He is wide eyed and open mouthed. He eyeballs me.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ I say.

‘Could you please help me. It’s an emergency,’ she says.

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ I say, swallowing hard and reaching for my black leather washbag. Here we go.

I told you. I am not a doctor. As you well know. But this does tend to happen from time to time.

19 days till it comes. 11 a.m. Work.

WM – Phil – Desk by the door – Brown hair – Very singular – Open, friendly, maybe too friendly – Air con broken, sweaty, temperature unknown – 5’ 11”.

There’s a tall fern in a plain white porcelain pot in every corner of the room, you know the kind. Blackening bananas litter an enamelware fruit bowl. And people have started to sit on awkward seats that force you into a position somewhere between ‘riding a penny-farthing’ and ‘kneeling while being held at gunpoint’. It’s good for the back they say, but what you gain in posture you must lose in dignity. There’s no place like home. And this really is no place like home. They say that in twenty years’ time everyone will work from home. We’ll communicate with colleagues and clients purely through the net and companies will save millions on the office space. I’m counting the days.

I turn off my phone because it’s been ringing again today. I don’t want it interrupting me now. There was even a voicemail. And we both know who’s calling. Don’t we? But, no. I’m not ready to talk, yet. Take the hint. I spend most of my time at work talking on the phone. To people in far off countries. People I don’t know. And have no desire to. This is how it goes:

‘Could I ask how you found the seating arrangement during the conference?’

‘Was there enough seating in the relaxation areas?’

‘Interesting, what sort of seating would you like to see for the conference next year?’

‘OK. OK. Uh huh. Right. Did you… Ha ha. Oh, of course. Well, I… of course.’

Did you ever hear that rumour about office temperature? That an ancient office law comes into play during summer if your air con is broken? Which is probably more likely to be enacted if your windows don’t open. Apparently they worry in this place that if they did open everyone would spontaneously jump out. Opting for the sweet release of death rather than filling out another spreadsheet.

That rumour. About that law. That states that if someone is officious enough to take an official reading with an approved thermometer. And the mercury inside hits that magic number. You all get to go home on full pay? Yes? You’ve heard that one? Well, apparently, that rumour is complete bollocks. I’m so tired from everything that happened last night. I just want to sleep.

I know that rumour is bollocks. Because Phil, who has the desk by the door, has just attempted to invoke this medieval law. He used a thermometer he oddly happens to have in his drawer. He’s that kind of guy. Then he went to confront our line manager with his findings. He did all this because I asked him to. He’s the only one I speak to. The only guy in the office that seems even vaguely interesting. The only one who shows any sign of a possible personality, now Lena and Rob have moved on to better things.

In a moment of desperation I Skyped him a cry for help. It was a nice moment. It went like this:

Gull1978: Get me out of here.

KentishPhil: Why?

Gull1978: I’m sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. It’s like I’m bathing while I sit here.

KentishPhil: Graphic. You look tired.

Gull1978: Thanks. Couldn’t sleep last night. Again.

KentishPhil: I understand.

Gull1978: Get me out of here. I’m serious!!!!!

KentishPhil: OK. Have a plan.

Then he tried it. He reached for his thermometer. Took a reading. Then very skilfully and with the utmost charm took the findings to Deborah, in a valiant attempt to bust us all out of here. Deborah laughed, said: ‘That isn’t really a thing. I’ve literally never heard of that rule. Sorry to disappoint you all.’

We all laughed it off and secretly seethed. She patted him on the shoulder. And asked him if she can get the Friday report by Thursday.

‘If you were to design a perfect conference for cardiologists, what would it look like?’

‘Well, just, say anything you like.’

‘Really?’

‘Lots more toilets. OK.’

‘Hotel provision closer to conference centre, good.’

‘Free hot dogs? Ok. Ha ha. Very funny. No, you never know.’

‘How about a water slide? No, just joking there.’

‘No, I know that wouldn’t be appropriate.’

‘Yes, I know heart disease is Britain’s biggest killer.’

‘Yes, I do know that.’

‘Sorry.’

From out of the window I see a plane go by that could be headed anywhere. The sky is so blue. The plane cuts through it at tremendous speed. Everyone in it has a comfortable seat and someone is bringing them coffee and a decent enough meal. They are heading to Barbados, or Tenerife, or Ibiza, or Honduras, or Tuscany, or Agadir, or Cephalonia.

I think about that Missing poster again. It flashes into my mind occasionally.

I look down at my trainers. I’ve still got blood on them from last night.

20 days till it comes (Dr Lily Gullick). 11 p.m.

WF – Me, Lily – In an apartment at night – Light brown hair – Married, but utterly singular – In the mirror – Could be a doctor, in another life – 5’ 7”.

To cut a long story short sometimes our Internet goes down. We had to call out a local guy in the end because our provider takes so long to actually send someone to fix it themselves. Our guy says there aren’t quite enough sockets in the building for everyone. So every so often someone’s Internet guy changes around the sockets, pulling one out at random so there is a free socket for whoever is paying them that day.

It’s like there were three in the bed and the little one said roll over, so they all rolled over and one fell out. Maybe that’s not a good analogy. There are twenty-two flats and twenty-one phone ports, so it’s like musical chairs, let’s put it like that. At any one time, someone in the building doesn’t have a phone or Internet connection. And you can’t even get a mobile signal round here because we’re too close to the water, apparently. They can’t get a transmitter close enough or something. So you have to boost your phone signal using an app and your Internet connection. So if you don’t have the net you haven’t really got anything. You’re stranded.

So our guy, nice guy, Dexter, big guy. He has the idea of putting a sticker on our port that reads ‘doctor on call’. He’s done it before he says. It works.

The first time we got a knock on the door was four months ago, 4 a.m.

‘Please, the concierge told me there was a doctor in the building and he gave me the flat number. I’m so sorry to disturb. It’s my husband.’

Aiden was flat out, so I was the fall girl. Dr Gullick. It sounds good, doesn’t it? Trustworthy somehow. You can imagine a Doctor Gullick. I don’t know any of the Dutch side of the family. Maybe there aren’t any anymore. I know it’s a Dutch name but I feel as British as they come. But I’m sure the original Gullicks, the Dutch Gullicks, were good people. Maybe they were doctors. Who knows, maybe something will kick in. It’s not the prettiest name of course. It means ‘small bald man with no beard’. Did you know that? Hardly flattering for a gal. But there we are.

I looked at her as my brain adjusted to being awake. I finally figured out what on earth the woman was talking about. The thoughts connected in a couple of seconds. A concierge must have stuck his head in behind the phone port panel at some point and clocked the sticker. Made a mental note to tell people not to pull that one out at all costs. Which was our plan. This, however, was not.

I considered explaining, imagined her face as I told her about the ruse. Maybe I could tell her it was Dexter’s idea. Lay it all on him. He’s a big guy. He could take it. Maybe she’d see the funny side. But I didn’t do that. I couldn’t take the shame of it. Not that I loved the alternative either. Both were pretty shitty options. It was a less heart-rending but more socially awkward version of Sophie’s Choice. Anyway, somehow I instinctively reached for my leather washbag, which could be generic enough to have my ‘doctor’s equipment’ within it. Nodded. And we left.

I gave her husband the once-over. Sharp abdominal pains had kept him up all night. I put my hands on his bare stomach. What a strange interloper I am. It’s funny where one little lie can take you. His skin felt clammy and warm. I’m not sure what I was feeling for. A rumble. Or a kick. I applied gentle pressure and then dug my fingers in. He groaned. Skin is the kindest of fabrics. It felt like more intimacy than I’d had for a while. He breathed heavier and my breathing changed too. His stomach tensed. He groaned again. It wasn’t arousing or anything. But it was something.

They waited for the verdict. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Just a hiss of air. They leant in. The moment seemed to linger on forever. Words failed me. Stage fright. The three of us exchanging glances. In this abstract ménage à trois. Me, dressing up. Them, waiting. They have no idea. There’s an intruder in their home.

My silence was starting to seem like the harbinger of bad news. The doctor with the test results wields such power. For a moment, I enjoyed the thrill of this. But I had to speak. I finally found the standard NHS Direct response falling from my lips:

‘It’s difficult to make any assumptions without getting an X-ray. It’s your call, if you think this is a 999 emergency then I would pick up the phone now. If you think it can wait till tomorrow, go straight to your GP and wait in line to be seen that day. They’ll usually fit you in at some point in the morning.’ Like a bad actor, I fumbled through it.

Then I went back up to the fourth floor, crawled into bed and went back to sleep.

But now, here was another patient altogether, standing in my doorway with a subtle tremble moving through her lower half. A classic neurotic. Her problem? She couldn’t sleep. Imagine for a second being a real doctor and being woken up for this when you have a double heart surgery the next morning. Or whatever doctors do.

She took me to her room, told me stories of stress. I think there was a rash involved. I don’t know if she was hoping I had a secret pill stash or whether she seriously is ill. Physically or mentally. I wouldn’t know. I’m not an expert. I’m not a doctor.

Either way, she can’t have been so upfront with the concierge. Surely he wouldn’t have revealed my ‘identity’ for that. Or maybe this was a classic palm off.

I made her sit down. Put my hand to her head. Then took her pulse and nodded sagely and improvised.

‘I’m afraid even if I did have something to help you sleep it wouldn’t do any good. I know this isn’t what you want to hear but you need lovely, natural sleep. Just breathe in through your nose for fifteen and out through your mouth for ten. It’s the best medication I can provide. Try it now, in for fifteen. Good. And out for ten.’

As I knelt at her bedside I was reminded of Mum.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ I got a warm feeling when she said this.

‘As for the rash, I can give you something for that.’ I searched in my washbag for a cream I sometimes use for athlete’s foot. I wonder what that’ll do for her. Cure her maybe. Or maybe there’s something in it that’s bad for her. I hope not. But I don’t know. Not a doctor.

I keep my bag low so as not to reveal that rather than a stethoscope and thermometer my ‘doctor’s bag’ contains only tampons and hair clips.

‘You can keep the cream. Now, please, get some rest.’

I head back to bed again, stowing the bag under my arm and trying to seem inconspicuous.

My phone goes and I hit reject straight away. Then there’s a voicemail. Another one. I have a brief listen on the way back to upstairs.

‘If you don’t answer, I’m going to come round there. I will. No matter how far it is. I’m coming. You know what? That’s it. I’m coming—’ I hit Delete.

Then I see a figure in the hallway.

The guy next door: Lowell.

19 days till it comes. 2.30 p.m.

Knock, knock.

Phil knocks on my desk and asks if I want to go for a cigarette. I wake from another daze. I don’t really want to go. But it’s awkward not to. ‘Awkward’ is the predominant word I associate with him. I look at him and imagine it emblazoned across his forehead.

I don’t smoke but he says if I hold one I get a free ten-minute break, so I do that. Outside the sun shines and he talks. Which is nice because it saves me doing the heavy lifting.

‘. . . Until you’re feeling like, hmm, I don’t think I can actually take it any more, because my ribs are hurting. Then the movie gets kind of thoughtful. Then a little weird. Then kind of sad. Which is… you know. Then it gets really funny again and then it ends.’

‘Sorry, what were we talking about?’

‘Adam Sandler’s Click.’

‘Is it good?’

‘Yes, of course it’s good. He can pause and play time. He finds a magic remote control. It’s probably my favourite Sandler film. You like films?’

‘Yes, I do. Never seen one of his films though, to be honest.’

‘You like films, but you’ve never seen an Adam Sandler film? Oh, my God! What…? What’s your favourite film, would you say?’

‘Psycho.’

‘Wow. That’s… I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Is that a black-and-white one?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t tend to watch those ones.’

There’s an awkward pause.

‘Listen, just so you know. We all know.’

A pause.

‘We heard. We know. So, I just wanted to say that,’ he says.

‘You… know?’

‘Yeah. We… we know. And it will get better. I promise.’

We head upstairs again. What do they know? I suppose I haven’t been hiding it well. I want to leave. I have to leave. That must be it. Everyone in this office has been looking at me and they know. I hate my job. And no, Phil, it won’t get any better.

I can’t concentrate on anything. For a moment I think back to Cary and his poor face. I hope he’s all right. He always calls his mother, every night at seven, like clockwork. I’m not a great lip-reader but I’m pretty sure he always signs off with ‘I love you’.

Phil is nice. He’s a good guy. A simple guy. Certainly. But there’s nothing wrong with that. Just looking at him calms me down. He’s like a lava lamp. He’s a bit like Lowell in that way. Ah, Lowell.

I like Lowell. Lowell lives next door. Which brings us back to last night.

Back to Last Night

20 days till it comes. Night. 11.45 p.m.

WM – Lowell – Riverview – Fair, curly – Unusually, in a 2 flock – Dependable – Interior – 6’ 2”

He is American, I think. Actually it might be one of those international school accents, which means he could be from anywhere. Switzerland or Swaziland. Hong Kong or Hawaii. Singapore or Kuwait City. He is balding but has a good head for it. He is subtly well built, muscular. Would seem formidable, imposing, if it wasn’t for his kind face. Which puts everything else into context. It’s worn like a travelling salesman, but soft like a foster parent. He seems bookish but with a superhero jawline. He’s the kind of man that could never be an accountant. But in actual fact I think he is an accountant. But some sort of posh one. For a big charity, I think. He does some work for a local organic bakery too. I don’t know what, but I don’t think he bakes the bread. Management, advice and sums. You’d want him on your University Challenge team. He’s a winner. You’d trust him to hold your baby.

He glides past me in the hallway. It’s nearly midnight. He has casual khakis and a white shirt on. He looks like he should be sanding a boat on a beach somewhere. Barefoot, with a little dog running around his feet. He looks like a ’90s Gap advert, designed specifically to show you that he is a man. A healthy man. He’s with a woman. They’re sensibly dressed. Equally dependable looking. In a gentle, middle of the road way. He is holding her up and she has had more to drink than him. He’s an extreme moderate. Always a couple of G and Ts but not so many that he’s ever out of control. I imagine – we’ve never been out for a drink. He’s never been in our flat and I’ve never been in his. We’re not close. But we’d like to be. Aiden has a man crush on him, I think. He jokes that he once saw him cycling and he swooned. We have friend ambitions on him. He’s always good for a ‘stop and chat’. I’ve never seen him with a girl before. Good for him.

‘Lily. How are you this evening?’

‘Hey, I’m good. You? Up to no good I assume?’

‘Oh yeah, you know how it is. This is Sarah…’

‘Hello,’ she says, perfunctory but warm.

She smiles. Weather girl teeth. I hope she sticks around. Maybe he’s unlucky in love. Or just has exacting standards. Who knows? He’s dependable more than exciting. Maybe that’s it.

‘Well, we’ll love you and leave you. As they say,’ he quips.

‘Do they say that?’

‘Yeah. Yes, I think they do. They do to me anyway.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second. ’Night.’

The funny thing is I do believe that. He has the extraordinary skill of looking just a touch downtrodden even with a perfectly nice woman next to him. Maybe he never makes it to the second date. Maybe once they see the inside of the flat they run a mile. Maybe there’s terrifying taxidermy everywhere. I wonder what it’s like in there. Inside his flat. And inside his head. For that matter.

I was thinking of all these things as I slid into bed. Trying not to let on I’m thinking about another man. I wonder what exactly he’s doing to her next door. I wonder if Aiden would be jealous If he knew that’s what I was thinking about. He’s dead to the world anyway. As I lie there considering Lowell’s possibly poor sexual technique.

These walls are well insulated. But not that well. But still, you never hear anyone cry out in passion. No banging from his side of the wall. Poor Lowell. And poor Suzanne? Sandra? Simone? Cecily? Sally? Samantha? Sophie? Sarah!

That’s the one.

I don’t want to boast, but I’m sure we’ve made our bedposts bang against the partition wall a few times. I’m sure he’s heard us. But you never hear a peep out of him. Not to be crude. But I assume you know how it all works. You know we were trying for a baby after all. Up until recently.

Night. 12.30 a.m.

Midnight is long gone.

One a.m. comes along and goes. I think of Janet and Tippi’s orchid. I think of Cary’s bloody lips. I think of Phil’s lava lamp face. I breathe in for fifteen. And out for ten. Like I used to tell Mum to. But it doesn’t work.

Two o’clock arrives. And I am still in the land of the living.

I think of how many others in this building are staring at their ceilings as I do now. How many are dead asleep? I wonder how many of these rooms are even occupied. It’s tough to keep track of your neighbours in a place like this. No matter how hard you try. It’s hard to make connections. That’s not what everyone wants. Hardly anyone wants that these days. They mostly just want an Internet connection and a funny video of some cats or a horse.

People come and go here. No sooner are they set up than they’re looking to get out. The prices are going up all the time, which somehow translates into impermanence. People are renting for now, but looking to buy. People are buying, but looking to get something better soon. I overhear people talking about Flipping the Place On and Making a Tidy Profit in a Year or Two. I hear them say I Might Buy Another One Off Plan and By the Time That’s Built I’ll Have Flipped That One On Too. People are here for the week but jump in the car to get away for the weekends. People looking for a chance to leave the city for good. Everyone seems to be trying to escape this place, in one way or another. But me. I’m here to stay.

Then there’s the people in far away countries who buy places for their kids to move into some day. Or just have them as an investment. Never bothering with the hassle of renting the place out. So they sit there like empty shells. As if haunted. Sometimes I wonder if they are haunted.

It’s difficult to see back into a building you’re already in. To see what’s going on above. Or below or to the sides. Binoculars don’t work like that. You’d hear the sounds if the rooms weren’t pretty well soundproofed. Sometimes I think I hear crying through the walls. From above or below. Then I think it’s just my imagination. But even crying would at least be something.

So I never know who lives here. I never hear them or feel them. Suddenly around a corner will appear a guy in flip-flops with a trendy full beard and an Antipodean accent. I’ll have never seen him in my life before. I may never do again. Does he really live here? Is he an intruder? Is he a ghost?

Maybe ghosts haunt spaces, rather than rooms. I often think this. What I mean is, even though the four walls around me have only existed for a little over two years, and we’re led to believe your home must be at least twenty years old, preferably fifty, to qualify for a haunting, someone did once live here. In this space. In the old block. The one they tore down so they could build this one instead.

The other one was built in the early fifties. Plenty of time for anything to occur here. What were their lives like? What did they do in here? In this space where I’m lying. Were there births? Deaths? Sex and arguments? In this space. Are these things the ghosts?

This morning, on the way to work, I stopped and watched the wrecking ball bash open a building, like paper. Brutal, efficient. You could see the insides of two or three homes in a row next to each other. One was painted dark blue, its walls now facing the open, its chest to the wind. Their flat became one big balcony.

The people inside never considered it would turn out this way. No ceiling or exterior wall. Only a tiny ledge of floor left at the back.

The next one was wallpapered. Probably in the seventies by the looks of it. Browns and beiges. The light switches were still there. I noticed. But I knew by the next hit they wouldn’t be. They fell forty-five feet to the ground and were swept efficiently into a skip.

The third flat was a garish pink. Like the inside of a body. Light colours, to make the most of the meagre space.

The three homes sat there. Blown open. For me to see the remnants and adornments of the lives that used to live inside. Like a cross-section or a doll’s house. It’s a ten-minute glance, just for any lucky bystander that happens to be there at the time. By the eleventh minute, the three will be completely destroyed in two firm swings of the forged steel ball.

On the wall of the pink flat was a crucifix. It glinted in the light. Visible to the naked eye. I watched the metal sphere hit it. I watched it drop, along with the concrete, dust and wires. And, without stopping for a second to consider what they had destroyed, the machines swept past and gathered everything up. Next, it went into the skip. Then into a lorry. Then the landfill.

Yes. Without a thought. The little cross. The residents prayed to. Would be buried beneath tons of nameless rubble and debris.

As I lie here, thinking these night-time thoughts, I wonder how many people are thinking the same things, at this very same time. Awake. Somewhere in another part of London. What if we could find each other and connect. Just as I’m thinking these things I notice something in the top right corner of my window. A single light still on. In a flat in Canada House. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s number forty-one. Jean’s flat.

I pull on an old jumper and some trainers. Carefully, so I don’t rouse him from wherever he is. From his slumber and dreams. I can’t tell him where I’m going. He’d say I was ‘mental’ again and it’d just make me angry. Really angry. Then I really won’t be able to sleep. I grab my keys. My phone, just in case. And leave.

I’ve never been through the estate before. Just before I close the door I grab a handmade flick knife. Aiden bought it for me on our honeymoon, in Buenos Aires. I shove it in my black washbag. Just in case.

I’m walking through the estate at night. It’s warm out here tonight. One of those warm restless nights. But I’m surprised to see no other lights on in any of the apartments. Or the estate. No other night owls in Canada House. Just number forty-one.

I skulk around, staring at the building. Many of the other flats are boarded up. Metal slats applied firmly to windows to keep things out. The weather, squatters, animals. The left side of the building is almost completely empty. Its guts hanging out for everyone to see. Glassless windows, dusty exposed brick, graffiti. There was a rumour that these houses once doubled for Warsaw in Schindler’s List and, looking at them, I can believe it.

A yellow ADVANCED WARNING NOTICE tells us that the demolition of Alaska House, the largest of the blocks and the next one to go, will begin on 29 September. One of the roads behind it will be closed off for a while. This is their biggest job yet. Their masterpiece. Until then we have a few weeks’ silence and grace. Before the rumble starts again. I pass the Missing poster too. It flaps away gently in the wind.

Jean lives on the right side of the building. The occupied side. Still waiting to be rehoused. There’s definitely an eerie feeling round here. The place is too empty. Or maybe not empty enough somehow. I can’t decide which yet. But as I’m thinking this I hear something and stop to listen. My thoughts drift away, I stand there listening. I could be imagining it. But I think it’s the sound of someone breathing.

I turn and brace myself. Nothing. I keep my senses open. Searching for whatever is telling me everything’s not quite right. Then I hear the sound of shoes scraping across gravel. Shit. I turn again to face it. Nothing. Perhaps the echo of my own feet. Rebounding off the concrete buildings that surround me.

The steps to her place are only twenty metres away, but I decide to break into a jog. My heart is beating hard, it’s gothic out here. The street lights are out. Either turned off by the council or smashed out by someone more sinister. This is stupid. I’ve never done anything like this before. What is it I’m looking for? No time to think. Come on. Move your feet.

I get to the stairwell, breathing hard now. Cars intermittently light me up as they fly past thirty or so metres away. By their passing beams, I put one hand against the wall and tread carefully up the flight of concrete stairs that leads to her floor. I can’t see the hand in front of my face when the car headlights drift away. I tread carefully. No light for five seconds, fifteen seconds. Nearly there.

I hear a distant engine that should soon light my way. Then something wet underfoot. I squelch in it. I try not to look down. The car approaches, I don’t want to look back now. This is Jean’s route home. Every night. Jesus. The flash of light comes. Blood on the ground. I look back.

Dead. Covered in hair. I put my hand to my throat and then mouth and only just manage to avoid screaming, knowing that would echo loud and long into the distance. I rumble and shake on the inside. It’s a huge rat. Ripped open. Over thirty centimetres long. Dead. I gag a little. Disgusted but sighing in partial relief – it could be worse. I get to the top of the stairs.

I turn forward again. Then hear the sound of something fly past my head. Bats. There are a lot of them round here as we’re near the water. They’re cute in a way. Then a metal pipe swings past my ear and I dive to the side. I hear the sound of the air as it narrowly misses me. I reach inside my bag instinctively and grip the knife. A blood-curdling scream. A car passes, lighting the pipe again, clearly held in a gloved hand. It’s like a nightmare. But I am definitely awake.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you!’

I breathe deep, gasping from somewhere deep within my lungs as I ready myself to attack. The one advantage of the dark is that my attacker can’t see me either. I stay quiet, jumping back out to face them head on. My fist tightens as I flick open the knife, keeping it concealed within the bag until the last moment. I breathe in once more.

‘You fucking—’

As the car comes past I stare at her face to face. Both our hearts pumping fast. The cold, damp night air filling our nostrils. Jean holds a pipe above her head. She’s a biggish woman. I would say it would crack my skull right open. If she uses her full force. I hope she doesn’t, but then maybe that’s what intruders get.

‘You stupid cow. What are you doing?’ she says, letting the pipe fall to her side.

I can barely get the words out. I hold up my hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t… er… hurt me.’

She looks at me and recognition flickers across her face. A frown.

‘Get inside. We should get inside. Now.’

Night. 3 a.m.

WF – Jean – Canada House – Grey perm – Alone – Wary. Tough. Gives as good as she gets – A warm evening, with European breeze, Pitch-black night – 5’ 6”.

‘People like you shouldn’t be hanging around here in the dark. You stupid girl,’ she says, suddenly becoming a Mother Superior.

‘People like me?’

‘Beehives. That’s what they call you. Bloody beehives. After that posh pub – the Beehive – they opened that all you yuppies go to. I knew when that arrived it was the beginning of the end for us.’

‘I’m not. I’m not a… yuppy. That’s not who I am.’

‘Well, whoever you are, they can spot you a mile off. You’re a different species. And you’ll be an endangered one if you hang around here at night. You lot need to stick to your side. They don’t much like me. So they certainly won’t like you. And if they don’t like you, you know about it.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The kids. The ones they couldn’t find places for. They’re still here. They broke back into their own homes, some of them. Mostly in the Alaska House. Sleeping on newspapers. Making their way any way they can.’

‘But I thought everyone had new places to live?’ I say quietly. Guiltily.

‘Yes. And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. They got us out all right, with promises of bigger flats “just that little further out”. The ones that stayed, our places are falling down and no one is coming out to fix anything no matter how much I ring up the council and threaten them. The others ended up in places like Ipswich. I mean, where’s Ipswich? It’s not my home. But some came back and stayed anyway, hiding in the building. ‘Cos their lives are still here. Their jobs are still here. Whatever they consist of. I’m not saying they’re criminals. Least, they weren’t before. But once things start to slip. Once you break the first couple of rules, the rest don’t seem so hard to break either. Every morning I wake up and someone has pissed opposite my door. Every morning I clear it up. I see everything round here. And I’ve seen some things. Drugs and drink is just the start of it. I’ve seen blood on the pavement. And I’ve seen it shed in front of my eyes too. But no one cares about the things that people like me see. Don’t hang around here, you silly cow. Get back to your end. And lock the door when you’re there.’

You couldn’t call her kindly. She probably once was, but her manner had been hardened by the last couple of years. She looks ten years older than the photo in the paper. Her hair wasn’t so grey then. But inside, the place is still a home. Pictures of children and grandchildren smile out at you from behind floral frames.

‘They’re in Portugal now. They only call once a month, at most. I should’ve joined them. Bloody freezing this country.’

She’s right, it is cold in here. I’m not sure how, outside is quite warm, summertime spreading smoothly through every other corner of London. Jean’s place has its own Arctic microclimate. Like the cold has soaked into the walls. She explains the price of fuel has gone up and her state pension doesn’t allow her to be reckless, even with heating. Everything has to be thought out. Everything perfectly stacked. Enough tinned food for a nuclear holocaust. And, along with the metal pipe that sits next to the door, a cricket bat and an old fire poker are there for self-preservation.

For a moment, my eyes linger on a statue that sits on her kitchen sideboard. A cream-coloured monkey, sitting on a rock. Serenely smiling out at me. His ears are a curious shade of lime green. His belly is brown. And, on his head, the monkey balances a bowl. Which Jean uses for spare change.

Below the bowl, the monkey’s hands cover his eyes.

A noise from the other room. I stand and grip my bag again, placing myself in front of Jean, ready to do who knows what.

‘Ha ha, that’s just Terrence,’ she says. Now highly amused. Her King Charles spaniel puppy bounds into the room. She reaches for a treat and strokes his head. He comes to greet me too. I was never good with dogs, but luckily Terrence is good with me. Jean seems brighter suddenly with Terrence around. Younger. She is a different person all of a sudden. You can see what she would’ve been like with a family around her.

‘I was up late. I saw your light on. I know it’s strange, but I just wanted to say… I read the article, and I would never cross the road to avoid you. I’m sorry all this has happened to your home. I like it round here. But I’m sorry me being here means that… means that you’re being forced to leave. I think that’s awful. Terrible. And, in some way, I feel responsible. I’m sorry. For that.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about us, love. We’re already sunk. We’re just waiting till we hit the bottom. And there’s nothing anyone can ever do about that.’

I am embarrassed to say it, but I want to come again. To help with things. If there is anything she needs help with. She doesn’t look happy about it but she doesn’t say I can’t either. I punch my number into her phone and promise her again that I won’t walk through the estate after dark. It’s a promise I plan to keep.

I decline her offer to borrow one of her makeshift weapons, saying I’d run back and be safe. Not revealing I have a knife with me. Or that I had been a few seconds away from plunging it into her side when we first met. I chance a hug. She doesn’t move for a second. But I hold on. Her body, at first rigid, softens. There we stand, two people who can’t sleep, holding each other up. Gradually, her arms come up and curl around me. I haven’t hugged anyone like this since Mum. As this thought passes through my mind, I squeeze harder and she does too. Her daughter was a long time gone. Something distinct passes between us. A noiseless whisper. Or a secret. Then I feel and hear her breathe, as some held emotion drifts up from her chest and then out and away. We all need a hug. She touches my shoulder and then ends the clinch abruptly, almost with a push. But, when I look up, I see a grudging acknowledgement in her watery blue eyes. I nod, both of us avoiding full eye contact as my feet scuff her floor and I turn and put my hand on the door handle.

I turn back for a second because I think I hear her say something. But I don’t think she did. This, however, gives me a chance to smile at her properly and she gives one back like she’s out of practice. I stroke Terrence, open the door and hear it close and lock behind me as I hustle off quickly down the concrete stairs. The stench of piss fills the air.

I run, while trying desperately not to look like I’m doing so. I can see my flat and imagine being safe in bed with Aiden any second. I look around me, even more self-conscious on the return journey than I had been on my trip over here. I am ready for someone up to no good. Ready to give as good as I get if anyone tries anything. I try to stay inconspicuous but my own breath seems deafening in my ears, echoing hard around the estate, making me a target. It’s hard not to feel paranoid when someone has just told you to watch out. Then, from the corner of my eye, on the fourth floor of Alaska House, I see a metal slat pull open. A car speeds past, beeping its horn wildly in the distance, and its headlights illuminate the outline of a face. Startled by the starkness of the noise and silhouette in front of me, my breath falls away. I feel like I’m winded. As I stagger back to catch it and breathe deep, I look closer. A pair of eyes glisten in the window. I look straight into them. As they look back, accusingly. Then I turn and run.

19 days till it comes. 5.32 p.m.

I head out of work and hurry to the Tube. Marching towards home and to my bed. Every day at work is exactly the same. I don’t know if I can take much more. I just have to zone out and let it happen to me, I suppose. Sorry. I’m falling asleep even now. I need to sleep.

‘Is that blood on your shoes?’ A shout comes from behind me.

It’s Phil. A bit indiscreet. What if I was a serial killer? He would’ve just blown my cover. I give him a look. How does he know I’m not one? He could be getting himself into a lot of trouble.

‘Sorry. I sort of blurted that out, didn’t I?’ he bumbles.

‘Yeah, you did,’ I say coldly. I’m tired.

‘Whose blood is it?’

‘Not mine.’

‘OK.’

‘All right?’

‘You make me pretty nervous.’

I’m walking hard and he’s struggling to keep up. I’m not slowing down though. If he wants to talk so much he’ll keep up. I’ve got to get back and have a chat with Aiden. I’m worried about him. He’s deep into his book. He barely leaves the house. I said I’d support him while he wrote it, so I’m the one paying the rent. I’m the one paying for the food deliveries too. He’s done the same for me in the past, but this is different. He’s a shut-in. He doesn’t go out on his motorbike or anything any more. He never talks about our possible baby. He just sits by the window tapping away at his laptop. Morning, noon and night. He’s really letting himself go.

‘I know this isn’t perfect timing but I wondered whether you fancied a drink some time?’

‘What? What kind of drink?’ I say, as if the word ‘drink’ seems somehow alien to me.

‘You don’t have to decide that now. You can have anything up to the value of six pounds. Which will get you most things these days. Well… in Yates. Not other places. But we could go other places.’

‘You know I’m married right?’ I stop for the first time and look him in the eye.

He looks back at me. I’m not sure I like how he looks at me. He’s very keen.

‘Er… yes, of course,’ he says, falteringly. He stops altogether for a second.

Then tries again. ‘I mean as friends. Just for a chat. Just to pass the time.’

‘Oh, a friendship drink. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

‘I am.’

I’m through the barrier and he knows he gets a different line to me so he’s talking very fast.

‘But if you need to let off steam any time. After work. Someone to talk to…’

‘I’ll think about it. Thanks.’ I’m civil as I head off in the other direction. He’s nice. I’m tired.

‘Not that you need anyone to… Wait!’

That does stop me in my tracks. That was loud. A few people make faces as they pass by me and head down to the elevator. He’s making a scene. I make a face that says, Go on then. What?

‘I’ve seen you. I watch you. When we’re at work.’

Oh, God. He’s either searching for a romcom moment or he’s about to throttle me. People flow past me and onto the escalator and down to the Underground. And I have to stay there. In his awkward tractor beam. Until he’s finished.

‘OK, Phil. See you tomorrow.’

He stares at me. Meaningfully. But I’m not entirely sure what the meaning is.

‘I just like you, that’s all,’ he murmurs. It would be cute if it wasn’t so awful.

Romance is a curse. The amount of unwanted gestures that get foisted on women in this city is incredible. All those sensitive London blokes that think they’re in a kooky movie. Someone should tell them, Real life isn’t like that, love. Supposed ‘romance’ has become an excuse for men to do what they want. To shout across crowded rooms. To talk in stupid voices. And, worst of all, learn to play the ukulele. Today’s version of ‘romance’ is just another thing women have to withstand.

I point at him, make a gun sign with my fingers and fire. Pow, pow. Then I step onto the escalator.

‘See you tomorrow then, Li…’

I’m halfway to the Victoria Line as his voice fades away in the crowd.

I wonder what he wants with me. Maybe he doesn’t even know, at this stage.

At home, I collapse into bed. Kick off my trainers and turn my head to Aiden. He barely even looks up. Just taps away, his back leaning against the window. Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ I’m not sure who he’s become. I barely recognise him. I breathe out heavily. My head falls back onto my pillow. Last night has given me such strange thoughts.

I don’t know what it is about last night. But it’s bringing things back to me. Some unresolved things. Again, I know you’re not a therapist.

But if I do let you see me again. If I let you. If you do pay us a visit. If you really must cross the Channel and come and see us. If you can manage that trip over on the ferry. And everything else.

You’ve got to promise not to say those words. You will promise me that. You have to. Or you’re not coming anywhere near me. No matter how much you say you can help.

I know you think I’m overreacting. But please. Don’t say them.

Those words I’ll never forget.

Don’t say: This is how it started with her too.

Part Three:

The Woman in Canada House

18 days till it comes. 10 a.m.

I slept for fourteen hours straight. I look at my phone and, luckily, it’s Saturday. I had no idea. The days seem to merge into one. Aiden must be in the bathroom. He’s not making much noise in there. Maybe he’s in the bath. Stagnant. Like a soup. Still tapping away at his laptop all the while.

‘You OK in there?’

No response. I slept too long. My head hurts and my brain is heavy. My limbs feel like they’re carrying weights. I pull on some jeans and a shirt. I hate the feeling of putting on clothes when I haven’t showered. I hoist up the blinds and let the light flow in. It’s so bright. My eyes struggle to focus and then a crowd come into view. In the top right hand of my window. In front of Canada House.

‘Just going out for a second, you need anything?’

No response. I still need to talk to him about his behaviour recently. Who am I to talk? I know. But, still.

I squeeze my trainers on and head into the hallway and then the lift. Using it for a few flights of stairs always seems pointless but I want to check I don’t look too mad in the mirror. I tie my hair back, spray under my arms and throw my black bag into my rucksack. I guess I’m using it more in the way that Superman uses his telephone box. I tap my fingers against the metal rail as I wait for the door to slide open. When it does, I hurry to the glass doors, push the green release button to let me out of the building and the fresh air hits me, making me feel a bit sick.

I squint in the bright daylight. The crowd gets thicker as more bodies join it. I could call Jean and ask her what it’s all about rather than join the rubberneckers but I only think of that when I’m virtually there. On second thoughts, I don’t even have her number, I only gave her mine. There are faces I know from the newbuilds milling around, people from the council side too. It’s a real community get together. But, God knows what it’s all in aid of.

Then I feel it. There it is. That chilly feeling is here. The one that goes through the flesh and into the bones. The sort that makes animals stampede. The ‘we need to talk’ text. The Unavailable number that calls and asks for you by name and beckons you to ‘sit down’ because ‘we have some news that might be difficult to hear’. Cary is eating a Cornish pasty at the edge of the group. Perhaps someone has erected a snack stand. He gets up on tiptoes to try to get a better look but doesn’t want to venture in any further. I’d say hello but that would be odd. He’s never met me.

I walk past the Missing poster and glance at the blurred picture of a young woman’s face on it. It says she was a local student. The number of the local police sits underneath her photograph. I wonder where she went. I wonder when she went. I feel like this poster has always been there. Much like a flyer for a gym or cheap long-distance calls, I always imagine these things are not meant for me.

I push through the bodies. They seem to be crowded around an open door. It’s a weird sight. They stand in neat rows like a perfect audience for a Covent Garden street magician. But they’re being held back by an invisible force that allows them only so close. Some police tape that exists only in their imagination. Because the police are nowhere to be seen. Maybe no one has thought to call them yet. Maybe no one wants to, far better to keep that level of danger in the air, like a theory dangling, unanswered. It’s more thrilling that way. Or maybe it’s just not that serious. I’ll join the throng and find out. I like to sit and watch as much as the next man.

My breath gets shorter though as I get closer and see they’re standing, looking up at the open first floor door to number forty-one. Further up the stairs, directly outside her door, more people stand, gawping and ruining the view for those on the ground. Too many bodies in the way. They’re stock still, staring at what I can’t see. They part suddenly and a young boy shouts as something flies past everyone at knee level. It’s Terrence. I feel like he’s an old friend even though we only met a few hours ago. The night before last. When I was here.

Terrence barks wildly. Spooked or just seeing an opportunity to play. He finds me and comes to say hello. I stroke his head and peer past the faces and into the flat. Then I see her. There, face down in the middle of her kitchen, surrounded by her family pictures and an overturned dog bowl, Jean. It’s strange how stupid people are in crowds. How insensitive to the moment. The import of the situation ripples through their bodies but their brains struggle with ‘what’s appropriate’ and the result is an open-mouthed gawp. Some hold phones, unsure whether to use them. A bloke in shades scratches his arse. They are all overcome by this unusual Saturday morning drama and have no way of coping with it.

A man is venturing into Jean’s flat, watched by the crowd. He heroically shrugs, looking down every so often, afraid to touch her in case he gets whatever she’s got, then wanders out again. Women mumble. Men rub the back of their necks and scrunch their faces. There are boys in hooded tops here too. A bearded man in his pyjamas, with a French bulldog, who definitely lives on our side. Even the nervous woman is here, who I taught to count to fifteen. She sees me and reacts, eyeing me, excitedly. Instinctively, I turn to leave.

‘Doctor! Let this woman through. She’s a doctor!’ she bellows.

Oh, God. They perk up now. Their indecision has a leader. I turn, hold up a hand, as if to say, Yes, it is I, your saviour. Someone even starts to clap, but it doesn’t catch on. I am jostled up the concrete stairs and inside number forty-one. Despite ardent promises to myself that I would come clean, that I wouldn’t let this happen again, it’s happening again. I suppose this isn’t the ideal moment to mention to everyone that I’m not actually a doctor. That it all came from a misunderstanding with my phone and Internet cable. Public declarations are for Richard Curtis films. And I’m not good in front of crowds. I’m the kind of girl that would rather skulk around in the wings.

They all have their eyes trained on me. I want to get out of this as quickly as possible, but it’s difficult not to take a look around while I’m here. It’s very much as I left it. The cupboard, half open, shows her array of tin cans still tightly packed. I crouch down, sensing I’ve spent a moment too long surveying the place, rather than tending to the matter in hand. I must get back to playing Dr Gullick. Dr Gullick, who has certainly never been in this flat before and isn’t wondering what exactly happened here in between the time she left and now. Dr Gullick, who heals the sick. I crouch down to tend to her, without any idea what Dr Gullick will do next, but I have to do something, to please the assembled masses. After all, she may still be alive. But then, people who are alive aren’t usually blue.

I take her pulse with two fingers, pushing my hand between her chin and the floor to get to her throat. She’s cold. I’ve never felt anyone so cold. But then I’ve never felt a dead body before. I put the back of my hand in front of her nostrils, doing my best work from what I’ve gathered from old episodes of ER. No breath. I imagine her sitting up, gasping as the crowd reels, someone screaming at the back. She tells me to ‘get off, ya silly cow’, picks up a wooden spoon and throws some beans into a pan, muttering to herself all the while. But she doesn’t do that.

I take a leap of faith and open her eyelids. I don’t know why. Getting into it? Curiosity? It’s so intimate. My middle finger and thumb pulling apart the tissue paper eyelids of this formidable woman. I try desperately to hold back my gasp as I stare into her, the pupil dominating her eye. Doctors tend not to squeal. It doesn’t engender much trust.

Her eyes were so alive, so fidgety last time I saw them. I look into the pupil now and I’m struck by the emptiness of it all. How quickly we can all become ‘the body’. Where has the rest of Her gone? I’m struggling to come to terms with something. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Never been confronted so directly by what used to be an idea, death and nothing. No literature, television drama or gossip can prepare you for its glare. It’s so mundane. It’s a familiar tune. Hummed many times before, which will be hummed many more. And it chills me how quickly I can shrug it off, take the torch from my keys out of my pocket, shine a light in this whale’s eye and play out the final part of the artificial inspection. At the last, somewhere between the role and myself, I touch her hand and hold it for a second.

I turn to the crowd who proclaimed me their leader and shake my head. Some sympathetic groans. A couple shuffle away at the back shaking their heads. It’s as if they’ve just found out the bloke who comes to clean the windows isn’t coming this week. Even death itself seems an anticlimax I suppose, especially if it’s not happening to you. Or if you weren’t staring into the face of it.

‘Can someone call an ambulance, please?’ I shout to them all.

‘Isn’t she dead?’ a voice comes back.

‘Yes. I believe she is, but either way an ambulance will have to come and take her away.’

‘Why? If she’s dead, she’s dead,’ the voice comes back.

‘Because we can’t just throw her in a skip and be done with it.’

It comes out before I can stop it. I’m angrier than I thought I was.

‘She has to be pronounced officially dead. They’ll take away her body to be examined.’

‘Oh. You don’t think there’s… er… foul play, do you?’ replies another voice. With a tone that suggests the speaker thinks he’s in an episode of Diagnosis Murder. Rather than reality.

How detached we all are. Safe in our tiny dwellings. Hidden from the natural world, our windows and TV screens soft lenses that beautify. I feel like I’m the only one that really feels sometimes. If that’s not too narcissistic a sentiment.

‘No. I don’t think it’s… “foul play”. Personally. But that’s not up to me to decide.’ Just a dash sardonic. Classic Dr Gullick.

In reality, I can’t say whether there has been ‘foul play’ or not. It looks to me like a woman dropped stone dead and gave herself an almighty whack when she hit the ground. But maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to look. Because, maybe, someone gave her an almighty whack first, and then lay her on the ground to make it look like the injury was caused by the fall. She’s certainly gone down hard.

I could be more sure about my assumption. If I turned her over. But I don’t want to do that. I’d be scared to move her. I don’t want to ‘contaminate the scene’. Plus, I probably shouldn’t leave any more of my fingerprints in this place than there already are.

So I can’t be sure exactly what caused that blow. But then, you see, I’m not a doctor.

As someone volunteers to dial 999, I take one last look at her. A young woman dials as she holds her boyfriend’s hand. I think they live further down on the estate. I’m sure I’ve seen them before. I scan the other faces in the crowd too, just to check.

Before I go I have a last look around the place. I poke my head around the corner to see the living room more fully than I did the night before last. Then, coming back to the kitchen, I see a strange thing. The black metal poker she kept by the door. Is gone.

Her other weapons. The cricket bat and pipe sit by in their usual place for safe keeping. But not the poker.

Perhaps she needed it for something. I wonder where it is now. It wasn’t the sort of thing she’d ever be without. It was for her own protection. Jean was all too aware of the sorts of people that hang around here at night and what they’re capable of. I wonder if anything else is missing.

I play a quick game of spot the difference. The room the night before last. Versus the room today. I spy something else. With my little eye.

The porcelain figurine. The monkey. No longer smiles at me from the sideboard. She could’ve moved it, or broken it, after I left, I suppose. But by the look of the dust around it, I’d say it’d sat right there since about 1982. I don’t know why she’d choose last night to finally throw the thing away.

Someone’s been moving things around. And I’m the only one that would know it.

‘Well, there goes another one,’ a passer-by drops, a touch macabre. And anyway, who was ‘the one’ before this one? The student from the poster? I make a mental note to look into that. I wonder what her story is. I guess I’m developing a far keener sense of civic duty than I’ve ever had before. I’ve grown a conscience. I’ve grown curious.

There’s not so much care on display on the estate this morning. As if her death held a lower price for everyone else than it did for me. An old lady dies. So what? After the interest of it, everyone just goes home and sticks the TV on.

‘I’ve seen blood shed in front of me,’ she said the night before last.

‘But no one cares about the things I see,’ she said. And that’s how it feels this morning. Like this is just going to be it. Her relatives in Portugal will be informed, appropriate tears will be shed for Grandma, as her bones hit the trough a thousand miles away, her insurance barely covering an empty ceremony, as in a distant room the relevant form is signed, and only I will care that someone may well have bumped her off. My only question is, why anyone would want to do that?

I walk away, slotting my black bag into my rucksack as I go. Relieved no one has got the chance to see inside it and catch me for the fraud I am. I’m going to have to stop doing that. Or invest in a stethoscope. I take out my phone to see if Aiden is worried about me. But there’s nothing from him. I see one missed call from a number I don’t recognise. I don’t usually answer calls from numbers I don’t recognise. But then I don’t usually call them back either. Which is what I’m doing now. I’m doing a lot of things that don’t make me feel myself lately. I turn as I call because it’s ringing. I don’t hear it through my phone, it seems to be coming from the direction of the crowd.

Christ. It’s coming from inside number forty-one and now the assembled mass hear it too. Late drama shoots through them and a man in shorts is heading back into her flat. He picks up the phone from her sideboard, shrugs and puts it back where he found it, as I make my way out of there. I put up my hood and head quickly back to my place, undetected.

I look at my missed calls and find she had tried to call me at five-thirty this morning. And, all of a sudden, I’m thinking a lot more seriously about that missing poker and figurine.

16 days till it comes. The Ivory-billed Woodpecker.

Unknown – Unknown – The Neighbourhood – Unknown – Unknown – Killer – 15 degrees, clement – Unknown.

‘Caroo! Caroo!’ I call, as I stand on the balcony with my binoculars.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Aid shouts from the other room.

He’s perked up a bit recently. I had a good chat with him last night. Finally. But not about him. About me. And my things. My supposed issues. Don’t you find that sometimes happens? You mean to talk about the problem with them and it somehow ends up coming around to some problem with you. It was like that.

It was mainly about what happened the night I went to Jean’s flat. Yep. I came clean. About Jean, about the face that watched me, and everything after, including the phone call. He was pretty good about it really. Once I’d looked him in the eye, stroked his face and promised never to do anything that dangerous again. I told him of my best intentions and played the episode down.

I told him everything I saw over there. Then we discussed what we should do next – which, we concluded mutually, was pretty much nothing. Because behind his stories of adventure, which people seem to lap up, Aid is really a pretty straight guy. I cringed at his fears. His lack of adventure. He’s such a theorist. The most daring he got was to discuss calling the police, telling them all I know and leaving it at that.

I didn’t tell him I’ve already done that. I didn’t tell him I went to the police station straight away, to call it in, to tell them what I knew. I didn’t tell him they stared at me, like he does sometimes. I didn’t tell him they exchanged glances that clearly said, This one’s a bit odd.

I thought I heard a snigger after I mentioned the porcelain monkey. I had to repeat it. ‘Porcelain monkey,’ I said. And the main one in the brown suit smiled gently and asked how I knew all this. I said I’d been there and seen it. A while ago. And the poker.

I didn’t tell them it was the night before the night she died. I didn’t tell them about playing doctor. Of course I didn’t. But I said I’d been there. I put myself at risk by doing that. But I thought it should be said. I thought they’d want to know. But the one in the brown suit just stared at me and asked me about ‘when I was here before’. I said I’d never been here before. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a police station before. Never, in my life. I said he must be thinking of someone else.

I’m sure I saw one of them mouth, She’s fucking mental. Can you believe that? I’m sure I saw him do that. Hardly professional, is it? So I stared at him. I stared him down.

I know my porcelain monkey isn’t exactly a pile of bloody clothes or a smoking gun. But it is something, to me. They don’t know their arse from their elbow over there. It was a disgrace.

But I didn’t tell Aiden any of this. None of it. I didn’t tell him they virtually told me to sod off.

So having sat there, listening to Aid’s sensible words and telling him I’d put all this behind me and think nothing more of it, we hugged each other close and I felt properly loved for the first time in a long time. Then I got down to business and started planning what I was actually going to do.

‘I’m pishing!’ I shout back. Which you already know, of course.

‘You’re pishing off the neighbours, that’s for sure.’

‘Aiden, have you any idea how often that joke is made in birding circles?’ I don’t, we never moved in birding circles, but the answer’s ‘a lot’ I’d imagine.

‘It’s quite annoying,’ he said. Delicately so as not to crack the porcelain of our glued-together relationship.

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