The Watcher: A dark addictive thriller with the ultimate psychological twist. Ross Armstrong

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