Watching You: A Novel

Freddie scooted on his office chair from the window to his bedroom door.

‘Dad!’ he called down the stairs. ‘Dad! That woman! Jenna’s mum! She just got arrested!’

His father’s voice rose up the staircase. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘That woman! The stalker woman! Mrs Tripp or whatever. She just got taken out of the Melville by two uniformed policemen.’

He heard his father slowly taking the stairs and his face appeared between the banisters. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I am entirely sure. She was talking to two people outside, and I could tell she was getting agitated and I could see they were trying to get away from her and then she followed them into the bar. Ten, fifteen minutes later there were blue lights and the cops got out and then the daughter turned up and five minutes later the daughter and the mum were being escorted off the premises.’

‘Into a car?’

‘No,’ said Freddie, mentally downgrading the excitement factor. ‘No. I think they walked them home.’

‘God,’ said Dad. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Why don’t you go down there? To the bar?’ Freddie suggested. ‘Ask what happened? You’re all pally-pally with them in there, aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Dad. ‘I guess I could. I suppose so.’ He narrowed his eyes at Freddie. ‘Want to come with? I can get you a Coke and a bowl of scratchings?’

Freddie nodded. In one way he didn’t want to go anywhere at all. It was warm in here. It was dark and cold out there. But he never went anywhere on his own with his dad. Normally his dad wouldn’t even be here now. Normally he’d still be at school. Often he didn’t get home till gone ten o’clock but he’d been home early tonight because he’d been at a meeting at the LEA all day. He’d appeared while Freddie was eating his supper, full of bonhomie and joy, ruffled his hair, called him his fine boy, made them both Nutella on toast for afters, exclaimed about the smartness of the newly painted hallway, poured himself a generous glass of red wine, put his arm around Mum and just been generally jolly and like the sort of dad you wished got home from work at six o’clock every night.

And now he was offering Freddie Coke and scratchings and a chance to find out first-hand what on earth was going on with Jenna and her mum. He grabbed his shoes from where he’d thrown them and pulled them on.

Freddie loved the Melville. They came here sometimes for Sunday lunch. Once they’d brought Grandma here for afternoon tea in the little lounge area behind the reception desk. They’d been given tiny cakes with gems and rose petals and fluffed-up cream fillings. They’d had a teapot each with an antique strainer and a bowl of sugar lumps. The fire had been lit and there’d been low-level jazzy stuff playing in the background and Freddie had thought that somehow he’d jumped straight into a really nice dream.

His dad held the door to the bar open and suddenly there was the flutter and excitement of grown-ups discoursing, the dense smell of beer and scented candles, the theatre of muted wall lights and towering vases of tropical flowers.

His dad went straight to the bar and ordered Freddie a Coke and himself a pint of something local and spumy.

‘Saw some blue lights here earlier,’ his dad said to the very young man tending the bar. ‘Hope there hasn’t been any trouble?’

The boy – he didn’t look much older than Freddie – said, ‘Not really. Just a woman. With some issues. She was giving that couple over there a hard time. We asked her to leave. She wouldn’t.’ He shrugged, flipped the beer tap upwards and let the last few drops hit the frothy head.

‘God,’ said Dad. ‘And you had to call the police?’

‘She just refused to go. It was creating a disturbance. Rob tried to ask her nicely. Made her even madder. You know.’

‘And a bowl of scratchings please,’ his dad asked, pulling out his wallet.

The boy nodded and put the beer and the Coke on the bar top.

‘And what was she shouting about, this woman?’

‘I dunno. It was all this weird stuff about powerful people and being controlled. You know. She was telling them that they shouldn’t believe things they read in the papers, conspiracy theories, all that. Just, you know, like, mad stuff.’

‘Probably unkind to use the word mad, you know, Luke,’ his dad chastised gently, being Saint Tom Fitzwilliam, as usual. ‘Shall we say, maybe, troubled?’

As he said this, the male half of the couple from the other side of the bar approached Freddie’s dad and said, ‘Mr Fitzwilliam. I’m Ralph Gross. Our son Felix is at your school, in year eight. That’s my wife, Emma.’

Emma raised a polite hand and then lowered it back on to the stem of a large glass of wine.

‘I just wanted to say how happy we are with what you’ve done at the school this last year. We’d been so close to moving away from the area. We’d even made an offer on a place in Wells. But since you came Felix has been so happy at school, and doing so well. And I’m sorry, but that woman, the one they just took away, the things she was saying about you were just nuts. Really.’

‘What things was she saying?’

‘Oh, just nonsense, really. That you were controlling her and had been sent to undermine the whole town, blah blah blah. Ridiculous. I just wanted you to know. In case you hear things via Chinese whispers. No one will pay any attention. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Everyone in the area knows you’re brilliant.’

‘Well, thank you so much,’ said Freddie’s dad. ‘I really appreciate your reassurance. I know Felix and he’s a great boy. I’m glad you didn’t have to move him away.’

The man shook Dad’s hand and went back to his wife, who was smiling really creepily at Dad and had that look in her eyes that women always seemed to have when they were around him.

Freddie grimaced and followed his dad to a table in the corner by the door. They toasted each other and crunched on scratchings and Freddie thought, Well, this is nice, but kind of strange, and they chatted for a while about how Freddie was getting on at school and the spring ball he wanted to go to, and his dad attempted some light teasing about girls which Freddie managed to brush off quite suavely with a practised ‘I’m not ready for girls yet’ even though it appeared currently no longer to be the case. And as this conversation meandered along it occurred to Freddie that his dad might be building up to asking him about the photos on his hard drive and he sat straight and bolstered himself, ready with some bullshit nonsense about school projects and the study of psychological disorders – like maybe, voyeurism – but the question never came and soon they were talking about days gone by, remembering old places they’d lived in and strange people they’d known and his dad was being so loose-limbed and genial, so focused on him and their conversation that Freddie found himself asking, ‘Dad, did you ever find out what was going on with that angry woman in the Lake District?’

His father suddenly tightened up. ‘What angry woman?’

‘Remember? That woman who came up to you when we were on that day trip and started hitting you?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh. God. Her. God, yes, I remember her. I don’t know. It was all so … odd. Wasn’t it?’

‘And you know, when you took her across the street, when you were talking to her. I always wondered what she was saying to you? And what you were saying to her?’

‘Christ. I don’t know. Probably just telling her she was being inappropriate, that she was upsetting my wife and my child. Calming her down, I suppose.’

‘It was horrible,’ Freddie said softly. ‘That day. It was scary. And it was horrible.’

‘Was it?’ asked his dad.

‘Yes. I’ll never forget it. And now this woman, Jenna’s mum, she hates you too.’

‘Ah, well, I think there is a difference between Mrs Tripp and the lady in the Lakes. The lady by the lake thought I was someone else; it was a case of mistaken identity. Jenna’s mum … well, she’s clearly got some kind of psychological disorder.’

Freddie nodded, agreeing with the distinction, but still uncertain about one thing. ‘Do they know each other, do you think?’ he asked.

‘Who? Jenna’s mum and the lady at the lake?’

‘Yes. Because …’ Freddie paused, selecting his words carefully. ‘I heard you and Mum talking. Saying that Jenna’s mum remembers you from that holiday.’

‘You heard us? When?’

‘The other morning. In the kitchen.’

His dad sighed. ‘Well, you weren’t supposed to hear that, but I don’t suppose it matters as Jenna’s mum was not on holiday with us and her thinking she was is just part of her disorder. Poor soul.’

‘Will Jenna be put into care?’

His dad sucked in his breath. ‘God. I really hope not. But it’s possible, I suppose. If her mum ends up being sectioned. If her dad can’t take her. But hopefully it won’t come to that. Hopefully I can make sure it doesn’t.’

Freddie nodded sagely.

His dad, the superhero.