Watching You: A Novel

Jenna sat outside Mr Fitzwilliam’s office. It was nine o’clock on Monday morning and this time she knew exactly why she’d been asked to come and see him. She pressed down the fabric of her pleated skirt and fiddled with the clasp of the fluffy pompom that hung from her school bag. She was missing physics. She hated physics. But she kind of wanted to be in physics today because it was one of the only classes she shared with Bess this term.

She heard Mr Fitzwilliam finish a mumbled phone call, and then clear his throat before opening the door of his office and gesturing her through. ‘Good morning, Miss Tripp,’ he said.

She wanted to say, Please don’t call me that. Just call me Jenna! But she didn’t. She smiled instead and said, ‘Morning.’

‘And how are you today?’

She shrugged and said, ‘Good.’

He led them to the same set of comfy chairs where they’d sat the week before.

‘Good,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her and then pulling one out for himself. ‘Good. Right, well, I suppose you know why you’re here?’

‘My mum,’ she mumbled.

‘Yes. Your mum. Although actually, really, mainly you, in fact. Because as much as I care about your mum, as a teacher at your school, your welfare is my primary concern. And really, I want to know how you are?’

‘I’m good,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I know you’re good, in that way that all children these days are good. And I know that’s just shorthand for I am a swirling whirlpool of insecurities and dark thoughts that I have zero interest in talking to you about, buddy.’

Jenna shuddered inside at the word buddy. Who even said things like that?

‘But clearly there are things at home that you are having to deal with and I know it’s just you, that your father and your brother live twenty miles away. And after what happened on Friday night I’m getting a much clearer picture of how things are for you. Listen …’ He did that thing again, where he leaned right forward, so his face was just a few inches from her, and engaged her in such heavy-duty eye contact that it made her want to close her eyes. ‘I get that you’re months away from your GCSEs and that this is where your friends are and that you’re scared that if the social services get involved you might have to move. I totally understand that. But you need to know that you have options. Lots of options.’

She blinked at him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

‘You wouldn’t have to go and live with your dad. I’d make sure of that. I’d make sure that you could stay in the area and stay at the Academy until the end of your exams. Or longer.’

She wanted to say, How? but she kind of didn’t want to know. If she asked him he’d tell her and then she couldn’t help feeling she’d be dragged into something weird that she didn’t want to be involved with.

‘Does your dad know?’ he asked. ‘Does he know how unwell your mum is?’

‘Kind of,’ she said, staring into her lap. ‘Sort of. Most of it. I mean, that’s why they split up.’

‘Because of your mum’s illness?’

‘Yes. Well. It didn’t seem like an illness then. It just seemed like she was, you know, a bit paranoid. A bit scatty. It just seemed like they weren’t getting on.’

‘And this was how long ago?’

She shrugged. ‘About four years ago, I suppose.’

‘And since then, things have got worse?’

She wanted to shake her head and say, No, not really. But instead she found herself nodding, and then, to her absolute horror, she found a tear rolling first down one cheek and then the other.

‘Oh, Jenna.’ Mr Fitzwilliam leaned over to a small table behind him and grabbed a box of tissues. ‘Oh dear. Here,’ he said, pulling one out with a flourish and handing it to her. ‘Here.’

She scrumpled it up between her hands and pressed it to her face. She breathed in hard to try to keep the tears at bay but she could feel them building tsunami-like at the base of her gullet, her whole head throbbed with them and then suddenly they were out and she was sobbing and she couldn’t stop it and she pressed the heels of her hands hard into her eye sockets but it made no difference, they kept coming.

Mr Fitzwilliam didn’t say anything. He just sat, his hands held together and hanging between his knees, and he watched her cry. Once the tidal wave of tears had subsided slightly, she chanced a look up at him. She was surprised to notice that his eyes were green.

‘Sorry.’ She sniffed. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Please don’t be sorry. Please just cry for as long as you need to cry.’

‘I’m done now,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘Because I’m free for another …’ He looked at the watch with the red and yellow strap. ‘Forty-eight minutes. So, you can keep crying for quite some time if you’d like.’

She found herself smiling. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m good. Honestly.’

He passed her a waste-paper bin for her to drop her used tissue into and then he passed her the box of tissues again so she could take a fresh one.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Your mum’s got worse, has she?’

She nodded. She could hardly deny it now. ‘Yeah, she has a bit. Since you arrived,’ she said.

‘And this is because, as you said before, she thinks she remembers me from a holiday some years ago?’

She nodded and sniffed, rolling the new tissue around between her hands. ‘Yes.’

‘And why do you think she thinks she remembers me?’

She sniffed again. ‘Because it’s true. We did meet you on holiday. I remember it too. I remember your watch.’ She nodded towards his wrist. His other hand went to it and touched it briefly.

‘You remember my watch?’

‘Mm-hm. It matched your shirt. That’s why I noticed it.’

He looked at her askance. ‘Gosh,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a good memory. And where was it that our paths crossed? Exactly?’

‘On a coach trip. In the Lakes.’

She looked straight into his eyes watching for his reaction and when it came he looked so horribly trapped that she had to look away again immediately. But within a split second the soft expression was back in place and he said, ‘Ah, yes. That coach trip. I assume you remember the episode with the lady.’

She nodded.

‘You know, I never worked out what that was about,’ he said, twisting himself back into his seat. ‘Very odd. And for some reason, if I’m understanding you correctly, whatever it was that happened that day, your mother saw it and decided it had something to do with her?’

She nodded again.

‘And now she thinks …? That I’m somehow stalking her?’

‘Kind of.’

‘And that I’m in charge of lots of other people who are also stalking her?’

‘It’s called gang-stalking,’ she said abruptly. She couldn’t bear the drip-feed of information and just wanted to get it out there now in one chunk. ‘It’s a psychotic delusional disorder. There are, like, thousands of people across the world who think it’s happening to them. They call themselves targeted individuals. TIs. And they all chat to each other on the internet all the time and the more they chat the more they believe it’s real and that’s what’s really made things worse. Not my mum’s illness, but her talking to loads of other mad people about it.’

‘So, really, if it hadn’t been me she’d fixated on, it might have been someone else?’

‘I guess.’

He nodded and narrowed his eyes at her. Then he sighed. He looked vaguely relieved. ‘You can’t carry on like this on your own, Jenna, you know that, don’t you?’

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Seriously. It’s totally fine. I don’t need anything. I know how to handle it.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘They just asked a load of questions and went.’

He nodded and held the knuckles of one hand briefly to his mouth while he formed his next comment.

‘Well, listen: for now, Jenna, at the very least, please, please will you tell your dad about what happened on Friday? Please?’

‘But there’s no reason for him to know. He’s got enough on his plate. He’s running a shop and looking after my brother.’

Mr Fitzwilliam sighed. ‘You know, Jenna, I could just call him in. It would probably be the right thing to do. I can see that you’re a very capable young woman. And I can see that you are very keen to cope with this situation by yourself. But I want to know that someone else is looking out for you. And that person should be your father. Will you promise me, Jenna, that you’ll call him?’

She nodded.

‘Today?’

She nodded again. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I guess.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘And meanwhile, remember: I’m here. Whatever you need. Whenever you need it. OK?’

He threw her a look. It was supposed to be cosy and reassuring but it just looked creepy to her. She tugged her rucksack on to her lap and got quickly to her feet.

And then, just as she was about to leave, once there was enough physical distance between them for her to feel able to breathe and think again, she turned and said, ‘Sir, why were you talking to B—?’

He grasped his tie. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, losing her nerve. ‘Nothing.’