Watching You: A Novel

Freddie didn’t have any friends at school. He walked to school alone. Even if his journey coincided with a boy or two from his form there would be no acknowledgement of his presence, no nod of the head or casual All right Fred? He ate lunch alone in his form room. Twice a week he went to lunchtime chess club sessions, but there was no bonhomie there, no banter or potential for friendship. And once a week he went to coding club after school. Not because he wanted to but because his dad had said he had to do at least one after-school club or he’d cut off his access to the internet. Coding was all right. There was a guy there called Max who always made an effort, said hello, asked how he was, partnered up with him when they were told to do things in pairs. Freddie wouldn’t call him a friend but he was as close as it came.

But Max was of no use to him right now because Max was five feet tall, about six stone, had long hair and wore squashy shoes, and it was obvious just from looking at him that he had precisely zero interest in girls, let alone any useful insight into them.

Posters for the spring ball had gone up around school and tickets were on sale. Romola had mentioned it in a chat on Instagram the night before; some girl had posted a photo of herself posing in a changing room in a skin-tight dress with the caption #springball17 #sayyestothedress #doesmybumlookbiginthis.

After a slew of girls piling in to say ohmygod, no of course your bum does not look big, are you mad? like, you’re so perfect, ohmygod, Romola left a comment saying that is a really very nice dress indeed.

Freddie had zoomed in on the photo, looking for some clue as to where it might be from, and found half a logo painted on to the inside of the cubicle that looked like the letters URBN arranged into a square. He’d googled URBN and found that it was the Urban Outfitters’ logo and he’d gone straight onto their website to find the dress and ordered it, even though it was sixty pounds.

‘You going to the spring ball?’ he asked Max now.

Max peered at him through the curtains of his hair. ‘What?

‘The spring ball? Next week. You know, the one with St Mildred’s?’

Max grimaced. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why would I?’

Freddie shrugged. ‘I didn’t say you would. I just asked if you were.’

‘Are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said casually. ‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Christ,’ said Max. ‘Think I’d rather die.’

‘Thought you’d say that.’

‘What’s your motivation?’

‘A girl,’ he said. ‘I want to take a girl.’

‘What, like a particular girl, or just some random girl?’

‘Yes, a particular girl.’

Max looked at him curiously and said, ‘Hmm.’

‘Hmm what?’

‘Nothing,’ said Max. ‘Nothing.’

‘No. Seriously. Tell me what you’re hmming at?’

‘Nothing. Really. Just, you know, guys like us’ – he pointed at himself and then at Freddie – ‘we don’t get to take girls to dances. It’s against the laws of nature. Of natural selection.’

‘What the fuck?’

‘Unless she’s a moose? Is the girl you want to take to the dance a moose?’

‘No. She’s entirely gorgeous.’

‘Well then, my friend, forget it.’

Freddie blinked slowly. He felt a terrible dark swirl of fury building inside him. He wanted suddenly to hurt Max. Not just lash out at him with a swinging fist, but somehow to dissect him. Pull him into tiny bits, slowly, agonisingly.

‘I am not’, he said through gritted teeth, ‘a guy like you.’

Max shrugged and turned back to his laptop. ‘If you say so,’ he muttered.

Freddie turned to his computer and tried to concentrate on the task they’d been given but his head was too full of hatred of Max. He stared at his pathetic face in profile: his downy skin and droopy baby cheeks, the lank hair that hung in his eyes.

‘I bet’, Freddie hissed in his ear, ‘that you sleep in your mum’s bed and wake up every morning with a tiny little hard-on.’

Max threw him a look of disgust. ‘Christ, you’re sick.’

The hands on the clock on the wall of the IT room turned from 4.59 to 5 p.m. Freddie pulled his blazer from the back of his chair and stalked from the room. He snatched his stuff from his locker and left the school building, letting the doors slam closed in someone else’s face.

He walked to Romola’s house even though he knew she was probably already tucked up inside. He stood at the entrance to the little mews, pretending to be texting someone. A man appeared by his side. The man paused briefly to look at his own phone before sliding it into his jacket pocket and continuing past Freddie into the mews. Freddie watched with interest as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and approached Romola’s house. The little dog started to yap behind the front door. The man opened the door, herded the dog gently back into the hallway with the edge of his foot and then closed the door behind him again.

Romola’s dad.

The thought that he’d seen Romola’s dad gave him a rush of something to his chest, a kind of dopamine, winning feeling, as though he’d just cleared a level on a computer game. Now he’d seen her dog and her dad. He glanced up at the first-floor windows: tiny squares covered over with smart, slatted wooden shutters. Up there was Romola’s room. He wanted to see inside Romola’s room. He wanted to sit on her bed and watch her getting ready for the spring ball.

At the thought of the spring ball the memory of Max’s comment about guys like us reappeared and made his head fill with rage again. He kicked his foot against the wall where he was standing and muttered under his breath. How could he be a guy like Max? There was just no way, literally no way. He was way better than Max. He was way better than most of the guys at his school.

He was about to turn and head home when he heard the unmistakeable sound of multiple teenage girls behind him; that ambiguous noise which sat exactly halfway between mirth and terror. He looked up and then quickly down at his phone again. He turned away from the mews so that he was facing the other way and leaned, as casually as he could, against the wall he’d just kicked. It was Romola and two girls who both looked like total fucking bitches.

One of them had a paper packet of McDonald’s chips in her hand, the other a paper cup full of Starbucks shit. Romola had just a bottle of water. They passed him in a swathe of body spray and horrible honking laughter. All three eyed his Poleash Hall blazer warily, looked him up and down to see if they knew him and then turned their gazes quickly away when they realised they didn’t. He watched surreptitiously as all three walked up the mews to Romola’s house. Even from here and based on under one minute of observation, Freddie could tell Romola wasn’t comfortable, that she’d somehow been coerced into after-school jollies with these girls, somehow allowed them to invite themselves back to her house. She was the new girl. She would, he knew from vast experience, take what she could get in the early days.

He heard the dog yapping again as Romola unlocked the front door, he heard the honking girls start to squawk and squeak with excitement about the tiny dog – ‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, he’s sooo cute!’ – then the door banged shut behind them and it was quiet again.

He looked at the time. It was five thirty-five. He was hungry. He headed home.

His mum was sitting in the kitchen watching a game show on the telly. She didn’t turn when he walked in.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said.

‘Hi, love,’ she replied, still without turning.

‘You OK?’

‘Yup. I’m fine.’

He put down his school bag and stood between his mum and the TV.

Her face was pale. She looked wan and run down. Ever since they’d moved to Melville, and especially since her broken ankle had healed and she’d been able to start running again, he’d been used to seeing his mum with a vital glow, cheeks flushed with colour, eyes bright with life.

‘You not going running today?’

She looked at him distractedly for a moment, and then managed a smile. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not today.’ As she said this her hand moved vaguely towards her throat and then away again. It was a tiny, throwaway gesture, but Freddie had seen it before and he knew what it meant. His eyes searched for and found the tinge of reddish-blue bruising above the collar of her shirt.

His stomach churning with nausea, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.