Page 33 of The Lucky Winners
Sunday
The Watcher
It is still dark and the air in the room feels stagnant with his stale warmth. He lies stock still for a moment, listening. The quiet hum of the pipes. The faint creak of the old building settling. Nothing else. Perfect.
He rises, moving soundlessly to the small bathroom, where the mirror gives him a glimpse of his face.
His cheeks look hollow in the dim light, but his eyes are sharp and ready.
He washes his face, brushes his teeth, pulls on black trousers, a dark-grey fleece zipped high and soft-soled shoes that will not betray him.
At the writing desk in front of the window, he selects his tools and packs them into his rucksack. Binoculars. A small bottle of water. He has his pay-as-you-go phone, but he also takes his notebook and graphite pencil, 3H, which he prefers.
He swings the rucksack over his shoulder and steps softly into the corridor, locking the door behind him.
The house is still, the dated Axminster carpet swallowing his footsteps as he moves.
He glances at Monica’s bedroom door as he passes.
It’s closed and dark around the edges. He pads downstairs, placing his weight carefully, distributing it evenly, so the old wood does not betray him.
In the hallway, an antique grandfather clock ticks steadily on, the only sound in the hush of the sleeping house.
He unbolts the door and eases it open. The cold air bites at his face as he steps outside and closes the door with a soft thunk .
He heads for the lake, breathing in the damp air, laced with traces of wood smoke.
There’s always someone burning something somewhere, in a place like this.
He used to enjoy burning garden rubbish.
He liked the smell of the smoke, watching with a cup of tea as the flames engulfed the twigs and dry leaves. Made everything clean and new again.
That was a long time ago now. That was back then .
A few minutes’ walking and suddenly the lake is there.
It stretches before him, smooth as slate, the dark water barely rippling.
Around it, the trees gently stir. Sycamores, mostly, with their spindly limbs, but also the odd fir, thick and looming.
It is, he supposes, a beautiful place. But he isn’t here for the scenery.
His eyes lift to the hill and to Lakeview House. It juts out from the landscape like a glass blade, all sharp edges and arrogance. Monica was right when she said it was a house that does not belong here, does not deserve to be here.
He prepares himself for another day observing. Observing Janey and, crucially, observing others of interest.
It’s like plotting a novel, the most important part to get right before he puts his plan into action.
Later, back at the B-and-B, he sits in the worn armchair, his hands curled around the mug of tea Monica has given him. The tea is hot and too strong for his preference, but he doesn’t care. He’s not here for the tea. He’s here for information .
Monica is bustling about as usual, stacking newspapers on the side table and grumbling about how the latest lot of guests have left muddy footprints all over the hall. He lets her talk, nodding absently as she mutters about people having no consideration.
‘You’ve got your work cut out with this place,’ he says mildly, glancing around the lounge. It’s old-fashioned but tidy, the smell of lemon polish lingering in the air.
Monica snorts. ‘You’re telling me. Some people think they can do as they please just because they’ve paid for a bed. Can’t say as I’ve ever been one for letting standards slip.’
He waits until she settles into the armchair opposite, her own tea in hand, before steering the conversation where he wants it. ‘I’ve seen a few folk going up to the fancy new house recently,’ he says. ‘Must be nice for the winners, already having visitors.’
Monica rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard they’ve not wasted any time getting their feet under the table.
I suppose you can’t blame them, trying to blend into the community and all that.
Though it’s funny how some folks are falling over themselves to get up there, like it’s Buckingham Palace.
Tilda and Simon were up there just the other evening. ’
He glances up, his eyes sharp. ‘The couple who live in the barn conversion at the bottom of the hill?’
‘That’s them, lived here a few years now. Nice couple, although …’ she leans forward, lowering her voice ‘… by all accounts, he’s a bit of a charmer. Good-looking fella, see, and he knows it.’
‘Really? What kind of thing have you heard he gets up to?’
‘I’ve heard Tilda’s always on edge when there’s a pretty girl around. She can’t hide it. Lady in the corner shop said she made a scene in the pub last month when he spent a bit too long chatting to the new barmaid.’
He hides a smile behind his cup. Interesting. Useful. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmurs.
‘You know how it can be with couples like that. One’s got a wandering eye and the other is cursed with a jealous disposition.
’ Monica frowns. ‘According to the lady who runs the post office, Tilda is terribly insecure. Always trying to make it obvious they’re a perfect match when really …
Well, it’s plain as day she’s frightened someone else’ll catch his eye. ’
He takes another sip of tea and sets the mug on the side table, his fingers tapping lightly on the handle. A faint smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. Seeds, he thinks. Little seeds, planted just right, can blossom quite quickly.
‘And what about that nice young woman who I’ve seen with … Jack, is it? The Mower World man I saw in the pub. She’s his girlfriend, I think.’
Monica’s face softens a bit. ‘Oh, yes. That’s Sarah, his fiancée.
Lovely girl. She’s going to be a teacher at a local school in the autumn.
She’s been with Jack a good while now – though I have to say it’s a bit of a mismatch.
She’s very driven, that one. High hopes and ambitions.
Can’t see her sticking around for ever, not with Jack tied to that mower business of his.
He’s a good lad, don’t get me wrong, but some people around here seem to think she’s a bit out of his league. ’
He lets out a quiet chuckle, as if amused by some harmless gossip. But his mind is already working, scheming over possibilities. Relationships are fragile. A well-placed word, a suggestion whispered in the right ear: that’s how you can start to engineer things coming undone.
He glances out of the window, where the pale blue sky presses down on the village, making his skin itch. Like a swarm of ants crawling just under his flesh.
He wonders what Janey would make of it, if she knew he was sitting just a stone’s throw away, listening to the village busybody feeding him all the little bits and pieces he needs to pull her new life apart.
He feels the familiar rush of hate, surging up like bile in his throat.
He swallows it, keeping his face neutral.
She doesn’t know he’s here.
She doesn’t know he’s watching. But she soon will.
Monica breaks into his thoughts with a tut and a shake of her head. ‘Honestly, though, that place on the hill. I don’t know how they’ll cope come winter. All that glass – they’ll be up to their necks in heating bills.’
He nods again, but his mind is already on other things. He’s piecing together what to do next. What to say to set the whispers spreading. If he can stir up enough tension, let that house and the new owners become a focus for resentment, it’ll start to chip away at their perfect little life.
‘You all right there?’ Monica asks, eyeing him curiously.
He snaps back to the present and stops scratching his hand. He gives her a benign smile. ‘Oh, yes. Just thinking how some folks never know what they’re getting themselves into. Moving here without knowing the lie of the land.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Monica agrees. ‘Some people think they can just waltz in and make everything their own without any effort. Not how it works in a place like this.’
As Monica rattles on about the sterile look of the new couple’s garden and how Jack has been seen up there lending a hand, he keeps his expression polite and his focus elsewhere.
Janey thinks she’s safe up there in the big glass house. She thinks she’s left the past behind. But he knows that perfection cracks easily when you know where to push.
He swirls the dregs of his tea, sips, then lets the bitter taste pool on his tongue. He’s not going to rush. He’s going to savour this – pulling her world apart one small, insidious piece at a time.