Page 31 of Watching You

The Watcher

Karl sat on the edge of his father’s bed and tried to spoon-feed him some soup.

His father was getting weaker, no point pretending otherwise.

The man had hated soup before his stroke, now it was almost all he could eat.

Karl stirred the beef broth and wondered if everyone’s life played such ironic tricks on them or if it was just the unlucky few.

He spooned another few drops into his father’s mouth and wiped the drips from his chin, aware that his mother was coming down the stairs again, the swish of her nightie bringing a cloud of a freshly smoked cigarette with it.

He turned back to concentrate on his father.

He couldn’t pretend she wasn’t there any more, but he could ignore her if he tried really, really hard, except now she was humming, and that had always set his teeth on edge.

Today it was the fucking ‘Birdie Song’, of all things, not because she liked it but because she knew he’d always hated it, and that tune – no coincidence – was the one she’d been humming when she’d suddenly clutched her chest, cried out then fallen to her knees.

They’d all been at home together that day.

His parents had produced a baby rather later in life than the norm, so both had been retired for a few years, but Karl had a job back then in the investment department of a pension fund.

It wasn’t electrifying work but he was a fast learner and understanding how to grow money was an underrated skill.

Karl thought it was a Sunday, but perhaps it was a Saturday, not that it mattered.

His father had been watching TV, Karl had been playing a game on his mobile, and his mother had been watching the new neighbours from the corner of the sitting room window.

They’d arrived a month earlier carrying a toddler his mother hated on sight, having instantly decided that it would be screaming at all hours of the day and night, that they’d all have to pretend it was gorgeous, and God help those parents if they thought they’d moved into the sort of road where people were going to babysit their wee brat while they went out on the piss.

Neither Karl nor his father had said a word during his mother’s continuous spew of undeserved hatred.

They both knew better. There was no point interjecting.

If they agreed with her, she’d ignore them, and if they disagreed then life wouldn’t be worth living for the next few days.

His father had developed the skill of nodding occasionally in all the right places while simply carrying on with whatever he was doing.

Karl didn’t have it perfected quite, but he was getting better at it.

‘And look at that crappy plastic swing-set and slide they’ve put up on their front grass,’ his mother was saying. ‘Fucking red and yellow, like we need any more tat in this road. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

Karl’s father made a ‘mmm’ noise in the general region of agreement that avoided becoming an active part of the discussion.

‘Someone should put some fuckin’ razor blades on there is what I think. That’ll have ’em moving out pretty bloody sharpish.’ She laughed, and Karl winced. ‘See what I did there? Razor blades … sharpish.’

Karl couldn’t bring himself to make a single sound, and his father was looking in the opposite direction at a blank wall for no apparent reason.

‘Oh yeah, that’s right, the two of you sayin’ nothing again.

Better than me, are you? Is that what you think?

That I’m mean, that I’m nasty to the poor bairn.

’ She screwed her face up and held up her hands like claws.

‘Want to see the nasty old witch-lady bite that little child, do you? What are you going to do, burn me at the fuckin’ stake? ’

‘Stop,’ Karl said. He hadn’t even known the word was going to come out of his mouth. His father’s face was horror and disbelief.

‘What … the actual … fuck?’ his mother said, dropping the witch act and standing up straight, window forgotten.

‘I just meant—’

‘Aye, you tell me what you just meant. That’ll make everything better,’ she said quietly. Karl, taller than her, heavier than her, stronger and faster, felt the contents of his bowels liquidise under her furious gaze.

‘They should stop, is what I was trying to say. Not you. I’d never—’ The excuse was pathetic and they all knew it. His father turned away to stare at nothing again.

Karl’s mother took a step towards him across the sitting room. She was almost within striking distance, and now he needed to go to the bathroom really, really badly, but trying to leave the room, letting her see his desperation, would be disastrous.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ he blurted. ‘I can put a whisky in it, if you like. A double. Treat you, maybe. Do something nice for you.’

His mother stopped dead, all the emotion gone from her face, hands dangling at her sides.

If she ever became a zombie, like in one of those TV shows, Karl thought, in the first few seconds after she turned, that was how she’d look, with only the memory of having once been human.

Still maintaining the shape of a person, but the soul having already flown.

‘Is that what you think I need, now, son?’

Karl finally managed to stop talking.

‘Is that what you think of me? Offer me a drink and I’ll shut up. Put some whisky in my tea and I’ll be good. Say it.’ Her voice was so soft he almost had to strain to hear it, but some ancient, self-preserving part of him didn’t let him stretch his neck out in her direction.

Karl said nothing. His father was actually shrinking into the cushions of his armchair.

‘Come on, boy. Don’t stop now. Cup of tea with a double in it at eleven o’clock in the morning. That’s what an alkie would want, am I right?’

Karl’s brain was on a mental merry-go-round: fight-or flight, fight-or-flight, fight-or-flight. At that point, he couldn’t have said a word even if he’d wanted to.

‘You tell me what I am, then, if you’re so clever now, Karl.’

She said his name, his actual name rather than boy, son, or idiot, and it made his testicles retract painfully. Karl thought it was entirely possible that he might be about to die.

‘I love you, Ma,’ he muttered.

It was the only thing he could think of.

His mother laughed and Karl wished she would stop.

He wished she would fall down dead, then and there.

He wished never to see her again. More than that, he wanted his father not to be scared of her any more.

He wanted some joy in his life. If that meant his mother collapsing to the floor, never to bother them again, or threaten them, or spew her hatred for every other person who happened to walk into her line of vision, then bring it on, he thought.

Please die. Please just die right here. A slip, a choke or a stroke, I don’t care which, but please do the world a favour and end her, he’d begged the universe.

I’ll do anything. I’ll pay any price. Just fucking kill her!

‘Do you really love me, Karl? I’m not so sure. I don’t think your father loves me any more. Maybe he did once, when all he wanted was to dip his wick, but time kills even the dirtiest of desires. As for you loving me, why don’t you prove it? Give me a hug, dear. A good, long, hard hug.’

She took another step towards him, arms stretched out in his direction.

He could smell the sweat from her unwashed dress, with a heady combination of sour booze and cigarette butts, and saw the devil in her face.

Not just a deranged addict who’d long since lost her humanity, but something much darker.

Something evil. A many-legged, always-hungry beast who really would put razor blades on that slide given half a chance.

What would she do if he let her hug him? Would she try to snap his neck with some unearthly strength? Would she touch him in ways that made him feel like screaming and crying and cutting himself? Would she bite him? He thought that might be it.

‘Leave me alone,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, little Karly-Warly, Mama wants a cuddle.’ She smirked and stepped in closer.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he said, louder now and bolder. He was panting, hands in fists at his sides.

‘You’re crying’ his mother mocked. ‘Do you want to suck my titties like you used to when you were a baby?’

She reached out and put her hands either side of his face.

Karl erupted, whipping both his arms up and sending his mother’s arms flying outwards.

‘Fuck you, you fucking bitch!’ he screamed. ‘You freak! You evil cunt!’

She began laughing again, a proper belly laugh as he yelled in her face.

‘I wish you were dead! We’d be happy then. We never wanted you here.’

She was clutching her chest with it now, her face contorted with the terrible joy she got from his distress.

‘Yes, you’re an alcoholic. You’re an addict. And you stink! Every fucking day I hope you won’t touch me cos I don’t want to smell you on me!’

His mother wasn’t laughing now, she reached out a hand to him as she swayed on her feet.

‘Don’t you dare,’ he warned. ‘Don’t you touch me. I’m leaving. Dad can come with me if he wants, but I’m going anyway.’

His mother was making an odd choking noise, like a duck that’s swallowed too big a chunk of bread. He watched her sink to her knees, and felt a burst of glee. She was down! He’d finally found his voice and the words and, God, it felt good.

‘That’s right,’ he screeched. ‘That’s where you belong. I hope you never get up. I hope you—’

‘Karl,’ his father said.

He glanced across the room to where his father, standing now, was pointing one shaky finger in his mother’s direction.

She’d slipped down and was lying on her side clutching her chest, and if Karl wasn’t mistaken her lips had turned a shade of blue that reminded him of cheap red wine lip stain.

Her breath was staccato bursts of pure agony. Karl frowned. What was happening, exactly?

‘Do you think we should maybe call an ambulance?’ his father asked.

Karl heard it as a whisper from a hundred miles away.

‘Ambulance?’ he asked.

‘I suppose we should.’ His father answered his own question and plodded out into the hallway.

Karl looked down at his mother and saw the hand that had been clutching her chest had fallen away, and now her whole face was a pale blueberry.

It hit him like a freight train.

In a second he was on his knees trying desperately to find a pulse, laying her out so he could make sense of what was going on. He could hear his father saying their address and confirming that no, they didn’t have any dogs in the house, and that yes, the front door would be unlocked.

And now his mother wasn’t breathing at all. It was his fault. He’d wished it and wished it, had even told her that he wished she was dead. He’d all but done a deal with the devil to make it happen.

His father appeared in the doorway.

‘The lady says if she’s not breathing, you’re to do the kiss of life until the ambulance turns up,’ his father said. ‘I can’t do it. My asthma’s playing up.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Karl whined. ‘Dad, I can’t.’

His father shrugged uselessly and looked down at his slippers. Karl knew the choice was his to make, and his alone.

‘Oh Christ,’ he said.

He had no idea how to do it, had never done a first aid course, but he’d seen it on TV and that would have to be enough.

He slid one hand under her neck, pinched her nose shut with the other, closed his own eyes so he didn’t have to see her up close, and blew hard into her mouth. She tasted like crap, and the air that came back out was vile, but on he went.

She couldn’t die because he’d wished it on her.

He couldn’t pay the price for that with whatever he had in the way of a soul.

She needed to live so that he could leave properly, as he’d intended.

She had to live so that he hadn’t been the one to kill her.

On he went. Pushing oxygen into her lungs, then stopping to lace his hands together, one on top of the other, pumping her chest.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the paramedics entered, but they took over from him, telling him well done, good job, how brave, what a difficult thing to do, and that he might just have saved his mother’s life. How little they knew.

It was a heart attack, they said. No time to lose.

Then she was in the ambulance, lights and sirens, the whole nine yards, him and his dad following on behind to the new hospital, St Columba’s.

There, they had to park in a multi-storey that was far too tight and far too busy.

He helped his father out and held his arm as they walked down three flights of stairs to the main concourse and followed the signs to accident and emergency.

Then there was another delay as they signed her in, and finally they were taken through to a waiting area until a doctor could come to speak with them.

His mother had been taken into surgery, they were told.

It might be a long wait. If they wanted to go home, someone would call them.

No, they said, they would wait there. Directions were given to the cafeteria and the multi-faith chapel, as if that was going to help.

The surgeon operating, they were told, was the very best. If anyone could save his mother’s life, it was her.

Two hours later, Karl told his father he was going to buy coffee and sandwiches from the shop. He’d be right back. No news was good news. Not to worry.

Karl went outside and stood in the rain to wash away the memories of that day, to take away the taste of her mouth and wash clean his grubby guilt. The rain, it turned out, was useless.

By the time he went back inside, Barbara Smith was dead.

Karl took his guilt, wrapped it in so many layers of blaming others that the original emotion was impossible to locate, then coated it in a murderous fury and polished it until it shone.