Watching You, Watching Me (Back-2-Back, Book 2) Page 12
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Copyright © Chloë Rayban
Chloë Rayban asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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BACK
2
BACK
watching
you, watching me
Matt’s side of the story …
CHLOË RAYBAN
with grateful thanks to
James Ross, Felix Milton, Molly Milton and Leo Bear
for their help with the music and club scene
CONTENTS
Cover
Book Two Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Also by Chloë Rayban
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
The house loomed out of the darkness, rows of irregular rusted corrugated iron fencing separating it from the occupied houses on either side. Number twenty-five was derelict, boarded-up, blank-eyed as a skull. I checked the address again. I had no idea it was going to be as bad as this.
I forced open the side gate and picked my way through the tangle of weeds that choked the path to the back door. There was a cement mixer with a wheel-barrow propped up against it in the back garden — sign of a token visit from the builder. The big iron key turned in the lock and the smell of the house greeted me. Boy. Every house has its own particular smell but this one had real character. It spoke of aeons of chip pans, dust undisturbed since the Coronation practically — and drains of course, they had to get in on the act. I could see what Mum meant. There was no way the two of them could move in till the whole place had been stripped out. God knows how long that was going to take.
When Dad had told me he’d been relocated to London I’d been so knocked out I couldn’t say anything for a moment. He took my silence totally the wrong way — kept going on about how I’d soon make new friends and how we’d find a decent school like the one I was at … I just broke in and said, ‘Look Dad. Stop right there.’
I’d had it with school as a matter of fact. My Stroud school had been an all-boys grammar, one of the few left in the country. Traditional in everything — even had a uniform. A place where non-conformity meant tying your tie a different way. I’d had it up to here. I’d taken my GCSEs. Not done too brilliantly but passed most — could say my mind was on other things. And I’d slacked my way through first year A-levels — got in a real mess in the end of year exams. In fact, I was just about to break the news to Dad that I was dropping out …
‘How soon can we move?’ I cut in. ‘And you can forget about the school.’
To say Dad hit the roof is putting it mildly. Mum and I were positively scraping bits of him off the ceiling. The argument raged for a whole weekend and then we settled on a compromise. Dad had found this place called West Thames College. It was for people who’d dropped out mainly, or who were studying things you couldn’t do at school, like Pharmacy and Food Sciences, Opthalmics, Mortuary Attendance, you name it — things I didn’t even know existed. But Dad had checked you could do A-levels there, and there were girls and no uniforms. I’d started to picture it like those places you see in American college movies, where everyone spends most of their time sprawled on nicely mown lawns giving each other the eye, or driving girls round in beat-up convertibles. So I said I’d give it a go. Anyway, thats why I was up here on my own, creeping round this empty house like some burglar.
They’d warned me about coming on ahead. When they’d realised how far behind the building work had fallen, Mum and Dad had decided to stay on for another few months in Stroud. Dad was all for me doing another term at Stroud Grammar. But as I pointed out. West Thames College would have a different A-level syllabus and everything. Staying on another term at Stroud would simply make the problem worse.
‘There won’t be a telephone — you know that, don’t you?’ said Mum.
‘Look, this summer me and the lads backpacked practically across Europe. There were times when we were even short of water. I think I can survive OK in a London suburb.’
‘But what about your food, and washing?’ Mum has this kind of idea that if your clothes aren’t clean on each day you’ll develop some fatal disease.
‘Anyway,’ I argued, ‘I can keep an eye on that builder for you. With someone on the premises, he can’t just slack off.’
They had to agree I had a point there. So reluctantly they let me come on ahead of them to London. London! Of course I’d been up to town loads of times before. Like to the Boat Show and on kiddies’ birthday treats to see Starlight Express and the Royal Tournament — all that stuff. More recently I’d started making day trips to White Label outlets — a couple of guys in Soho were actually getting to recognise me. I was beginning to feel the pace of the place. A city like London — it’s like it’s got adrenalin in its veins. You can just be walking down a street and you’ll feel it pumping away. You see it in the faces in the crowds, you hear it in the deep throaty undertones of the traffic and when the lights come on at night — the city — it’s sheer magic, man.
I eased my backpack off and made my way into the hallway. This revealed the contents of our bathroom stacked still in its wraps, complete with a brand new bath leaning up against the wall. I reached for the light switch. Nothing happened — evidently the electrics weren’t switched on. Eric, the builder, was meant to have fixed that — like all the other things Eric was meant to have fixed. OK — so let’s go on a tour of inspection.
Ground floor, once two big rooms — the dividing wall had been knocked through and left looking like a bit of Fred West’s handi
work, ribs of wood sticking out like so many skeletons. Hall — filthy lino, smell of cats. Stairs uncarpetted and uneven. Oops — one missing there. Original bathroom at turn of stair, large stained bath and limescale-encrusted shower-feature that looked pre-war. Two big rooms on first floor. Hold it right there … One minus floorboards.
Top floor — this was what I’d been waiting for. My floor … Jeez, cool! Two vast attic bedrooms. Have to mind your head — but still! My heart was thumping. After the restrictions of our modern semi in Stroud, this was like palatial. I kept going back and forth between the two rooms. Back room, slightly smaller — get some shelving in there, start housing the ‘collection’. Put up a work-top for the decks, wall-mounted to cancel any vibrations. It was a back extension too, so wouldn’t disturb the neighbours so much. But, boy! The front room, great big dormer window — it was unbelievable. I thrust the old sash window up and ripped aside a loose board. If I bent down I could peer through. The view!
I guess I’d hardly noticed Frensham Avenue was on a bit of an incline. Looking down, it was all tops of trees, parked cars — typical suburban street. But glimpsed through the houses opposite was the hazy silhouette of the city itself. If you strained your ears, you could hear it — the continuous faint drone of people on the move. There were thousands of lives woven into that sound. Imagine, if you could magnify it, separate the strands, home in on each individual sound, hear what it was made of: arguments, babies crying, phones ringing, pneumatic drills, police sirens, dripping taps — each with its individual pitch and tempo. It was a kind of music — music mixed by random chance. I’m into music, you see. Nah, I’ll come clean, I’m not like just into it, I’m obsessed. The city was my kind of music — I could live with this.
I stared back down the street. Hey … take a look at that. Talent! A babe — ace in the leg department, the kind of girl who ought to have a court order put on her to stay in shorts. Nice hair — had a bouncy sort of swing to it. Cool way of walking — kind of confident without being over-the-top sexy. She’s stopping. Yeah, look back! Mmm, good face too, from what I could see.
She crossed the road and disappeared from view. Hope she’s not just visiting for the day …
I went back and surveyed my domain once more. Shelves, yes — should be dead easy to put up. There were a couple of recesses that looked like they’d been made for them. Wood. Gotta get some wood but — no tools … No problem! Eric’ll have tools — proper professional ones. He’s bound to lend them, specially if I lean on him about all the work he hasn’t done.
I did a vague measure-up. Four-footers should do it. I stood there rocking on my heels. Nothing much on at the moment, as a matter of fact. Actually nothing at all. No time like the present. Why not get the wood so as to be ready for when Eric came round with the tools? I couldn’t wait to get that shelving up.
You can have no idea how hard it is for an individual on two-legged transport to buy a simple little thing like wood in London. Back in Stroud you would’ve found a wood merchant or a DIY shop, just like that. I walked miles, I walked my arse off and eventually I got to this massive Sainsbury’s Homebase — the slip road to it must’ve been ‘bout half a mile long. Don’t think they’d ever had anyone come in there before on foot. The guy that served me asked if I wanted help getting the wood out to the car. When I tried to lift it I saw what he meant, so I had to backtrack and settle for what I could carry.
It was getting dark by the time I got back to the house. I raked through my backpack for my torch and shone it up the stairway. It cast a faint orange ring of light on the tattered wallpaper — the light flickered briefly and then faded away. I flicked the switch on and off but, just my luck, the battery had run out. Why hadn’t remembered to get extras while I was out? Jesus what a mess.
You know something? This was going to be the first time I’d ever stayed overnight in London. And it looked like it was going to be a night to remember. Back in the kitchen, I located a box of matches and right beside it — that’s more like it — a whole box of candles — Eric’s hoard, no doubt. I lit one and sheltered the flame with my hand.
I headed back upstairs with the wood. The house felt cold and empty now. Careful of the missing step. I stacked the shelving in the back room. God, how I wished I had the tools. I’d start right off — have a few up by morning. I took the candle and had a good search through the house. You never know, those builders might have left a tool bag somewhere. But no such luck. Too risky I guess, to leave stuff in an empty house.
I went back to the front room. By this time the candle was well burnt down and hot wax was running on to my fingers. I located a ledge and sited the candle on a dob of hot wax. Then I lit another and did the same. With three candles it was almost cosy. So it was about time I made myself at home. I started to unpack my gear.
I undid my bedroll. I was pretty accustomed to sleeping on that after my summer backpacking. Then I raked out my camping-gaz, tin-opener, basics in the food and washing department. Talking of washing, that chase around for that wood had taken its toll — I was pretty ripe. Water! I hadn’t thought to check.
I went down to the antiquated bathroom just praying that water was actually on the current menu. The tap coughed and spluttered and then emitted a juddering and intermittent icy jet. Eric had got that far at least. Switching the lever over to shower, believe it or not, actually produced a mild sprinkle of water from the ancient shower-head. Once stripped off, I climbed gingerly under it. Man, was it coldl I’d had cold showers all through our spell in Greece, but I reckon British cold water is ten thousand times colder than the Greek equivalent. My body seemed to age about forty years under that shower. I climbed out feeling like a shrunken, grey version of my former self. This is what it must feel like to be really old! I was actually shivering. I reached for a … Oh no! I don’t believe this. I’d forgotten to bring my towel down.
That’s when this lunatic started banging on the front door. Seemed like he was trying to break the door in. He’d been banging for some time by the sound of it. I obviously hadn’t heard, what with the sound of the plumbing and everything.
‘OK, OK, OK! Keep your hair on.’
I grasped the guttering candle and staggered out of the bathroom. I was going downstairs to shut the bastard up. Jeez! … Forgot the missing stair.
‘What-you-want!’ I shouted through the door.
‘Saw your light. Look, this simply isn’t on …’
‘What?’
‘You can’t just move in like this …’
‘Look. I’ve got every right to be here, mate.’ An icy draught was blowing in under the door, really getting to me where it could be felt.
‘I don’t want to have to resort to calling the police …’
It suddenly clicked. This interfering old busy-body thought I was a tramp or a squatter or something. Come to wreck the lives of their nice cosy little suburb - might even bring their precious property values down. I’d got his measure. This was the kind of guy who’d sell off all the council houses to nice home-owning voters, then feel outraged ‘cos the streets were full of homeless people begging. I decided to give the bloke his money’s worth. That’s when I trod on a carpet tack or something. Agony! I was standing there stark-naked and freezing to death — or rather, I was hopping up and down to keep warm and I was gravely at risk of treading on the damn thing again. I’d had enough of this.
‘Look, you busy-bodying old git. Why don’t you get lost?’
There was a sort of cough from the other side of the door. The guy cleared his throat.
‘Well, if you really feel like that, don’t say I haven’t warned you …’
He didn’t sound too bad a bloke but I was really shaking from cold now — anything to get rid of him.
‘Yeah right — go on. Piss off!’
I stumbled back up the dark staircase, groped my way to my room and when I’d dried off I examined the foot damage. Nothing that a Band-Aid and a bit of Savlon wouldn’t sort out. Still, if
I died of septicaemia and double pneumonia it would be that busy-body’s fault.
I couldn’t be bothered to set up the camping-gaz. I just ate baked beans straight from the tin followed by a couple of bananas. Mum had put in some cans of lager too — good on you Mum — so I snapped one open and leaned on the window sill where I could get a view out between the boards. Tomorrow I’d get all those boards off, let some daylight into the room, start smartening the place up a bit.
I strained my eyes into the distance to where the city cut a jagged skyline against the glowing orange sky. For a moment I was tempted to throw on a jacket and head into town, lose myself in the great seething people-mass that was the city at night — mosey round Soho a bit — check out some clubs maybe. I was going to have to do a bit of research.
I took another sip of lager. But on the other hand, I had college next day — first day — I’d be the new boy, didn’t want to turn up ragged as hell. Wanted to start out making the right impression. Well, an OK impression anyhow.
I settled down more comfortably on the floor, leaning a shoulder against the window frame. It was a liberating feeling being on my own like this. I used to have this fantasy when I was a little kid — that all the adults in the world had been suddenly wiped out. Not all blood and guts and tragedy or anything — they just weren’t there. Maybe some friendly Martians had dropped by and taken them off on a round-the-galaxy magical mystery tour or something. Anyway, in this world with no adults around, I could do anything I liked — drive cars, take over the funfair, liberate the animals from the zoo, help myself to anything I fancied from the toyshops — it was magic, man.
Sitting there like that I’d felt a sudden overwhelming echo of that feeling. What it would be like to be out on my own. I mean, I have pretty OK parents — limited of course and pathetically out of touch — but not having them there, standing like some bullet-proof shield between me and the world. It was, yeah — liberating.