Watching You, Watching Me (Back-2-Back, Book 2) Read online

  Mum headed upstairs.

  Gemma poured milk on her cereal.

  ‘I wonder if he’s got any breakfast over there …’ she sighed to me.

  ‘Who?’ asked Jamie as he spooned cat food ever so slowly and carefully on to two saucers. Yin and Yang were practically going berserk at his feet.

  I shoved the saucers under their noses.

  ‘Maybe we should make up a food parcel, like in a basket or something, and then he could let down a rope and haul it up to his room,’ continued Gemma in a dreamy tone.

  ‘Dad’s trying to get rid of him, not encourage him,’ I pointed out.

  ‘But what if he stays up there and starves to death? It’ll be our fault.’

  ‘He could have my tuna sandwiches and then I’d have to have school dinners,’ suggested Jamie generously. Mum didn’t approve of school dinners. She reckoned they served factory-farmed meat, and they had chips too which she insisted were really unhealthy. Jamie went positively dewy-eyed over the very thought of a school dinner.

  ‘Shall I make some toast for him?’

  ‘No, Gemma. Absolutely not.’

  The last thing we needed was Gemma doing something typically cringe-worthy like sending over food parcels. Having her act of charity rejected, she returned crossly to the stairs and started up her recorder torture again.

  Mum came down the stairs like a whirlwind, holding out Jamie’s football gear.

  ‘Gemma was right! They were in your bed.’

  ‘You’ve got a ladder in your tights, Mum. A really humungous one,’ remarked Gemma.

  ‘I haven’t! I have! The keys! Tasha we’re going to be so late!’

  We were late. I found Mum’s keys in the fridge. I reckon Dad must have picked them up last night when he’d had the set-to with the ‘squatter’ and then shoved them in there when he’d got the beer. He’d been in a bit of a state.

  So we all piled in the car, and just as Mum was trying to persuade it to start … this boy came out of number twenty-five. He shot through the gate that led round to the back garden, bold as brass as if he owned the place. He was really fit actually. I craned out of the back to get a better view.

  ‘Cor …’ said Gemma.

  ‘Gems, that is a really vile and vulgar expression,’ I said, signalling violently to her not to draw Mum’s attention to our new neighbour. Mum hadn’t seen him — she’d been too busy battling between the ignition and the choke. I prayed she wouldn’t realize where he’d come from. For all I knew, she’d be out of that car in a flash and doing a citizen’s arrest on him or something.

  The car started at last and Mum coaxed it out into the street. He was ahead of us now, sashaying along on rollerblades, dead in the middle of the road, making it impossible for Mum to pass.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ she muttered, really losing her cool. She hooted at him but he didn’t take a blind bit of notice. This guy had some cheek.

  But Gemma was right — he was well ‘Cor!’ I mean, guys always look good on rollerblades — gives them extra height and all that. But apart from the nice build which I’d noticed as he came out, he had a really OK face too. He wasn’t unshaven as a matter of fact — he was pretty tanned as if he’d just come back from holiday and his hair was kind of rough and sun-bleached. I mean, he was about the best thing I’d ever seen down our street. Squatter or not — he was good news.

  A milk float lurched round the corner and approached us. Now any chance of passing him was totally out of the question.

  Mum put her hand down on the hooter again.

  ‘This young man is going to get himself killed if he’s not careful!’

  She hooted again and waved wildly at the milkman. The milkman got her drift and went all officious, flagging him down as if he were a policeman. Our rollerblader suddenly came to an abrupt stop, and Mum nearly collided with him. The guy shot a glance over his shoulder and did an ace wobble and double-take, nearly landing on his backside. You should have seen his face!

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing!’ Mum yelled at him. She always gets hysterical when she sees someone endangering themselves.

  The guy recovered himself and took the two little foam Walkman speakers out of his ears. I could hear the jangle of the bass from inside the car. He must have had it on full blast. No wonder he hadn’t heard the car. The idiot! He stood there looking foolish for a moment. And then he caught sight of me in the back of the car. I was killing myself — silently, so as not to enrage Mum even more. He frowned, obviously realising what a total prat he’d made of himself.

  ‘Look — do you know the way to West Thames College?’ he asked.

  ‘I know the way to West London Cemetery — and that’s where you’re heading at this precise moment,’ said Mum.

  ‘Sorry but — you must’ve come from nowhere!’ he said.

  Mum pointed at the head-set. ‘If you want to stay alive, I’d give that a rest if I were you.’

  ‘Yeah, well maybe …’

  ‘If I see you doing that again, I won’t be so lenient. I’ll run you over,’ she added.

  ‘Feel free … Mind how you go now,’ he said. And he waved her on with a flourish.

  ‘Hmmmph — he’s got a cheek,’ said Mum, but she kind of smiled to herself all the same. Then she thrust the gear lever into second gear and concentrated on getting us through the traffic to school.

  OK — school. That first day back is never as bad as you think it’s going to be. You arrive there all ready to muster your reluctant brain-cells and force them back to work, then most of the day turns out to be timetable-planning and book lists and general reorganisation. All of this was carried out by harrassed teachers who were fighting a losing battle against our real purpose of the day — to find out what everyone else did on holiday and go one better.

  Melanie deserved the all-time poseur prize because she’d been to the South of France and stayed on her uncle’s ‘yacht’ (i.e. power cruiser, but nobody was splitting hairs). Loads of people had been to Spain and were sporting tans to prove it. Jayce, the rebel of the class, claimed to have been on a caravan holiday with her boyfriend and went into a huddle with some of her mates over the steamier details. Rosie had spent two weeks in Tenerife with her Mum — she’d met this boy and had brought in tons of photos.

  I just kept my head down. No-one needed to know about our two-week family walking tour along Hadrian’s Wall, did they? I’d enjoyed it, actually, in a masochistic sort of way. The weather had been fantastic and we’d taken field glasses and seen curlews and sparrow hawks and one day we’d even sighted a falcon’s nest. But I knew from bitter past experience that the very mention of bird-watching would bring the united weight of class scorn down on me.

  I’d done an essay, a year or so back, about what I’d done on holiday, and got an A for it. I had to read it out to the whole class with Mrs Manners looking on and smiling indulgently. Dad had taken us to a place called Holy Island. It’s not really an island — its at the end of this causeway, but it’s cut off at high tide. It’s got a castle and an abbey but absolutely nothing else except marsh and sea and birds. I’d felt myself getting hotter and hotter as I read out all this stuff about the abbey and the monks and the curious sense of history in the place. I could hear people fidgeting and giggling beneath the sound of my voice.

  That’s when I got friendly with Rosie. She’d come and found me in the cloakroom where I’d gone to get some peace. There’s a place between the coat racks where nobody can see you if you sit really still.

  ‘It’s OK for you,’ I said, blowing my nose on the tissue she’d given me. You went to Majorca. You’ve got a tan and everything.’

  ‘Yes, and Mum went out every night and I had to stay in this stuffy hotel bedroom and watch crappy films on the TV. The hotel was full of grossly overweight middle-aged couples getting sunburn round the pool — the women looked like red jelly babies and the men looked like Michelin men and they were all trying to get off with each other. It was disgusting
.’

  ‘You didn’t put that in your essay.’

  ‘Course I didn’t, stupid.’

  Rosie was brilliant like that. She didn’t tell lies exactly, she just knew how to present the truth in the right light for class consumption. If she went to Calais with her Mum on a day trip, she’d let drop that they’d popped over to France for lunch. If a boy asked her out she wouldn’t say he was fit exactly, she’d just find the right way to describe him. I’d got to know her shorthand and how to translate. Tall for his age (i.e. overgrown and weedy). Fascinating to talk to (i.e. gross to look at). Really fit and into sport (i.e. totally obsessed by football).

  Anyway, unlikely as it seemed, Rosie and I had teamed up. I had an ally, a conspirator, a protector. However gross the girls in class might be to me, I always had Rosie to have a laugh with.

  She was beckoning wildly to me now as a matter of fact.

  ‘How come you were so late in?’

  ‘Mum nearly ran someone over. This really gorgeous guy on rollerblades.’

  ‘She should’ve driven faster — you might’ve got acquainted.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s moved into our street.’

  ‘You’re joking — a fit guy in Frensham Avenue?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. Except we think he’s a squatter.’

  ‘In good old respectable Fren-charm.’ (She was putting on a posh accent). ‘All the local budgies will be falling off their perches in shock.’

  ‘Yeah well, we’re not sure yet.’

  ‘I better come’n check him out — like tonight.’

  ‘OK, you do that.’

  I had double Biology at that point and Rosie went off to General Science so I didn’t see her again until after school.

  Chapter Three

  There was a kind of unspoken feud going on between West Thames College and our school. Our school is an all-girls comprehensive, and it has quite a reputation for getting people into university. I guess the West Thames crowd look on us as swots. We return the compliment by considering them losers. Our status isn’t helped by the fact that we have to wear uniform until we’re in the Sixth Form. So the galling truth — that you’re only in Year eleven or below — is positively broadcast to the nation every time you walk down the street.

  On my walk home I always came across groups of West Thames students hanging about in the street. Generally, I tried to ignore them. But today I took an interest. I was hoping to catch a furtive glimpse of our squatter. Most of the students were a lot older and a lot more chilled than us. There was a load of them crowding round a café having a laugh. The girls looked really sophisticated, more like art students. I crossed over to the other side of the road. It was really humiliating to be seen by them wearing school uniform. I’m pretty tall for my age so I look twice as ludicrous as the average girl in mine. My legs are so skinny my gross grey socks slip down as I walk. I could feel them right now subsiding into sagging rolls round my ankles. But there was no way I was going to stop and pull them up with the present audience.

  A searching glance through the crowd revealed, to my relief, that there was no-one of his height or colour in the group.

  I was continuing on my way down Frensham Avenue dressed in this totally humiliating way when I had that feeling again. The feeling of being watched. The closer I got to home the stronger it got. I glanced up at number twenty-five. I couldn’t see anyone at the windows but I felt positive he was looking down — watching me.

  I got inside as fast as I could and slammed the front door.

  ‘Hi Tasha — want some tea?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m going upstairs to change.’

  ‘Have a cup first.’ Mum appeared round the kitchen door. What’s up? Had a bad day?’ It never ceases to astonish me how mothers have such an uncanny knack of reading every tiny intonation in your voice and then drawing a totally inaccurate conclusion.

  ‘I just want to get out of this,’ I said, indicating the uniform.

  ‘Have a shower — you’ll feel much better.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  I dragged my clothes off and climbed into the shower. I washed my hair. I let the water run down through my hair and over my face and I did feel better as a matter of fact. I felt as if I was washing away my dreary day and that terrible vision of long lanky me in saggy grey socks. The person who emerged from the shower was new and clean and not half-bad actually — wrapped in my white towelling robe I felt like someone quite different.

  I went and lay on my bed for a while in order to savour the feeling. I’d just spend ten minutes or so chilling out before I got down to my homework.

  I lay there staring at the ceiling. That guy over the road was just so — fit. I’d never stand a chance. I mean, he was surrounded by dead cool girls, wasn’t he? He’d never be interested in me. Then I got to thinking about that word ‘cool’. The trouble is, if you’re like me, the minute you’ve got the hang of it — like the right clothes and music and language and stuff — you find the whole scene has moved on. And whatever it was you thought was ‘cool’, isn’t any more.

  In fact, the truly sad thing is, the harder you try to be ‘cool’, the more it evades you. Like that ghastly time the girls at school were talking about their favourite film stars. I thought I’d be really ‘cool’ and mature so I said Ralph Fiennes. And everyone fell about. I didn’t know you were meant to pronounce his name ‘Rafe Fines’. It would have been simpler if I’d just settled for Leonardo diCaprio or Brad Pitt like everyone else.

  One day I’d show them all. I’d be so damn ‘cool’ that everyone would be absolutely begging to come round to my place. I’d have one of those mansions in the hills in LA — all white with pillars and palm trees and a couple of marble swimming pools and a drive-in wardrobe. And I’d give this massive party with guys in uniform ushering limos in. I’d be standing there on the steps wearing this incredible designer outfit with Brad Pitt on one side and Leonardo diCaprio on the other and ‘Rafe Fines’ lurking enigmatically somewhere in the background being incredibly mysterious. All these girls from school would drive up and I’d look at them blankly and say: ‘Hang on a minute — do I know you …’

  ‘Hi … I’ve come to check out your horny new neighbour.’

  Rosie woke me up!

  ‘Oh no! What’s the time?’

  ‘Seven-thirty. You look so you’ve been hard at work, I must say.’

  ‘How did you get up here? Mum in a coma or something?’

  My parents generally went ballistic if anyone interrupted the sacred homework hour.

  ‘Nah, told her we were doing a project together — official visit. So I’ve come to see what he’s like. I hear he’s got a really fit body.’

  She had moved over to the window and was staring out in the most obvious fashion.

  ‘Get away from there, he’ll see you. How come you know so much about his body anyway?’

  ‘Your kid sister’s put out an official statement. Only a matter of time apparently before you two are an item. She’s chosen her bridesmaid’s dress already.’

  ‘Gemma! Uggh … You can have no idea what a pain it is to have a younger sister. I’ve absolutely nil privacy. I fantasise sometimes about being an orphan with no family whatsoever. You don’t know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Yeah well, but brothers and sisters can take the pressure off. Being an ‘only’ means Mum’s investing all her hopes and ambitions in me.’

  ‘Huh — you can wind her round your little finger.’

  ‘That’s technique. Taken years to perfect. Sod-all going on over there — budge over.’

  Rosie grabbed a pillow and settled herself down end-to-end on my bed. She leaned over and shoved a CD in my player, then sat well-prepared for a girly chat.

  ‘So … what is he like?’

  ‘Turn it down a bit — they’ll hear.’

  ‘God, I’d give anything for a ciggie — do you think they’ll notice?’

  ‘Yes, Dad’s got a built-i
n smoke detector up his nostrils.’

  ‘OK, shoot. Is Gemma making it all up? Said he looked like that guy who used to be on Blue Peter — you know …’

  ‘Tim Vincent? The one she nearly died of a crush over? She needed counselling when he left the programme …’

  ‘Well is he …?’

  ‘Nah. He’s a bit more mature-looking than that. Not so baby-faced.’

  ‘Mmmm … Tell me more.’

  I suddenly had an insight that if Rosie got in on the act I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  ‘I didn’t get that good a look at him. Not that fit. Maybe he had dandruff …’

  ‘You must’ve got a pretty good look at him to notice that!’

  ‘Look, hold on — we don’t know a thing about him! He’s a squatter for God’s sake and he’s probably really rough. He goes to West Thames.’

  ‘A squatter who goes to college?’

  ‘Well, seems like he was going there this morning. I guess it is a bit odd.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a cleaner there or something.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Rosie had grabbed my eyelash curlers and was studying her reflection in my hand mirror. She was concentrating on putting the curl back in her lashes.

  ‘Hey … Something is going on over there.’ She stopped with one lash done — the hand mirror was trained over her shoulder.

  I craned towards my window. The boards which had been nailed up over one of number twenty-five’s upstairs windows — the one at the very top, opposite mine — were being split apart. It looked as if someone was trying to break through.

  Rosie had leapt from the bed and was hovering by the window.

  ‘Do we have a sighting?’ I asked.

  ‘Uh-uh, nothing yet,’ Rosie whispered, waving a hand at me to keep quiet. Then she added: ‘Down lights. Down music. Action!’

  I switched the bedside light off and joined her.

  The squatter was leaning out and wrenching at one of the boards which was proving hard to shift. He was wearing a torn old T-shirt. The light of the street-lamps had just come on and were catching him from below like footlights.

  ‘I thought Gems was exaggerating. But he is really scrummy.’