When George Wheeler turned back to look out of his window, first he saw his own tired reflection peering back at him, then beyond that his slice of Berry Street being hammered by rainfall. Across the street, the Tyler woman’s two daughters, aged three-and-a-half and six, stood at the window and watched the water bounce. They spotted him, smiled, and flapped their tiny hands.
It does that, he thought, waving back. The rain. It draws people. Spectators. And not just children either, folk of all ages. Look at me—sixty-five years old and sitting here for what, three, maybe three-and-a-quarter-hours?
He looked in the window glass again. Objects close to the bay window were easy to identify—the butterfly wing table and everything on it: thermos flask and cup, his grandpa cap, a plate of coconut rings. Peering further back into the room, everything became less clear. In fact, he could only really make out the orange-yellow glow from the corner-table lamp.
Returning to his reflection, he watched as it shook its head twice, then turning back to the table, he leaned across, plucked a biscuit from the plate, and held it ready for sacrifice over the cup. George my boy, he thought. Maybe you do look like a fool sitting indoors with your waterproof on, but at least you’ll be prepared if and when you need to go out there in a hurry. A regular boy scout is what you are.
He dunked the biscuit in the cup, held it for three seconds so that it absorbed enough tea, and then popped it into his mouth. It tasted wonderful. There were now only a few left on the plate. That’s the great thing about them, he thought. They taste great and you never get sick of them—at least I never do. Not like your Rich Teas or your Digestives—they should call them what they really are: Cardboard Wafers. Not these. Taste and longevity. If you’re planning on doing a long shift like this, there’s no better company than a thermos of hot tea and a packet of coconut rings. Really, I think they should have me advertising these babies.
As a retired nightshift security guard with twenty-two years experience of sitting around in multi-storey office blocks, he knew a thing or two about long stints like this; in fact, he knew a thing or two about everything. He knew she was never coming back to him. After two days, he was finally coming to terms with the idea. She was gone. His marriage was finito. That was that. He no longer cared if there was another man or not. What was done was done. The past was passed. He would get over it.
With a wry smile, he thought: Don’t know, don’t care, ‘cause I’ve as good as washed that woman right out of my hair—what’s left of it anyway.
He turned back to the window and saw the two girls from across the street were no longer there. They had retreated behind the curtains, for now. They’ll be back, he thought. As sure as sunrise, they’ll be back to watch the rain again.
A car pulled into the street.
George knew immediately it was Mrs. Sivers from 32 in her silver-grey Ford Fiesta. He’d watched her leave at quarter-to-seven, over an hour ago. Poor old cow, he thought. It’ll take her the better part of twenty minutes to reverse into her driveway. God only knew why she persisted with that tiresome negotiation several times a day, all that to-ing and fro-ing until she finally got the thing positioned properly. Crazy mare’s got dedication and enthusiasm in spades, I’ll give her that, he thought, smiling. Think I’ll lend a hand…
He grabbed his cap from the tabletop and pulled it on.
Outside, the cold went to work on freezing his face while the rain drummed his waterproof. He stood outside his door, waiting, until Mrs. Sivers, still in the midst of trying to park her car, spotted him and gave him a wave. No good sneaking up on her, frightening the life out of her/, he thought. However, once she gave the ok signal, he made his way across the street.
He bent down and yelled at her through the window glass. “Can I lend a hand, Mrs. Sivers?”
She mouthed the words “What? I can’t hear you.’’ George motioned for her to wind the window down. No electrics on this bucket. The car sat askew the pavement like a beached silver fish. Window down, he repeated the question.
“Lend a hand? A hand with what? Oh, this damned thing?” she said, shaking her head. “Never could get the hang of reversing, but I’ll manage, no fear. Thanks anyway.”
He turned and began to walk back across the street.
She called after him. “Mr Wheeler? You didn’t come outside in this—” She held out a purple-gloved hand, palm upward “—just to offer me some help, did you?”
He stood in the gutter, water streaming over and around his boots, and shrugged. “I happened to peek out my window, saw you pull into the street, and thought I’d come outside, so, yes, I suppose I did.”
“Very kind of you.”
“No problem,” he said, and turned to leave again.
“It’s a terrible thing,” she said. He stopped, turned, slowly this time. “Her running off like that with a younger man.” Mister Sivers has got a big mouth, he thought. Praise the Good Lord. She continued, “I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay so calm about it, I really don’t.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sivers.”
“Call me Mabel. Please.”
“In that case, thank you Mabel.”
“Mr Wheeler—”
“It’s George.”
“You’re a good neighbour, George,” she said. “And a good friend to Robert. You were also a good husband to that woman, too. He’s told me about how she never appreciated the things you did for her, and that’s no fault of yours. Keep telling yourself that in the difficult days ahead and it will get easier.”
“I do,” he said. “I already do.”
“It’s no fault of yours things turned out the way they did,” she repeated, waggling a finger at him. “She’ll come crawling back, mark my words. They always do.”
“That is a lovely sentiment, Mrs.—Mabel, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that, to take her back I mean. The damage is done, as they say.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “You’re right, George. Stand up for yourself. Don’t let her make a fool out of you.”
“I will and I won’t. Thank you. I feel a little better already.”
“Anytime, George. Anytime.”
It’s nice to have the neighbours on your side, he thought. Makes it easier over the course of things.
“George?”
“Yes?”
“Seeing as you’re here, perhaps you would be so kind as to help me inside with a few bags of shopping.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “They’re in the boot of the car.”
“Certainly.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re such a dear.”
“Mrs. Sivers…” He wore a look of seriousness as he shook his head.
“What? What is it?”
“No one’s called me that since God had a paper round.” They both laughed. “But flattery gets you everywhere these days, so just show me where to drop them inside, minding the eggs, of course.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, having consumed more tea and biscuits, George made his excuses and left. It wouldn’t do, abandoning his vigil; it wouldn’t do at all.
Outside, fat drops of water continued their assault on Berry Street. A man in shoes, trousers, a cotton shirt, and a casual jacket sprinted passed George as he stepped onto the pavement outside Mrs. Sivers place, almost knocking him over. Clearly caught in the downpour, the man—early twenties, George thought—crashed through the rain toward dry sanctuary somewhere. George smiled. He loved the rain. It washed the feces off the streets. But be prepared, he thought. Never get caught in it. He flipped his hood up over his head, lifted his shoulders, and headed home. While he walked, he ran through the end of his conversation with Mrs.. Sivers again.
“Can you give Rob a message for me?”
“Yes, of course. He’ll be home shortly if you’d like to wait for him.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. Can you tell him I’ll call him later? I won’t make it tonight.”
Dominoes. Life was too short to sit around playing dominoes with Rob. No time to dally, waste, or be unhappy anymore.
She nodded like she understood, but she doesn’t. “You shouldn’t be on your own, you know. Not at a time like this.”
He’d had to turn away as his cheeks puffed out with stifled laughter. Now that he was free to laugh, he found he couldn’t: the moment, if it was ever there, was gone.
“Tell him I’ll pop over tomorrow or give him a ring sometime.” She seemed doubtful. George smiled his best smile under the circumstances. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my chin up.”
“You do that, George. You do that.”
They exchanged goodbyes.
He stood outside his front door, under the narrow ledge, and shook off the rain still clinging to him. I should have been one of those self-motivation gurus they have overpopulating The States, he thought. Making my millions at the office then driving home to arse-fuck her indoors.
He went inside.
***
Later, sitting at the table by the window with a replenishment of tea and coconut rings, George continued his watch over the darkened streets. His gaze fell upon the Neighbourhood Watch sign fastened to a lamppost. With a sad smile, he thought, People want to be reassured that nothing bad is going to happen to them, that someone’s looking out for them; but no one is really watching except me. Oh, and the two girls.
They were back, dressed in pink cotton pyjamas, pressing their noses against the glass, watching the rain. They’ll be asleep soon enough, he thought. Curled up under the duvet while Mum or Dad sits on the edge of the bed reading aloud from the latest Potter. So innocent and pure right now, but something will spoil them – divorce, a relative or family friend with wandering fingers, the first time they kiss a boy: the only heroes left will be fallen ones.
“Eat another biscuit, Mister Melancholy,” he berated himself.
When the two girls disappeared, presumably off to bed, he switched on the television and watched “Tonight With Trevor McDonald”. He kept one eye on the street throughout.
The program finished and left George in a pensive mood.
He thought about going for a long walk in the rain to clear his head but thought better of it. He considered watching something else on TV, or picking up a book, but both activities demanded too much of his attention. People were beginning to shuffle off to bed: fewer lights were on now inside the homes of Berry Street. He looked at his watch. 23:46.
Seven hours.
Being a night watchman had taught him a lot of things: patience, for one. Opportunity, another.
You read a lot. You thought a lot, too. You examined and re-examined your life down to the last detail. And when you grew tired of that, there was nothing to keep you from stripping off and running around the place in your skin. No one gave one, as long as by eight o’clock the next morning the place still stood and everything was exactly where and as it was the day before. It didn’t matter if you pissed in the yuccas or masturbated sitting in the big boss’s expensive leather office chair. Nobody cared. Like that sign outside: Neighbourhood Watch. People like what it stands for; like the reassurance it provides them. They don’t care what goes on behind closed doors as long as it stays there, off the street, out of their home. As long as they can read about it in newspapers or watch it on TV.
He picked up another coconut ring, dunked it in his tea, held it four, five, six, seven seconds. Too long. When he lifted it out, half the biscuit was gone. Dammit. He hated that. When he drank the rest of it he would find this…this gloop collected around the bottom of the cup. It ruined the whole thing. Coconut rings are great and all, he thought, but dunking them is a fine art, it has to be said.
And there’s the lesson. Once you reach the end of something good, there is invariably something ugly staring back at you. A cup of tea or a marriage, there’s no difference.
He needed something stronger. He rushed to the kitchen, made himself coffee, added a measure of whiskey to it, then another, and hurried back to his seat by the window.
Midnight came and went. His old emerald-green Astra sat in the driveway. I’ll make it, he thought. It’s only nine feet. Nine feet.
The inevitable toilet break arrived. He’d held it long enough and now his bladder was fit to explode. Loathe to abandon his watch, yet powerless to do anything other than urinate where he sat, George relented and rose to his feet. He made his way to the bottom of the stairs. Climbing them one at a time, he became increasingly aware that every second he spent away from the window was vital.
He imagined walking back into the room downstairs only to be confronted by a dozen or more ghostly pale faces lined up outside his window, every one of them staring in at him through the glass; ghostly pale faces with rivulets of rainwater running over their unblinking eyes…
Whoa, too much whiskey, Georgie.
He went inside the bathroom, closed and locked the door. Halfway through urinating, he thought he heard something. A thud. It sounded like it came from upstairs, too. Close by. He tensed and the urine-stream stopped. Silence. His penis began to burn. Still silence. He relaxed and let it continue, while straining to listen to the house.
Fear of the unknown, that’s what gets them, he thought as he dried his hands after washing. The stories that don’t make it into the newspapers or onto the news.
He returned the towel to the rack and switched off the bathroom light before he opened the bedroom door.
Dark inside.
He reached up and flipped on the light switch.
Light flared and, lying on the floor next to the double bed, his wife flinched and shut her eyes. He turned her over with his foot. Her wrists and ankles were bound with lengths of electrical flex; the lower half of her face mummified with brown parcel tape. When she opened her eyes again, they pleaded with his.
It’s the stories Trevor McDonald doesn’t tell them they’re really afraid of, he thought.
The ones where they get away with murder.
