A Watcher

T HE FIRST draw of a skinny cigarette burned the back of her throat, and her hand quickly wafted the wisps of thin exhaled smoke towards the open kitchen window she sat beside. She tightened as she caught herself going through the motion. The last ember of tobacco was extinguished among the stub marks of a hundred other cigarettes on the sooty stone windowsill. She pinged the dead butt from the third floor.

“Is that you smoking again?”

It was an accusation, not a question. His wavering voice calling out from a bedroom at the far end of the flat. The tired window sash squealed loudly as she pulled it down. His voice became more whiney.

“You know it’s not good for me.” A couple of wheezy coughs followed as if to prove the point. “I wish my lungs weren’t so bad.” The self-pity was cloying, and it made her angry.

She stared out across the street where a muscular wall of red sandstone tenements, much nicer than her side, lined up solidly. People in the street were getting on with their lives. A lean postman wearing shorts that exposed milky white legs, cradled an armful of post as he clambered up the short flight of stairs two at a time to reach the entrance close opposite. Two laughing kids were pushing each other into a dignified privet hedge that swayed stubbornly against the stresses of the passing whirlwind. They scampered away shouting jeers of derision at an old lady with a scowling face who was banging on her ground floor window at the young hooligans. An unhappy looking man with a shaved head was pulling a bit too harshly on the lead of a barking black dog intent on chasing a tabby that had darted under a parked car for cover.

“I need a drink for my tablets. I want ordinary water, none of that sugary rubbish.” His agitated voice with the volume turned up to full echoed along the hallway. She gritted her teeth and muttered to herself how a simple please or thank you would help.

She watched a young couple ambling slowly up the slight incline of the pavement, flitting in and out of vision as they passed under the canopies of a row of mature street trees. They were only teenagers, and judging by their coy body language, it was probably a first date. She wished she could be with them, sharing that feeling of prickly excitement mixed up with potential devastating heartbreak – all worth the risk at an age when the future was only tomorrow.

“Remember to phone the doctor. I’m needing more stuff for my inhaler.” His voice returned to break the spell, and she bristled at the needy attention continually being sought. How had her life become this?

Two young mothers pushed their prams together, chatting and smiling at their own success. An old man leaning heavily on a stick stopped them, and fumbled into his trouser pockets before pressing a coin alongside each new infant. Her own children never made it to birth. Perhaps they could’ve tried one more time, but there was no courage left to deal with the returning sadness. The teenage couple had now stopped and turned in towards each other, but the expected kiss didn’t happen.

“I’m uncomfortable. Can you come and sort my pillows?” His voice sounded childlike. She bit her lip and clenched her bony fingers into two blanched fists.

The trees trembled gently as a light breeze caught their vulnerable young leaves. An elderly couple who were still in dark winter wraps, plodded forward, each grappling with a filled supermarket bag for life; every step slowing down almost to stop as their worn-out joints seized up. The teenage couple had paused again at the end of the street, now standing a slight distance apart. She felt a sudden anxiety that made no sense. The boy kicked his heels and looked as if he had to be somewhere else. The girl paced around in small circles, nervously pulling and twisting at her long strands of shining dark hair, pretending not to notice the boy. She pressed her face up against the glass, desperately wanting the couple to hear her pleas that they mustn’t break up.

“It’s time for my oxygen.” His unwelcome voice crashed into her thoughts.

She really needed another cigarette.

“I also need some of that moisturiser stuff for my lips.” She shuddered at the croaks that followed.

Where had the happy and carefree days gone. Life used to be easy and simple. Faded images brought a flicker of a smile, but she knew she was trapped, unable to see a way out.

In the middle of the road, a grimy white delivery van stopped, its engine still running as its harassed driver dashed to deliver a parcel that had just been ordered a few hours ago. A charging cyclist had his unofficial time trial disrupted by the temporary roadblock and shouted abuse towards the absent driver. Two clean-cut men wearing black suits, ties and shoes had leather folders clasped under their arms. They looked a little edgy.

“I need my piss bottle.” He sounded frantic. She shook her head slowly, releasing a hissed Get it yourself before she bit into her tongue. “Hurry up. I’m going to wet myself in a minute.”

The teenage couple drew closer to one another, their lips touching for a moment. They radiated happiness and were back in love again. She clasped at her chest and felt her eyes sting, scolding herself for feeling soppy about strangers in the street. Still it felt nice. The postman re-emerged from the close entrance and turned to look up to the second floor where the flushed face of a middle-aged woman peered out from behind greying net curtains. Maybe they were having an affair?

“Where the hell are you!” His voice was half strangled with temper. “Hurry up! I need you to help me!”
She ignored him and opened the squeaky sash, taking in a deep breath of the warming city air as she surveyed her small world, knowing she would never be part of it.

The young couple were walking back to where they’d started. On impulse, she shouted out to them, but the couple were happy to ignore the mad old lady as they disappeared beneath the convenient avenue of tree cover.

“Where’s that water you promised me half an hour ago?”

She took small, scuffed steps to the kitchen sink and filled two glasses of cold water to the brim. She could feel the hatred crawling under her skin. The tick from the clock on the wall became louder, a countdown of a wasted life. She put one glass on a metal tray and started to carry it towards the hallway. But she stopped herself and suddenly dropped the tray, the glass shattering on the hard floor. She rubbed into her eyes and stifled a scream. She knew it was wrong to feel like this, but she was only human and needed love as much as anyone.

It wasn’t his fault that he’d been ill, and she knew she had to step up, in sickness and in health. She could never have left him, but all the love had been squeezed out from her. She had become a husk, with nothing left inside to give. But it had been five years since he’d gone. His favourite songs played at his funeral. The sombre crowd paying their last respects. He’d fought a brave fight with dignity. It all seemed like yesterday. It was what she had become that filled her with hatred: spending her days talking to ghosts and living what was left of her life through people she would never know. She had become a watcher.

John says: I live in Tyneside and have been writing since I retired. I’m lucky to work with a talented group of creative writers based in North Shields. I enjoy producing short stories, poetry, flash fiction and perhaps a novel can be completed soon as well.