Watching You: A Novel

Jenna was having lunch the following day when she saw Miss Farooqi approaching her across the classroom.

‘Jenna,’ she said, ‘when you’re done, Mr Fitzwilliam would like to see you in his office.’

As Miss Farooqi swept back through the classroom to the door there was a moment of weighted silence followed by a zoo-like cacophony of noises. Bess threw her a look, a mixture of awe and horror. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

Jenna finished her Weight Watchers chocolate bar, disposed of the wrapper and the rest of her packed lunch in a bin and slowly made her way down the corridor towards the suite of rooms where Mr Fitzwilliam, his two deputies and their secretary worked.

It smelled different down here, away from the gravy tang of the dining hall and the pungent traces of unwashed PE kits. Down here it smelled of fresh flowers and dry paper. She peered round the door into Miss Farooqi’s office. She was peeling the film off a pre-prepared salad. ‘You can go straight in,’ she said, sliding the packaging off a plastic fork. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Jenna nodded and turned the corner to the end office. Here was Mr Fitzwilliam’s perch: twice the width of the other offices, looking directly over the front entrance and the car park, long plate-glass windows the full width of the back wall. Mr Fitzwilliam sat not at his desk in the centre of the room, but at a small table to the left around which were clustered four squashy, dark red chairs. There was a heathery lambswool jumper over the back of his chair and his hair looked all messed up and staticky as though he had just that minute pulled it off.

‘Jenna,’ he said pleasantly, ‘so sorry to drag you away from your lunch break. I won’t keep you long, I promise. Here – take a seat.’ He pulled one of the squashy red chairs away from the table and she sat down.

‘How are you today?’ He said this in that fly-buzzy, mindless way that adults sometimes did when they talked to children. Not looking for real answers. Just saying words.

‘Good,’ she said. Then she cleared her throat.

‘Nothing to be nervous about,’ he said, leaning towards her marginally and ramping up his eye contact. ‘Just a … well. Something that’s playing on my mind a bit. And I wanted to run it by you. Before I take things any further.’

Jenna’s heart rate doubled.

‘You live in the village, don’t you? Just by the hotel?’

She nodded.

‘With your mum?’

She nodded again.

Mr Fitzwilliam sighed and steepled his fingers. He looked down and then up at Jenna and she felt a shiver go across the full surface of her skin. She saw it there, in his steady gaze, a hint of something as cold and dazzling as sunbeams ricocheting off ice. Her eyes fell to the red and yellow canvas strap of his watch.

‘And your brother lives with your dad? Down by the coast?’

‘Yes.’ She tried to raise her eyes to meet his but felt them being dragged downwards by her discomfort. She stared at her fingernails in her lap, at the pale salmon polish she’d painted on them two nights ago.

She heard Mr Fitzwilliam draw in his breath and felt him lean a little closer towards her. ‘My wife seems to think that your mother is stalking us.’

She stole a glance at him and saw the beginnings of a wry smile. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’

‘Now, it could be that my wife is mad. She has been known to be a little eccentric. But generally speaking she does not make things up. So I thought, possibly misguidedly, that I might just run it by you, see if you had any insight? Any background?’

‘What did she say?’ she asked, quietly. ‘Your wife?’

‘She said …’ He paused, allowing the enormity of what he was about to say a moment to coalesce. ‘That she has seen your mum outside our house taking photos and that your mother often follows her around the village. And once ran a few feet behind her while she was out jogging. While wearing her slippers. It’s all a bit …’ He paused again. ‘Unsettling.’

Jenna hooked her hands into the sleeves of her jumper and then unhooked them again. She had no idea how to react.

‘Is there anything going on at home, Jenna? Anything that it might be helpful for us to know about? Anything that might be impeding your learning?’

She shook her head. She did not want to be taken to live with her father. She did not want to go to a new school. She wanted to stay here until she’d done her GCSEs. She had only two terms left. She needed everything to stay on an even keel until then.

‘She just …’ she began. ‘She thinks she knows you. That’s all. I’m sure she hasn’t been following you about on purpose. Just, you know, trying to work out if you’re who she thinks you are.’

The sound of excitable girls’ screams rose from behind the school like distant ghouls. Mr Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes at Jenna and then readjusted his sitting position, his hand clasped to his tie. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘well, that might make sense. Any idea where she thinks she knows us from?’

She shrugged. ‘A holiday, I think.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Any idea whereabouts?’

She shrugged again. ‘Don’t really know,’ she said. ‘It was a few years back.’

‘And does she often recognise people? When you’re out?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘No.’

‘Because’ – Mr Fitzwilliam adjusted his seating position yet again so that he was bent at the middle, his face not much more than a foot from hers – ‘interesting fact, but thinking you recognise people a lot can sometimes be a symptom of some mental health issues. Schizophrenia, for example?’

Jenna nodded. She could smell something sweet on his breath, something sugary and malty. ‘I don’t think she’s got that,’ she said.

He pulled away and smiled. Jenna allowed herself a deep breath.

‘No.’ He pushed his tie back into place. ‘No. I don’t suppose she has. But could it be something else? Maybe? Because most people if they thought they recognised someone from a holiday would probably say something? Not’ – he expelled a hunk of wry laughter – ‘follow them about?’

‘I don’t really know what to say,’ said Jenna.

He sighed. ‘Well, maybe you could have a word with your mum when you get home? Tell her to come and have a chat, next time she sees me, or my wife? Say hello. Maybe we can work out where we know each other from? Yes?’ He smiled warmly. His laser-beam eyes turned soft.

‘Yes.’ Jenna nodded eagerly, sensing the end of the conversation.

‘Good. And remember, you have good friends here. Not just me and the staff, but your peers – Bess, for example. People who really care about you. So never feel like you can’t talk about things. Because you totally can. OK?’

‘OK.’ She nodded again and began to rise from the squashy chair.

She felt the touch of Mr Fitzwilliam’s hand against her sleeve and something rushed through her, sluice-like, ice cold but red hot both at the same time. She pulled her arm away and covered the spot with her own hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Jenna. Stay in touch.’

Bess ran to catch up with her at the end of school. For a moment Jenna was tempted to cold shoulder her but she knew that would be pointless. Bess didn’t have the neural pathways to intuit things like cold shoulders.

‘So,’ she said, falling into step with her as they neared the gates. ‘What the hell? Tell?’

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘It was nothing.’

‘It can’t have been nothing,’ she said. ‘No one gets called into the head teacher’s office in the middle of lunchtime for nothing. So?’

‘Urgh.’ Jenna capitulated. ‘His wife told him she’d seen my mum following them about. He was just asking me about it, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Bess inhaled sharply and fell a step behind her before quickly catching up again.

‘You told him, didn’t you?’ said Jenna, stopping and turning to face her friend. ‘I could tell he knew something. You told him about my mum.’

‘No! I didn’t. I swear! He just … he asked me if I knew what your mum looked like. That was all.’

‘Was this when you were chatting on a hotel landing in the middle of the night?’

Bess nodded, nervously. ‘But it wasn’t anything like what you’re thinking! He just said, What does Jenna’s mum look like, and I told him and he nodded and that was that.’

‘But didn’t you want to know why he was asking? I mean … it couldn’t just have been that. Like, no context, nothing. He must have asked something ese.’

Bess shrugged. ‘He asked if she was all right. He asked if you were all right. I said …’

Jenna inhaled.

‘I said your mum had some issues but that it wasn’t my place to talk to him about them and that if he wanted to know about them he should talk to you.’ She tipped her chin up stubbornly. ‘So—’

‘Fucking hell, Bess. Fuck!’

‘What? It was nothing! I didn’t say anything! I swear.’

‘You said enough though, didn’t you? Enough to have him asking questions. Enough for him to get other people involved. And now everything’s going to get completely fucked up!’

‘God, Jen, it’s already fucked up! I don’t see how it could get any worse! You know everyone in the village is starting to talk about your mum? My mum said when we were in Seville your mum was out on the high street all the time, talking to people, being really weird. Maybe it’s a good thing if Mr Fitzwilliam wants to help. Maybe you should let him.’