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  Watchers

  Philip Caveney

  © Philip Caveney 2013

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of the work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or

  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

  mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without the prior permission of

  Fledgling Press Ltd,

  7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

  Published by Fledgling Press, 2013

  www.fledglingpress.co.uk

  Cover design: Kylie Tesdale

  lalliusmaximus.wix.com/kylietesdale

  Print ISBN: 9781905916672

  eBook ISBN: 9781905916689

  This book is for the real ‘angels’ of this world − the teachers and librarians who, every day, guide and encourage children and help them to take their first steps into a very special place − the world of the imagination.

  ONE

  It was Saturday afternoon, a cold and miserable October day. There was nothing on the telly, so Will took Spot for a walk down by the river.

  Spot was a scruffy little mongrel, golden brown in colour, with not a single dark blemish on his entire body. Will couldn’t exactly remember why he’d called him Spot in the first place, but it hardly mattered now and at least it was a conversation piece, on those rare occasions when they encountered strangers.

  Mum had repeatedly told Will, ever since he was old enough to understand, that he wasn’t to talk to strangers, not ever, but Will needed to talk to somebody and conversation was in pretty short supply around the house since Dad had died.

  Mum did her best, obviously, but she spent a lot of time these days staring at the television with a tall glass of gin in her hand and a lot on her mind and Will could understand only too well why she didn’t have much to say for herself. She’d lost the love of her life way too early and she didn’t have the first idea how to make things work without him.

  Will was thirteen years old and sometimes he felt around a hundred. He was an only child and he’d never thought much about it, never had any need for brothers and sisters, at least not until recently, when it was far too late. He supposed the only option was to get on with things. It was what Dad would have wanted. But it was hard not to look at the empty chair where his dad used to sit and not feel a corresponding emptiness inside him.

  When he felt particularly low, Will came here to the riverbank, with its endless stretches of ragged grass and the flat gunmetal grey of the water. The water was always that colour, come rain or shine, and the place just seemed to suit his mood.

  Today Spot was doing his usual routine of running excitedly ahead, bounding about like he was made of India rubber. He was short-sighted and, after a bit, there would come that moment when he realised that he was on his own. He’d slow uncertainly, start going around in circles and then he’d come belting back, anxiety written all over him, until he located Will and reassured, would go racing off again, grinning with stupid pleasure, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Will envied the dog’s enthusiasm. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt like that about anything.

  Oh, he did all the same stuff he used to. He listened to the same music on his iPod, watched the same TV programmes, played the same computer games and hung out with the same mates at school . . . but now it all seemed so . . . pointless. Why bother with any of it when your life could just be taken from you at any minute?

  That was what had happened to his dad. He’d been coming home from a night shift at the steelworks on his battered old bicycle and some bloke in a Vauxhall Astra, who’d downed a couple of pints too many, had come roaring around a bend in the road at seventy miles an hour.

  End of story. Finito.

  People had told Will that he’d get over it in time, but it had been more than a year now and he was still dragging himself out of bed in the morning, feeling that he’d much rather stay right where he was, with the covers up over his head. And now, here it was, a Saturday afternoon, once an excuse to have fun, and he felt just plain miserable.

  He trudged along the riverbank, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Every so often, he stopped to look at the ramshackle old boats, mouldering quietly at the ends of their mooring ropes, but he did that only to break the monotony of walking. And after a bit, he walked to break the monotony of looking.

  ‘For God’s sake, snap out of it,’ he muttered to himself. It had become a familiar mantra over the past few months but it had no effect. If he heard himself, he clearly took no notice.

  Will lifted his head at the sound of a bark. Spot had encountered a stranger approaching along the riverbank and was doing his usual ritual of pressing his flank against the man’s leg, wagging his stumpy tail and looking hopefully up in the expectation of a pat or a kind word. But the man who stood looking down at the dog didn’t seem all that friendly.

  As Will drew closer he could see that the stranger was an odd-looking bloke, tall and thin, with long greying hair that hung to his shoulders. He was probably in his fifties, Will thought, though it was hard to be sure. The man was wearing a heavy black overcoat that hung almost to his ankles and his shoulders were humped and misshapen, as though he suffered from some kind of deformity. His hands were rammed deep in the pockets of his coat and he watched Will’s approach with blank, grey eyes. There was no expression on his face whatsoever.

  ‘I’m sorry about Spot,’ ventured Will, pointing to the dog. ‘Sometimes he’s a bit too friendly.’

  It was Will’s regular opening ploy. Most people would come straight back with the question, ‘Why’s he called Spot?’ and the conversation would follow. But the tall man didn’t say anything; he just stood there, looking down at Will, as though waiting for him to say something else. Eventually, perturbed by the silence, Will did exactly that.

  ‘It’s . . . clearing up a bit,’ he said. ‘The weather . . .’

  The man looked slowly around as if to verify this statement. He must have decided that it was accurate, because he grunted as if in agreement and then went back to his staring. There was an intense quality about the man’s eyes that made Will feel distinctly uncomfortable. It was as though he could see right through him into the secrets that were locked deep within.

  ‘It er . . . it might rain this afternoon,’ said Will. It was a stupid thing to say and he knew it, but he had suddenly become aware that this place was very remote and there would be nobody in earshot if he should need to call for help. He had his phone in his pocket, but he could easily be dead before he had dialled those three all-important digits. Memories flashed unbidden through his mind; newsreaders on TV announcing their grim statistics. The alarm was raised when the boy failed to return from his walk . . .

  Will glanced over his shoulder, back to the bridge where he had descended the steps to the riverbank, and he saw that it was a lot further away than he had imagined. He decided it really was time to make a move.

  ‘Come on, Spot,’ he said and began to walk on by.

  ‘Will Booth,’ said the man, and Will stopped in his tracks. ‘Thirteen years old, currently attending St. Brendan’s High School.’ The man had a slow, lazy drawl of a voice that had almost a sing-song quality to it. He continued to stare at Will as he went on. ‘Mother, Gillian Booth, forty six years old, housewife and occasional gin-fiend.’ He paused for a moment and then carried on. ‘Dog: Spot, six years old, no known occupation, prone to being over-friendly.’ Spot gazed up at the man in evident adoration, drops of saliva raining from his pink tongue.

  Will turned back to look at the man.r />
  ‘How did you . . .?’ he began, but the man lifted a hand to still him. He was looking up towards the sky now and he seemed to be concentrating.

  ‘Your dad says hi,’ he said. And smiled.

  TWO

  Will stared at him for a few moments in total astonishment. He tried to understand what the man had said, but failed to do so. What was he talking about? His dad? Then the questions started pouring out of him.

  ‘Wh . . . what do you mean, my dad says hi?’ he stammered. ‘He’s d . . . dead. He’s been dead for over a year.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he muttered, a touch of irritation in his voice. Then he seemed to soften a little. ‘Obviously, I’m sorry for your troubles,’ he added. ’It’s not nice having a dead dad. At least, I don’t suppose it is.’

  ‘No, but . . . wait a minute. How did you know the other stuff? My name and that. And my Mum. I mean, how did you . . .?’

  Now the man looked positively outraged.

  ‘How d’you suppose I know?’ he growled. ‘Your dad told me. He says . . .’ The man paused for a moment and then seemed to concentrate again, gazing off into the middle distance ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, as though speaking to someone else. ‘Yeah, mate, no problem.’ He looked back at Will. ‘He says you’ve got to be strong now. You’ve got to try and pull yourself together, for your Mum’s sake, if not your own. Oh, and he says you’re to get the brakes fixed on your bike, he told you that a year ago and you still haven’t got around to it.’

  ‘But . . .’ Will started to pace around. He didn’t know what else to do. Here he was talking to some nutter, but he had to admit, a very well-informed nutter. And ok, Will knew that most of the stuff he’d said, the man could have found out simply by asking around the neighbours on the estate, but the thing about the bike . . . his dad had told him to get his brakes fixed, just a couple of days before his death. How could anyone else know about that? The tall man gave Will an apologetic look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Look, I really ought to be going. I’ve given you the message, maybe that’ll be enough for him.’

  He made as if to walk on, but Will was emboldened enough to reach out a hand to stop him.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘You can’t say stuff like that and then clear off, as though it’s no big deal.’

  The man sighed.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I suppose not.’ He raised his eyes skywards for a moment. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ he muttered.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ demanded Will.

  The man gave him a look.

  ‘Take a wild guess,’ he said.

  Will started to pace again. Too much was happening too quickly, he couldn’t really take it in. He saw that Spot was looking at him expectantly, as if wondering when they would be on their way again. But he could hardly just continue on his way and forget about what he’d heard.

  A question occurred to him and he asked it.

  ‘Who exactly are you?’

  ‘Me?’ The man frowned. ‘Oh, I’m nobody of any importance. You can call me Ari,’ he said.

  ‘Harry?’ said Will.

  ‘No, Ari, with an A.’

  ‘What kind of name is that?’

  ‘It’s a shorter version of my real name, which I can assure you, would make you raise your eyebrows even higher. And I didn’t choose it. But then, who ever does get to choose their name?’ He looked around as if searching for something. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you mind if we sit down for a bit? My legs are killing me. I’ve walked miles today.’

  He pointed to a relatively dry stone step at the river’s edge. ‘That should do us,’ he said. He didn’t wait for a reply but ambled over to the step and got himself seated comfortably. Spot looked doubtfully at Ari and then back at Will, evidently confused. After a few moments, his tail began to wag. He walked over to Ari and stretched himself out on the grass beside him as though the two of them were old friends. Which left Will with no option but to join them.

  He sat next to Ari on the stone step and the two of them stared at the still surface of the river in silence for several long moments. Will’s mind was working overtime as he tried to think of all the questions he needed to ask.

  ‘So, how do you know my dad?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ said Ari. ‘At least, I didn’t till about five minutes ago.’ He fished in one of his pockets and drew out a battered-looking Golden Virginia tin. Will noticed that Ari’s fingernails were long and grubby, the forefinger stained orange. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked.

  Will shrugged.

  ‘Filthy habit,’ he said. ‘But it’s up to you.’

  Ari opened the tin and went about the ritual of constructing a hand-rolled cigarette. Despite himself, Will found himself fascinated by the skill the man exercised in this simple task. He almost wanted to ask if he could have a go, not that he’d actually smoke the thing. They’d had enough lectures about that in school to put him off even thinking about it.

  ‘You’ll probably die of lung cancer,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Ari, breezily.

  ‘So . . . what you’re saying . . .’ Will chose his words with care. ‘You’re saying that my dad just kind of . . . spoke to you. What are you, some kind of . . . whatchamacallit . . . a medium?’

  Ari looked horrified.

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. The very idea!’ He gave a funny little laugh, the kind that’s often described as a cackle.

  He finished his roll-up and lit it with a flourish. Will was just thinking that it was odd, because he hadn’t actually seen him get out a lighter or any matches, but then Ari exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke and started talking and there was nothing to do but listen.

  ‘Let me explain it the best way I can. I’m walking along the riverbank, see? Heading back to my people after a long and I might add, very arduous journey away, and who should I see but you and the dog coming towards me and . . . well, no offence, but the last thing I want to do is stop and talk to some kid, but then . . . then, it comes straight at me, doesn’t it?’

  Will stared at him. ‘What comes straight at you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s like . . . like a hot pain, hits me right here.’ Ari tapped his forehead with an index finger. ‘I never know when it’s going to happen, but it does from time to time, and there’s no option but to go with it. So then my head fills up with the sight and the sound of this bloke who I’ve never met before and he’s saying, “Help me, help me, I need to get a message to my boy, he’s in real trouble . . .”’

  ‘No I’m not!’ protested Will.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Ari, scornfully. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you haven’t got a clue about what’s going on out there.’ Ari waved a hand in the general direction of the sky. ‘Things are brewing, boy, things the like of which you can have no inkling of.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ asked Will, puzzled.

  Ari seemed to ignore the question. He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them again. ‘Your dad reckons you’re unhappy,’ he said. ‘And when I look at you I do detect a certain bleakness of spirit, a kind of desolation . . . but he . . . your dead dad, he thinks you’re deep in the brown stuff and he’s asked me to help.’ Ari looked at Will and sighed again. ‘To tell you the truth, I could do without it, I really could. It’s been a trying couple of days. But, once I’m asked for help, I’ve got to give it my best shot. That is a fact.’

  Will sat there, wondering if perhaps he was going barmy. That was it, he’d finally snapped and he’d hallucinated this old nutter. Except that he knew, deep down, that if he had hallucinated a character, it would have been something a bit more flash than this drab, smelly old geezer in his fraying coat and worn out Nike trainers. Another thought occurred to him.

  ‘This is a set-up, isn’t it?’ he said triumphantly. ‘It’s one of those stupid TV shows where it’s all secretly being filmed.’ He got up from the step and started looking fe
verishly around. ‘Yeah, that’s it! There are cameras hidden somewhere, aren’t there? I bet you’ve made me look a right berk.’

  Will knew suddenly where the cameras had to be, there was only one possible location. The old World War Two pillbox, perched on the riverbank a short distance away, its concrete walls covered with decades worth of graffiti. As a youngster Will had used it as a fort a hundred times and he and his friends had won many a battle against imaginary soldiers, firing millions of pretend bullets through the letterbox-shaped gun-slits in the walls. A perfect spot to hide a camera, he thought. A lens could look out of that opening with as deadly an aim as any rifle.

  ‘The film crew’s hidden in there, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Ari gave him a pitying look.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ he muttered. ‘Blimey, you're a worse case than I thought. Clearly your old feller had a point about you.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, you try and bluff it out. But I know what you’re up to!’

  Will marched towards the pillbox, a confident grin on his face. He could picture the embarrassed faces of the camera crew when he went barging in there, telling them the game was up.

  ‘Right,’ he announced. ‘I’m onto you!’ He stepped through the opening into the gloom within and stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust. But there was nobody in there, just more graffiti and a faint smell of urine from all the dog-walkers who had stopped here to relieve themselves over the years. The emptiness hit him like a blow in the chest. He had been so sure . . .

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked a voice in his ear and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t realised that Ari had followed him in there. He turned to face him and backed up until his shoulders were against a wall. He was suddenly very scared of being trapped in this dark, claustrophobic place with a man who was clearly several butties short of a picnic.