‘I’ve put your clean laundry on your bed,’ she called. ‘Your room could do with a clean, but that’s your job.’
‘I know, I will,’ he said, bristling. She treated him like a little boy.
In the kitchen Derek put his lunchbox in the sink for washing later, poured himself a glass of water and went upstairs to his room where he would stay until she called him for dinner. It niggled him that she went into his room at all. At his age – forty-one – it should have been his domain, and she could have left his laundry in the airing cupboard, but he didn’t complain. He always turned the monitors off when he was out and even if she switched them on, which he doubted she would, she wouldn’t get any further than the screen savers, as the system was heavily password protected. It was the fact she had entered his territory at all that he bitterly resented, but he felt powerless to say anything.
With his bedroom door bolted, Derek sat in his office chair at his workstation, took a sip of water and powered up the monitors. As soon as they sprang into life he began searching local newspapers for updates on the stabbing at U-Beat nightclub. What Paul had said was worrying him.
The police were appealing for witnesses, the articles said, and anyone with any information should contact the number shown below. They were especially interested in talking to a motorbike rider seen leaving the area shortly after the incident, but there were no more details.
Derek opened the folder where he’d downloaded the footage from the CCTV camera at the front of the nightclub. When he’d watched in real time – as the attack had happened – he’d been concentrating on the actual action; now he scanned it for anything he might have missed. On the very edge of the screen he spotted a figure in black running from the alleyway just after the attack, but there was no motorbike in view.
He rewound to an hour before the incident and trawled through the footage, again concentrating on what was going on at the edges of the camera. His patience was eventually rewarded and he now saw what the police had presumably seen – what looked like the same figure entering the alley thirty minutes before the attack, but not detailed enough to make an identification, and no sign of a motorbike. He watched the footage for a few minutes more, then satisfied he had the same information as the police, closed the file.
Moving his chair to the centre of the workstation, Derek made a brief scan of all the live streams on all four screens, making sure nothing untoward was going on that might require his attention in the families he monitored. He zoomed in on a couple of images, then stopped at the Williams’ house, zoomed in and engaged the microphone on the camera in their living room. Mrs Williams was on the telephone, talking to her babysitter whom he recalled was their goddaughter. She was asking if she was free to babysit that evening for a few hours, and apparently she was.
‘That’s great. Thanks, Sophie, sorry it’s short notice,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘We won’t be late. Yes, come here for seven o’clock and Russ will take you home after.’ Derek had missed why she and Mr Williams were going out at short notice but he now knew their goddaughter was called Sophie. He liked to know all their names; it made him feel part of the family life he so yearned for.
His mother called from downstairs to say that dinner was ready and he clicked the mouse to put the system into sleep mode before going down. At least this meal would be freshly cooked and not dried or congealed from being kept warm in the oven for hours. She was already sitting at the table in the kitchen, waiting for him before beginning. The table as usual was covered with the faded flowered tablecloth and laid with the correct cutlery and the condiments set in the centre. They ate like this, even though there was just the two of them and even though he was sure she’d have been happier with her meal on a tray in front of the television. It was sad seeing her sitting there waiting for him, touchingly pathetic.
‘They’re putting CCTV in the flats where my sister lives,’ she said, picking up her knife and fork as he took his seat.
‘Oh yes?’
‘She was surprised we didn’t have it here. Why don’t we, Derek?’
‘Mum, when I asked you, you said you didn’t want it. That it would make you feel self-conscious.’
‘Yes, it would.’
He looked at her, not sure what to say for the best. ‘Don’t worry. This place won’t be burgled. You’re in most of the time and there’s little of value here for them to take.’
‘Whose fault is that?’ she snapped.
Derek didn’t reply. He knew the answer only too well. After his father had walked out, his mother had discovered he’d been borrowing heavily against the house and there was nothing left. It had taken Derek years to repay the debts, and the mortgage was still sixty per cent of the value of the house. He resented it too but he wished she wouldn’t keep harping on about it. It just made her more bitter.
‘Nice bit of braising steak,’ he said.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence, then she returned to her chair in the living room while he washed up. It was part of their routine, their almost-harmony. Thank goodness he had his work.
He poured himself a glass of water and went upstairs as the theme tune of the first soap of the evening began in the living room. Dinner was timed around the soaps. She occasionally watched the news but not often. She said there was too much suffering in the world. She preferred the fictional world of the soaps.
What was it the poet TS Eliot said? Derek thought as he entered his room: ‘Human kind cannot bear very much reality.’ How true. He had liked poetry at school and would have liked to have studied it in higher education, but going to university had vanished along with his father and the debts he’d left behind.
Rolling his chair to the centre of the workstation, he brought the monitors out of sleep mode and the screens filled with the thumbnail images of the live streams. It was just starting to get dark outside and Derek liked this time of evening most of all. As the natural light faded and the infrared sensors took over, the pictures were tingled with a light pink hue, creating the impression of a magical fairy-tale land. Day and night images were harsh and uncompromising compared to this. He sat back in his chair and savoured the scenes for a moment. Then it was time to get to work.
Leaning forward with his arms resting lightly on the desk, Derek began scanning the thumbnail images and was immediately alerted to the living room of the Williams’ home again.
‘Sophie!’ he said aloud, shocked. She was lying on the sofa with her legs and arms wrapped around a lad Derek hadn’t seen before and assumed to be her boyfriend. ‘I bet Mr and Mrs Williams don’t know he’s there.’
He zoomed in so their image filled the screen and clicked on the speaker icon to engage the microphone on the camera. Grunts and groans, heavy breathing, sighs of pleasure accompanied the writhing bodies, as they kissed and groped each other. Disgusting, Derek thought. How old was she? He didn’t know but would guess fourteen, and the lad looked a couple of years older. They paused for a moment to drain the last of their drinks, ice cubes melting in the bottom of the cut-glass crystal tumblers.
‘Another G and T darling?’ the lad said in a voice that presumably was supposed to be an imitation of Russ’s.
Sophie giggled. ‘Oh, darling, I daren’t take any more of their gin; they’re sure to know it’s been watered down.’ She giggled some more.