Free The Watcher by Charlotte Link

stubbing out her cigarette in an empty planter, she saw John Burton step outside. He had put on a black jacket and slung a scarf around his neck. He smiled when he saw her.
    ‘Doing the same as me?’ he asked. ‘Abusing your lungs?’
    She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. In any case . . .’ She did not finish the sentence because she did not want to hurt his feelings, but he seemed to understand what she wanted to say.
    ‘In any case, it’s a good excuse to get away from all of that.’ He nodded towards the sports hall. ‘Unbearable.’
    ‘You think so too?’ she asked in surprise.
    He got out a packet of cigarettes and held it out to her. She took one. Sticking a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he tried to get a steady flame from his lighter, but it kept going out. Burton cursed. Gillian got out her lighter and lit both cigarettes.
    ‘Thanks,’ he said.
    They smoked in silence. In the end he said, ‘I saw you go out. You looked like someone escaping from something.’
    ‘I’d been hoping no one would notice,’ said Gillian.
    ‘Apart from me, I doubt anyone did. They don’t notice other people, at least not like that. But I had the feeling the whole time that you didn’t feel comfortable here.’
    Gillian swallowed. It was extraordinary what an understanding comment and a tone of sympathy could trigger. She had the feeling that she was on the point of tears, and that was, of course, terrifying. She would have found it awfully embarrassing to bawl her eyes out here on this foggy winter’s evening outside a sports hall next to her daughter’s tennis coach.
    ‘I was told about all the illnesses someone’s son has,’ she said. ‘Every detail and allergy. The woman just wouldn’t stop. There came a point where my head was hammering. Perhaps that is why I seem a little pained.’
    ‘Yes, that was Philip’s mum,’ said John. ‘He’s a nice, bright kid. In my opinion, he doesn’t have any allergies. He has his mother and that’s his problem.’
    He said this so calmly that Gillian had to laugh. She was surprised at herself. He had not been that funny, after all. But the laughter came from deep inside herself, from her belly, and bubbled up. She laughed freely, without holding anything back, and thought that she had not really laughed properly, from deep inside, for ages. At the same time she realised that something was not right, because she was laughing more than was appropriate for the situation. She was close to hysterics and it seemed to her that John Burton was looking at her in surprise too.
    ‘But . . . what’s the matter?’ he asked, and put his hand on her arm. Only then did she realise that she was no longer laughing but crying, and that she had not noticed how one had become the other. The tears were pouring down her face. Her skin had already been damp from the fog, and now it was wet and salty too.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘I’m sorry . . . I just don’t know.’
    To her dismay, she realised she could not stop crying.
    ‘Oh God,’ she moaned.
    Making a quick decision, Burton stubbed out his cigarette, removed Gillian’s cigarette from her hand and put it in the planter too, then took her arm.
    ‘Come on. Before other people see you out here . . . You don’t want to give them material for a month’s gossip.’
    She could not say anything. She just shook her head. Without any will of her own, she let him lead her across the car park and got into a car whose door he held open for her. She registered that he got in the other side and sat down next to her. She was still crying but she did at least manage to open her handbag and rummage around for a tissue.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she sobbed.
    Burton shook his head. ‘Stop apologising. I was watching you this evening and saw how unhappy you were – and you know what I thought?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I thought: she’s going to start crying sooner or later. And I hoped it wouldn’t happen to you in there. I’m glad it