The Watcher

42. Something New

I'm sorry.

The words echoed through my head again as the crash of glass bounced off the walls of the yard. I watched the wine bottles shatter as they hit the bottom of the bin. Some exploded into deep green shards like fireworks, while others were almost untouched, except for a fatal crack. Those two words had felt like the latter.

It had been weeks since I'd found the note. Found it and stuffed it into some dark cupboard, before I could tear it to shreds. Because somehow, despite the anger those words sparked, I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Not yet.

"I've not heard that sound in a while," Gina called from above. Distracting me from the way the shards glittered in the recycling bin. Four years ago, I would have been drawn to the sharp edges on those fragments. I would have enjoyed the way they dug into my skin, a sharp reminder that there was always an easy way out. The knowledge that, if the voices in my head ever became too loud, or the nightmares too frequent, I could make it all stop. For some reason that exit strategy had helped, back then. Perhaps because I only ever had to make it through one more day. Just one more day and I could end it all.

I hadn't thought that way in a long time, years. Especially not since I'd been legally able to drink. Instead, I'd switched that coping mechanism for another, equally destructive, but somehow more socially acceptable.

As Gina mentioned it now, I realised that it had been a while since I'd relied on that particular crutch. Even the bottles I threw away now hadn't been swallowed down with the same desperation as they once had been. They had certainly started that way. That first week, after seeing Book Boy's note and realising that (from what Gina had said) it was likely as much a goodbye as an apology, had seen three bottles emptied down my throat. But none of them had quelled the feeling aching in my chest, or dispelled the boredom, the loneliness, I felt.

I'd grown so used to seeing Book Boy every day, of sharing my life with someone else, that his absence had left this hollow feeling behind. It seemed separate to the feelings of betrayal and disappointment I had whenever I thought of that night on the field, and after a week or two of trying and failing to fill it with wine, silence, and busywork, I caved and tried something new.

So, the rest of the wine bottles weren't from nights of sitting alone, staring mindlessly at the TV, or trying desperately to drown myself into oblivion. Instead, they were shared with Emma, Callum, even Kelly on the one occasion she joined us. For the first time in years, I sought my comfort in friends, in conversations that lasted hours, in laughter that made my cheeks ache and my eyes water. And it had helped, a little, with the void, that dark shadowy place that I tried not to think about, lest the ache in my chest spread a little further.

I frowned as said ache pounded against my rib cage, catching the back of my throat as those beautiful blue eyes flashed in my head.

"Are you still feeding that cat?" Gina prodded after I didn't respond, and I glanced up at her to see her peering over her railing. Her coppery hair glowed as the winter sun filtered through it. Grey-blue eyes watched me, heavily lined with metallic turquoise liner and thick black mascara. An extra crinkle creased her forehead between two drawn on eyebrows, neither quite the right shape.

I sighed, "yes, Gina."

The crinkle eased away as she scanned my face. "Hmmm."

"Aren't you going to tell me I'll get fleas?" I asked wearily as I rested my hand on my hip and waited for her to berate me as she usually did.

Instead, her face softened. "If she makes you happy then it's not my place to tell you what risks are worth taking. I know I never listened when anyone told me."

I gaped for a moment while she sunk back into her chair and pulled a cigarette from the packet. I had never doubted that Gina saw more than she let on, which was remarkable given she let on that she saw a lot. However, it had never occurred to me that she paid much attention to any of it, at least not enough to piece together the habits and foibles of those around her. Yet here she was, hinting at just how much she'd noted over the years of us living so close to each other, and the changes she'd spotted in me since Book Boy had left.

The itch inside me wanted to tell her to mind her own business. To stick to sucking back cigarettes rather than dishing out sage advice like she's some half price mystic at the travelling circus.

But the itch had caused enough damage, for a long time.

Gina had never caused me any trouble. In fact, all she'd ever asked of me was a moment of two of conversation, some snippet of human interaction in a world where everyone was so focussed on their phones and own lives, that they likely never stopped to look at the elderly woman smoking alone on her balcony. I wondered if, all this time, Gina had sat there, not so that she could smoke, but rather because the smoking had given her a reason to be out in the open. Perhaps it had been a habit borne out of a greater need or hope. The chance that - rather than sitting alone in her flat, with nothing but her thoughts and dreams of better days gone by - someone might stop and chat.

Maybe one day in the future I'd be doing the same.

I cleared my throat as that thought, and the kinship that accompanied it, settled over me.

"I was just about to make a coffee, would you like one?" The words seemed foreign and awkward as I said them. I shifted on my feet, one hand still resting on my hip, while on my other, my thumb ran over the ragged edges of my fingernails.

Gina was silent for a beat, and I felt a pang of regret that such an offer would throw her off guard. But then, what did I expect. I'd lived here for years and never offered her anything more than an obligatory response.

"No, tar, Pet," she said, her husky voice unsure. "I've never been much of a coffee drinker."

I turned towards the flat, picking up the plastic bag I'd used for the bottles and scrunching it into a ball before throwing it into the rubbish bin.

"I'd take a tea, though, if you have one."

I paused at Gina's words and twisted back to see her giving me a tentative smile over the railing. I met it with my own.

"Sure," I said, half pleased she'd taken me up on my offer, and half wishing she hadn't. "I think I've got some teabags hidden somewhere."

I glanced at the rickety stairs attached to Gina's balcony and thought of the weight of the unwieldy front door. Hers was no doubt the same. "Do you want me to bring it up or...?" I trailed off, trying to judge whether she was as protective over her space as I was. And if she was, which of us was going to have to concede.

Gina offered me a grateful, if not bashful, smile. "Yes please, Pet. My knees aren't what they used to be." A cheeky glimmer lit her eyes as she added, "occupational hazard."

Her husky salacious laugh erased any lingering awkwardness and followed me into the kitchen, as I went to boil the kettle.