The Visitors by K.L. Slater
Prologue
In my experience, it starts because you want to be a better you.
You start out by striving to be someone else – the perfect version of you – and then, before you know it, you’re acting like someone else altogether.
If you do a really good job, it’s amazing how the people around you will start believing in the person who isn’t really you.
Once the process has started, it’s difficult to back out. It’s so much harder to hold your hands up and tell the truth than to just let it play out and see where things go.
After all, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just trying to make a better life for yourself… and who can blame you for that?
So, it starts with an opportunity. Meeting the right person is crucial.
I’m lucky. I’m the kind of person who learns from my mistakes.
Sadly, I know only too well where the pitfalls are… I have to live with them every day.
I think I have a pretty good handle on how to meet the right sort of person now, and that’s why I chose her.
I started by just watching. And listening. It was innocent enough, at least in the beginning.
Yet things that start well can sometimes start to slide, very slowly, and before you know it, you’re out of control. So you must take it easy.
It takes time to build that momentum. Sometimes, you hardly notice it’s happening.
You think everything is going well, and then by the time you realise, it’s too late. The damage is done.
If people just do what they say they’ll do, everything can turn out fine.
But of course, most people do what they want to do.
Always selfish. Always far more interested in their own lives.
And before long, the person you’ve tried to do your best for, put all your trust in… that person will betray you. Just like all the others.
Then you’ve no choice but to stop them in any way you can.
That’s what happened last time, you see. So I made a promise to myself, which I fully intend to keep.
This time, I’ll do things differently.
This time, no matter what it costs, I’ll do it right.
Chapter One
David
Mr Brown at number 11 is in his front garden again.
This is something of an anomaly for a Tuesday morning, when a) he would usually be at work, and b) he mowed the lawn just two days ago.
I reach for my Rolodex rotary file system. It’s an original, a vintage model that I purchased from eBay for a considerable sum. Like my fountain pens and wax seals, it has that certain something that new technology simply lacks. Spreadsheets and databases can’t compare with the pungent permanence of real ink or the assurance of thick, textured paper under one’s fingertips.
I pull the Rolodex across the table towards me and open it at one of the three yellowed cards I’ve filed under the letter B.
I select my green fountain pen and make a note that Mr Brown has purchased a new orange Flymo lawnmower. It’s one of the less expensive models, the sort that doesn’t pick up after itself by collecting the cut grass, but that isn’t really surprising. When I scan my earlier entries, I’m reminded that last summer, Mr Brown got rid of his failing fancy gas barbecue and bought a bog-standard coals version.
Also, the rusting wrought-iron bench on the small patio has been replaced with a cheap plastic version. Mrs Brown often sits out there alone and in all weathers, staring for long minutes at the dark cracked concrete under her bare feet.
I completely missed the signs last time, but I don’t intend to make the same mistake again.
My attention is brought back to the window.
Mr Brown tugs the mower this way and that, employing a most unsatisfactory method that I feel sure will only serve to churn up the lawn and possibly cause irreparable damage.
I imagine exchanging my slippers for shoes and popping over there to warn him, but as usual, it is only a brief digression. I’m better off staying here, in the safety of my bedroom.
Mr Brown will most likely not appreciate my proffered advice one bit, and besides, how can I tell him I’ve been observing him from my bedroom window?
A quick viewing through the multi-zooms that Mother gifted me last Christmas – they arrived in a box with the tagline The World’s Most Powerful Binoculars – confirms Mr Brown’s furrowed brow and set jaw. He certainly doesn’t look in the best of moods; he looks rather like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
No surprise there.
I replace the cap on the green pen and pick up the red, the colour I’ve designated to signify an ongoing query in my notes.
MONEY PROBLEMS?
I print the letters neatly, underlining the query for good measure.
I’ll need to continue to keep a close eye on Mr Brown for obvious reasons. When people become worried about money, I know only too well how they can swiftly turn to desperate measures.
‘David!’ Mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Do you want sliced tomatoes in your ham and cheese sandwich, love?’
‘Please, Mum.’
I’m about to add that I quite fancy a bag of cheese and onion crisps too, but movement to the bottom left of the window distracts me.
It’s Mrs Barrett at number 7, bent almost double and sweeping her back doorstep. Our house, number 9, sits on the curve of the crescent, so when I look down to the left, I’m afforded a view of the whole of Mrs Barrett’s yard, including the back door, as I am number 11, the Browns’ residence, and a few houses either side.
The house is far too big for her now and must be rather a handful to manage. I thought she might sell up when Mr Barrett died; in fact, I’d already begun to fret who might come to live there if she moved on.
‘People react differently when a loved one dies, David,’ Mother remarked. ‘Some are compelled to escape the memories as soon as they can, while others can’t imagine ever leaving them behind.’
It seems Mrs Barrett has turned out to be one of those sorts of people who just stay put until it’s their turn to go.
I tap lightly on the glass but she doesn’t look up.
Over the last two years, I’ve done various odd jobs around the house for her, simple things like carrying heavy items upstairs or weeding the borders. I was just about able to manage that, despite the effort it took to leave my room. To her credit, Mrs Barrett has always been so very grateful.
When I started to feel a little better, I got my part-time job and finally plucked up the courage to take the bus every day. Sadly, I found it nigh-on impossible to visit Mrs Barrett several times a week like before, due to time constraints.
I make a mental note to pop next door again sometime soon. Yet as soon as the thought forms in my mind, my breathing turns shallow.
I expect it’s because I’ve had a difficult few weeks. There’s no particular reason for me feeling so unsettled, nothing specific I’m able to put my finger on, but then again, there rarely is. It’s just the usual stuff, emotions rising up inside and trying to spill out… just when I feel sure I’ve buried them good and deep.
Mother tries everything to bring me round.
Fancy a walk to the shops with me, David?
Would you mind just taking the bins out?
She means well, of course, but nothing she says can ever get through the impenetrable wall of fear that has installed itself in the forefront of my mind. Just when I think I’m over what happened, it seems to appear again, with a vengeance.
I cope OK with going to work, providing I’m able to follow all the necessary steps in the order I need to. It’s the unexpected and the out-of-the-ordinary that brings me out in a cold sweat, and that’s what I must strive to avoid.
This is why I know it’s so much better to stay home and adhere to my routine, rather than try and offer advice to Mr Brown about his mowing method.