The Watchers: Episode Three
by Andy Mclean
Previous episodes
‘Side bet.’ The Pig mumbles to his equally porcine companion. ‘He goes down in the first thirty seconds.’ He gestures toward the darkness within box number four.
‘I don’t know …’ the other frowns and wiggles his fatty head. ‘Look at that black one. It’s got its eye on number one. I’d say that’ll be first blood.’
‘Come on,’ Pig urges. ‘Twenty k. Done and dusted. In a minute you could have enough cash for a special date with Tilly here.’
Tilly, whose real name is not Tilly at all, giggles and offers Pig a flirty look. The Pig puffs up and leers at his mate, his ego dextrously stroked. He turns back to the girl and raises an eyebrow.
‘How about it, Love? Think twenty grand would tip the scales in Mick’s favour?’ Pig is smiling, but has a darkness behind his eyes. She knows her response is being assessed.
‘Jerry!’ she feigns offense and barely manages to mask her disgust, ‘You are a bad, bad man!’ She reaches up to stroke the side of his face. ‘I do have standards, you know.’
Pig leans in and runs his hand down her back. She twists away before it reaches her bottom. ‘Ladies business. Back in a few,’ she mutters.
‘You’re gonna miss the fun!’ he calls to her back. When she glances back to smile, she sees his attention has already returned to the cage.
She filters through the crowd, the aromas of sweat and tobacco thickening every breath, adding to her anxiety, making every step feel as if it is uphill. She is jostled and nudged as she pushes between the groups of excited punters who stand between her and solitude. Through a door, along a stuffy, dusty corridor and into a common area. A coffee urn. A dozen grimy cups adorning a sink that smells like sour milk or vomit. Or both. A once stainless-steel water cooler, now crusted with perhaps decades of labourer sediment. It gurgles half-heartedly, the only sound in the room.
She pulls her mobile phone from her pocket, and with a trembling finger dials a number from memory. A ring tone that seems to go on for hours, then:
‘Yes?’
‘It’s happening.’
An intake of breath.
‘Where?’ he snaps, and she rattles off a set of GPS coordinates, also from memory.
‘How soon can you be here?’ she asks.
‘Shit! Look at where you are!’
She can imagine him running his hand through his thick black hair as he studies the map. It is a mannerism she is well familiar with. It is one she shares.
‘Terri …’ he whispers. His tight tone further increases her unease.
‘What?’ she barely summons enough breath to ask.
‘Get out of there. Now.’ He urges.
‘What? No. No, I can’t.’
‘Look,’ he insists, ‘you’re too far away.’
‘I … no, I can’t.’
‘Terri!’ His voice is muffled. A hand pressed to the telephone. She hears the tones of a brief conversation, but cannot make out the words. A short rustle and he is back. ‘Terri, we can’t get to you. You need to leave. Right now. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.’
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, her heart sending tiny quakes through her entire body, causing the phone to jiggle against her cheek. She thinks it through. He is right, she decides. She should pull out and start over again. But she is impatient. She has waited far too long already. She has invested too much of herself.
‘Terri?’ he prompts.
‘Okay,’ she relents. ‘Okay. I’ll go. But Sam, I have to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘They … they’ve got another one. He’s in there now. They’ve started already.’
A pause.
‘No. You can’t. You have to think of the big picture, Tez. Please. Just go, now.’
She says nothing, her mind clicking through multiple scenarios.
‘Terri?’ he says.
‘I love you, Sam.’
She hangs up before he can respond. Leans heavily against the wall. Takes a few deep breaths. Shakes her head.
‘Fuck it.’
She walks back along the corridor and out into the crowd.
