I See You by Clare Mackintosh is a dark and claustrophobic thriller in which a normal, everyday woman becomes trapped in the confines of her normal, everyday world (available February 21, 2017).
Every morning and evening, Zoe Walker takes the same route to the train station, waits at a certain place on the platform, finds her favorite spot in the car, never suspecting that someone is watching her…
It all starts with a classified ad. During her commute home one night, while glancing through her local paper, Zoe sees her own face staring back at her; a grainy photo along with a phone number and a listing for a website called FindTheOne.com.
Other women begin appearing in the same ad, a different one every day, and Zoe realizes they’ve become the victims of increasingly violent crimes—including murder. With the help of a determined cop, she uncovers the ad’s twisted purpose…A discovery that turns her paranoia into full-blown panic. Zoe is sure that someone close to her has set her up as the next target.
And now that man on the train—the one smiling at Zoe from across the car—could be more than just a friendly stranger. He could be someone who has deliberately chosen her and is ready to make his next move…
The man behind me is standing close enough to moisten the skin on my neck with his breath. I move my feet forward an inch and press myself into a gray overcoat that smells of wet dog. It feels as if it hasn’t stopped raining since the start of November, and a light steam rises from the hot bodies jammed against one another. A briefcase jabs into my thigh. As the train judders around a corner I’m held upright by the weight of people surrounding me, one unwilling hand against the gray overcoat for temporary support. At Tower Hill the carriage spits out a dozen commuters and swallows two dozen more, all hell-bent on getting home for the weekend.
“Use the whole carriage!” comes the announcement. Nobody moves.
The gray overcoat has gone, and I’ve shuffled into its place, preferable because I can now reach the handrail, and because I no longer have a stranger’s DNA on my neck. My handbag has swung round behind my body, and I tug it in front of me. Two Japanese tourists are wearing gigantic rucksacks on their chests, taking up the space of another two people. A woman across the carriage sees me looking at them; she catches my eye and grimaces in solidarity. I accept the eye contact fleetingly, then look down at my feet. The shoes around me vary: the men’s are large and shiny, beneath pinstriped hems; the women’s heeled and colorful, toes crammed into impossible points. Among the legs I see a pair of sleek stockings; opaque black nylon ending in stark white trainers. The owner is hidden but I imagine her to be in her twenties, a pair of vertiginous office heels stashed in a capacious handbag, or in a drawer at work.
I’ve never worn heels during the day. I was barely out of my Clarks lace-ups when I fell pregnant with Justin, and there was no place for heels on a Tesco checkout, or coaxing a toddler up the main street. Now I’m old enough to know better. An hour on the train on the way into work; another hour on the way home. Tripping up broken escalators. Run over by strollers and bikes. And for what? For eight hours behind a desk. I’ll save my heels for high days and holidays. I wear a self-imposed uniform of black trousers and an array of stretchy tops that don’t need ironing, and are just smart enough to pass as office-wear; with a cardigan kept in my bottom drawer for busy days when the door’s forever opening and the heat disappears with every prospective client.
The train stops and I push my way onto the platform. I take the Overground from here, and although it’s often as busy, I prefer it. Being underground makes me feel uneasy; unable to breathe, even though I know it’s all in my head. I dream of working somewhere close enough to walk to, but it’s never going to happen: the only jobs worth taking are in zone one; the only affordable mortgages in zone four.
I have to wait for my train and at the rack by the ticket machine I pick up a copy of the London Gazette, its headlines appropriately grim for today’s date: Friday, November 13. The police have foiled another terrorism plot: the front three pages are rammed with images of explosives they’ve seized from a flat in North London. I flick through photos of bearded men, and move to find the crack in the tarmac beneath the platform sign, where the carriage door will open. My careful positioning means I can slide into my favorite spot before the carriage fills up: on the end of the row, where I can lean against the glass barrier. The rest of the carriage fills quickly, and I glance at the people still standing, guiltily relieved to see no one old, or obviously pregnant. Despite the flat shoes, my feet ache, thanks to standing by the filing cabinets for most of the day. I’m not supposed to do the filing. There’s a girl who comes in to photocopy property details and keep the cabinets in order, but she’s in Mallorca for a fortnight and from what I saw today she can’t have done any filing for weeks. I found residential mixed up with commercial, and rentals muddled up with sales, and I made the mistake of saying so.
“You’d better sort it out, then, Zoe,” Graham said. So instead of booking viewings I stood in the drafty corridor outside Graham’s office, wishing I hadn’t opened my mouth. Hallow & Reed isn’t a bad place to work. I used to do one day a week doing the books, then the office manager went on maternity leave and Graham asked me to fill in. I was a bookkeeper, not a PA, but the money was decent and I’d lost a couple of clients, so I jumped at the chance. Three years later, I’m still there.
By the time we reach Canada Water the carriage has thinned out and the only people standing are there by choice. The man sitting next to me has his legs so wide apart I have to angle mine away, and when I look at the row of passengers opposite I see two other men doing the same. Is it a conscious thing? Or some innate need to make themselves bigger than everyone else? The woman immediately in front of me moves her shopping bag and I hear the unmistakable clink of a wine bottle. I hope Simon has thought to put one in the fridge; it’s been a long week and right now all I want to do is curl up on the sofa and watch telly.
A few pages into the London Gazette some former X Factor finalist is complaining about the “pressures of fame,” and there’s a debate on privacy laws that covers the best part of a page. I’m reading without taking in the words: looking at the pictures and scanning the headlines so I don’t feel completely out of the loop. I can’t remember the last time I actually read a whole newspaper, or sat down to watch the news from start to finish.
It’s always snatches of Sky News while I’m eating breakfast, or the headlines read over someone’s shoulder on the way in to work.
The train stops between Sydenham and Crystal Palace. I hear a frustrated sigh from farther up the carriage but don’t bother looking to see who it’s from. It’s already dark and when I glance at the windows all I see is my own face looking back at me; even paler than it is in real life, and distorted by rain. I take off my glasses and rub at the dents they leave on either side of my nose. We hear the crackle of an announcement but it’s so muffled and heavily accented there’s no telling what it was about. It could have been anything from signal failure to a body on the line.
I hope it’s not a body. I think of my glass of wine, and Simon rubbing my feet on the sofa, then feel guilty that my first thought is about my own comfort, not the desperation of some poor suicidal soul. I’m sure it’s not a body. Bodies are for Monday mornings, not Friday evenings, when work is a blissful three days away.
There’s a creaking noise and then silence. Whatever the delay is, it’s going to be a while.
“That’s not a good sign,” the man next to me says.
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally. I carry on turning the pages of my newspaper, but I’m not interested in sport and now it’s mostly adverts and theater reviews. I won’t be home till after seven at this rate; we’ll have to have something easy for tea, rather than the baked chicken I’d planned. Simon cooks during the week, and I do Friday evening and the weekend. He’d do that too, if I asked him, but I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have him cooking for us—for my children—every night. Maybe I’ll pick up a takeaway.
I skip over the business section and look at the crossword, but I don’t have a pen with me. So I read the adverts, thinking I might see a job for Katie—or me, come to that, although I know I’ll never leave Hallow & Reed. It pays well and I know what I’m doing now, and if it weren’t for my boss it would be perfect. The customers are nice, for the most part. They’re generally start-ups looking for office space, or businesses that have done well, ready for a bigger place. We don’t do much residential, but the flats above the shops work for the first-time buyers and the downsizers. I meet a fair number of recently separateds. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I tell them I know what they’re going through.
“Did it all turn out okay?” the women always ask.
“Best thing I ever did,” I say confidently. It’s what they want to hear.
I don’t find any jobs for a nineteen-year-old wannabe actress, but I turn down the corner on a page with an advert for an office manager. It doesn’t hurt to know what’s out there. For a second I imagine walking into Graham Hallow’s office and handing in my notice, telling him I won’t put up with being spoken to like I’m dirt on the sole of his shoe. Then I look at the salary printed under the office manager position, and remember how long it’s taken me to claw my way up to something I can actually live on. Better the devil you know, isn’t that what they say?
The final pages of the Gazette are all compensation claims and finances. I studiously avoid the ads for loans—at those interest rates you’d have to be mad or desperate—and glance at the bottom of the page, where the chatlines are advertised.
Married woman looking for discreet casual action. Txt ANGEL to 69998 for pics.
I wrinkle my nose more at the exorbitant price per text than the services offered. Who am I to judge what other people do? I’m about to turn the page, resigned to reading about last night’s football match, when I see the advert below “Angel’s.”
For a second I think my eyes must be tired; I blink hard but it doesn’t change anything.
I’m so absorbed in what I’m looking at that I don’t notice the train start up again. It sets off suddenly and I jerk to one side, putting my hand out automatically and making contact with my neighbor’s thigh.
“It’s fine—don’t worry.” He smiles and I make myself return it. But my heart is thumping and I stare at the advert. It bears the same warning about call charges as the other boxed adverts, and a 0809 number at the top of the ad. A web address reads: www.FindTheOne.com. But it’s the photo I’m looking at. It’s cropped close to the face, but you can clearly see blonde hair and a glimpse of a black strappy top. Older than the other women pimping their wares, but such a grainy photo it would be hard to give a precise age.
Except I know how old she is. I know she’s forty.
Because the woman in the advert is me.
Kelly Swift stood in the middle of the Central line carriage, shifting to one side to keep her balance as the train took a bend. A couple of kids—no more than fourteen or fifteen years old—jostled onto the train at Bond Street, engaged in competitive swearing that jarred with their middle-class vowels. Too late for after-school clubs, and it was already dark outside; Kelly hoped they were on their way home, not heading out for the evening. Not at their age.
“Fucking mental!” The boy looked up, his swagger giving way to self-consciousness as he saw Kelly standing there. Kelly assumed the sort of expression she remembered her mother sporting on many an occasion, and the teenagers fell silent, blushing furiously and turning away to examine the inside of the closing doors. She probably was old enough to be their mother, she thought ruefully, counting backward from thirty and imagining herself with a fourteen-year-old. Several of her old school friends had children almost that age; Kelly’s Facebook page regularly filled up with proud family photos, and she’d even had a couple of friend requests from the kids themselves. Now, there was a way to make you feel old.
Kelly caught the eye of a woman in a red coat on the opposite side of the carriage, who gave a nod of approval at the effect she’d had on the lads.
Kelly returned her look with a smile. “Good day?”
“Better now it’s over,” the woman said. “Roll on the weekend, eh?”
“I’m working. Not off till Tuesday.” And even then only one day off before another six on the trot, she thought, inwardly groaning at the thought. The woman looked aghast. Kelly shrugged. “Someone’s got to, right?”
“I guess so.” As the train slowed down for Oxford Circus, the woman began moving toward the doors. “I hope it’s a quiet one for you.”
That’s jinxed it, Kelly thought. She glanced at her watch. Nine stops to Stratford: ditch her stuff, then head back. Home by eight, maybe eight thirty. In again for seven a.m. She yawned hard, not bothering to cover her mouth, and wondered if there was any food at home. She shared a house near Elephant and Castle with three others, whose full names she knew only from the rent checks pinned neatly to the board in the hall, ready for collection each month. The sitting room had been converted to a bedroom by a landlord keen to maximize his income, leaving the small kitchen the one communal area. There was only room for two chairs, but her housemates’ shift patterns and erratic hours meant Kelly could go days without seeing anyone at all. The woman in the biggest bedroom, Dawn, was a nurse. Younger than Kelly, but far more domesticated, Dawn occasionally left a portion for Kelly on the side by the microwave, with one of her bright pink Post-it notes telling Kelly to help yourself! Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she glanced at her watch. The afternoon had been busier than she’d thought; she was going to have to put in some extra hours next week, or she’d never get through it all.
A handful of businessmen got on at Holborn and Kelly cast a practiced eye over them. At first glance they looked identical, with their short hair, dark suits, and briefcases. The devil was in the detail, Kelly thought. She searched out the faint pinstripe; the title of a book pushed carelessly into a bag; wire-framed glasses with a kink in one arm; a brown leather watch strap beneath a white cotton shirtsleeve. The idiosyncrasies and appearance tics that made them stand out in a lineup of near-identical men. Kelly watched them openly, dispassionately. She was just practicing, she told herself, not caring when one of them looked up and found her cool gaze on him. She thought he might look away, but instead he winked, his mouth moving into a confident smile. Kelly’s eyes flicked to his left hand. Married. White, well-built, around six foot tall, with a shadow around his jaw that probably wasn’t there a few hours ago. The yellow flash of a forgotten dry-cleaning tag on the inside of his overcoat. Standing so straight she’d put money on ex-military. Nondescript in appearance, but Kelly would know him if they met again.
Satisfied, she turned her attention to the latest influx of passengers, getting on at Bank and filtering through the carriage to find the remaining few seats. Almost everyone had a phone in their hand: playing games, listening to music, or simply clutching it as though grafted to their palm. At the other end of the carriage someone lifted their phone in front of them and Kelly instinctively turned away. Tourists, getting an iconic shot of the London Underground to show back home, but she found the idea of being background scenery in someone’s holiday snaps too weird to contemplate.
Her shoulder ached where she’d slammed into a wall, taking the corner too tight as she ran down the escalators and onto the platform at Marble Arch. She’d been seconds too late, and it annoyed her that the blooming bruise on her upper arm was in vain. She’d be quicker next time.
The train pulled into Liverpool Street; a throng of people waiting on the platform, impatient for the doors to open.
Kelly’s pulse quickened.
There, in the center of the crowd, half-hidden beneath oversized jeans, a hooded top, and a baseball cap, was Carl. Instantly recognizable and—desperate though Kelly was to get home—impossible to walk away from. It was clear from the way he melted into the crowd that Carl had seen Kelly a split second before she had seen him, and was equally unenthusiastic about the encounter. She was going to have to move fast.
Kelly jumped off the train just as the doors hissed behind her. She thought at first she’d lost him, then she caught sight of a baseball cap ten or so yards ahead; not running, but weaving swiftly through the throng of passengers leaving the platform.
If Kelly had learned one thing over the last ten years on the Underground, it was that politeness got you nowhere.
“Mind your backs!” she yelled, breaking into a run and shoving her way between two elderly tourists dragging suitcases. “Coming through!” She might have lost him that morning, and copped a bruised shoulder as a result, but she wasn’t about to let him get away again. She thought fleetingly of the supper she had hoped would be waiting for her at home, and calculated this was going to add at least two hours on to her day. But needs must. She could always grab a kebab on the way home.
Carl was legging it up the escalator. Rookie error, Kelly knew, taking the steps instead. Fewer tourists to negotiate and easier on the thighs than the jerky, uneven motion of a moving stairway. Even so Kelly’s muscles were burning as she drew parallel with Carl. He threw a quick look over his left shoulder as they reached the top, then swerved right. For fuck’s sake, Carl, she thought. I should be booking off now.
With a final burst of speed she caught up with him as he was preparing to vault the ticket barrier, grabbing a handful of jacket with her left hand and twisting one arm up behind his back with her right. Carl made a halfhearted attempt to pull away, knocking her off balance and causing her hat to fall to the ground. Kelly was aware of someone picking it up and hoped they weren’t going to run off with it. She was already in the doghouse with Stores for losing her baton in a scrap the other week—she could do without another telling-off.
“Warrants have got a Fail to Appear with your name on it, mate,” Kelly said, her words punctuated with breaths that were hard to take within the confines of a stab vest. She reached for her belt and unclipped her cuffs, snapping them deftly onto Carl’s wrists and checking for tightness. “You’re nicked.”
I see you. But you don’t see me. You’re engrossed in your book; a paperback cover with a girl in a red dress. I can’t see the title but it doesn’t matter; they’re all the same. If it isn’t boy meets girl, it’s boy stalks girl. Boy kills girl.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
At the next stop I use the incoming swell of commuters as an excuse to move closer to you. You hang from the strap in the center of the carriage, reading one-handed, turning the page with a well-practiced thumb. We’re so close now that our coats are touching, and I can smell the vanilla base of your perfume; a scent that will have long since faded by the time you leave work. Some women disappear into the loos at lunchtime; touch up their makeup, add a spritz of fragrance. Not you. When I see you after work the dark gray makeup on your lids will have drifted into tired shadows beneath your eyes; the tint on your lips transferred to countless cups of coffee.
You’re pretty, though, even at the end of a long day. That counts for a lot. Not that it’s always about beauty; sometimes it’s exotic looks, or large breasts, or long legs. Sometimes it’s class and elegance—all tailored navy trousers and tan heels—and sometimes it’s brassy and cheap. Slutty, even. Variety is important. Even the finest steak becomes dull when you eat it all the time.
Your handbag is larger than average. You usually carry it over your shoulder, but when the train is busy—as it is at this stage of your commute—you put it on the floor, between your legs. It has slouched open, allowing me to see inside. A wallet—soft brown calf leather with a gilt clasp. A hairbrush, blonde hairs trailing from its bristles. A reusable shopping bag, neatly rolled into a ball. A pair of leather gloves. Two or three brown envelopes, torn open then pushed into the bag along with their contents. Post snatched from the doormat after breakfast, opened on the platform while you wait for your first train. I crane my neck to read what is printed on the uppermost envelope.
So now I know your name.
Not that it matters: you and I aren’t going to have the sort of relationship that needs names.
I take out my phone and swipe up to reveal the camera. I turn toward you; use my thumb and forefinger to zoom in until only your face is in the frame. If anyone noticed me now, they’d just think I was uploading a record of my commute to Instagram, or Twitter. Hashtag selfie.
A silent click, and you’re mine.
As the train takes a bend you let go of the ceiling strap and lean down for your handbag, still intent on your book. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you’d caught me looking and were moving your belongings out of view, but it isn’t that. The bend in the track simply means it’s nearly your stop.
You’re enjoying this book. Usually you’ll stop reading much earlier than this; when you reach the end of a chapter, and you slip between the pages the postcard you use as a bookmark. Today you’re still reading even as the train pulls into the station. Even as you shoulder your way through to the door, saying “Excuse me” and “sorry” a dozen times. You’re still reading even as you walk toward the exit, your eyes flicking upward to make sure you don’t bump into anyone.
You’re still reading.
And I’m still watching.
Reprinted with permission from I SEE YOU by Clare Mackintosh from Berkley Books, copyright 2017.
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Clare Mackintosh, the international bestselling author of I Let You Go, spent twelve years on the police force in England and has written for The Guardian, Good Housekeeping, and other publications. A columnist for Cotswold Life and Writing Magazine, she is the founder of Chipping Norton Literary Festival.