His days were spent watching. With the disability pension, he didn't need to work, and there wasn't much he could do anyway. He didn't want to see anyone. He couldn't stand the thinly disguised horror at his appearance any more than he could stand the sympathetic spaniel eyes and the inevitable, 'How are you?' So now, his social life was television. His work was observing the strangers ww toho walked down his street. His ears were always alert to any noises in his building. If anything happened, he'd be the first to raise the alarm. No one was more vigilant than he was. That had been his best asset at work.
Since the accident, he hadn’t left the flat during the daytime. Late at night or very early in the morning, he'd take his daily walk, cursing the hills and slopes of Brighton. He sometimes felt baffled by his ongoing desire to keep fit. Did it really matter any more? In his whole life until the incident, being fit was essential. A lifelong habit is hard to break under any circumstances.
He could still walk, even if he couldn't run. He could still stretch, even if he couldn’t work out. Some of the scars resembled tattoos. He'd always hated tattoos, but was beginning to wonder if he should have the unscathed parts of his body decorated, to make his skin look a little more presentable.
He watched TV and picked out the flaws in police dramas. He'd never had time to watch television before, and had always found the cinema boring. Now, he devoured films, any film, any era. He had seen Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window, and for a moment or two identified strongly with the male lead although he had no murder to investigate and Jimmy Stewart's character would eventually recover from his broken leg. He would never recover from his injuries. Plus it must have helped the character's rehabilitation enormously to have Grace Kelly around for company.
The woman who lived opposite looked a bit like Grace Kelly. She hadn't seemed that interesting until he saw the film. The one who’d lived there before, with the long dark hair, was more his type. This one had bobbed blonde hair, elegant clothes, and an old-fashioned look that belonged to a different generation. He wasn't sure how old she was, as she could have been anywhere between 30 and 50. She seemed to like to work a lot, go out, entertain friends, and get up in the morning five minutes before she had to leave the house. He'd never been much of a morning person either, until the pain made it impossible to sleep for more than three hours at a stretch.
He tried not to watch her, but she lived directly opposite, and appeared to have an allergy to closing the curtains. The one who’d lived there before had been much more discreet, which he respected. Occasionally this one closed her curtains, for example on Sundays when, he guessed, she would be hungover. Aside from that she didn't bother.
One night she returned home late, and she wasn't alone. The man was a good looking type in a suit. Maybe he was a colleague, or some sort of business associate. They sat in the kitchen, drinking something out of mugs. And then they started kissing.
When they moved to the bedroom, he moved away from the windows into the back room. When he was on the force, he'd locked people up for doing what he had been about to do. Worried he would be tempted to look again, he decided to go out for his walk. When he got back, the lights across the street were out. He had a bad night. The pain was astonishing. He had taken the maximum doses of every pharmaceutical he had, and wondered if the law would take a lenient view of a former officer who smoked cannabis as a painkiller.
He got out of bed and went into the front room, hoping that a bit of TV would distract him. It didn't. He couldn't concentrate. None of the mindfulness or meditation exercises had any effect either. Should he try a hippie-shit method like acupuncture? Was he desperate enough to stoop to that level? At least it was legal, even if most of the quacks who peddled it should be locked up for fraud. He would have liked to go out for a walk, but it was getting too light, and he couldn't stomach the stares. He'd just have to ride the wave.
Over the road, Grace Kelly and her date were waking up. Waking up and getting it on. He made for the other room. As he forced himself out of his chair, he saw her get out of bed and make her way over to the window. Thank God. She was closing the curtains. He could stay where he was. But wait – no, she wasn't closing the curtains, she was opening the casement. Damn. He took himself and his pain to the bedroom. But now he could hear her, moaning with pleasure. He turned on the radio. It didn't block out the noise. He felt a range of conflicting emotions. One of them was anger. He felt that she was mocking him and his situation. He also felt excited, and that disturbed him. He wasn’t one of those Peeping Toms, getting off on watching other people. He wasn't a pervert. He most definitely was not. But...
The moans from the other flat developed into a screaming climax, then died down. The drugs in his system kicked in and he fell asleep.
When he woke up, he listened for the noises in his building and out on the street. Everything was as it should be. He hauled himself out of bed and thought about making a cup of tea. He fancied watching some old series he'd liked as a child, maybe Porridge or The Good Life. Something he might have watched with his parents. You could find anything on the internet. Christ knows how cripples and the housebound got through the day before television. Maybe radio had been more interesting back then.
His computer was in the front room. The film star and her gentleman caller were nowhere to be seen. He settled down to some peaceful televisual entertainment.
Then they were back. They must have been out for a walk, or to get some food. Soon enough, they were at it, in broad daylight, with the curtains wide open. They didn't even make it to the bedroom, just loosened their clothes and went for it on the kitchen table. He didn't want to go back to his bedroom, so he closed his own curtains and forced himself to pay attention to the screen. It was too dark and he didn't like it. After what he felt was an acceptable period of time, he opened the curtains again. They had stopped. He returned to the TV, relieved. Not long after, they were off again. Had the guy taken Viagra or something? And what was her deal? How much sex could two people have? Had he ever been like that?
A horrible feeling bloomed inside his chest. At first he couldn't place it. It wouldn't go away. It got bigger and darker and nastier. After a time he realised that it was jealousy. He hated that woman, with all her attractive healthiness, her job, and her friends. More than her, he hated the man, so full of vitality, with a sexual appetite he might have had in the past, but never had the courage to indulge. Or, for that matter, a partner who would have let him indulge it. Now it would never happen. He hated them both more than he would have thought possible. He felt powerless. All he could do was go into the other room. He wouldn't give in to his perversion and watch, no matter how much he wanted to. He wouldn't take gratification from their passion.
He taped together four pieces of paper and wrote CLOSE YOUR CURTAINS!!!!! in big letters with a thick black marker and placed it in his window. He returned to his series, and as soon as the sun had gone down went for a walk.
The next morning when he opened his curtains, he saw a note in the window of her flat - SORRY!!!
Her kindness made him feel better. She had no idea what she had done to him. She probably didn't even know he could see into her flat.
A few days passed, full of pain and the twilight of painkillers. Her curtains remained shut the entire time. He started to feel somewhat better in himself, if not in his body.
One Saturday, he awoke to find the sun shining. It was still early enough to go out for a walk, which he did, encountering the usual assortment of unmedicated schizophrenics and crazed insomniacs who walked in the park at stupid o'clock in the morning.
When he got back to the flat, he opened the curtains, and saw his neighbour simultaneously opening hers. She was wearing a silk kimono with tiny pyjamas underneath. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail. She opened the window and stretched towards the sun. It hadn't quite reached her windows yet, but she looked so beautiful he wondered if the sun would speed up just for her. She leant back into the window, looked across the street
and noticed him standing there. She looked embarrassed and went to close the curtains. But then she paused and raised an eyebrow. Was this a challenge? What was her game? She stood very still for a few moments. He wondered if she knew he could see through her pyjamas. Perhaps she did, because when she finally moved, she didn't close her curtains. She removed her clothes. Then she lay down on her bed and did something he knew women did but had only seen in porn.
When she finished, she got up, put her kimono back on and went and made a cup of tea.
He was horrified. He'd watched the whole thing. And he’d loved it.
Later the same evening, she brought the man back to her flat. The curtains stayed open. The lights stayed on. He watched. The cloud that had been covering him lifted, and stayed lifted long after they had finished. He took his drugs and went to sleep. The next day there was a repeat performance.
The following weeks found him in hospital. Infection had set in. Someone in his old precinct found out, and various old buddies came to visit. The company was unexpectedly nice. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed human contact. Once they got over the shock of seeing him as he was, it was like old times.
When his life was no longer in danger, he was sent home. He had been told to ‘rest, rest, rest’, but as soon as darkness descended he went out for a walk. The night around him, and the familiar shadows of Brighton were like old friends. He had missed these while he was medically incarcerated. He knew he shouldn’t overdo things so didn't walk as far as normal.
On his return, he noticed two envelopes taped to the door of his building. One was addressed to 'Occupant of the first floor flat'. That was him. The other envelope had 'PS' written on it. The handwriting was loopy and feminine. He opened the first. There was a card inside which read:
'Dear Friend, when I saw you leave in the ambulance last week I was very worried you wouldn't come back. Before I worked for a pharmaceutical company, I was a surgical nurse. I've seen people with worse injuries than yours. The most important thing is to keep your spirits up, in whatever way floats your boat. No judgement, OK? Hope you've enjoyed the show. Love from the Goodtime Girl in the flat opposite.'
In the other envelope there was another card:
'My name is Caroline. If you fancy a cup of tea sometime let me know.'