Reaching home, I quickly packed a rucksack with a sleeping bag, toothbrush, torch, binoculars, and food items: sandwiches, crisps, scotch eggs and fruit juice; not exactly a balanced diet but enough to keep me going for a few days. I then headed for the bus stop. By 10:40 a.m. I was at Stanley Road, and with the road quiet – just the occasional pedestrian and car – nobody gave me a second glance as I turned into the driveway of 17b. Originally designed as a single house, like many of the neighbouring properties it had been converted into two one-bedroom flats. The front door and main access to the upstairs flat was at the side and largely obscured from the road by an enormous overgrown privet hedge.
Hidden from the road by the privet, I struggled to turn the key in the lock and it crossed my mind that the ignorant girl in the letting agent’s had cocked up and given me the wrong key. After thirty seconds of frustration, I discovered that the knack was to pull and lift the handle simultaneously, and satisfyingly the key would turn. I stepped inside the cramped hallway, dark despite the brilliant sunlight outside; I could barely make out the top of the stairs just a few metres in front of me. I pressed the light switch but nothing happened and I resorted to my sense of touch as I climbed the steep staircase. Underfoot, the carpet felt damp and sticky, and I shuddered to think where I was putting my hands. The stairs opened directly into a combined living room and kitchen area, off which were two doors, one leading to a small bathroom and the second to a bedroom. I was pleasantly surprised. Although there was a strong smell of damp and the flat was in need of some decorating, there was no rotting food, stacks of dirty plates or overflowing toilet.
After my quick inspection, I turned my attention to more important matters and moved over to the living room window. I peered out from the side of the large bay window, and with Musgrove nowhere to be seen I quickly closed the floral-patterned curtains. I knelt down in front of the window, my eye-line just above the level of the windowsill, and pulled the curtains a few centimetres to one side to look into the street below. It was perfect: I had an unobstructed view of both the front door and living room window of Musgrove’s flat directly opposite. I watched, hidden from the outside by the hideous curtains. My long hours of watching and waiting had begun.
Despite the less than palatable surroundings I was feeling upbeat, and satisfied that another element of my plan was in place. I began making myself at home by arranging newspapers to cover the filthy carpet and then rolling out my sleeping bag on top. I dragged the only piece of furniture, an old armchair, over to the window. Stuffing and springs were sticking out from the armrests and I covered it in newspaper before taking a seat, hidden behind the closed curtains.
The street remained largely quiet for the next thirty minutes, with just the occasional car or pedestrian. Then, at 11:30 a.m., from down the street away to my right, the unmistakable stooping figure of Musgrove appeared, wearing his distinctive filthy denim jacket. I felt strangely excited at the sight of him. Walking with obvious urgency despite his limp, he looked like he was about to break into a jog. I watched from no more than twenty metres away as he turned into his driveway and let himself into 29a. For a few seconds I lost sight of him before he reappeared in his living room and took a seat at the small table a couple of metres or so back from the window. Through the numerous rips in the curtains, I could see him in profile, leaning over to one side and retrieving something from a carrier bag on the floor next to his chair. I removed the binoculars from my rucksack, steadied them on the deep windowsill, and focused on the bag. I watched as he removed a syringe and needle in their small sterile packets and placed them on the table. He appeared on edge, glancing furtively around almost as if he knew he was being watched. With his hands shaking, he took the syringe and needle from the packaging, assembled them, and then removed a small silver-foil packet from the pocket of his jacket, now slung over the back of the chair. As he rolled up his sleeve I had a distinctly queasy feeling, and with no desire to see any more I turned away as he began preparing his fix. As I paced around the room, it crossed my mind that he might overdose, thereby solving all my problems. But I suspected he was a seasoned professional at the heroin game and this was unlikely. In any case, part of me felt that his self-destruction would take away the satisfaction of me being at the helm of his demise.
I returned to the window to see Musgrove slumped in the chair. After thirty minutes he roused briefly, stumbled over to his bed, and climbed on the dirty, unmade sheets to enjoy a drug-induced siesta.
Just after 6:00 p.m. Musgrove rose from his slumber, and within a few minutes he left the flat and headed on foot towards the main road. I considered following him but, with the risk of being spotted dissuading me, I decided to stay put. Within a few minutes he returned with a carrier bag bearing the logo of the local Thresher’s off licence. For the rest of the evening Musgrove sat in front of his small TV and drank extra-strong lager, only once getting up to make what looked like baked beans and sausages, and then eating them straight out of the saucepan. At 10:33 p.m. he got up from his chair, put the dirty saucepan in the sink, had a piss, and lay back down on his bed. His day was at an end.
I watched through the binoculars for a few more minutes as his chest moved up and down. The rhythmicity of the movement had an almost hypnotic effect, and within a few minutes, unable to keep my own eyes open, I lay down on my sleeping bag, and after a matter of seconds, my day too was over.
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Asleep for no more than a few hours on the floor of 17b, I woke to the sound of drunken shouting and banging metal. It was still dark outside, and I checked my watch: 2:17 a.m. Peering through the gap in the curtains, I could see a group of youths taking turns to smash a metal bar against a lamppost while the others looked on and shouted encouragement. I watched as one of them held the bar at shoulder height while spinning on the spot, and then, as he lost balance and fell to the ground, one of his mates took over accompanied by raucous cheers. Throughout the racket, no lights came on in the neighbouring flats and nobody came out to complain. I suspected being woken in the early hours was not an infrequent occurrence.
After a few minutes I heard the faint sound of a police siren in the distance, gradually getting closer. My heart began to pound and I had to remind myself that I hadn’t actually committed any crime, at least not yet. Within thirty seconds a police car turned into Stanley Road and the youths quickly disbanded. With the street quiet again I scanned Musgrove’s flat but the lights were still off and there was no sign of movement inside. I lay back down on the sleeping bag but was incapable of further sleep. My thoughts were focused on my plan and the meeting with Musgrove later in the day. I certainly didn’t relish the prospect of seeing him again, particularly to hand over money, but I attempted to console myself that it was for the greater good of achieving my ultimate goal.
Interrupting my thoughts, a door slammed in the street outside and I glanced up to see one of the neighbours getting on a bike and heading off to work. Checking my watch, I saw that it was already 4:30 a.m.; lost in my preoccupations, the previous couple of hours had sped by. I didn’t feel tired but closed my eyes to try and calm my thinking, and to my surprise I woke up several hours later with sunlight streaming through the window. I sat up and looked over at Musgrove’s flat. His ripped curtains were closed but his still sleeping form was just visible. My eyes felt heavy and gritty and I regretted not taking out my contact lenses the night before. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and gingerly stood up. My neck and shoulders were stiff from sleeping on the hard wooden floor and I did a few limbering-up exercise to get the knots out of my body. I went over to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap and watched as the water came out a rusty brown colour. After thirty seconds it ran clear and I splashed it on my face, the icy cold water instantly refreshing, and soothing to my stinging eyes.