Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Page 3

  “Okay, I’ll give you that one. Losing your passport was pretty dumb.”

  “It’s like I’m cursed.”

  Aimee laughs. “Bloody hell, Matt, don’t be so overdramatic. So you screwed up an interview, lost a few keys, spilled wine on a rug—big deal. You’ve still got a job, my parents love you, and more importantly, you’ve still got me. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and start appreciating how great your life is.”

  She’s right, I know she is, but I still can’t shake off this feeling of self-loathing.

  The room falls silent.

  “Look,” Aimee says, breaking the silence, “why don’t we just chill out in front of the TV tonight? I know it sucks missing out on a new job, but like I said before, there’ll be other interviews, other jobs.” She kisses me on the lips. “So don’t worry so much.”

  I manage a smile and then give her a hug. “Thanks.”

  “What time is it?” Aimee asks, her words stifled by a loud yawn.

  Squinting, I check the clock on the mantelpiece. The only light in the room is coming from the TV and the hallway, so I have to lean forward to read it. “Ten to twelve.”

  “Shit, it’s late.” She gets up off the couch, Luna still asleep at her feet. “Where does the time go?”

  “I know.” I switch the TV off with the remote and then follow her up, yawning as I straighten. “What’s your day like tomorrow?”

  “Busy,” she replies. “I’m working down the Bridgend office in the afternoon. They’re understaffed. Again.”

  “I hope they’re paying the fuel costs. Bridgend’s a good twenty-five miles out. It’s a bit of a trek.”

  I follow Aimee out of the living room, into the hallway. “Of course they are,” she reassures me. “Seventy pence a mile.”

  “That’s shit. What about the wear and tear of your car? And your tyres.”

  Aimee turns to me and smiles. “What, would you prefer that I take your reliable car instead?”

  I chuckle. “I’ll swap if you like.”

  “Ha! I’ll never get to work with that rust-bucket.”

  Just as we reach the bedroom, an ear-piercing hissing sound bursts out of the living room—followed closely behind by Luna. We leap out of the way as he darts past our feet, disappearing into the bedroom.

  “Luna,” Aimee softly calls out to him. “What’s wrong, boy?”

  “Stupid cat,” I say, shaking my head in annoyance. “The world’s first feline to be scared of the bloody dark.”

  “Check the living room, Matt,” Aimee says, following Luna into the bedroom. “Maybe he saw a mouse.”

  I make my way over to the living room. “A mouse? There’re no mice in here. Maybe a spider or—”

  Suddenly the entire flat comes alive with a loud, heavy thud.

  What the fuck was that?

  Frantically switching on the light, my jaw drops wide open in horror. Our fifty-inch plasma TV is lying facedown on the carpet; the cables hanging loosely from its back, wrenched out of the wall and DVD player. I kneel down next to the TV, as if tending to an injured person.

  “What the hell happened?” I hear Aimee ask from the doorway.

  “I don’t know.” I take hold of the edge and lift the TV up to inspect the screen. There’s a large crack running down its centre. The sight is almost too much to stomach.

  I prop it up against the cabinet and stand back.

  “How did that manage to fall?” Aimee asks.

  I don’t answer; just shake my head in astonishment. Can’t seem to be able to form any words. Any explanation. Any thoughts. Just…

  “Maybe someone from downstairs?” Aimee offers. “Maybe someone hit the ceiling with something.”

  I turn to her, grimacing. “The downstairs flat is still empty. There’s no one living there. It was your bloody cat.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Matt. How could Luna push that massive TV off the cabinet? He’s only small.”

  “Well why else did he make that hissing noise and then run out of here like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Aimee replies. “Maybe he saw something.”

  “A mouse didn’t push the TV over.”

  “I didn’t say it did.”

  “Then what, Aimee?” I snap. “A ghost?”

  Aimee says nothing, just gives a subtle shrug.

  “There’s no ghost living in this flat,” I announce with conviction, “and there never will be.”

  “Look, even you have to admit that there’s been more than a few occurrences since we moved in.”

  I snort. “Occurrences? A few broken things, a spooked cat and a cold draught is hardly a job for Mulder and Scully.”

  “What draught?” she asks with intrigue, as if she’s stumbled upon a clue to a murder mystery.

  “It’s just a little breeze coming in, that’s all.”

  “I take it you couldn’t find the cause,” she says, “otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Aimee, can we focus on the problem of the smashed TV, please? This is far more important than some stupid ghost.”

  “Have you seen anything?” she asks, completely ignoring me. “Heard something maybe?”

  I reply with a pissed off groan. The very notion that a ghost is the cause of all these things is complete and utter nonsense. There was nothing sitting in the backseat of the car. No one whispered ‘I see you’ to me, and no bloody ghost pushed over my precious TV.

  It was stress, the wind—and that bloody cat!

  “Must have been a tremor,” I lie. She’ll only get upset if I blame Luna again.

  Aimee chuckles sarcastically. “A tremor? Like an earthquake? Well, that says it all.”

  “Says what?”

  “That you’re full of shit.”

  “No I’m not,” I snap, checking that the DVD player isn’t damaged as well. “I just don’t believe in ghosts, so just drop it now!”

  Aimee sits on the couch, her breathing shallow, like she’s just about to cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, walking over to her. “I didn’t mean to sound like a dick. I just don’t know how we’re going to afford another TV.” I sit next to her and put my arm around her back.

  Aimee turns to me with worried eyes. “Doesn’t it frighten you at all?”

  “What would I be frightened about?”

  “The ghost for Christ’s sake!” she barks as a teardrop runs down her cheek. “What’s wrong with you, Matt?”

  A short chuckle unconsciously slips out, so I retract it immediately.

  “You might not give a shit,” she continues, “but I do. If we do have a spirit, then we’ve clearly pissed it off.”

  Okay, I’ll give her the TV, but I don’t know how dangerous a draught and a broken jar of beetroot is. “Look, we’re seeing your parents on Sunday. Why don’t we ask for their opinion?”

  Aimee sniffs loudly, wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and then smiles. “Good idea.”

  I return a smile. “Come here,” I say, pulling her in for a hug, one eye still on my smashed TV.

  Ghost.

  At least her parents will make her see sense.

  4

  Aimee’s parents’ house. Carmarthen. Sunday lunch. Favourite meal of the week for most.

  Not here, and not me—or anyone else with taste buds.

  Swallowing the un-mashed mashed potato, I give a painful smile to Aimee’s dad, Byron. He returns a smile and continues to chew on his lamb chop, clearly struggling to bite through it like a dog with a chew-toy.

  Poor bastard. He’s got to live with Lynne’s God-awful cooking every night of the week. And it’s not as if they have the odd night out at a restaurant, or a quick trip somewhere for lunch. This is it for them. Both retired. Both content with staying home all year round. They may go to Scotland or over to Ireland once or twice a year, but they always take the caravan.

  Different place. Same chef.

  “I’m done, Mum,” Aimee says, pushing the half-eaten p
late away. “Couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “You’ve barely touched it, love,” Lynne points out as she comes to take her plate, her cream jeans and white blouse clinging to her skeletal body. “Was it all right?”

  Aimee nods, eyes wide with false-enthusiasm. “It was lovely, but I’m still on a diet. Plus, my meals have been so small lately that I think my stomach’s shrunk.”

  Lying cow.

  “Oh, all right, love.” She takes the plate over to the sink. “Some pudding?”

  Aimee waves her hands in protest. “Honestly, Mum, I’m full. Really.”

  Lynne starts to rinse the plate even though no one else has finished. “How’s yours, Matthew?” she asks me. “Would you like some more? There’s plenty of mash left.”

  I shake my head as I swallow a piece of rock-hard cauliflower. “I’m good, thanks.” I bring my plate over to the sink before she can add any more to it, and slide it into the bowl. “Sit yourself down, Lynne. Let me do those dishes. You still haven’t eaten yet.”

  “No, no. I’ll eat mine later. I’d prefer to clean the kitchen before I sit.”

  “Okay, but let me at least do something.”

  “No, honestly, Matthew, I’m fine. You just sit yourself down and I’ll bring you your pudding. Apple crumble and custard. Your favourite.”

  Forcing a big grin, I reluctantly sit back down at the table and watch Aimee smirk at me, clearly proud that she evaded another one of her mother’s hideous puddings.

  I take a sip of wine. It brings me back to that fateful day when I ruined their new rug. That look on Lynne’s face still haunts me, as she watched me squirm, trying desperately to mop up the wine with kitchen roll.

  Not the best way to meet the parents.

  “So, how’s the flat coming along?” Byron asks me. “Settling in all right?”

  “It’s fine, thanks,” I reply, “apart from one or two teething problems.”

  “Oh, right. What kind of teething problems?”

  “We have a ghost,” Aimee interrupts.

  Byron’s face lights up with intrigue. “Really? What makes you think that?”

  “Well, where do we start?” Aimee replies. “First a jar of beetroot flew out of the fridge and smashed.”

  “No it didn’t,” I pointed out with a half-snigger. “It just fell from the shelf. It didn’t magically fly through the bloody air.”

  Aimee tuts loudly. “Fine. But the fridge did open by itself though.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. “Look, Byron. A few things have happened, I’ll admit that, but there’re no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Yes there are, Matt,” he announces to me, leaning forward in his chair. “I’ve seen one.” He looks at Lynne. “We both have.”

  I swallow another mouthful of wine, realising that her entire family are firm-believers and I don’t stand a chance in Hell of talking Aimee out of it.

  I should never have brought it up.

  Lynne sets down a bowl of hot apple crumble and lumpy, yellow custard in front of me. “There you go, Matthew. Tuck in.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, picking up my spoon. “Looks great.” It doesn’t.

  “Hey, Lynne,” Byron says to her.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Matt the story about that dead kid stuck in the chimney.”

  The drive back is long, dark and silent. Aimee’s still in a mood with me for not believing her mum and dad’s story. It’s a forty-minute drive back to Swansea—so Thank God for radios.

  Just as we turn off for the city centre, Aimee finally speaks. “You should at least pretend that you’re interested.”

  Relieved that she’s finally broke the silence (even though it’s not to apologise), I turn down the radio to speak. “I did try to pretend. I tried my hardest. In fact, I should have got a bloody Oscar. But there’s only so much fake-smiling you can do for one afternoon.”

  “Well you should have tried harder. I do for your mother.”

  “What are you talking about? Mum doesn’t tell us ridiculous ghost stories.”

  “No, but she bores me with stories about you and your cousins. And bloody cooking.”

  “Cooking? When?”

  “All the time. And the only reason she does it is to have a pop at me.”

  “Mum would never do that.”

  “Yes she does. She knows I’m a terrible cook, and she loves to rub it in.”

  I shake my head in protest. “You’re just being paranoid now. Mum loves you.”

  “I know she does—and I love her, too—but I still have to pretend I’m interested in everything she tells me. Even if I’m bored out of my skull.”

  I don’t respond. It’s clear that nothing I say is likely to resolve this argument. And I can see it going off track any second. I know the signs. Plus, she’s had a few glasses of red wine—and that’s never a good combination. I’ll shut my mouth ‘til we’re home.

  We pull up outside our building. When the engine cuts out, so does the radio. And then the silence really hits home. Even the clicking of the door opening is a welcome break in tension. We climb out of the car and then go up to the front door. I’m dying to speak, but there’s no point. Not yet anyway. I can tell she’s still angry, still after blood.

  Climbing the stairs, every creaky footstep is a reminder of what’s brewing. Any second now and things could just blow up. I’m too tired to let that happen tonight. And I want sex, so I just have to last at least until we’re in the flat and watched a little TV.

  TV.

  Shit! Completely forgot it was broken.

  I squeeze my fist in frustration. She doesn’t see it. Don’t want her to think it’s about her, even though it sort of is. Can’t let a lack of TV spoil my evening. Maybe it’s better that it’s broken; talk things out a little. Who needs TV anyway? I can read a book, or tidy up a little, even have a deep and meaningful discussion about work.

  I can use the small TV from the bedroom!

  Problem solved!

  I push the key into the door and walk inside. Aimee is purposely a few steps behind, clearly still sulking, still holding her ground. Can’t even remember what we’re fighting about. Something about cooking or… Who cares?

  I sit on the couch. Aimee’s in the kitchen, opening drawers loudly, cutlery shifting and clunking together, clearly still pissed off. I start to feel drowsy and sluggish. Need to get to bed. Been a long day.

  Any hope for sex soon begins to fade, as Aimee still hasn’t come into the living room.

  Closing my eyes, I think about taking Aimee away somewhere warm. Greece? South of France maybe? Ibiza? Vegas? No, too expensive. Best keep it to Europe. Ibiza sounds good, but am I too old? I’ll be thirty-three soon. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Don’t want to be one of those old bastards, wearing a tight T-shirt, lurking in the dark corners of a nightclub.

  No, thirty-three’s not too old. I just have to know my limitations. Can’t be out ‘til six in the morning anymore. Been there, done that.

  The visions of lying on a sunny beach, drinking cocktails, surrounded by half-naked Spanish girls, are getting more and more vivid. I can feel myself drifting off to sleep. Half lucid. Half dreaming. I can see the water and the expensive yachts, and the blistering sun about to set over the Mediterranean coastline. I can see the faces of couples watching in awe, holding each other tight, watching the sky turn orange. I can almost hear the—

  Suddenly Aimee’s cold hand on my thigh yanks me back to reality. Away from the beach. Away from the beautiful women. I keep my eyes closed as she works her hand towards my crotch. I can feel myself getting hard. I want to open my eyes, but I’m afraid I might ruin the moment. Just a second ago I was happy to crash out on the couch for the night, but right now all I can think about is tearing Aimee’s clothes off and screwing her, right here on the carpet. I knew if I waited long enough, if I bit my tongue, she’d eventually come ‘round. She always does. I might be sober but Aimee isn’t—and drunk-sex just so happens to be my favourite
pastime.

  I’m desperate to open my eyes, to throw her to the floor, but I can’t. The sensation of her hand, gently stroking my cock is too good. I can feel her fing—

  “You coming to bed or what?” I hear Aimee say.

  My eyes spring open to find Aimee standing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

  Shuffling quickly, I turn to see an empty couch.

  “What the fuck,” I say under my breath.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Frowning in confusion, I scan the room.

  “What are you looking for?” she asks.

  I rub my face with both hands, trying to shake off the disorientation. “Nothing. Just thought… Were you just in here a second ago?”

  She shakes her head and takes a sip of coffee. “No. I’ve been in the kitchen. Why?”

  “It’s just,” pointlessly, I give the room another scan, “I could’ve sworn you were sat next to me, with your hand on my leg.”

  “No. Not me. You must have fallen asleep.”

  I rub my eyes and get off the couch, still unable to fully shake off the dream. Still feels so real, so vivid. Can’t remember the last time I had a dream like that.

  Aimee walks into the bedroom. I follow her in, smiling, thinking about how close I came to having sex with myself.

  I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time.

  5

  “So how’s that leg of yours this morning?” I ask Mary Davies, as I push her wheelchair towards the X-Ray department. “Still not healing?”

  “Sorry, love,” she replies, tapping her right ear. “I don’t have my hearing-aid in. You’ll have to speak up.”

  “How’s that leg of yours?” I repeat, this time much louder.

  “It’s bloody awful, Matthew,” she replies; her elderly voice gravelly. “Just awful. And it has been for three months now. I bet you’re sick of the sight of me.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” I reply, chirpily. “As much as I want you to get better, the place wouldn’t be the same without you, Mary.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet. You’re a good boy, Matthew. You’re all good boys here. I tell you, the porters here are second to none. Honestly. Better than those miserable doctors, and those bloody nurses. All I hear is moaning about how tough their job is; but every time I see them they’re drinking tea and scoffing biscuits. Not like you porters. Hard at work all the time.”