Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Page 8

  “So how are things going with you and Aimee?” Mum asks. “Any problems?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Here it comes.

  “So you’re getting along okay, then?” she asks with a tone of pessimism.

  Right on bloody cue. “Of course we are. We’re getting married.”

  “I know that, but there’s a lot of pressure when it comes to weddings. I know what it’s like—and I know what you’re like.”

  “Mum—Aimee and I are fine. You don’t have to worry about us.”

  “I’m not worried about Aimee—I’m only worried about you.”

  “Well don’t be. Things couldn’t be better.”

  Mum taps me on the thigh and beams. “Okay, boy. Just remember that you’ve always got a home here—if things ever get too difficult.”

  I return a smile but it’s fake. She needs to relax, think about herself for a change. I’m not a kid anymore—I can take care of myself.

  “How about a cup of coffee?” Mum asks, getting up off the couch, quickly changing the subject.

  “I’ll get it, Mum,” I say, half getting up. “Sit back down.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she puts her hand out in protest, “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  I smile and nod. “Yeah, okay. Two sugars then.”

  “I know how many sugars you take, Matt. Mother’s never forget.”

  “Tell that to Aimee,” I shout out as Mum disappears through the glass doors, into the kitchen.

  “So how’s the hospital treating you?” Mum yells. “Any promotions on the horizon? Maybe one of those supervisor posts?”

  “No, Mum,” I say; the memory of my doomed interview stabbing at my thoughts. “Nothing yet.”

  Mum pokes her head out from the kitchen. “Well, keep your eyes open then. You never know what’s ‘round the corner.” She disappears again. “I’m still proud of you, whatever you decide to do. Always proud how far you’ve come. Dad would be as well. Really proud.”

  “Thanks, Mum,” I reply, spotting a picture of him on the mantelpiece, the one from his Scottish hike. “Means a lot.”

  Mum re-enters the living room carrying a tray containing two mugs of coffee, and a small plate filled with chocolate biscuits. I take the piping hot drink and set it down on the coffee table beside me. She does the same, using the telephone stand beside her.

  “Biscuit?” she offers, pointing the plate at me as she sits down next to me. “Chocolate.”

  Hesitating for just a moment, I take two from the plate and smile. “I shouldn’t really. I’m trying to cut down.”

  “Why?” Mum asks, her voice high-pitched. “There’s nothing of you.”

  “We’ve got Mexico in a week. Don’t fancy looking all flabby out there. There’s only so much gut I can suck in.”

  Mum chuckles as she takes a bite of a biscuit. “Don’t be silly. No one’s going to care. Everyone’s too busy avoiding drug-dealers and sharks.

  Chuckling, I shake my head and then pick up my mug of coffee. “Mum, you’re bloody nuts. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’m just saying: be careful out there, Matt. That’s all.”

  “I know you are, but I’m not stupid. Don’t worry.”

  “All right, boy. So what’s brought you up here then? I’ll be seeing you in a few days for the rehearsal.”

  “No reason. I had some time to kill after my shift. Just thought I’d call up to say hello. Can’t a son just pop over to see his mother?”

  “Of course you can, boy. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad of the visit—but I thought you had a lot on your plate.”

  “I just fancied a chat.”

  Mum grins, puts her hand on mine and gently squeezes it. “Oh, that’s nice, Matt. Yeah, you’re right: we won’t have much of a chance to catch up in the rehearsal. Aimee’s parents will be there; and your best man.” She sips her coffee and then takes another biscuit. “Speaking of best men: how’s Ed’s speech coming?”

  “His speech?” I reply with moan. “I’m dreading it beyond belief.”

  Once I’m back on the road, I listen to the radio. Nothing the station plays is quite my cup of tea but I sing along anyway. For the first time ever, I decide to take the back roads home; avoid the motorway for a change. What’s the rush? Motorways are always so mind-numbingly boring. Plus, there’s a good chance I’ll stop in a service station and stock up on junk food. Screw that. I’ve eaten way too much shit today already. I prod my stomach. Shaking my head in disappointment, I imagine all those cut-to-shreds bodybuilders, prancing along the beach in Mexico. And there’s me, passing out from sucking in my gut to save face. Even though the guys and me always make fun of those roided-up idiots, we all secretly would kill to have a six-pack and guns like Arnie.

  On the way, I stop off at Ed’s restaurant for a chat. I stay for maybe thirty minutes, but then head off when I see how busy he is. Nearing Port Talbot, I pull into Burger-Land. More bloody junk food. I contemplate just using the Drive-Thru, but change my mind last minute and have a sit-down meal instead. They’ve got computer tablets there now—they’ve gone up in the world since I worked here. Finishing my food in just a couple of minutes, I spend the rest of the forty-five minutes surfing the net, just looking at any old shit.

  I check the time on my phone. It’s going on seven. Can’t believe how late it is. I notice four missed calls from Aimee. Redialling her number, I wait a few seconds for the call to connect.

  “Hi Matt,” Aimee says. “Where are you? Thought you finished work at two?”

  “Yeah, I did. Just been to Mum’s. Having a bit of a catch up before the wedding. Why? What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Your Mum just called the house asking if you got home safely.”

  “Really? Jesus Christ. She’s nuts. I’ve only been to bloody Cardiff.”

  “She said you left hours ago. I just got a bit worried.”

  “Everything’s fine. I just stopped off at Ed’s restaurant for a chat and then got something to eat. I’m only ten minutes away from home. I won’t be long.”

  “There’s no rush. Just wasn’t sure where you were. I’ll see you in a bit. Love you.”

  “Love you too. Bye.” I hang up the phone and swallow the last of my Coke. Heading towards the doors, I spot an old friend sitting with his kids by the play-area. I go over to him and chat for another twenty minutes.

  By the time I reach Swansea, my ass is in agony. Feel like I’ve been driving all day. The sun has started to go down already. Almost feels like winter for the day to disappear so quickly.

  Pulling up outside the flat, I sit for a moment. The radio is off and the street is silent. Can’t seem to move. Don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  You know what’s wrong.

  You know damn-well.

  You’ve been avoiding your own home all day.

  Scared of a bloody ghost.

  I shake off the ridiculous thoughts and unclip my seatbelt. “Don’t be so stupid,” I mutter to myself as I get out of the car. “I ain’t scared of anything—especially a fucking ghost.”

  Slowly walking towards the building, I glance up at the flat. The kitchen light is on. I stop as I watch Aimee’s shadow through the closed blinds. She doesn’t need to know what happened last night—definitely this close to the wedding. The last thing I want is for her to freak out about nothing.

  There is no ghost. No knocking on the door. It was a figment of my imagination. Nothing more. Or a well thought-out prank by someone. Maybe one of the guys. Probably Ed. Part of his best man speech.

  Yeah that’s it.

  I open the main door and head inside. I hit the light switch on faster than usual and make my way up the stairs. Reaching the top, I suddenly feel a cold, creeping sensation all over my skin. I know it’s nothing. I know it’s just the sight of our door and the memory of that horrid knocking. Sighing loudly, I put it to the back of my mind, pull out my keys and open the door.

  “My God,” Aimee says as I enter the flat, “you to
ok your time. Thought you said you’d be ten minutes.”

  “I know, Sorry, Aim,” I reply, closing the door behind and then putting on the chain. “I saw an old friend from school in Burger-Land. We just got chatting. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Aimee smiles. “Of course I don’t mind. We’re not joined at the hip. I was only curious.”

  I nod and follow her into the living room. “How was work?” I ask.

  “It was all right. Pretty dead most of the day. You?”

  We both sit on the couch.

  “It was all right. Thought I’d go see Mum before the wedding.”

  “She’s down in a few days for the rehearsal though. What was the point?”

  “No point really. Just thought I’d go up for a chat, you know. Everything’ll be a bit hectic in the rehearsal, what with your parents and Ed being there.”

  Aimee smiles tightly, a spark of distrust in her eyes. She doesn’t believe me.

  But there’s nothing to hide. I did just go up to Cardiff to see Mum. And I did pop in to see Ed on the way. I haven’t lied about anything.

  So why the hell do I feel so guilty?

  “How’s your Mum?” Aimee asks. “Stressing about the wedding?”

  “Yeah. You know my mother—always worried about something. She probably thinks Mexico is Colombia.”

  “It’s a generation thing. My Dad’s the same. He used to think that New Zealand was the capital of Australia.”

  “Piss off?” I chuckle. “That’s awful. I thought your Dad was intelligent.”

  “He makes out that he knows everything. Likes to think of himself as a man of the world, but really he’s just a narrow-minded dinosaur. He told me the other day that there are more gays and paedos in the world than ever before. Mum and me kept screaming at him to hear sense, that it’s just that gay people don’t need to hide like they used to, and police are able to catch more paedos. But did he listen? Like hell he did.”

  I shake my head in false-disbelief, too embarrassed to admit that I thought exactly the same. “Well, that’s parents for you.” I grab the remote control and turn on the TV. “You eaten yet?”

  “Only a sandwich. Nothing big. Wanna make sure I fit into my wedding dress. Can’t risk putting on weight this close.”

  “You look fine, Aim. Don’t know why you’re so stressed about your weight.”

  “I’m not stressed. But you can’t be too careful. The dress is already a bit snug on me.”

  “Well, I don’t care what you look like, Aim. As long as you turn up…I’m happy.”

  “That’s good to know. But I’m sure my mother’ll have something to say if I walk down the aisle in a pair of joggers and no makeup.”

  “Well I wouldn’t.”

  Aimee smiles and kisses me.

  “Shall we watch a film?” I suggest.

  Aimee nods. “Could do. Not a long one though. Need an early night. I was knackered getting up for work this morning.”

  “That’s fine. I could use an early night as well.”

  We select a DVD and sit back to watch. Snuggling up close to Aimee, I focus on the film. So glad she picked Legally Blonde and not some horror. Normally I hate that kind of shit—but tonight, I’ll gladly settle for anything other than some creepy movie.

  But even watching something so colourful and harmless I can still hear the knocking on the door. Can’t get the sound out of my head, like some annoying pop song. Over and over it goes, through my mind, almost muting the sound of the TV. I fight hard to shake it off; I even force out a laugh when Aimee does. But it’s no use. It’s so loud I want to cover both ears. But that will only isolate the noise. I want to ask Aimee to turn the TV up, but she’ll wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I want us to go to bed, to sleep through it, and wake in the morning, but I know I won’t sleep. I want to ditch this cursed flat, find some other shoebox to live in—but we just can’t afford anywhere else.

  And anyway, that means it’s won. It’s beaten us.

  And I won’t let some ghost evict me from my own home.

  So fuck you ghost!

  10

  An hour with our parents and we’re both bedbound. The rehearsal went pretty well, but definitely too much family for one day. We’re lying side by side on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, dazed. I hold Aimee’s hand and gently squeeze it. Turning to me, she smiles, and then kisses me on the lips.

  “I can’t wait for the wedding,” Aimee tells me, her face just a few inches from mine. “But at the same time I’ll be glad when it’s over. Does that sound weird to you?”

  I shake my head. “No. Not at all. I feel exactly the same way. It’s our parents; they make things so complicated. It’s just a bloody wedding for Christ’s sake. People have been getting married for centuries. It shouldn’t be this stressful.”

  “I know,” she replies with an exaggerated sigh. “And Mum and Dad really did my head in today. Moaning about the table-gifts. What’s wrong with giving everyone a lottery ticket? I don’t think it’s a stupid idea at all. Jesus, every wedding I’ve ever been to they’ve given a box of sweets, or a miniature bottle of whiskey. But you’re at a wedding—there’s already booze there. What’s the point? And sweets? That’s even worse. It’s not a children’s party. At least lottery tickets are useful. Everyone likes lottery tickets—but not everyone likes whiskey and sweets.”

  “Imagine if one of our guests wins the jackpot,” I say with excitement. “Do you think they’ll split it with us?”

  Aimee shrugs. “Not sure. Depends who wins. Don’t think I’d split it with anyone. Not unless we won ten million. Would you?”

  “Maybe give them a few quid, just for the sake of Karma. Best not to be too greedy.”

  I pull Aimee close and we cuddle.

  “Right,” Aimee says, wriggling free from my hold over her, “I’ve got work to do.”

  “What work?”

  She gets up off the bed, drops to one knee, and then slides out a large plastic box from under the bed. “The lottery tickets. I’ve got to put them in gift-boxes.”

  Sitting up, hands behind my head, I tut. “Can’t you do that tomorrow?”

  She picks up the heavy box and puts it on the bed. “I won’t have time tomorrow. I’ve got the hairdressers in the afternoon.”

  “Thought you said that some woman is doing your hair for the wedding.”

  “Yeah. But she’s just putting my hair up for the wedding. I’m just going for a trim tomorrow. I told you this already.” She starts to pull out tiny, white gift boxes, no bigger than a ring box, and then lays them out neatly on the quilt. “You never listen to me, Matt.”

  “Sorry, Aimee, that priceless nugget of information must have slipped me by.”

  “Smart arse,” she retorts, not even looking at me; too engrossed in her task at hand.

  Reaching into the plastic box, I pick out a huge bunch of lottery tickets, held tightly together with a rubber band. “How many tickets did you buy?”

  “Fifty three. Someone’s bound to win something.”

  “Why don’t we just throw in a few jelly-babies and keep the tickets for ourselves. We could use the money.”

  Aimee looks up at me with impatience. “Haven’t you got something else you could be doing—instead of bugging me?”

  “No. Nothing at all. Just annoy you.”

  She pulls out a pair of scissors from the box and hands them to me. “Look, if you’ve got nothing better to do, then you can help me instead.”

  I moan, too exhausted even to pretend to want to help. “Do I have to? I need a shower.”

  “You just said you had nothing to do.”

  “Yeah, but that was before you actually had something for me to do.”

  Moaning even louder, I take the scissors by the handles and snip the air several times. “All right, what do you want me to do?”

  She passes me some thin pink strips of ribbon. “Just pinch the ribbon with the scissors and pull, like you would on a balloon. You know, t
o make them curly.”

  I nod confidently, as if I’d done this a million times. “No problem. Watch an expert at work.”

  Grimacing, Aimee watches as I attempt to curl the ribbon. Squeezing the scissors too tightly, the ribbon cuts in half.

  “You’re being too rough,” Aimee says, taking the ribbon and scissors from me. “Let me do it.”

  “So what else can I do to help?”

  “How about you clean the kitchen?”

  “I meant with the wedding.”

  Aimee smiles, and then taps me on the leg. “In other words, I want you out of my hair.” She air-snips the scissors playfully, and then motions for me to leave. “Go on, run along and let me get on with this. You’ll only end up distracting me.

  “Fine,” I reply, getting off the bed. “But when your mother sees how shit your ribbons look, don’t come crying to me.”

  Chuckling, Aimee shakes her head. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

  I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen. For the first time ever, doing the dishes feels like a much better deal.

  11

  I wake to the sound of screaming.

  My head shoots up from the pillow in fright. Aimee is sitting up in bed, both hands on her head.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her, my words filled with panic.

  She moves her hands away from her head and turns to me, eyes drowning in tears.

  It takes me a second to register—but then I see it.

  The left side of her hair has been cut off.

  My stomach roils when I see all the loose hair scattered on the pillow, quilt and bed sheets.

  “What the fuck!” I mutter; too shocked even to console her.

  Aimee leaps out of bed, hysterically. “We’re leaving!” she screams, throwing a handful of hair at the wall.

  “Calm down, Aimee,” I say, following her out of bed. “Tell me what happened?”

  “You know exactly what happened, Matt,” she sobs, storming towards the door. “This fucking ghost cut my hair!”

  “Wait!” I shout, chasing after her. I grab her hand, but she slips from my grasp. “Just think about this for a second.”