Eyes On You

Chapter 1

1

I lift the box labelled ‘MATTS s**t’ and take it into the bedroom. Dropping it on the bed, I let out a loud moan of relief. I open the box and rummage through, realising within the first second that this is most definitely not my s**t.

“Aimee?” I call out.

“Yeah?” she replies from the kitchen, which is so close it feels like she’s calling from the same room. “What’s wrong?”

“How come this box says ‘MATTS s**t’ when it’s clearly your s**t?”

“Are you sure? Have a good look. You know what you’re like.”

I scan the contents again even though I’m pretty sure that I don’t own a s*x and the City boxset, a stupid dream-catcher, and a collection of ceramic dolphins. “It’s your s**t. Where are my DVDs?”

I hear Aimee groan as she leaves the kitchen. She pokes her head through the doorway, her long blonde hair clinging to her face, still damp from the downpour earlier. “You probably left it in your car. Just go check.” She spots the dolphins. “Be careful with those ornaments now; I’ve had them since I was five. Put them on the shelf before you break them.”

“I’m not going to break them?”

Aimee chuckles. “Yeah, right. You’re the clumsiest man in the world.”

“No, I’m not,” I reply, delicately placing each dolphin on the wooden shelf above the bed.

“Yes you are. You spilled red wine over my parents’ new rug—or did that slip your mind?”

“That wasn’t me,” I reply, scanning the box for the DVDs. “I already told you, the cat must have done it.”

Aimee rolls her eyes and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. It’s always the cat’s fault.”

I don’t retort, too focused on locating my movie collection. Where the hell are they? “They’re not here, Aimee.”

“You must have left it at your mum’s,” she replies. “Just pick them up on Sunday.”

Exhaling in frustration, I empty the box onto the bed. “I suppose so.”

“Oh grow up, Matt,” she says, playfully, as she returns to the kitchen. “You can watch your stupid films another day.”

I place Aimee’s DVDs on the shelf and her boxes onto the bedside table. “They’re not stupid,” I mutter. “s*x and the City is stupid.”

Aimee’s cat comes creeping in, loitering by my feet. “Out, Luna,” I whisper. “Go on.” He doesn’t move, just stares up at me with those cold, yellow eyes. Why anyone would want a house-cat is beyond me. The furry white bastard can live outside as far as I’m concerned.

I should have lied and said I was allergic.

Aimee crawls into bed next to me, wearing her pink pyjamas and thick blue bed-socks.

“I’m exhausted,” she says. “Totally shattered.”

“Thought you wanted s*x tonight. You know—christen the flat.”

“In your dreams,” she snorts. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I close my eyes and huddle up close to her. “Maybe I won’t feel like it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right. That’ll be a first.”

I smile, open my eyes and then kiss her on the lips. “Goodnight, Aim.”

“Good night.”

As I lie there, almost drifting off to sleep, I think about Mum. I wonder how she’s coping without me. Has she made my room into a shrine yet? Probably. The moment I stepped outside the front door, she threw me a pair of those guilt-trip eyes.

I’m thirty-two for Christ’s sake!

Dad would understand if he were still here. And I’m sure he’d be proud of me, even as a hospital porter. It’s not exactly a brain surgeon, but it’s still a job, it’s still money. And I’ve finally got my very own double bed. No one should have to share a single bed with a girlfriend. No wonder Aimee never liked sleeping over. It’s nice cuddling up on a single bed—for about five minutes.

We did think about renting a place first, but getting on the property ladder seemed like the smart move. The flat isn’t exactly huge, but it’s all we can afford right now. Besides, the other flat downstairs is still unoccupied, so technically, we have the whole building to ourselves. I just pray to God the owner doesn’t sell it to some weirdo. Or worse: Mum! No, she’d never leave Cardiff. She’s too much of a—

The sound of glass breaking pulls me out of my thoughts.

Aimee shoots up. “What was that?”

“Don’t know. Sounds like it came from the kitchen.”

She prods me. “Go check, Matt. Might be a burglar.”

“Okay. Stay here,” I say, climbing out of bed in just my boxer-shorts. Creeping towards the door, I pick up Aimee’s 2kg, pink kettle-bell as a weapon, ready for sudden attack. The bedroom door creaks loudly as I open it slowly. Heart racing, I step out into the hallway, knocking the light switch on. I tiptoe towards the kitchen. The door is already open so I just reach in and hit the light switch.

I pause for a moment when I see the fridge door hanging wide open, and a broken jar of beetroot on the floor; shards of glass scattered, and a pool of dark red juice and clumps.

“Any burglars?” Aimee shouts from the bedroom.

“No. Don’t think so. Just a broken jar of beetroot on the floor.”

“s**t. Not my beetroot.”

“Stay in the bedroom. I’m gonna check the rest of the flat just in case.” I leave the kitchen and head into the living room. Once I switch the light on I can see that the room is empty, and the window is closed. I then check the bathroom and broom cupboard just to be sure. Both empty. Opening the flat door, I step out onto the pitch-black landing.

“Where are you going?” Aimee asks from the bedroom doorway.

“I’m going to check downstairs.”

I reach blindly onto the wall, find the light switch and knock it on. I can’t see anyone. Grasping the banister, I peer downstairs. I can see stacks of junk mail by the front door, but can’t really tell from here if it’s locked or not. Reluctantly, I slowly make my way down the stairs to double-check. As each step brings me closer to the door, I’m annoyed with myself for feeling so edgy. I know there’s no one down here, but I still can’t shake off these nerves. Must be first-night fears. New home. New neighbourhood. Brand-new worries. Once I’m down, I walk over to the main door and twist the handle a few times to make sure it’s locked. Over to the other flat, I try the door. It’s also locked. I know it’s empty but can’t resist the urge to press my ear against the door to listen. Maybe the flat is full of smack-head squatters, or illegal immigrants. Can’t hear anything. I give the door a gentle tap. “Hello,” I whisper. “Anybody in there?” I listen again but there’s nothing. No movement, no voices, no sounds at all.

Relieved, I head back upstairs to our flat. I switch off the landing light and close the door, hooking on the door-chain just in case.

Inside the kitchen, I go over to the cupboard under the sink, dodging the glass with my bare feet, and pull out some kitchen-roll, a dustpan and a small brush. I start to gather up the glass into the pan, and soak up the juice with the kitchen-roll.

“How the hell did that happen?” Aimee asks from the kitchen doorway.

“Don’t come in here,” I protest, holding my hand out to stop her. “You might cut your foot open. The glass has gone everywhere.”

“What about you? You haven’t got any shoes on either.”

“Yeah, but I’m already in here now. It’s too late for me.”

“Well that makes no sense at all.”

I scoop up the last of the beetroot and glass. “Must have just fallen off the shelf. The fridge door must have been left open.”

“Or a ghost,” she says in a spooky voice.

I snort. “A ghost?”

“It could be.”

Dropping the pieces in the bin, I make my way out of the kitchen, and then back towards the bedroom. “You’re twenty-four years old, Aim,” I point out. “It’s not a b****y ghost.”

“Don’t be so narrow-minded all the time,” she replies, following me into the bedroom. “You don’t believe in anything.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you laughed when I said that I believed in healing, and you made a face when you first saw my dream-catcher. b****y hell, you even think acupuncture is bullshit.”

“It is bullshit,” I say, climbing back into bed. “All of it. And anyway, I seriously doubt that a ghost would want to haunt this shoebox of a flat. There’re only four rooms. I can think of better places to spend eternal damnation.”

Aimee joins me in bed. “Doesn’t work like that.”

I chuckle. “As if you know how it all works.”

“I don’t pretend to know everything.” She snuggles up beside me. “But it’s good to be open-minded. And don’t you think it’d be exciting if we did have a ghost?”

I dismiss the comment by kissing her cheek, and then turn to face the other way. “Good night, Aim,”

As I close my eyes, trying to drift off to sleep, I hear Aimee mumble, “Boring bastard.”