Eyes On You

Prologue

Prologue

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Mum again, no doubt wondering where the hell I slept last night, or whether I skipped school today. I should answer it, tell her that I’m fine, and that I’m on my way home, but it’s too much effort.

The sun is glaring down so I shield my eyes with my hand, the other one holding onto my swirling stomach, praying that I don’t puke up for a third time. Shouldn’t have had that last swig of vodka.

Home is just up ahead, so I focus on our red front door in the distance, using the parked cars to keep me from toppling over. Mum’s car is parked in the drive. Dad’s isn’t. That’s worrying. Any other day and that wouldn’t set off a single alarm bell, but after yesterday, after the s**t-storm, God knows where he is.

No, no scratch that, it’s obvious where the cheating bastard is—shacked up with that w***e!

Hobbling up our drive, I stop by the front door. I don’t think I’m quite ready to face Mum, especially with the worst ecstasy comedown ever. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, contemplating whether or not to head back the way I came, try to sleep for a few more hours.

No, I can’t. I can’t put this off any longer.

I let out a sigh, rub my burning eyes, and then open the front door.

Mum is in the living room, sitting on the couch, staring at the TV in a daze. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks red and puffy, and she has the phone in one hand, and a tissue in the other.

She sees me standing in the doorway. “You’re home,” she says with urgency. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Where’ve you been?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Out,” I reply, cagily, my voice hoarse, my throat dry and sore.

Mum sniffs loudly and wipes her nose with the tissue. “Sit down, Matt.”

“Where’s Dad?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

Mum doesn’t answer. I was right—he’s with that b***h again.

“Just sit down,” she repeats, breaking out in tears. “Please.”

This is the last thing I need right now. I should never have come home so soon.

“Is he coming back?” I ask, stubbornly refusing to move from the doorway.

The phone drops out of Mum’s trembling hand. “No, your father’s not coming back,” she weeps, struggling to form words. She looks down at the floor, resting her head in her palms; her entire body convulsing.

I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders and tell her that he doesn’t deserve us, that the best place for him is the gutter, but I’m too numb, too drained. So instead I just stare at the photo of him on the mantelpiece and pretend that he’s a stranger, that he’s not the man that I spent my entire life idolising.

He’s nobody to me now. Just a man who—

“Your father’s dead, Matt,” Mum blurts out behind shudders of turmoil.

“What?” I ask with a deep scowl across my brow. Did she really just say that?

No, of course not. I’m still high. Still drunk.

He can’t be dead.

“They found him this morning,” Mum replies. “With a note.”

“You’re lying,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would you say something like that?”

Mum gets up from the couch, eyes streaming, and walks over to me. “It’s true, Matt,” she says, taking both my hands. “He’s gone.”

“No,” I say, pulling out of Mum’s grasp. “He’s just with that woman. That’s all. He’s not dead. You’re a liar!”

I start to back away towards the front door, refusing to let her lies seep in.

“I’m not, Matt,” she replies as she follows me. “They found him by the train tracks.”

“No!” I snap, my back against the door, my hand gripping the handle, ready to bolt down the street. “Dad wouldn’t do that to us! He wouldn’t leave us like that!”

She opens out her arms, inviting me in for a hug. “Come here, Matt.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, my vision fogs over, and the walls start to move, pressing towards me.

Mum mouths something else, but I can’t hear her words.

I can’t hear anything.

The acid in my stomach erupts and I puke up over the floor. I wipe my mouth and then drop to my knees in tears. Mum kneels down beside me, her arm across my back, crying hard into my shoulder.

I can’t catch my breath.

I need to get out of here.

I need to see him.

I need to see for myself—because this is all my fault. And if it’s true, if he is dead…then I really have lost everything.

Part I

Beetroot