I chuckle quietly. Probably wise not to tell her that I spent most of the morning in the canteen, scoffing bacon and toast with the boys. “Well, that’s good of you to say. We do our best.”
Around the corner, just past Ward 4, I see Paul coming out, pushing another elderly woman in a wheelchair; this one is at least ninety, and much more frail and withered. “Where you off to, Matt?” he asks me; his bald head in desperate need of a shave; the stubble on his chin bordering on becoming a full-grown beard.
“X-Ray,” I reply. “You?”
“Snap. Me too.”
“Now there’s another damn good porter,” Mary tells the other patient as both chairs are pushed, side by side, down the corridor. “These boys are the heart and soul of this hospital.”
The other patient doesn’t reply, just nods, clearly comatose or half asleep.
“So what you get up to over the weekend?” Paul asks me.
“Nothing much. Bit of shopping on Saturday. Sunday lunch over at Aimee’s parents’ house. Usual stuff. You?”
“Went out with my brother. Had a skin-full of beer again. Spent most of Sunday suffering on the couch.”
“Get lucky?”
Paul smirks. “’Course I did. What do you take me for?”
I shake my head, smiling. “You seeing her again? I mean…is she the one?”
Paul chuckles. “What do you think?”
“So no then.”
“Damn right. I can’t see me settling down. Can you?”
“Well, definitely not now anyway.”
“I mean, Aimee is great, but sticking with the same girl, day in, day out,” he sighs, “I think I’d lose it, mate.”
We reach the X-Ray department, go through the double doors, and then take the patients into the waiting room. “See you later, Mary,” I tell her, leaning slightly in front of her.
“Okay, Matthew,” she replies; a big smile spread across her gaunt face. “Thank you my boy.”
Paul’s patient is fast asleep in her wheelchair, so we exit the department and head back down the corridor.
“So how’s Aimee?” Paul asks. “Haven’t seen her in ages. You guys settled into the flat yet?”
“She’s good. The flat’s good. Well, apart from the fact that Aimee thinks it’s haunted.”
“Really? Since when?”
“As soon as we moved in. I mean, I admit, there have been a few weird things happening, but…” I shake my head.
“Well, maybe you do have a ghost. How old is your flat?”
“The flat is brand new, but the entire building is pretty old. Not sure how old though. But apart from a few noises, a few things breaking, the place is fine. I put it all down to coincidences. That’s all. Aimee just loves a good ghost story.”
“Look, if I were you I’d do whatever that woman says to do. This is the first proper relationship you’ve had in about fifteen years, so you don’t wanna screw things up.”
“No, I know. And I won’t screw it up. Aimee’s awesome. We have our moments, but that’s what I love about her. We can bicker about stupid things like money and ghosts, but I still can’t wait to see her when I get home.”
Paul makes a retching sound. “I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”
“Dickhead,” I say under my breath.
“And look, as for your ghost problem, I’m with Aimee on this one. Tell her I said that, yeah? Tell her I’m on board.”
“Why the hell do you care what Aimee thinks?”
“To stay in her good books…you know, so she’ll put a good word in for me.”
“A good word in for what?”
“With her sister.”
I laugh out loud. “With Nia? As if! You haven’t got a bloody chance, mate.”
“That’s a bit harsh. Why not?”
“Because Nia knows you’re a dirty bastard, that’s why. Plus, she’s got a little girl. Can you really see yourself putting up with a kid?”
“Doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”
“Bullshit.”
“It doesn’t. I like kids. I’m good with ‘em. You can tell her that from me.”
I hear my name being called over the radio. I unclip the radio from my belt and bring it up to my mouth. “Yeah, Matt here, Angela. What have you got for me?”
“Blood pick up in Ward 3, Matt,” Angela replies, her shrill voice muffled by the speaker.
“Yeah, no worries, Angela. On my way.” I reattach the radio to my belt.
“So,” Paul continues, as we both head towards the stairs, “you gonna put a word in or what?”
“What do you think?”
“Prick.”
6
It’s Aimee’s twenty-fifth birthday.
The Cawdor Restaurant is jam-packed. In the lobby there is a large bar with several brown-leather couches, with customers waiting to be seated, and the high ceiling has giant wooden beams across it. Not sure what this place once was or is trying to look like…but it’s posh—that much I know.
We follow the waitress to our table. As we both sit, I notice how amazing Aimee looks in her tight-black dress, her normally pale skin seeming a lot darker tonight. Spray-tan? Maybe a quick sunbed session? I wouldn’t put it past her, especially on her birthday. I check the time on my phone. Not bad. Only five minutes late. That’s got to be a record for us. Aimee picks up the wine list first. “What do you fancy drinking?” she asks me. “Red or white?”
“I was thinking champagne.”
Aimee’s face lights up. “Really? There’s no need to spend that kind of money tonight. It’s only my twenty-fifth. Plus, the cheapest bottle is forty-five pound.”
I smile, praying my nerves aren’t obvious. “Don’t be silly; it’s fine. You deserve it. You work hard. You don’t ask for much. Let me treat you.”
“Well, only if you’re sure,” she says, beaming.
“’Course I am.” I pick up the menu and notice how clammy my palms are.
She scans the page. “Jesus, Matt. It’s a bit pricey.”
“It’s fine.”
She reaches over the table and places her hand onto mine. “Well, I have to say: you’re on fire tonight. I’ll have to return the favour later.”
I grin as I take a look at the food options. “That’s the idea.”
When the champagne arrives in the metal bucket, the waitress sets it down on the edge of the table, and fills our glasses. She then takes our order and leaves. I have no idea what most of the dishes are, so God knows what I’ll end up with. Usually in my experience, when I can’t pronounce any of the food, it’s a good sign that it’s pretty good. And expensive.
“So how was work this morning?” I ask. “Has Becky had the baby yet?”
“No. Not yet. They’re taking her in to be induced on Monday. You should see her—she’s huge. Bigger than Nia was.” She takes a sip of her drink and nods. “That’s lovely. You can really tell the difference from that cheap shit we buy.”
“Yeah. It’s nice. Not sure if I can really tell the difference though. It’s all the same to me. Just fizzy wine.”
She takes another swig. “Not cultured like me. I’m like Frasier when it comes to wine.”
“Frasier?” I chuckle, nearly spitting out a mouthful. “Yeah right. You couldn’t tell a Moet from a mango juice. I’m the only expert when it comes to alcohol.”
“Oh yeah, and how do you work that one out then?”
“Beer of course.”
“Beer?”
“Yeah. You put any brand of beer in front of me and I can tell you which one it is. Easily.”
Aimee laughs and then scans the restaurant. “Can’t believe how posh this place is. It’s so nice. We should come to these places more often.”
“Yeah, but there’s a good reason why we don’t—we’ve got no money.”
“I know. But maybe we should spend our money on less crap and more on places like this.”
“What crap?”
“You know what I mean. Lik
e nights out in Swansea with our friends. I mean, after taxis and alcohol, between us, we can easily spend over a hundred pound in one night. Sometimes even more. To me that’s such a waste. I think I’d be happier just having friends over for drinks. We always have more of a laugh when we do. Do you know what I mean?”
I lean in over the table, place my hand over hers, and smile. “Welcome to my world: Old age.”
“Hey, twenty-five is practically a teenager these days. I’m a long way off from catching you up.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see how you feel in a couple of years when thirty starts looming. Trust me, you’ll be panicking, wondering where your life went. How you ended up with such a George Clooney.”
“George Clooney? More like Steve Martin.”
I finish off my glass and reach for the bottle again. I can feel a bead of sweat as it trickles down my forehead, and I fight hard to steady my hand as I grab the bottle. Aimee notices straightaway.
“What’s wrong?” she asks with a tone of concern.
“Well,” I stand up from the chair and walk over to her, my chest tight, adrenalin surging. “I didn’t bring you here just for your birthday.”
“What are you talking about?”
I slowly drop to one knee, completely aware that a few people have noticed, and then reach into my inside jacket pocket. Taking hold of the tiny box, I watch Aimee’s eyes widen and glow, and her jaw starts to fall in shock. Holding out the tiny box, I smile, unsure of whether to laugh at the ridiculousness of the scene, or burst into tears at the thought of actually being here, doing this.
I open the box.
Aimee’s eyes light up when she sees the ring.
From the corner of my eyes, I notice more and more onlookers. Can’t help but wonder if they’re smiling at such a wonderful (if not clichéd) moment, or laughing at what an arse I’m making of myself.
Either way, there’s absolutely no turning back now. Forget the ring. Once you’ve gone down on one knee, that’s it. Time to suck it up and get on with it.
Strap on a pair of balls.
“Aimee,” I say, suddenly feeling a little more confident and less of an idiot. “Since the day I met you, I knew I’d found my perfect girl. You’re funny, you’re caring, you’re not afraid to stand up for yourself—and you’re the most beautiful, most precious thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.” I take in a lungful of air, hoping to calm the butterflies. “So, will you do me the great honour of marrying me?”
Aimee reaches down to hug me. “Of course I will!”
The restaurant comes alive with a sea of clapping and cheering. I’ve never felt so happy, but equally mortified, in my entire life.
But fuck me—it was worth it!
I take out the ring and slip it onto her finger. She beams as she holds up her hand to inspect it.
“Is it okay?” I ask, still not entirely sure if Mum and I picked the right one.
“Of course it is. I love it, Matt. I can’t believe you’ve done this. I’m really shocked. I never thought…” she stops herself from welling up.
I sit back down in my chair, unable to remove the smile from my face. “You really didn’t have any idea?”
“No. None at all. I just thought we’d be having a birthday meal tonight.” She glances again at the ring. “I’m shocked. Completely shocked. This is the best birthday present ever. I mean it, Matt. I can’t believe how thoughtful you are. I love you so much. I really do.”
“I love you too.” I dowse the adrenalin by downing an entire glass of champagne. “You really didn’t have a clue?”
Shaking her head, she swallows a mouthful of her drink. “Not a clue, Matt. Honestly. You know me: gullible as hell. So who else knows?”
“Just my mother. She helped me pick the ring. Wouldn’t have a clue otherwise. I’m shit with things like that. If it were left to me, you’d probably be wearing an onion ring.”
Aimee chuckles and then looks again at the ring, as it catches the light, glistening. “So when we getting married then?” she asks, her eyes still fixed on the diamond.
And so it begins…
Aimee holds me tight in the backseat of the taxi, clearly still overwhelmed by the events of the evening. I can feel the aftereffects of the adrenalin start to kick in, making me a little lethargic. I try to shake the feeling off, but the hot air pumping through the car-heater is making it impossible.
I can tell Aimee’s a little drunk. It doesn’t take her more than a few glasses to get her slurring words. I find it hilarious. She finds it embarrassing.
Sex is definitely on the cards tonight, as long as I can stay awake. Once I’m back in the flat, with the lights on, glass of water, I’ll be more than up to the task. After all, how often do you get down on one knee and ask someone to marry you?
Aimee is busy texting someone as the taxi turns down our street; no doubt she’s spreading the good news to her friends. I’m sure she’ll be on Facebook before the night’s through, telling the world how lucky she is, how happy she is. But I’m guessing that it’s secretly telling all the women: ‘Fuck you all—I’m getting married! And you ain’t!’
Of course the fact that I’m marrying a blonde goddess is pretty awesome, but the first thing that popped into my head when she said yes was: Stag Party! I know it’s shallow and immature but no more than caring about a shiny ring on your finger. Women have that. Men have stag parties.
And strippers.
“Who’ve you been texting?” I ask her. “Your parents?”
“No, just Nia. I was going to wait until after I’d phoned my parents, but she just asked me how my birthday went…and I couldn’t hold it in.”
“I bet you couldn’t. What if she tells everyone before your parents find out? Won’t they be a little pissed off with you?”
“She won’t say. She wouldn’t do that. I made her promise.”
“Fair enough. I’m sure she won’t have to keep the secret for long anyway.”
“Nope.”
I pay the driver and we get inside the building, heading up the stairs towards the flat. “You texted your parents yet?” I ask her.
“No. I’ll call them later.”
“Yeah. I bet your mother will cry. Guaranteed.” I open the door to the flat. “Do you think your dad will be mad that I didn’t ask his permission?”
“No. He won’t give a shit. He’s not like that.”
Aimee closes the door behind her and follows me inside.
I knock the light switch on and then make my way into the living room.
In the doorway, I stop in my tracks.
“Shit!” I blurt out.
The curtains have been yanked off the rails. The coffee table is on its back, with the two glasses that were sitting on top now smashed on the floor. Our holiday pictures from the mantelpiece have been launched across the room. The DVD player is on the carpet, with the disc-tray damaged.
“What’s wrong?” Aimee asks. But she doesn’t need me to answer. In a second she knows exactly what’s happened.
Some dirty prick’s robbed us!
I race into the kitchen and find all the cupboards hanging open. The one below the sink is even hanging off its hinges. Inside was a range of different cleaning products, bleach, washing-up liquid, all of which have spilled out over the floor, dribbling under the counter and table. The fridge is also wide open, with food flung out across the floor, and jars smashed.
I turn to Aimee, noticing her engagement ring as she puts a hand over her mouth in horror. I take her hands and whisper that everything will be all right. I can feel her body tremble in my grip as she takes slow, controlled breaths.
A sudden jolt of panic hits me and I release her hands.
What if the culprits are still inside the flat?
“I’ll check the rest of the place,” I bravely tell her, and then motion at the door with my head. “And I want you to wait outside in case—”
“Luna!” she yells in a frenzy of tears.
Oh shit, the b
loody cat!
I put my arm out to stop her racing around the flat. “Go outside, Aimee. It’s not safe. I’ll look for him.”
“Find him, then!” she weeps as she steps out onto the landing. “Please!”
Once I hear her footsteps reach the staircase, I switch the bathroom light on and creep inside, adrenalin still pumping. “Luna!” I call out gently. “Come on, boy. Where are you?” The first thing I notice is the shattered mirror above the sink. I scan the rest of the room, but nothing else seems to be out of place. There’s only a minuscule sink, toilet and a bathtub-slash-shower. There’s no shower glass or curtain to break. No expensive towel-rail to rip off the wall. Just a tiny room with barely the space to dry your arse, and nowhere for a cat to hide.
I leave the bathroom and make my way into the bedroom. “Luna!” I call out again, switching the light on. Like the rest of the flat, it’s in disarray. The bed sheets have been dragged onto the floor. The curtains ripped from the rails. Aimee’s dressing table is on its side, with the mirror above it cracked. The wardrobe doors are wide open; the clothes now on the floor in a pile. But for some reason my laptop is untouched. Undamaged. Thank God! I kneel down by the side of the bed to peer under. The thought of seeing some junkie hiding under there, holding a Norman Bates knife, sends a chill down my back. Muscles clenched, nervous beads of sweat dripping, I slowly lift the quilt. The first thing I see is an array of shoeboxes. Sliding my hand under, I move the boxes over.
“Oh shit!” I yell when I see two eyes staring back at me.
I scurry backwards in fright, crashing into the chest of drawers.
Luna suddenly comes bolting from under the bed, straight past me and out the door.
Groaning, my hand across my surging heart, I stand up. That bastard cat.
“Luna!” I hear Aimee cry with relief from the hallway.
“I told you to wait outside,” I firmly say “You could have got hurt.”
She’s not listening, too busy kissing the fur-ball’s head. But then she stops when she catches a glimpse of the bedroom. I follow her eyes and see her dolphins, each one smashed to pieces, bits scattered over the floor and bed.
Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Page 4
