“Luna!” Aimee calls out to him. “Come here, boy.”
No response.
Heart racing, I enter the living room, followed closely behind by Aimee.
“Luna!” she calls out again, checking behind the couch and armchair. “Where are you boy?”
I glance behind the TV stand, but he’s not there.
Aimee’s car keys are on the coffee table. I pick them up and hand them over to her.
“Luna!” I yell as we head into the kitchen. “Come on you silly cat. Where are you?”
I check under the table and chairs. Deserted. Aimee inspects the rest of the room but he’s still missing.
“Where the hell is he?” Aimee asks; her face gripped with unease.
“Don’t worry. He’s probably sleeping under our bed.”
She leaves the kitchen before me, heading towards our bedroom. “Wait for me, Aimee!” I snap as I chase after her. “It’s too risky.”
Aimee stops suddenly just outside the bathroom door.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I peer inside over her shoulder. My eyes are immediately drawn to the mirror above the sink, and the words scribbled in red lipstick, covering most of the glass. They’re too hard to make out from here, so I follow her in for a closer look.
Jesus fucking Christ!
The words read: ‘YOUR BABY IS MINE.’
My insides start to constrict, robbing me of my breath.
I wish we’d stayed out of this room, ignored this fucking mirror—because when I see the bathtub, the torn clumps of white fur, now a dark pink colour, I realise that the words are not written in red lipstick.
“Oh my God!” Aimee cries, her hand over her mouth. “Oh my fucking God! Luna!”
Trying to mask my horror, I take hold of Aimee’s right arm, and pull her away from the bathtub. “Don’t look at him,” I say, struggling not to vomit at the sight of Luna’s severed abdomen, his spewing innards, the pool of dried blood under his motionless body. “We need to go.”
Aimee starts to sob uncontrollably, the colour in her cheeks drained, her body juddering with shock.
Guiding her out of the bathroom, I catch another glimpse of the words scrawled on the mirror.
Somehow my stomach churns even more.
There’s nothing left for us in this flat.
She can have it all.
Like zombies, we leave the building, and then climb into my car again. Struggling to catch my breath, I notice Aimee’s car still parked in front. She’s in no state to drive today. God knows what might happen.
I want to comfort her, tell her something to make everything better. But I can’t. I’ve got nothing to say. Nothing at all to ease her pain, her worry.
To bring back Luna.
This thing drove us out into the night. It has driven us out of our home.
And now it looks like it wants our unborn child as well.
16
We haven’t spoken properly since officially moving in with Aimee’s parents. At first I put it down to working so many evening shifts at the hospital, the long commute, hardly seeing each other. But it’s not just that, or even seeing Luna in such a vile way.
It’s the words on the mirror.
I’m partly to blame for distancing myself from Aimee. It’s been easy with Byron and Lynne as distractions. There’s rarely a moment of awkward silence to fill, and I’ve told myself that it’s best just to give her time, let her get over the stress. But I know it’s just another one of my excuses not to face up to things. It’s hard for me too, though. I saw the message. It’s my baby as well. It freaked me out just as much. I’m the one who’s meant to keep my wife safe, keep my family safe.
I can’t even keep the bloody cat safe.
I took a bus back to the flat yesterday to pick up Aimee’s car. I did contemplate just driving away, but instead I rushed up to the flat with a bin-bag, dropped Luna’s remains inside, and then buried him by the reservoir.
I hated the little fur-ball, but no one deserves to die in such a way.
We still haven’t told anyone that Aimee’s pregnant—not even her parents. She told me that she’d like to wait a couple more weeks, at least until our first scan. But it seems like ages since the news; she’s even started to show a little. I’ve noticed her wearing those loose-fitting blouses to cover up her stomach. Don’t think her parents have noticed though. Personally I can’t see the problem with telling them; they’re going to find out sooner or later. And if she waits too long, our parents are going to wonder what took us so long. Plus, we could use the distraction. Giving everyone the great news is bound to take away some of those negative feelings. At least when we say that we want to sell the flat, we can use the baby as an excuse.
“So how’s the flat coming along?” Byron asks me, stuffing in a mouthful of chicken.
“Not really sure,” I reply, as the memory of Luna’s dead body pops into my head. “We’re still waiting for British Gas to get back to us.”
“Well I hope they’re giving you a discount from next month’s bill,” Lynne says from the sink, scrubbing dishes with a brush. “It’s not fair on you both, being turfed out like that. Make sure you tell them you’re not happy.”
“Stop badgering them, Lynne,” Byron mumbles with a mouthful of food. “You make it sound like we don’t want them here.”
“I’m not saying that,” Lynne replies. “I’m just saying that it’s not fair. Especially with how far they have to travel to work every day.”
“So how’s work been treating you these days?” Byron asks Aimee. “Those lawyers still taking advantage of you?”
“No, Dad. It’s fine,” Aimee replies; her words quiet, not looking at her father, eyes staring down at her food.
“They’ve been really good with her lately,” I answer, trying to move the focus back over to me. “They’ve even booked her on one of those advanced computer courses.”
“That’s great news, Aimee,” Lynne says to her, proudly. “’Bout time too.”
Aimee nods and smiles thinly.
“Well, she deserves it,” I say. “She’s been there long enough.”
“Damn right!” Byron says, reaching over the table to take a dollop of swede from the bowl.
There’s an awkward silence for a few minutes, apart from the sound of cutlery scratching down on plates, and dishes being pulled out of the sink and stacked on the drainer.
“You’re quiet, Aimee,” Byron tells her. “You feeling all right? You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” she replies, prodding her lumpy mash potato with the fork. “I’m just not that hungry.”
Lynne turns to her, her eyes filled with motherly concern. “It’s not like you to waste so much food.”
“It’s nothing, Mum. Stop fussing,” Aimee snaps, dropping her cutlery down onto the table. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just tired. That’s all.”
I watch as Byron is about to defend his wife, but then stops when he sees that Aimee is clearly upset. The kitchen falls quiet again for almost a full minute. It feels like a lifetime as I forcefully eat my meal, even though I’ve completely lost my appetite.
“Why don’t you have a lie down upstairs?” I ask Aimee, breaking the silence. “I’ll help Lynne clean up.”
Aimee starts to cry. The chair screeches against the tiled floor as she pushes it back with her feet. Standing up, she mouths a barely recognisable apology, and rushes out of the kitchen. I nearly get up and go after her, but I stay put, let her cool off for a couple of minutes. I’m guessing that this isn’t the first time that she’s stormed out of this room. But this isn’t some teenage tantrum; this is a real problem. I wish I could tell her parents the truth; that Luna didn’t just run away, that a ghost drove us out of the flat—and that Aimee is pregnant. But she made me swear that I wouldn’t. She doesn’t want them to worry. So I’ll bite my tongue—for now.
After helping Lynne with the dishes, I go upstairs to speak with Aimee.
She doesn’t answer, her body juddering as she sobs.
“Talk to me,” I say. “Please.”
There’s a moment of silence, but then Aimee finally turns to face me. “There’s nothing to say, Matt,” she replies with red, tear-filled eyes. “I just can’t believe what she did to Luna. And now we’re—”
“What’s that?” I ask, cutting her off when I notice the dark patch on the crotch of her jeans.
But the moment the words leave my lips, I know exactly what it is.
With a look of confusion, Aimee peers down at the stain. “Oh shit,” she mutters under her breath as her eyes widen in horror.
My heart sinks into my gut and I leap off the bed. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
She nods, tears still streaming, and then grabs one of her long coats from the back of the door. She quickly slips it on, covering up the bloodstain, and then we race out of the bedroom.
She waits by the front door as I walk into the kitchen to get the car keys. Byron has vanished somewhere, leaving just Lynne sweeping the floor. She smiles when she spots me. “Popping out somewhere?” she asks as I gather up the car keys from the damp worktop.
“Yeah, just a quick drive to clear Aimee’s head. We won’t be long.”
“Is she all right?” she asks with suspicion; she’s clearly noticed Aimee standing by the front door. She knows something’s not right; it’s pretty obvious. Maybe she thinks we’ve just had a falling out. But I doubt it. Mothers always know.
“Yeah, she’s fine, Lynne,” I reassure her, playing with my keys awkwardly, unable to make eye contact.
“Okay, well…I’ll see you both later then.”
“Okay, Lynne. See you later.” I force a smile and leave the kitchen swiftly.
Aimee opens the front door even before I reach her. Catching up with her on the front path, I take her hand; it’s rigid. I can tell she wants me to keep my distance. But I won’t let her. By the time we get across the street to the car, I feel her fingers start to loosen. I stop her just before we get to the car door and pull her close; she resists at first, but then surrenders. I hug her tightly as she sobs wildly into my chest. I tell her that it’ll be all right. Whatever happens. Whatever the outcome. I’ll always be there for her. And I’ll always love her more than anything.
17
Summer is over.
And it feels like shit. That cold evening breeze, the light fading fast. But as a kid, the worst part was always the last week before we all went back to school after summer break. I could never appreciate that I still had a whole week left away from the place. For me, it always felt like one long, depressing Sunday, counting down the seconds before it was all over. Sunday was bath-night and dismal TV programmes. Nothing but crappy dramas and religion.
But things change. Sundays are great. TV is better, and bath-night is now shower night.
School just sucked arse.
Aimee said she loved school; that it never bothered her going back after summer. Not sure why. Maybe she just had more friends than me, was better at maths, kissed more teachers’ arses. Who knows?
I wish I’d met her back then; it might have saved me a shitload of teenage heartache. But back then I wouldn’t have stood a chance with someone like her. Someone so popular. So beautiful.
And now I have her. The woman of my dreams. A woman that I would have given anything just to talk to; just to be near. But I can’t seem to help her now. I can’t stop her from crying. No matter what I tell her, nothing seems to seep through. It’s as if she’s just given up. My rational side is telling me to give her more time to get over losing the baby. It’s only natural to feel down, disconnected.
But there’s nothing natural about any of this.
Could a ghost have done this to her? Forced a miscarriage?
No—it’s just a coincidence. Women have miscarriages every day. My mother has had three herself.
Aimee’ll get over it; move on.
What if she doesn’t, though?
What if she never wants another baby?
When I touch her, she pulls away. When I ask her if there’s anything I can do, she tells me no. I can’t ask her parents for help; they still don’t know about the pregnancy. We’ve been hiding in her room for the past few days. I have a feeling that they’ve put two and two together and worked it out. They are her parents after all.
Yesterday evening, when Aimee had been sleeping all day, a good twenty hours, I was tempted to have a quiet word with Lynne. I even came down stairs, took her into the kitchen—but then I chickened out at the last second. I imagined sending Aimee even further into depression, placing an even deeper wedge between us. So I just asked Lynne if it was all right if we stayed a little longer while we tried to sell the flat.
Today has been particularly difficult. When I woke up this morning, I was certain that Aimee would start to show signs of pulling through, but as the day has gone on, and with no glimmer of her returning to work, that dream has now faded.
I’ve spent the last two hours, lying next to her, stroking her hair as we watch TV in bed. We haven’t spoken for the duration of the film. Normally I’d insist on silence, but now it just feels awkward and sad.
I just want her back. I just want to see that smile again.
I keep telling Aimee that it just wasn’t our time to have a baby; that it had nothing to do with the occurrences, the stress. But she can tell that I don’t really believe it. She can see it in my eyes. I try to put on a brave face, pretend that everything will be all right, but I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe things won’t be. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. A dark path that leads—
Shut up you dick!
What are you talking about?
This is nothing!
This is just a tiny little bump in the road!
What the hell’s the matter with you?
Lots of couples go through this.
You’re not the first to lose a baby—and you won’t be the last.
I have to be strong for Aimee. She needs to look into my eyes and believe every word I say. Because I will get through this. We will have another baby.
And we will find a new place to live.
Ghost-free!
So stop your bloody whining!
18
Finally a little good news—we’ve sold the flat.
It took us a while, lost a little money, had a few more sleepless nights over the moral implications, but in the end—what choice did we have? Live with a vengeful ghost? Pay a mortgage on an abandoned property?
Burn it to the ground?
Aimee and I pull up outside the third house on the list. 56 Cornel Road. The estate agent gave us eight possible properties to view, within our measly budget. We’ve scratched off four already. I didn’t like the fact that most of them were by the train station.
This house is small, mid-terrace, with the front door stepping directly out onto the narrow pavement. The door is lime green. Aimee hates green, but we can always paint it. The neighbourhood seems quiet, apart from the sound of passing cars on the opposite street. And there’s a pub just five doors down. Very convenient.
Not so great for Aimee.
“What do you think?” Aimee asks, pulling a face like she’s just eaten something rotten. “I’m not too sure about being so close to a pub?”
“Depends what kind of pub it is. Might be one of those quiet little country pubs.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re nowhere near the countryside. It’s more likely to be full of pissheads. God knows how loud the music will be.”
“They can’t have music too loud. It’
s in the middle of all these houses. There are laws against that.”
Aimee sighs, scans the street up and down, and then takes my hand. “Come on then, let’s check it out.”
We walk up to the house. I ring the bell and within seconds the door opens. David the estate agent is standing in the porch, suit and tie on, big smiles, small stature. He can’t be more than five feet tall, even shorter than Aimee’s five-two frame. It’s great—makes me feel like a giant.
“Good Morning, Mr and Mrs Archer,” he says; his voice chirpier than anyone’s should be at nine in the morning. “Find the place all right then?”
“Yeah, not too bad,” Aimee replies. “It’s not far from where I work. Only about half a mile.”
David ushers us inside. “Well then, this might be a perfect little buy for you both. You’ll save a fortune in fuel costs.”
“It would be nice to walk in for a change. It’s usually murder first thing.” Aimee leads the way through the porch and into the living room. The room is big, which gives the impression that it’s two rooms knocked into one. The staircase comes down into it, which means no hallway. I’ve never been sure about houses like this. I always thought that a hallway was essential. But looking at it, I kind of like it. It’ll make parties much easier. Guests can use the living room, and drift in and out the kitchen. The room could use a lick of paint, but it’s nice. Nice and square. Perfect to become my unofficial cinema-room.
“As you can see,” David continues, “the walls and ceiling have been plastered. And the large window in the front is only two years old. In fact, apart from the kitchen, all the windows are double-glazed and only two years old, so at least you know that they’re done, they’re safe, and your insulation should be good throughout the winter.”
Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Page 11