Be afraid. Someone’s watching.
Eyes on You is the brand-new, unputdownable cat-and-mouse psychological thriller from the Number One international bestselling author Adele Parks!
1
Seven months ago
They told me never to look it up on the internet. A family
liaison officer advised me of that, just a couple of days after
it had happened. I don’t think she had much experience with
kids despite her job title because advising a fifteen-year-old
not to do something – telling them it might be ‘too graphic’
or ‘disturbing’, warning that there were some things you
just can’t unsee – is basically the equivalent of covering a
fluffy blanket with catnip and asking the kitten not to roll
up in it.
Yeah, I looked.
Yeah, she was right, I couldn’t unsee anything.
By that point, I believed I’d already seen everything
dreadful in the world that there was to see. I believed I
knew it all, certainly more than the pale, starchy family
liaison officer knew, but I should have listened to her. The
memory of it was forever soldered to my soul anyway and
then, after looking, new knowledge had to be absorbed;
how it was reported, how others would see it. The images
were graphic. Brutal. The hammer. The shirt. They came
back to me every time I closed my eyes and tried to rest.
Over and over again. The blood looked black in the photos,
but it was very red in my nightmares. Blood sprayed, seep
ing, soaking. Like she said, I couldn’t unsee it. No way. I
couldn’t unread anything that was written either. I couldn’t
forget the accusations, the evidence against, the national
condemnation. The words ran through my head the way
song lyrics ran through the minds of other teenagers. An
earworm, stuck on a loop.
It became easier not to sleep. Least, not deeply or regularly.
Not to expect it. To somehow function without it. Function
ing became the new bar for living.
As much as she could, my mum kept us away from the
trial, only agreeing for me go when I really had to be there.
Despite her efforts to protect us, the trial found us anyway.
It followed us into our classrooms, along corridors and into
the dining hall and playground. The case followed me to
netball club and, I presume, my brother Jamie to Scouts
too. I presume this because Jamie was asked to leave Scouts
when he pushed another boy so hard that he fell against a
wall and had to be taken to A&E for a check-up. A sus
pected concussion. Mum said that they would not have
made so much fuss if any other boy had done the shoving.
Rough and tumble was part and parcel of a Boy Scout’s
life, surely. But because it was my brother – or, in fact, my
father’s son – it became a scandal. The apple never falls far
from the tree, apparently. I heard that said, slipped in along
side the many other judgemental whispers; although it pales
into insignificance when measured up against things like
‘vicious, brutal attack’, ‘frenzied’, ‘multiple blows’, ‘long
after she was dead’.
It went on for weeks. Dragged us along with it, like litter
pulled under the wheels of a big bus, a discarded plastic bag
or similar, trapped and turning and turning; just waiting for
the whole thing to stop so we could be spat out. I never under
stood why it took so long to present the evidence, considering
the verdict was a foregone conclusion, considering he had
already been tried by the red-top tabloids. Every lurid, fierce,
condemning detail had been pored over. To me it seemed cut
and dried long before he sat in the dock.
It was reported as a crime of passion. I think, maybe, that
term was initially used by the defence to garner some sym
pathy for Dad or – if that was too much to hope for – then
some understanding of why it might have happened. A jour
nalist hurriedly picked it up, knowing, most probably, that
sex sells. But even then, just a teenager, I could see that such
a concept was warped. Violence should never be linked with
passion; it’s lazy and outdated thinking. Basically sexist in its
effort to minimise, almost excuse, the viciousness. The poor
guy, she drove him wild; it wasn’t his fault line of thinking
should never be tolerated.
The crime of passion narrative didn’t stick anyway. Not in
my father’s case.
There was evidence that the murder was preplanned. The
weapon, for example. There was no reason for him to have
taken his hammer inside the house. He couldn’t explain that.
It was the one he’d used to attach a wire lattice to the brick
wall that folded around the formal garden where he trained
sweet peas to climb. Forensics proved the first blow happened
at the bottom of the stairs, but that initial blow didn’t kill her
as the blood trail suggested she’d crawled forwards. Tried to
get away. Pitiful. Pointless. The distribution of the blood and
matter that was sprayed up the hall walls and library door,
confirmed she died just outside the library. The prosecution
pointed out that there was opportunity to regret, to stop, to
call for help.
To save her life.
None of these opportunities were taken. He beat her with
his hammer until she was unrecognisable. Her husband didn’t
know her; she was identified by medical records. What has
that to do with passion, to do with love?
Love is doing manual work, day after day, to earn enough
money for your family to eat and have a few treats and never
complaining while doing so, even if it rained or snowed. Love
is crawling on your hands and knees through soft play areas
that reek of sweaty feet and childish excitement. Love is turn
ing up at school plays, concerts and parents’ nights; being
offended by the teachers that gave bad reports and being sure
teachers that awarded A-star grades were ‘dead right’. Love
is taking an interest in the names of the boys in the pop band
your daughter is obsessing about.
Or that’s what I thought love was.
But my dad did all those things, then fucked another
woman and then beat her to death. So what do I know?
I have thought about my father’s crime a lot. Of course I
have. I have thought about it more than anything else in the
last seventeen years. Thinking about it pushed out thoughts
of friendships, hobbies, schoolwork, careers, politics, boys,
men. None of those things can compete with the question of
how my own dad did what he did. However much I think
about it, I don’t understand it.
I guess I should be grateful that I can’t understand. It
shows I’m not a psychopath.
I’m not like him.
2
Now
‘It’s looking bad for you.’
‘I realise that.’
‘I’m your solicitor. I’m here for you.’
‘Right.’ She can’t help it, she rolls her eyes, shrugs.
‘What’s that? What does that mean?’ the solicitor asks.
‘People say that, but in my experience . . .’ She trails off.
Best not to say anything she doesn’t have to. The more she
says, the more mistakes she might make. She needs to get this
right if she’s to be believed. There is no need for her to say that
she doesn’t believe people are often ‘there’ for one another.
People are, often as not, out for themselves. Best keep that as
an internal thought. She knows anything she does say will be
taken down and used as evidence against her, isn’t that how
it goes? Something like that. Not just because she’s in a police
station, clothes covered in blood, but because that’s life, isn’t
it? People use stuff against you. Isn’t that why she is here?
‘In your experience . . .’ the solicitor prompts. She shakes
her head, slowly. Nothing more to add.
Then the policeman says, ‘OK, so you shot two people
today.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Do you want to explain how that came about?’ She stares
at the solicitor. Blank faced, no help. ‘You need to tell me
everything. In your own words from the beginning.’
Everything. Is that even possible? Where would she start?
3
Seven months ago
If you consume popular culture in any way, be that through
social media, watching TV or films, listening to chat shows
or podcasts or reading novels, magazines or newspapers –
literally, any way at all – you’d be forgiven for thinking the
perennial question of the day for me, a thirty-two-year-old
woman, has to be, ‘Where do people meet other people now
adays?’ To be specific, where do people meet people who they
want to have sex with; people they want to fall in love with,
marry and maybe even have children with?
I can’t be sure if this is in fact the question women gathered
in gaggles really discuss. I don’t know for certain because
I don’t do conventional friendship groups the way I’m
supposed to. School put me off that sort of group mentality,
all faux intimacy; presenting as a team, when really more
often than not friendship gangs are a nest of vipers.
Shocker, I have trust issues.
I wasn’t always this cagey. Before my dad became a mur
derer, I had friends like a regular girl, but once he was arrested
everything changed. Mothers metaphorically and literally
grabbed their kids and almost yanked their arms out of their
sockets in a bid to get them away from me. The walls went
up instantly, unapologetically and definitively. I’ve never
had the energy to scale them or knock them down. It was
easier to just accept being penned in, locked out. I’ve always
thought it is better to be lonely than pitied, hated or feared.
So, I have limited lived experience of girly gossipy chats but,
from what I’ve seen when others – uninvited – pour out the
machinations of their minds to me, it seems popular culture
has trained most of us to be pretty struck with monogamy.
Gay or straight or anything goes, people apparently dream of
the happily-ever-after.
For fuck’s sake.
Sorry about the F-bomb, if you are the sort to freak out
over words, but really? Why do we still live in that fluffy
cloud of hope? From my field research of watching others
(anyone – customers or people on the street) and talking to
my friends (OK – I mean the other waiting staff), it appears
that the reality of dating as a millennial woman is some way
off the track flagged by the rom-com tropes and clichés. The
Prince Charming thing, break it down – just an arrogant guy
with a saviour complex. At best. I have overheard so many
late dinner, saggy and soggy pity parties being thrown at the
tables I’m serving. The laments are repeated on a loop: where
are the good ones? How do we find them? Track them down?
Everyone has apparently tried the apps, then deleted the apps
and then reinstalled the apps. Many moan about the lack of
romance of meeting through an app. They complain about
the inevitable artifice and abundant liars as well as the fact
most people lack a desire for any real commitment or longev
ity. It’s a conundrum that if so many people are saying this
about ‘most people’ then who is left? Are we just kidding our
selves? Are we part of the problem? I think I am. But I think
I am the part of every problem. My mum is always talking to
me about going to a therapist.
I too have an on-off relationship with the dating apps
because I have an on-off relationship with relationships.
Romance isn’t a motivator for me. Throughout my adult life
I’ve seesawed between prolonged periods of abstinence, then
spasmodic episodes of promiscuity. I realise promiscuity is an
old-fashioned word, heavily imbued with pejorative conno
tations and judgement. Fuck it, I can’t think of a better word
to describe having sex with strangers in the restaurant loo
during my shift break. It sounds tacky and ugly; spot on, it’s
both things.
Dangerous too, some might say. Well, I have a fairly high
capacity when it comes to risk but I’m not an idiot. I have
a system. I’ve found the safest way to manage interactions
on apps that offer no-strings-attached sex (the only sort of
app I’d consider), is to get the men to come to the restaurant
when I’m working. I get them to buy a meal for themselves. I
don’t want to eat with them, but that commitment to eating
means I can watch them for about thirty to forty-five min
utes and it allows me to assess if they are the type to want to
hurt me. I serve them, maybe chat, see if there is chemistry.
If there is, when they pay, I tell them to go to the accessible
toilet. We bang out our needs there. It’s safe, efficient and
cheap. I am used to the fluorescent light that buzzes over
head, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked linoleum
floor. Occasionally, I branch out. I come across a random guy
eating at the restaurant, maybe with his friends, maybe alone,
and we flirt. Maybe they ask for my number when I hand
them the bill. If I like the look of them, then I write down
the code for the lock on the accessible loo and offer the same
opportunity. That code is the only number I give out.
Look, I live alone in a squalid flat; I’ve mentioned my
dearth of close meaningful friendships, my family are – let’s
say – absent, sometimes I need sex to check I’m alive. Don’t
judge.
I very, very rarely go to the effort of going home with the
strangers I hook up with. It’s not that I’m especially fearful
that doing so might lead to my body being found the next
morning in a dark alley. As I mentioned, I’m the opposite
to risk-averse. What’s that? Not risk-seeking exactly, just a
risk-accepter. I have a belief that lightning seldom strikes twice
and as I have a father who is a murderer, I’d say statistically
speaking, I’m unlikely to be murdered by a stranger. I mean,
how many murderers does the average person encounter in
life, right? But I am still fearful of going back to someone’s
flat or asking them to come back to mine because if I do that
then it’s very reasonable to assume they might ask my name,
they might want me to stay over, offer to cook breakfast.
Basically, it might lead to something.
I’m really scared of that.
Scared of something.
Not too surprisingly most men are happy to accept
no-strings-attached sex. As little kissing or chatting as possi
ble is my preferred modus operandi. They get turned on when
I mutter ‘No names’ or simply put my hand over their mouths
when they want to tell me I’m hot or when they suggest we
meet again to do something outside the cubicle. However, a
couple of months of indulging in a bunch of these sorts of
hook-ups and I remember, it’s all sort of shit. Soulless fucking
is hardly ever the workout or the orgasm trigger I’m hoping
for. So I go back to going without.
Entirely alone isn’t the loneliest place to be.
So, it’s odd then that I, with my aromantic stance, accept
that meeting Oli was different. Completely distinct. Our eyes
simply met across a crowded room. Old-school attraction
and, notably, this happened during one of my stretches of
abstinence. I wasn’t looking for a casual hook-up.
Which was good, because he was never going to be that.
4
I spotted him and watched him find me. Slowly. Like the air
between us was moving in waves and he fell into the swell,
washed up right in front of me.
In this case, the crowded room was, of course, the restau
rant I work at. I mean, where else do I go? He came in with a
group. Four of them, all suited and booted. I work in a Korean
restaurant that’s part of a small chain. The place aspires to
present as authentic and individual while simultaneously rig
idly abiding by endless rules passed down from head office,
an entity that seems designed to suck the soul out of eating,
working, living. The branch where I work is in the East End
of London. Not the gentrified bit. Around here it still smells of
the dry spices that are sold in buckets, cheap cooking fat, low
grade meat being turned into burgers, and occasionally there’s
a whiff of the smell of hops as the door of a pub swings open.
Normally the people who frequent Oodles of Noodles are low
key, chill – by chill I mean broke – but from time to time, the
occasional group of bankers or consultants do blow in from
the City. I guessed that his group were on a business lunch; no
doubt they considered themselves a little wilder, cooler than
the rest of their colleagues, otherwise wouldn’t they have gone
to Nobu which was around the corner, and a great place to
show people exactly how much cash they had to splash?
They weren’t in my section but I took advantage of the
fact that Raj, the designated server for that zone, was on an
unofficial vape break and I headed over.
‘Hi, guys. Can I get you any water for the table for starts?
Still? Sparkling?’
‘Tap water is fine,’ he said. We locked eyes. That close, I
could drink in details. His were big brown eyes. There was
a flicker of something serious or even maybe sad about his
intense gaze. I immediately found myself wanting to get into
that complexity. He had long eyelashes. It’s a cliché to say
they were the sort of eyelashes that were wasted on a boy,
because they were not wasted; he was aware of them, I was
aware of them. No waste involved. The other three guys were
wearing wedding rings. He was not. I couldn’t rule out that
he might be married as he was wearing one of those posh boy
signet rings, with a family crest on, one up from initials. But
I didn’t think he was married, and I hoped he wasn’t even
seriously dating because that would be a complication.
I already knew I didn’t want to be his other woman, his
sloppy second, his side piece. There were endless ways to
name the humiliation I wanted to avoid.
‘Actually, the tap water isn’t fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard that
averagely, water in London is recycled seven times. Think
about it, do you want to drink something that has potentially
been through seven bodies?’
‘Is that a fact? Ran through all those bodies, hey.’
His retort was probably only supposed to land somewhere
on the scale of tease or pedant but he sounded sexy or, at
least, suggestive. I wondered if he was also thinking about
being inside bodies. Mine, specifically.
‘We’ll take two bottles of sparkling,’ said one of the others,
breaking the tension, demonstrating his low tolerance for
it as he wasn’t the main player. I left menus with them and
went to get the water. I could feel his eyes on me. Following
me. I swayed my arse a little as I strode away. I know it’s
hackneyed, but there’s a reason women have been doing the
swishing-arse thing since Marilyn Monroe first sashayed onto
the silver screen however many years ago.
There are times when we want their eyes to be trailing us
as we walk away.
When Raj came back from his vape break, I said I’d stay
with the table. He glanced at the group of blatantly affluent
blokes. ‘No way, if they get drunk, they’ll tip big. My section.
Piss off and find your own bankers.’
‘I’ll give you the tip. Give me the table.’
I’m pretty sure he was aware of my accessible loo hook
ups. It was likely he thought I wanted one of them for nothing
more than that. Flirting while serving is an art. One that any
sensible waiter masters. It’s a quick way to ensure bigger
tips and fewer complaints about the food. Normally, that’s
the only reason I bother to be anything approaching nice,
even the hook-ups don’t require any level of pleasantness. He
grinned. ‘I see. Hot. Fine, if it means that much to you. But I
get the entire tip and I’m not covering your section. You have
to do them both.’
Raj is the milk of human kindness, agreed?
I returned to his table with the water, took the drink orders,
went back with the beers, took the food orders, returned with
the food, then with the condiments. Appeared another time to
enquire about desserts, coffees and finally just to ask, ‘Is there
anything else I can help you with? Anything at all.’ There’s a
fine line between flatteringly attentive and annoyingly over
whelming and that line costs tips. That day, there was way
more to play for than tips. It’s a matter of reading the table
and making a judgement as to whether I was welcome or not.
I knew these guys were enjoying my attentiveness. Wedding
rings or not. There was a lot of laughter, questions back and
forth, eye contact.
They liked him, his friends. It’s always a good sign. Even if
the friends were a bit run of the mill. They stopped and tipped
their heads towards him when he spoke. Just a fraction, they
probably weren’t even aware they did so. They hung on his
every word, laughed when he laughed. Later, when I found
out just how wealthy he was, I wondered whether they really
did like him or did they just like his money? Very rich people
tend to be popular. But I’ll never know, as he couldn’t ever be
separated from his wealth.
Each time I returned to the table I drank in a fraction
more of him. Let his presence imprint on me a little firmer.
I’m a keen observer of people. It’s part of a flawed and futile
attempt to get a handle on life, stay a step ahead. Obviously,
as the daughter of a vicious killer, I have a higher-than-average
interest in what makes a person tick, what it is that makes us
human or inhuman. I watch people carefully, hoping I never
miss anything again, while knowing I always will because no
one can know anyone, no one can fully understand anyone.
Not even themselves.
I noted the way he sat, smiled, interacted, intoned. People
say that there’s a story in everyone. Well, if that’s the case I’ve
found that I don’t want to hear them, least not many of them.
Most people are turgidly boring. And if they happen to have
great stories to tell it’s usually because something awful has
happened that has left them completely screwed up. Me, for
instance, I fall into that category. Better if I don’t tell anyone
much about me. But with him, I found myself longing to
hear him tell his story. With him, yeah, I’d listen. I wanted to
piece him together like a jigsaw puzzle. I wanted to collect up
everything I could and make a complete picture.
I knew from the get-go that this guy was complex.
He was conventionally good looking, obviously employed,
apparently wealthy and while seated at that point – so I
couldn’t say for sure – I’d guessed he was brushing six feet.
He ought to have been supremely confident. He should have
lounged back in his chair, his laugh should have been louder
than his peers’, his conversation more fluid. He might even
have been the rare sort who had the right to tread into that
disgustingly arrogant territory of clicking fingers and point
ing when someone comprehends a point being made; yelling,
‘That. Exactly that.’ A gesture that on most is completely
dickish but for a few is very sexy and compelling. He was
presenting as straight; he was white and male. He could have
owned all that arrogance and privilege, wallowed in it, gorged
on it, but he did not lean into that advantage.
He chose to be softer than that.
He sat forward, hands beneath the table, no elbows resting,
actively demonstrating his interest in what everyone else was
saying and doing. His laugh was loud but not annoyingly so
and the voice that dominated the conversation wasn’t his,
he allowed others to take the stage, showing that he was
that special thing, a good listener. I noticed that he stroked
his chin a lot. I don’t think this was done in a patronising,
wise old wizard way, I think he did it to give him something
to do with his hands; his fingernails were bitten down low.
His name was Oliver. I heard the other guys call him Oli
and Ol. I wondered if anyone ever called him Oliver. I didn’t
expect him to ask for my number when I handed over the
bill because we were not in a film and because of the finger
nail-biting thing.
‘I’m not working tonight,’ I said as I handed the card
machine to the guy paying so he could decide how much
to tip and whether he wanted to donate a pound to Shelter.
I’m not shy but there was a thickness sitting like concrete in
my throat. A nervousness. Uncertainty. A great advantage of
not being romantic is that my hopes aren’t available to dash,
but my confidence can still take a bit of a battering and as I
wondered how this was going to pan out, I felt sweat turn
the base of my back damp. I hoped my shirt wasn’t sticking
to me and exposing my nerves. The comment was so obvi
ously loaded and directed; his three companions fell silent
for a moment.
His friends looked at him, then one of them let out a low
whistle, glanced at me and mumbled, ‘Mate, you’re in there.’
Just in case I hadn’t been obvious enough. We all waited.
Eventually, after about a thousand years, he said, ‘Right,’
and sort of smiled. Not a full, unreserved happy smile,
something that had a shadow of embarrassment or hesitancy.
Apology. We all waited some more. I was mortified. I’d blown
it. I was too much, too brash. I should have been more careful
in my approach with this man who had stories and intensity.
The card machine whooshed and spat out the bit of paper no
one ever looks at. I waved it half-heartedly at the one who
had tapped his card and then I walked away. Feeling like a
fucking idiot.