“Can’t drones already do that? And aren’t they even safer?”
“Drones aren’t much bloody smaller than these, and they can’t do half what these can. Once you’ve disposed of your enemy’s despot leader, or whatever, a drone’s not gonna stick around and help rebuild the devastated nation, is it? A drone is not going to take refugees to safety, is it? No. These are the future. Except they’re not. Thanks to you, they’re the here and bloody now!”
“Wow. I guess I’m pretty smart!”
“Bloody genius is what you are Matthew. Bloody genius. Another cognac?”
“Yeah. I think I need one!”
Chapter Forty-three
“So, what’s it like… This amnesia?” Brian asked whilst taking a sip from an expensive third of a pint of local craft beer. “I mean, I know you can’t remember much at the moment, but what’s the prognosis?”
Matthew took a sip from his own amber oddity in its specially chosen glass (to fool the eye into not realising how small an amount you get for your fiver.) “I really don’t know, Brian. I mean, I do remember you, but not as we are now. I remember you in school. It’s weird.”
Brian nodded along. “Weird,” he repeated. “What about your family? Do you remember them?”
Matthew thumbed the rim of his glass unsure if Brian from school was the best person to talk to. He might not know him much, but he liked Brian. He didn’t feel judged. “I remember them dead,” he suddenly uttered.
The spluttering of Brian’s beer was all the more tragic for how much of his serving the mouthful represented. Dabbing himself with some hastily grabbed serviettes, Brian’s open mouth and wide eyes begged an explanation.
“I remember vividly Christmas Day when I was seven when Mandy fell over the bannister to her death.” Saying the words, it felt different. The raw pain that had clawed at his heart for decades were buffeted by the new reality weaving its cotton-wool protection. “And the next year; the following Christmas, my mum took her own life, so…”
That too had changed. It needed a second for Matthew to recognise the grin on his face. Jolting in surprise, laughter followed. Perhaps fuelled by the beer on top of the smooth cognac, and maybe just sheer exuberant relief, Matthew became hysterical with mirth.
Other patrons of the Wild Beer company pub on the river were staring, keen to join in with wry smiles playing on their muddled mouths.
“Bloody hell, Matthew! It’s not too bloody cheerful is it? You should be a writer, not a boat designer, blimey!”
“I know! I don’t get how I came up with such a tale of woe.” The more he talked, the further into un-reality his real memories sank. His mind had found a way out and he was going to cling to it and create a new truth.
“They reckon I got too stressed with Abi and the leukaemia, and that project for the MOD you showed me. Bottled it all up, apparently.”
“I did tell you, you were working too hard, didn’t I.”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember!”
They cracked up again, crying with laughter. Matthew stopped, his face resetting. “A whole lifetime. That’s what it feels like. It’s not just that remembering is hard, my mind’s created this whole other life. Like, I was in a children’s home after Mum…” Matthew fought to not let himself fall back into the mire. “… and then things got really dark and I ended up in a secure institution for the mentally unwell because I tried to end it. Just like her.”
Brian gasped.
“I can see it so clearly,” Matthew went on. “Standing on the bridge. The water bubbling far below looked terrifying but so inviting. I knew that if I jumped it would all be over.”
Brian had lost his joviality and grimly sipped what was left of his beer.
“I remember being there for years. My mind has constructed memories of a whole life there. Eventually I had enough. I wanted to take back control and I escaped. I suppose it was all a metaphor for how I was feeling.” Matthew stared into the middle-distance. “But some of it must be real. I mean, I’ve been somewhere for six months, haven’t I?” He shuddered.
“Where did you stay?”
Matthew gestured to everywhere. “Out there. Under bridges, in shop doorways.”
“Why didn’t you go back to the bridge? I’m glad you didn’t, real or not, but why do you think you didn’t?”
“Christmas is the trigger, I think. You can imagine. But I almost did go back.”
“Almost..?” Brian left silence, his fear-filled eyes enough to finish the question.
“Yes. Very nearly. I was headed to Clifton on Christmas day with the sole purpose of ending it.”
“That makes sense…” Brian joined in. “It was Christmas Day you disappeared.”
Matthew nodded. “It didn’t feel that way. To me I was already immersed in my nightmare - my fake life constructed by my own insanity! Everything caved in on me; the hopelessness. I remember sitting in a shop doorway, wallowing. It’s hard to blame myself; I had nothing. Or rather, I felt I had nothing.”
Matthew paused. It was so strange. He was telling this virtual stranger, supposedly a lifelong pal, an awful story that probably wasn’t even true. But the memory was so vivid, it tried to infiltrate his optimism; his little rubber duck of doom ready to plop over the edge into oblivion.
With a huge sigh, he finished his story. He owed it to Brian, and he owed it to himself to know exactly what his crazy head had concocted.
“It was late. Christmas had chipped away at me until it defeated me. I heard the footsteps before I saw anyone. Well, I never saw anybody because I didn’t look up. I refused to engage with the world. But the owner of the feet stopped in front of me.” Tears dripped like a leaking tap. Matthew left them unhindered.
“He asked me if I was okay, but what could I say. ‘Actually, no. I’m on my way to jump off the bridge, thanks for asking?’” Fidgeting in his seat, he carried on. “He did something that made the difference. It’s the reason I’m here now. And I mean that. I don’t know how much of what I’m telling you is true. I know I got things wrong. Big things. But I was missing from your lives for a long time, and that time has been dark. Very dark.”
Brian’s eyes were filling up as well.
“He gave me money. A fifty pound note! He didn’t ask me not to spend it on drugs or booze. Didn’t even ask for a thank you. It wasn’t the food I bought, or anything I could have had. I mean, I don’t really know what I did spend it on, but it helped. It helped so much. Because someone thought I was worth something.”
“Of course you’re worth something!”
“It’s okay. I am beginning to realise that now. Thanks to my family, and you.”
Brian gulped and padded his eye with the sleeve of his blazer.
“It’s been bad since then, of course,” Matthew continued. “But I knew things would change, it was just a feeling, but I knew.” It felt good to get all this out and there was no stopping Matthew now.
“When the police found me, I thought they were taking me back to the mental ward I hated. When Debbie visited, I assumed she was a CPN or social worker. When they said she was my wife, I couldn’t believe it. And then when she brought me back to the lovely house in Clifton and introduced me to Mum and Mandy, I nearly died of shock!”
Brian’s face almost creased into a smile at Matthew’s delivery, but it faded as his mind computed its inappropriateness.
“I couldn’t believe them. I was angry, you can understand. But they were right, and I was wrong.” Throwing himself back in his chair, he sighed. “And I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m… I can’t even think of a word for how pleased and relieved I am that it wasn’t true. But at the same time, where does that leave me? I can’t trust my own head. How will I ever make a decision of any consequence ever again?”
Brian stretched his hand across the table. Matthew eventually succumbed to the offer of closeness and grabbed it and Brian gave it a firm shake as he thumped him on the shoulder. “It’s hard. But with the ri
ght help, you’ll get through it. It happens all the time to loads of people. Usually the clever ones, like you!”
Matthew’s eyebrows arched.
“But it does,” Brian insisted. “You hear about celebrities going off the rails, don’t you? And how many films have you seen where people suffer amnesia and re-invent themselves? It’s a soap-opera favourite; up there with illicit affairs! They reckon one in ten suffer from some sort of mental health issue,” seeing Matthew’s face, he worried he was being insensitive. “But the important thing is to accept help. You’ll get better, Matthew. You’ve come so far already.”
Matthew grinned. “I know. You’re right. But it’s weird though.”
“Weird,” Brian repeated again.
Chapter Forty-four
Brian had drunk himself beyond the point of being safe to drive, so it was an Uber car that dropped Matthew in the drive of twelve Clifton Down Road before speeding Brian back to Sue’s loving arms.
“Matthew! How was it?” Debbie beamed as she yanked open the door.
Matthew nodded. “Good. Really good.” Smiling back at his wife, he laughed. “You didn’t tell me what a complete genius I am!”
“Didn’t I?” Wrapping slender arms around his neck, she cooed in his ear. “Well, I’m sorry, Mr Morrissey. How remiss of me.” The lure of the bedroom was interrupted by a call to action from Mandy to come for dinner.
Walking hand in hand to the banquette hall/dining room, they pulled out their chairs and sat at the head of the table. Mandy wheeled in a trolley with bowls under cloches. “Your favourite!” she announced as she placed a steaming bowl in front of her brother and removed its dome cover. “Moules Mariniere!”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Matthew laughed. Sniffing the steam as it swirled from the bowl, his face lit up. “I think you’re right. This smells incredible.”
His exuberance fell uneasy on the guilty shoulders of Alan and Mary. It wasn’t a sensation they were happy to admit to. The pressure built up with nowhere to go. Could they apologise for who they were? Mandy wasn’t really their favourite, of course not. But they had to take some responsibility for how their son felt, didn’t they?
“The nurse told us a bit about your struggles.” He was going to say ‘Matthew,’ but settled on, “son.”
A mussel poised on Matthew’s fork dripped wine and cream onto the table cloth as it came to a sudden halt. “Really?” he answered. “That’s good.” But it wasn’t. Just when he was beginning to accept reality.
“Yes. She seemed to think your vision of your sister falling down the stairs demonstrated you may have thought… I don’t know… That we… loved Mandy, you know… Did you?”
“Did I what, Dad? Worry you loved Mandy more than me? I think I must have.”
“We didn’t. Of course we didn’t, did we, love?”
Mary shook her head in rapid little jerks. “No.”
Pushing back her chair, she rushed to her son and pulled him close. “Sorry my love. Sorry we pushed you too far. I think we were just so sure of you. We knew you’d do well,” she gestured to the room’s vastness. “But we should have seen the signs. I should have known.” The tears fell, not just from Mary but from Matthew too.
All that time, gone. He couldn’t remember a day of it. But now wasn’t when he should dwell on the past; neither a past he couldn’t recall nor a past that didn’t exist. Now was the time to look to the future. They’d make new memories, and they’d be better than ever.
“I remember that Christmas, you know!” Mandy declared, slurping the marinade from the shell of a mussel. “It was so exciting getting that computer. I was only two or three; I didn’t even know what it did until you loaded that Hunchback thing, and I wanted it!” She laughed. “But you weren’t horrible to me, Matty. I knew you didn’t want to, but you let me take your turn. Oh, you were so patient!”
Matthew shook his head. “It’s such a clear memory. I know it can’t be true but it’s so vivid.” Eyes glazing, he smiled a watery smile. “Is it okay if we don’t talk about it? I just want to put it all behind me and move on.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mandy grinned. “I just wanted to reassure you, you were wrong. In case my not being dead wasn’t enough!”
Chapter Forty-five
Leaning against a wall in an alley more than a mile from his childhood family home, Matthew tore at his face. The running had been therapeutic and he’d come up with an idea.
He knew the story they’d spun—the spooks, or whoever was creating his nightmare. They had told his dad that the rest of the family were dead. He had blamed Matthew, so goodness only knows what lies they’d told.
Presumably then, they were somewhere under the misinformation that Matthew was dead too. Finding them wouldn’t be easy, he knew that, but he was nothing if not tenacious. He’d find them and tell them the truth. He had no choice.
Looking down at himself, he allowed his eyes to take in what he’d distanced himself from for weeks. He was a mess. He smelled, his clothes were ripped and dirty, his hair on his head and his face was long matted.
If he was going to find out what had happened to his wife and daughter and the rest of his family, he’d need to blend in. He needed to be clean.
Along the river on Spike Island, not too far from SS Great Britain and formerly-Marsden-Morrissey Marine, was a caravan site. He had to be careful, but once he was inside and in the shower, he’d mingle unnoticed with the holiday makers.
Scrunching his hair behind his head, he pulled up his coat’s hood and straightened out the front, doing up what buttons remained. He didn’t look smart, but a glance at the quality of the duffle jacket and the boots, he was sure he didn’t look like the tramp he was.
Walking with a confident air, he strolled along the riverside. “Afternoon… Hello… Lovely weather,” he greeted people walking towards him and others tending their boats. How he’d love to hop aboard and feel the freedom of the open water. Everyone smiled back, and he knew he looked okay.
The campsite was accessed by a locked wooden gate which opened onto the wide path adjacent to the towpath, so enjoyed by dog-walkers and cyclists and pedestrians whose usual destination would be the quaint public house at the end.
Without arousing suspicion, Matthew loitered near the gateway, admiring the views, loving the boats as they busied on the water. A group of kayakers were practising Eskimo rolls in the bridged off marina. River taxis with shark teeth decal hummed up and down, their skippers waiting to catch the eye of any potential fairs.
It was with an easy smile that Matthew squeezed past excited campers on their way to the pub next door. When Matthew glanced the list of facilities, he knew he’d struck gold. An easy amble allowed him to tick off all he needed—a shower block, a laundrette and even a pool. He’d have to find some coins somewhere for the washing machines, but for now, the allure of submerging in the crystal waters of the outdoor pool took his attention.
Grabbing a pair of trunks drying in the window of a caravan he passed, Matthew continued nonchalantly to the pool area. Signs invited patrons to shower before using the facilities. “Don’t mind if I do,” Matthew chortled under his breath. Complimentary towels along with shampoos and shower gels in little sachets were available to pick up on your way through.
Choosing a cubicle, Matthew used the shower to wash himself and his clothes. Shampoo couldn’t be that different to laundry detergent, could it? Especially if he used enough of it. Saving money and time, he could swim whilst his clothes dried.
As if to facilitate his idea, the site very kindly had spin driers in the changing rooms. Designed for wet trunks, and maybe a towel or two, the little machine baulked at Matthew’s clothes— particularly the duffle coat. But holding his hand on the on button did give them a good drying start.
Hanging the damp garments on the hooks lining the room, Matthew made his way through the footbath to the poolside, freshly clean, hoping he wouldn’t bump into the owner of the trunks he’d stolen. “Sorry,”
he mouthed to the sky, but he was sure they would gladly donate if they knew his need.
It was with that belief he gained his next acquisition. Swimming up and down, occasionally pausing just to float, Matthew could feel his energy returning. The cool cleansing of the water, drying off in the heat of the sun, his body basking in Vitamin D goodness.
He spotted the Red Cross charity box before he even left the pool and he knew what he would do. Showering the chlorinated water from his skin, the trunks hung, post spin, on a hook beside his clothes ready to become his new pants.
With a whistle, he carried his coat over his arm, perfectly natural in the climate. Pausing at the counter with the charity pot on it, he drummed his finger against his clean beard. “Latte please,” he said to the young girl staring boredly at her phone.
Under the cover of her turned back and the noise as the stream hissed from the machine, Mathew plucked the charity box from the counter and hid it under his folded coat. As he walked away, he said, “Never mind, I’ve changed my mind,” to the girl. Sure she hadn’t heard, he carried on walking confident her annoyed gaze would soon return to her phone screen. It could be days before anyone noticed the missing Red Cross tin.
Exiting the campsite from the front, Matthew negotiated the main road the other side of the site, quickly crossed an iron bridge that spanned the small Avon tributary that cut Spike Island off and gave it its name, and headed into the hills. He’d rest, count his spoils and come up with the best plan to find his family.
Since leaving his dad’s, his thoughts had been so clear, and everything had fallen into place in his mind. He’d have to lay low; the police were everywhere and getting closer each time. He couldn’t risk capture and re-admission to the hospital.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 24