Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9)

by Michael Christopher Carter

  And I found that, despite not getting the Deputy Head position, and despite an apathy towards my chosen profession, tomorrow was something I had looked forward to.

  Chapter Six

  I am brought out of my daydream by a tap on my arm. It’s Jonesy.

  “Come on, Mr Armstrong. Back to the grindstone.”

  The reverberations of the bell can still be heard in the background. I shake myself into life.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I was in my own little world then.”

  Where’s Uma? I almost ask out loud. And where’s ‘Bruce?’ And why on earth do I give a damn? It’s none of my business if they’re together. Not my business at all.

  I get back to class to the second of a double lesson with the previous A-Level bunch. I try, but I’m off my game and the lesson fails to regain its jovial momentum.

  “Carry on reading to the end of that section, please, class,” I command. Turning away, I fiddle with my briefcase, feigning searching for something. Without finding it (how could I?), I slump rather too hard on my chair, misjudging its cushioning potential despite being desperately familiar with it.

  When the room echoes with the sound of splitting wood as I chomp down too hard on the pencil I hadn’t noticed I was chewing, one of my class coughs and asks, “Are you okay, sir?”

  The interaction brings me to again and I reward him with my best smile. “Yes. Of course. Sorry. I must be hungrier than I thought,” I joke, circling my tummy, as though the pencil had been a tasty snack.

  They all chuckle, accommodating my weak joke from relief that I’d been in the mood to make it in the first place.

  It’s a free period next. I should get on with some marking but with a sigh, I concede I’m still too distracted. Worryingly, the pub has a disturbing allure again and I have to fight the urge for a lunchtime tipple. What’s wrong with me? I really need to keep a check on this. I’m in serious danger of becoming an alcoholic.

  I don’t think you can become alcohol dependent overnight, but turning to drink is obviously not the answer. Fingertips drumming my desk, I suddenly slap down my palms. “Right!” I say to no-one. Scanning the ceiling for inspiration, I pluck my phone from its hiding place under an exercise book I’m supposed to be marking and dial Imogen’s work.

  I’m Hoping we can meet for lunch. That will sort me out again, but the telephonist informs me she’s left for house calls and will be in clinic all afternoon when she returns. “Okay, never mind.”

  “Is there a message?” she inquires, her tone masterfully portraying she couldn’t care less, whilst not putting her at risk of complaint.

  “No. Thank you.” I hear the click of the line going dead before the ‘you’ has fully left my lips. I stick my fingers up at the phone screen. Defeated, I consider phoning Jess. I did that once before. She was told off for her phone ringing in lectures, and she cringed at how embarrassing lunch with her decrepit father would have been, anyway.

  Instead, I close my eyes and attempt some quiet contemplation: thoughts of some of the good times we’ve shared. I could do with a photograph album. Nothing brings back memories like flicking through the family photos.

  My phone’s still in my hand. The photos stored in it don’t go back very far, it’s quite new, but it’s all I have. I start at last summer.

  Pictures of Imogen’s Range Rover, which we use for holidays, show it parked at various beauty spots, primarily across the big bridge into Wales. It’s common for us to go to catch up with Imogen’s family in the North of The Principality. In a two or three week break it can be suffocating but it means we relish any time to ourselves.

  Our first night in Cardiff has many representing images, beginning with pictures of Imogen and Jess outside the castle and various shops, and then the classic gurning selfies of the three of us.

  I wonder if my despondency is clouding my judgement, but I’m sure guilt of my fling with Uma is palpable. I’m not as close to my girls in the photo; physically or emotionally. I swallow, and the flush of heat returns to my cheeks.

  With a frown, I notice I have photographed every course of our meal at an Italian restaurant. I’m not big into social media and so mercifully haven’t posted them online with ‘nom-nom’ tags, and thankfully, the pictures are becoming more scenic as I’ve captured our journey around the coast with a view of Llansteffan Castle from the beach.

  Some more embarrassing food pictures I don’t remember taking break the splendour, but then the scenery continues and my in-laws decision to retire here seems very wise.

  With a rush of sentiment, memories come flooding to me. Something about Imogen’s smile, or the beach, I’m not sure, but I am suddenly transported to our first encounter…

  My mum and dad had been thrilled I’d ordained to join them at a B&B in Bath. The place was remarkably lavish yet reasonably priced. Imogen and I have been back since to celebrate our anniversary.

  The room I was in, being on the third floor, enjoyed wonderful views over the gardens to a long, curving row of grand terraced houses. The city beyond in its yellow sandstone was like a different world to Hertfordshire.

  A few of the usual tourist activities filled the week-long itinerary: visiting Stone Henge, Avebury and Longleat House, and of course the magnificent Roman baths.

  I remember imagining myself as an Emperor, lowering myself into the scolding water, maidens washing me.

  The sound of angel’s laughter echoed through the white pillared bathhouse and I was instantly enthralled.

  Imogen was with her family and laughing at a comment about one of her group jumping in to collect the thousands of coins thrown into the ancient hot spring water from thousands of wishes. I was tempted to fish a coin from the depths of my pocket and make my own wish when I saw her.

  Our eyes met, and I knew I wanted her. Different to any girl I’d seen before, delicate yet strong, like a spider’s web, she knew it too.

  As our families walked around the stalls and attractions within the bathhouse, she cut away from them and stood examining the work of a portrait artist. It was an opportunity I couldn’t afford to miss.

  “She’s rather good, isn’t she?” I ventured. She looked up at me, knowing I would be there. Exhibiting a wry smile, she answered, “Yes. Do you think I should get one?”

  She seemed to expect me to stay with her while her portrait was drawn. It was like we’d known each other for years.

  When it was finished, my opinion was sought. It was easy complementing the painting, (and her). I was able to really go to town. I commented how the artist had captured her fine cheekbones framed by her long, dark curls. It was just as well it was only a head portrait and not a full length as I would have embarrassed myself gushing of her slender elegance.

  Imogen lapped it up. I almost felt I should pay for it. When she rushed the funds from her purse, I asked if she’d join me for an ice-cream instead. We spent every day of the holiday together after that.

  It’s funny, the next picture on the phone is tagged ‘Dan-Yr-Ogof, National Showcaves of Wales, because our visit to Cheddar Caves proceeded our first kiss.

  I had been very respectful, almost timid, which wasn’t like me. When we kissed, Imogen announced “About time,” and that night, she joined me in my room.

  She was impressed with me back then. I’d recently finished my teaching degree and already had a placement. She still had two years left of her medical studies. Significantly the dominant one, within six months I’d proposed.

  I suppose it was then my self-confidence began ever ebbing from my character.

  My expression in the upcoming images varies between over-gregarious grins to smile-less misery. I don’t remember being unhappy. Maybe moving increasingly closer to Imogen’s show-off dad and suffocating, needy mother had taken its toll on me.

  My eye is drawn from my miserable countenance to the magnificence of Snowdonia’s mountain ranges. Even more striking than the scenery is Imogen’s smile. Jess is gorgeous too, but she’s going throu
gh a phase of hating having her photo taken. Ones of her have typically captured a hand covered face. But Imogen looks so happy it shines from her every pore.

  She loves travelling to see her folks. But I always feel I’ve disappointed them. I remember dreading the inevitable question: “Did you get the promotion?”

  Presumably, Imogen must already have told them, but it pre-empted the pseudo-sympathy offered between glances of shared near-disgust.

  They’d said how there was no justice, and how I should take it to tribunal. I said, “Perhaps,” and we’d all gone and underlined their superiority by taking a swim in their pool, overlooking the ocean and mountains of Snowdonia.

  Looking back, it hadn’t turned out as badly as I’d anticipated. The sympathy had seemed a lot more genuine. And it had been lovely seeing Imogen relaxing and enjoying herself after all the pressure working for her partnership meant.

  There are pictures I have taken with her mum and dad with the sun setting over the beach. Another of her waving from the back window of her dad’s brand-new Bentley, and a few of the two of us together. I am surprised I look happy; happier.

  And then I swipe to a photo I’d forgotten. Seeing it turns my blood to ice. It’s not enough to get her sacked if it got into the wrong hands, which could easily have happened. Unless you had witnessed them first hand, you wouldn’t be certain, but Uma’s bare breasts are very familiar to me.

  It seems so incongruent in amongst the family photos. My heart explodes into action pumping blood to my brain, trying to ascertain if Imogen’s seen it. Uma must have known it was a risk when she sent it. That had been the point. But it had never been serious. Not for me, anyway.

  My heart races. Every hair on my head is on end allowing the trickle of cold sweat to drip into the nape of my neck, making me judder. Think. Could she have seen it? No. Unless Jess showed her. There were occasions when Jess used to borrow my phone, but not since she got her own new i-phone. Drumming my fingers, I calm with a sigh, confident I would have known.

  My fingertip hovers to delete the photo, but I don’t. Instead, I move it from the phone into cloud storage protected by a password. It’s a risk. I don’t want to consider why I’m taking it, but I think it’s a safe bet.

  Chapter Seven

  The pub calls, but I resist. Seeing my lovely girls this morning, and the trip down memory lane gives me the strength.

  Walking through the front door, nostrils vacuuming up the unmistakable aroma of delicious cooking, my two favourite girls are laughing.

  “Oh, hi, Dad,” Jess greets, leaping from the breakfast bar stool to give me a hug. Imogen glances round from rinsing salad to beam at me.

  “Perfect timing,” she declares. My promise to come home has clearly been heeded and I’m relieved I didn’t succumb to temptation. “Choose a wine to go with fish,” she orders, madly chopping vegetables and scooping them into a bowl.

  Thumbing the labels of the dozen or so bottles filling the rack, I’m able to pick one with ease thanks to the handy chart the wine club supplied with our first order. After my call of “What type of fish?” is answered by, “Pan-fried Turbot,” I select a dry white Riesling and un-cork it ready to pour.

  As we sit and I take in the wonderful sight and smell of the sizzling fish on a bed of I’m not sure what; but there’s home-made bread and sides of olives and some little deep-fried things, I’m more than impressed.

  “Well, this is all very civilised. Thank you, darling.” I blow air kisses which Imogen catches and pretends to treasure.

  The food is exceptional. The wine is better than the whiskey I’ve been used to and I begin to unwind. What has been my problem? This is perfect.

  We snuggle up as a family watching Friday night telly (until Jess gets a Skype call she simply must take and scoots from the room.)

  Stroking Imogen’s hair as we chuckle to Friday night comedy, I almost relax. But deep within, a knot is pulled so tight I have no hope of untangling it; or understanding it. My hair-stroking becomes more frantic and I pull at my collar, desperate to escape the suffocating heat.

  Imogen pushes herself up onto her elbows. “You okay, Eliot?”

  “What? Yeah! Of course. Bit hot,” I say, sticking out my tongue and panting like a dog.

  She sits up, a bewildered look on her clever face. Wearing a puzzled frown, she adds, “Everything’s all right, though? El?”

  “What?” I protest again. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” I grab her hand and lift it to my lips.

  Kissing her slender fingers, the clean smell of just washed-ness they always have makes me smile, and those same electric feelings I had when I first saw her all those years ago in Bath makes my hairs stand on end.

  Choking on an unexpected thick throat, I manage to mouth, “I love you,” and am further shocked at the moistness blurring my vision. “Sorry I’ve let you down.”

  “Let me down?”

  “Going to the pub. Not... Not being myself.”

  She snorts and ruffles my hair. “You haven’t let me down. Silly!” she says, springing up, cups plucked deftly from the coffee table. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

  Something stronger is of course a temptation. It might relax me further; let me enjoy a simple evening at home. Fearing it might be a test, (and recognising that it is kind of: can I go one sodding evening without resorting to alcohol to cope?) through dry lips, I rasp, “Tea. Thanks.” As I smile my gratitude; not for the tea, but for how incredible and tolerant my wonderful wife is; a tear squeezes down my cheek, leaving my eyes sparkling and moist.

  Imogen skips from the room, and I hear the kettle click on. Slumping back into the leather of the sofa, draughty from Imogen’s departure, my smile slips, but the tear remains.

  I wake alone in bed again, worried I’m really late because the alarm isn’t even buzzing, and I have no idea how long that drones on for before shutting off. Imogen bursting in with a breakfast tray reminds me it’s Saturday.

  “Wakey, wakey, sleepy head,” she grins. Placing the food between us, she slides in beside me heralding the selection. “Croissants, lightly salted butter from Brittany, French jam—three varieties, and strong coffee!”

  “Wow. Thank you, sweetheart. What have I done to deserve this?” Giving me a jovial sideways frown whilst biting into a piece of buttered croissant, Imogen mumbles and catches a crumb on the back of her hand, “I knew you needed your sleep. I couldn’t wait all day for you to come downstairs, so...” Waving her hand in a ‘voila’ motion at the tray, she giggles at the good-natured dig at my recent tardiness.

  I’m beaming, but behind my smile lies the guilt. Guilt at abandoning her and Jess; guilt at the photo on my phone; guilt for not deleting it and for having succumb to Uma’s charms in the first place. Imogen doesn’t deserve that.

  It’s clear, when she reaches across and pops a jam laden pastry into my waiting lips that Imogen wants to enjoy more than breakfast this Saturday morning. I’m happy to accommodate her wishes, but it all falls rather flat when the image from my phone blasts my mind at the worst possible moment.

  She leaps out of bed smothering me in kisses announcing she’s going to shower. Anyone watching would see the picture of married bliss, but I know I’ve left her unsatisfied.

  I allow the weekend to pass trudging round DIY stores, attempting to give enthusiastic responses to Imogen’s plans for extending the decking to include a hot-tub. It’ll weigh more than a car when filled, so it won’t be cheap.

  It should be fun. Planning evenings of sipping fine wine, gazing at the stars in bubbly bliss with my beautiful wife, but I can’t help but feel detached. It’s already planned and I’m being told how it will be, rather than involved with any design decisions. Why is it bothering me? Who wants to spend their free-time designing decking? I trust Imogen to choose the best, and it’s her money that’ll pay for it.

  We stop off at one of our favourite bistros on the way home. Imogen laughs too much at my punny jokes. She knows something’s wrong with me.
If she has a clue, it’s more than I do.

  “Sorry I couldn’t meet up for lunch on Friday,” she proffers, as if that might be the problem. “Give me more notice next time and I’m sure I can sort something out.”

  I smile. It’s the last thing I feel like right now, but it could be nice. “Yeah. Will do,” I smile, downing a dreg of wine and placing my cutlery on my plate. “I’ll get this,” I say, racing to remove my wallet before Imogen lays down the cash.

  Chapter Eight

  “Come on, El. Your alarms been buzzing for ages,” Imogen says with a prod. “I really need you to take Jess in today. Monday’s are hectic!”

  Pushing myself up, I rub my eyes for a while before heading for the shower. I’ve shampooed, conditioned, and am half-way through shaving, when I realise I haven’t had my nightmare for three nights running. I smile my first genuine smile of the week and carry on with my grooming.

  “You’re actually taking me into college today?” Jess taunts. She claps in response to my nod as I enter the kitchen.

  On the way, she’s more pre-occupied than usual with her i-phone. My lips move, about to ask who she’s chatting to, but dry up before I’ve uttered a word. It’ll be a boy, probably. I can’t stand to hear about it. I come out in a cold sweat imagining what she might be saying.

  When we reach college, she leans across and pecks me on the cheek. “Seeya later, loser!” she calls, throwing the door closed.

  “Don’t slam the d...” I yell, but she’s already gone. I’m relieved to see her walk in with a crowd of girls with no boy in sight. It’s scant indication, I know, but I cling onto it on my way into work.

  My form group are quiet as I call the register in cheerless reflection of my flat mood. Underlining my part in their dourness, the hubbub of chat and laughter rises as soon as they reach the door, babbling on along the corridor.