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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  The car park is quieter than I expect. Glancing for the first time at the clock, I realise I’m twenty minutes early. My reflection is a shock, even disguised by the tint of the glass. I look every bit as exhausted as I feel.

  When Alix greets me with sympathy oozing from her face, I’m consoled my dishevelled appearance at least corroborates Imogen’s excuse for my absence.

  “Good morning. Feeling any better?”

  “Well enough. All the better for seeing your smiling face.” She beams further.

  With nothing urgent to do, I seek refuge and coffee in the staff room. If Uma’s there, I will ignore her.

  Creaking the door ajar, I’m relieved to see it empty. I’ve just sat down, hugging the steaming mug to my chest, when there’s a bang as the door is thrown open and Jonesy stomps in.

  “Oh!” he exclaims. “You’re back.” I smile to hide my irritation at his obvious remark. “You look terrible!”

  “Gee, thanks, Jonesy. I’ve been off sick.” He gives a knowing nod before walking past me to re-boil the kettle.

  Strolling over with his fresh beverage, lips pursed askew, he pauses and slouches onto the chair next to mine. Resting on his elbows, hot coffee clutched at the apex of his forearms, he regards me with a suspicious gaze and I feel I’m about to be devoured by a Praying Mantis.

  “Been unwell then, is it?” he probes. I nod.

  “That’s right. Gastroenteritis. I’ve been sick. A lot.” Nodding slowly, he sips at the scolding liquid between his meaty hands. The chrome of his watch combines with the ripples on the shimmering surface of his coffee to reflect a hypnotic pattern on the wall opposite me. Mesmerised, Jonesy’s voice penetrates my bubble.

  “You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

  My instinct is to rebuff his interest with monosyllabic grunts. But the appeal of tentatively tackling why I haven’t slept for more than a week is too strong.

  With a huge sigh, I turn my chair to face him. As if on cue, Jonesy lowers the A-frame of his arms to bring the cup to a gentle landing in front of him. Leaning in toward me, he gives me his full attention.

  “I can’t sleep. When I do, I have these terrible, terrible nightmares.” I’m surprised at my reluctance to give details, but I force myself because I want him to tell me I’m wrong. That there’s some other meaning to my nightmares and they’re not a precognition at all.

  It seems too much to ask of a maths tutor, but I can tell from his gurning and squinting that he’s giving it serious consideration.

  “I’m no dream expert.” No surprise there. “But I don’t reckon it is a precognition. The ghostly spookiness of it is more... dreamy. Precognitions would be more like real life, wouldn’t they?” My eyebrows are raised. Anxious for my mood to join them, I press Jonesy further.

  “Well why, then? Why am I having virtually the same visions night after night?”

  “I think dreams, or nightmares, are an insight into our subconscious fears.” There’s a long pause, as if he’s reluctant to continue.

  “Go on,” I encourage. He shifts uncomfortably, thumbing the handle of his mug in a decisive rhythm.

  “Well. In the dream, you lose your wife, Imogen.”

  “I don’t lose her. She dies in a most horrific way.”

  “Yeah. In the dream. But in real life, don’t you fear you might lose her?”

  I snort. “No. Certainly not.”

  There’s silence for a minute before he clears his throat to tackle me again. “It’s none of my business...” I expect something definitely none of his business to be flaunted with his next words. He doesn’t disappoint. “But this affair with Uma...” I double snort and lunge forward in indignation.

  “Affair! What affair? I’m not having an affair with Mrs Taylor! What?”

  I wouldn’t believe my feeble protestation, and Jonesy certainly doesn’t. I slump back in my seat. “How do you know?” He smiles.

  “Everyone knows. She’s not exactly discreet.” As blood leaves my already pallid complexion, I’m grateful there is no mirror nearby. “And when you two used to disappear at lunch times and leave together after school, it didn’t take Columbo to work it out.”

  I sit in horrified silence. Maybe that does explain my nightmares, and I didn’t even mention the naked Uma with her peeling flesh. I grimace, gulping down a sudden nausea, the image even less palatable so early in the day.

  But I realise, thanks to Jonesy, that on some level, perhaps I knew I hadn’t been careful enough. And I must have known I couldn’t trust Uma. I mean, there was even that bloody photo. That could’ve been a marriage breaker right there!

  “Okay, okay. I’ll admit, we did have a bit of a fling. But I was vulnerable at the time.” I stare at him, boring my point into him. “I don’t make a habit of that sort of thing. And it was a while ago now.”

  “I think you had a dalliance a lot more recently than that.” And before I can even bother to object, he saves me the further embarrassment of lying by underlining his certainty. “In Uma’s store cupboard, Monday break time.”

  “Oh my god.” I’m limp. I wish I could float away, find a time-machine and make this all not have happened. Make it so I’d never met bloody Uma Taylor ne Yazbeck! “Who else knows?”

  He rubs his chin. “Everyone, I guess. And I hear you had a lucky escape with your wife; who’s extremely lovely, by the way.” I bow my head.

  “Yes. She is. You’re right. She doesn’t deserve any of this.” And it seems clear now that the dreams might well be my subconscious warning me I’m about to ruin my marriage, rather than the all too obvious, not-at-all cryptic explanation of a car crash.

  I’d have expected them to stop if realising about Imogen’s failure to wear her seatbelt and the switched off airbag was what was wrong.

  I rub my middle fingers on the table in an invisible doodle. Coughing, I admit the whole sorry mess to my new best friend.

  “Imogen’s not been home for the last few nights. She asked me who Uma is. I swore blind nothing is going on. She says she’ll be home again by the weekend.”

  “Well I hope you were a lot more convincing when you lied to her than when you tried to lie to me! You need to look after her. And keep well away from Mrs Taylor. She’s trouble.”

  I hold up my hands. “Alright! You win. You’re absolutely right.” I hear my voice and it sounds better. I feel better. This has been just the talking to I needed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Coffee brewing, bread baking—I’ve clearly missed my calling as an estate agent. Hoping my efforts aren’t wasted, relief is an understatement when I hear Imogen’s key in the lock.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Something smells good,” she calls. I’m thrilled at her friendly tone. Everything’s going to be fine.

  “It must be me,” I announce, prancing into the hallway, and I’m only half-joking. I’ve scrubbed and preened and liberally sprayed my most expensive designer fragrance.

  “I’ve baked some things. I thought we’d have afternoon tea. And then, if you’d like, I hoped you’d let me treat you to dinner somewhere nice.”

  I can see she doesn’t want to disappoint, but there’s reluctance

  “I’m really tired, El,” she shrugs. “Sorry.”

  “Or, if that’s too much, we could grab a bag of chips and walk along the river? It could be ‘Date Night.’ It could be a regular thing?”

  “Wow. What’s got into you?” She’s looking at me strangely. I shrug.

  “I missed you!”

  “Good. Now how about we order a takeaway and snuggle?”

  I’m happy to do whatever she wants, and to be honest, I thought snuggling might be off the menu for a while. Could today get any better?

  We’ve enjoyed an oriental feast, and are on our second bottle of Prosecco, when guilt besets me. Raising eyes to heaven, I refocus on my wife. Turning to face her, I take her hands and gaze at her, and gasp.

  She looks so fragile. I wonder if the rumours fly
ing around school of my indiscretions have reached her delicate ears. Cringing at the possibility, I regain my composure, studying her fine features: her cheek bones are more defined than usual; there are shadows under her eyes which well with a pain that I’ve caused. I can see I’ve hurt her. I don’t want to do that anymore.

  Noticing me staring at her, she must think I’m finding a way to talk to her, because she pipes up with, “Okay, Eliot. What’s this nightmare of yours all about?”

  I have wanted desperately to talk to her; to warn her and keep her safe. Now Jonesy’s made me realise the truth behind it, it’s the last thing I want to talk about. Particularly as I don’t trust myself to tell without looking guilty.

  But she persists. And it might be the perfect excuse for my recent odd behaviour.

  With a tentative start, it comes back vividly, the raw emotion grabbing my throat, making it impossible to carry on without gulping it down. She’s placed a sympathetic hand on my knee, her moist eyes meet mine as she whispers, “Poor Eliot. So that’s what’s been wrong with you?” I nod and squeeze her hand.

  As our fingers interlope, my heart jumps and I want to press the point, “Don’t drive, my love. Leave your car at home. Please. Especially at night.”

  “I can’t do that, Eliot. How could I care for my patients on home visits? Getting taxi’s everywhere wouldn’t be practical. And if your dream is a prophecy, it’s quite weird. I mean, it sounds like it varies. You couldn’t guarantee that using public transport would keep me safe.”

  Sitting up erect and straightening her blouse, she adds, “But, of course, I promise I’ll be extra careful. I’ll wear my seatbelt if it’ll make you happy.” She squeezes my hand tight. “You never know, being alert to danger may well prove expedient.”

  I can’t force her to remain house-bound. Would I listen to the same advice? Probably not. And I don’t even think it is prophetic anymore. I smile warmly. “Okay,” I agree. “Make sure you do!”

  I feel better than I have in weeks, and when rubbing Imogen’s feet turns into rubbing her shoulders, which turns into rubbing everything else, images of Uma are effortlessly absent.

  And when we eventually snuggle up to sleep, and I whisper “I love you,” into Imogen’s hair, sweaty with us, I think she believes me.

  She should, because I do.

  I lay on my back, a face-splitting grin combining with the vigorous reddening of my concerted countenance to give me what I imagine is the appearance of a carnally contented clown.

  The energy between us feels so natural after a weekend interspersed with frequent frantic love-making.

  Turning my gaze from the ceiling to Imogen’s slender shoulders, inches away; her fleshy cheeks warm against my thigh, it’s like we’re back enjoying our first night together after our romantic encounter by the hot Roman pools all those years ago.

  Fired by the notion, I suggest, “Why don’t we take a trip to Bath? Recapture our youth. Visit where we first met?”

  Her smile as she nods convinces me things are fine; better than fine, they’re great. When we hear Jess’s key in the door late Sunday afternoon, we share blushed glances in anticipation of explanation as to why we’re still in bed.

  She doesn’t come straight upstairs and we manage to be in the middle of showering before her muffled hellos penetrate the bathroom.

  When we’re together in the sitting room, I suggest we go out for Sunday lunch (it’s the only way we’ll get a traditional roast, having done nothing to prepare.)

  Imogen gives me a knowing smile as I return to the table with thirds from the carvery. “What?” I say, feigning offence at the intimation I might be greedy.

  “Someone’s feeling better,” she snorts, fork paused daintily at the side of her plate.

  And she’s right. I do.

  All weekend, sleep has been interrupted by intermittent and fervent love making every night, so I couldn’t be certain; but when comprehension it’s Monday morning plops into my brain like an ice cube to the perfect cup of tea—unwelcome—the disappointment is tempered by the realisation, that I haven’t had a nightmare.

  I sigh and look around the room, as if making sure my relief hasn’t been witnessed; as if seeing me calm might tempt fate.

  Driving to school, everything seems brighter. The view over The Meads is an explosion of colour; an upgraded HD masterpiece. The Lee, glistening in the early morning sunlight, reflects a glow of happiness on my face as I grin to myself at how beautifully everything has turned out.

  Cheery good morning’s are served from my smiling lips to all I meet on my way into Radcliffe Comprehensive. Leaping the front steps, its façade of hundreds of squares within squares of Georgian wire within opaque red, beneath clear panes of glass are reassuringly solid.

  Its repetitive geometry bolstering my sense of stability, nothing’s going to bother me today. And by nothing, of course, I mean Uma Taylor—because that’s all she means to me.

  I almost skip into the hall, taking my seat at the side of the hundreds of pupils sat in cross-legged, bored anticipation. But even Mrs Monotone’s tedious voice fails to dent my buoyant mood.

  My vision hazing, the marl carpet of a multitude of grey jumpers and green ties blur into an easy-to-ignore child-chip blandness, and my mind ambles over the past few weeks.

  I feel like I’ve reached a new understanding. Our family dynamic feels unstoppable now. And it’s not about to be scuppered by Uma Taylor’s fluttering mascara and pouting red lips entering my peripheral sight.

  I make a point of looking in her direction and glancing away as though I hadn’t even noticed her. In the turn of my head, I can’t help but notice her wounded expression as she removes her glasses and dabs delicately at her eyes.

  When the droning of our esteemed Headmistress is declared mercifully at an end with her final barked instructions, we file out of the hall en masse to the hope of the day, like miners returning to the surface after an arduous shift below. I make sure I’ve put plenty of space between us.

  Strolling at pace along the corridor to my classroom, I hear her calling “Mr Armstrong... Eliot,” and her exotic accent has no pull on me. Ignoring her, she’s lost in the babble of pupils as they share weekend gossip they’ve been forced to keep in during assembly.

  As I throw myself into the chair behind my desk, I allow myself a smile. I won, Uma Taylor, I won. And my marriage won.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When most staff stay at least fifteen minutes after the final bell, I leave school on the dot of 3.30 in my determination to avoid Uma. It works and I’m driving home with a new verve, The Verve crooning appropriately from the stereo.

  As the lyrics grab my attention, I know my life isn’t bittersweet, but very much just sweet, thank you, Richard Ashcroft.

  Jess is home when I get back. “Study leave,” she declares, but she stops ‘studying’—slumped, legs thrown over the arm of a chair, i-pad inches from her face—and offers her assistance in the kitchen.

  When Imogen jumbles through the door with her ratty doctor’s bag in hand, files under her chin from where she’s freed her other hand to grab her keys, she is rewarded with delicious smells and a fabulous looking feast, wine already breathing on the table.

  “Oh, wow. Thanks, El!”

  “And Jess,” I say, nodding in her direction. She’s beaming all over her pretty face, and I realise, for the first time, how absent that smile has been.

  When we’re ready to eat, I see Jess has set the table beautifully with wine glasses and linen napkins, but for only two.

  “Enjoy,” she invites with a wave to the table before skipping off to her room. “I’ll grab something later.”

  With a proud smile, I let the fading noise of Jess making her way upstairs seep in. Imogen pipes up, “Someone’s enjoying having you back to your old self, Eliot Armstrong!”

  The emotion pricks the back of my eyes and renders me speechless. I take the exquisite, life-saving, clever, caring hand of my beautiful wife and
sit. I have to rouse myself with a teary gulp to enjoy the meal we’ve prepared.

  Guilt weighs heavy on my chest. I fight the sickening urge to lift it by confessing my sins. That would be selfish, and how could I expect Imogen to understand?

  If I can keep Uma at a distance from now on, there’s no point spoiling what I’ve got. It’s in the past, and as time goes by, it will soon be the distant past. A fading memory a lifetime away.

  With a deep breath, I resolve to man up, and to make sure I play my part in protecting my family. Uma stands no chance.

  The coming days build on our recovery. Meals together (not prepared with Jess’s help in the kitchen—she seems to be over that now), rather than romantic dinners for two, and it’s great.

  I’ve drawn a line under my past misdemeanours and filed them under ‘Eliot’s mid-life crisis, parts one and two.’ There are no plans to make it a trilogy.

  Laughing at recollections of times past: Christmases, holidays abroad and at home, all serves to provide a jovial, if not fragile, mood. It’s like we’ve met up after years apart and don’t quite know one-another.

  My girls don’t understand what’s been wrong with me, (how could they?) and are treading carefully. Seeing them desperate not to upset me twists the knife of my guilt, but I have to stay strong. For them.

  Despite growing contentment, I wake breathless, heart pounding, my eyes flitting around the room. I sit up, choking on my own fluids again.

  Squinting, I trawl through my memory, I don’t think I’ve had a nightmare, but I’m agitated. “Struggling with the guilt, Eliot,” I mumble under my breath. Relief it’s not the return of my hideous dreams, with a sigh, I roll my shoulders and move my thick head from side to side, easing the tension a little.

  I feel better again when I glance at the clock. It’s early. I’m not late for school.