Finding batteries proved perplexing after the encounter. Shaking his head, he decided he’d have to ask. Remembering cat food and milk, he added chocolate snowmen and a bottle of brandy—not the finest, but he’d hate to run out—and drummed his lips with his index figure wondering if there was anything he was forgetting. Giving up and vowing to return if needed, he struggled to the checkout with the tins, four-pint bottle of milk and off itinerary impulse buys clutched in reddening fingers.
Plonking his hoard, with some relief, at the checkout, he could see batteries behind the counter. Scrutinising the selection, he realised he had no idea what type he needed. Settling on a good assortment of AAA, AA and C batteries, he hoped they took card payment here because he wasn’t convinced the coins and fiver left in his wallet would be enough. His inquiring nod whilst holding up his debit card prompted, “Yes, of course sir,” from the friendly shopkeeper.
“Tell me, the man in your porch, has he been there long?”
“What man, sir? I haven’t seen any man?”
Narrowing his eyes, Matthew answered. “There was a homeless guy. He must have been bloody frozen. I gave him some money, but I wondered if you’d noticed him before; if he was a regular in your porch?”
“Sorry, sir,” and he looked like he meant it, “I don’t know who you mean. I haven’t noticed, but I can’t see from here. Do you have your own bag?”
With nothing more to say, Matthew shook his head and loaded a couple of carriers from the stack by the checkout. Gripping his load with relative ease, dispersed as it now was into the two bags, he arrived back at the doorway.
Pressing colour from parallel lips as they squeezed together in contemplation, he paused in the porch. There was no sign of the homeless man. Eyes straining up and down the street, he was surprised not to see him. “I was right. It must have been pride,” he muttered to himself. “He’ll be keeping out of sight until I’ve gone before spending the money. I hope it makes a difference.”
Conscience appeased, he strolled with fresh contentment towards the grand houses at the top of the hill, and home.
Chapter Four.
By the time he reached the park, set between the large neat lawns in a square between the houses, things were already different but Matthew didn’t notice; the changes too subtle unless you knew what to look for. He would be unable to deny them for long.
As he steadied himself beside a long sweeping sandstone terrace, a squall of panic shook him. Scanning the horizon, he scrutinised each strut of the bridge for the homeless man until, as his eyes settled on the last one with no sighting of a stricken figure, the worry trickled out of him leaving relief in its place. Clifton Suspension Bridge wasn’t about to claim another suicide.
Sighing, he let out a whistle. A simple walk to get batteries had given him a new perspective. What might be the very best of times for some underlined the very worst for others—god knows he knew how that felt. With another pang of guilt at his good fortune, he vowed to raise a glass to his new acquaintance when he got back inside.
Looking away from the deep gorge for the first time, his forehead creased. Backing up a few steps, he bit his lip. Something wasn’t right. Staring at the street, his frown deepened. No, he hadn’t walked past his house. Shaking his head, he couldn’t imagine what he could have done wrong. He must have taken an incorrect turn. But that was impossible; there were no turns—just a stroll up and down the hill.
No nearby street signs were around to confirm he was on Clifton Down Road, but he recognised Tom King’s large house that he rattled around in since losing his wife. And so the house immediately opposite which looked so unfamiliar must be his. Why was he confused?
Well his sister’s car wasn’t there for a start, nor his mum and dad’s. And the Christmas lights weren’t on. It was hard to tell in the dark, but they appeared to be missing entirely.
What on earth could have happened? Had they had a row? And what sort of row could possibly have developed in the space of time he’d taken to buy batteries? Surely not one where the guests had left and Debbie had become so disheartened with Christmas she’d rushed out and perilously removed the lights!
It was like returning to a car park certain he’d left his car in zone ‘B’ only to find it was in an identical looking zone ‘D.’ Except, there was no zone ‘D’ either. With no option, he stepped gingerly onto the drive—his drive. Shaking his head, he hoped all would become clear when he got inside.
When turning the handle didn’t gain the result of opening the door, he shrugged. How much brandy must he have had? When his key wouldn’t fit the lock he became certain once more that he had the wrong house. But as he reached the end of the drive, the familiar view of the bridge and the fast flow of the River Avon as it snaked into Bristol was unmistakable. Turning again towards the house, his scowl threatened to scar.
“Can I help you?” the gruff tone of a portly, balding gentleman standing in the doorway demanded.
“Er. I don’t know. I think I’m lost.” The cold and the shock had sobered Matthew up, but he still expected he must be missing something. “I can’t find my house.”
Slit eyes barely concealing his irritation, the man sighed before deciding in the spirit of good will to try to help.
“Where do you live?”
“Well… to be honest,” Matthew answered, “I was certain it was here… In this house.”
The man sighed again, this time adding a roll of the eyes for good measure. “Well obviously you don’t. I’ve lived here for nearly ten years. What’s your address?”
“Number twelve, Clifton Down Road.”
“Bristol? It can’t be. This is number twelve.”
Matthew stumbled back, head spinning. “It can’t be. Number twelve is my house… I’m Matthew Morrissey. I live here with my wife and daughter. My family are visiting for Christmas!”
“Well, you’re wrong, yeah? I’m not going to stand here and debate it with you, but you need to get off my property. I was enjoying some peace and quiet.”
“But…”
“No! No more. You’re clearly drunk, or mad, or drugged up to the eyeballs, and if you don’t leave now, I’m going to call the police.”
Recognising the futility in arguing, Matthew turned slowly and walked down the driveway; his driveway? Part of him wanted to rush back, burst in and reclaim his home. But the odd unfamiliarity of it, and the man’s confidence stopped him
Across the street, Tom’s car was outside his house as usual. And there were lights on so he was likely to be in. Why wasn’t he waiting at his house with Debbie and Abi and the rest? Striding over the tarmac, Matthew paused half-way to stare back at the house he was sure was his.
If he’d gone to the wrong house instead of his own, how could Tom’s car be there? And it was Tom’s car, he knew. It wasn’t the only Bentley in the area, but it was the only one circa 1965 with the number plate TMK 1NG for Thomas Michael King.
His heart raced as he stepped onto his elderly neighbour’s drive. Grasping the knocker firmly, a flurry of butterflies rippled in his chest. How could he explain his muddle? Tom would think him a fool. Before allowing the heavy knocker to fall and connect with the door, Matthew stared across the street once again.
Eyes following the three possible trajectories to the three houses that could conceivably be described as ‘opposite,’ he had to concede that whilst they did look similar to one another, none of them looked like the Christmas festooned house he had left an hour ago.
His mind could take no more. With a decisive thrust, he allowed the heavy hoop in the lion’s mouth to hammer the door sending a reverberating crash through the large hallway beyond. Once the echo faded, the initial silence sunk Matthew’s heart into his stomach as he impatiently tapped his leg with fidgeting fingers, but soon faint sounds of life reached his thankful ears.
Another light went on somewhere in the house. Slowly, octogenarian footsteps edged towards him; clip, clip, clonk, as Tom King stumbled along the hal
lway aided by his antique walking cane. He could see him now through the opacity of the door’s glass panels.
Stood inches away, separated only by the wood and glass, words wobbled on Matthew’s lips as he waited for numerous bolts to slide and keys to turn. At last, he was face to face with his old friend.
“Tom. Thank goodness. I don’t know what’s going on,” he gushed. Slowing his mouth with a deep breath, he struggled to ask questions that made sense. “I’m surprised you came home, Tom. Didn’t you want to see Abi’s Furby in action?”
Tom stared at him blankly, squinting eyes unwilling to appear rude until he’d worked out who he was talking to.
Face flushing red at Tom’s failure at a forthcoming explanation, Matthew began to rush his words again. “So, what happened after I left? Did they row? I can’t work it out.” Tom continued to stare blankly at him. “What on earth happened when you left mine?”
A grimace grew on Tom’s weathered face. He didn’t want to appear impolite, but he was nobody’s fool and wasn’t about to be conned by one of those unscrupulous distraction burglars. Putting on his haughtiest voice, he replied. “I’m sorry, but I think you have the wrong house, young man.”
Bemusement turned to surreal amusement as for the first time it occurred to Matthew that this was all an elaborate prank. Of course! It was obvious. Even Mandy and Debbie’s keenness for him to leave and get the batteries was odd, wasn’t it? They had got rid of him to perform this ingenious joke.
“Okay, Tom,” he said with a wink. “You’ve got me.” Standing back, he began a slow hand-clap. Talking loudly to the street, he called out. “All right, that’s enough, now. Come on out. Great Christmas prank.”
But even as he uttered the words he knew they fell far short of the truth. They weren’t pranking sort of people. In the thirty-six years he’d known his parents, and the eleven years he’d known Debbie, pranks had never featured. Choosing the first Christmas he had been happy in years to fool him so cruelly was unthinkable.
Panic coursed through him, raising his voice as he spoke. “Tom. Tom, what’s happening?”
“Do I know you?”
“Know me? Of course you do, Tom,” he spluttered, and another thought struck. It was Tom who was confused. He must be suffering from some degenerative mental condition. It was no wonder at his age. Pushing aside the sincere knowledge that Tom King had always been sharp as a pin the entire time he’d known him, he allowed the familiar stab of conscience to pierce his veil.
Talking slowly, he tried to keep patronising tones from his voice as he explained. “You do know me, Tom. And Debbie, my wife. Do you remember her? And Abi, my little girl?” Blank face. “She’s been ill… really ill,” he said, tears pricking. What was going on? “You bought her a present… a Furby. That’s where I’ve been,” his voice cracked. “Getting these.” He wafted the batteries feebly towards his elderly neighbour.
He could see that Tom didn’t want to upset him but couldn’t tell him what he desperately wanted to hear.
“Look. I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know you. You seem very upset. Would you like me to telephone someone for you? Where do you live?”
“Where do I live? For fuck sake, Tom. I live there!” He pointed fiercely across the street, guilt gripping his chest. It wasn’t Tom’s fault. “There’s my house. You were in it an hour ago drinking my brandy. You brought a present over for Abi because she’s finally recovered from leukaemia after two years of hell. Tom! It’s me, Matthew. Matthew Morrissey!”
Tom’s steely blue eyes creased with concern. The unstable man on his doorstep was beginning to unnerve him. He didn’t know what he was capable of. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you,” he said firmly and began to close the door.
“No! Tom, wait. Please wait, you have to help me!”
“Sorry,” Tom said again, and this time he shoved the door with a decisive slam.
Matthew rapped rapidly again, but he could already hear the bolts sliding back into place.
“Tom, open up. Sorry I shouted, I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s happening. Tom...”
Slumping down defeated, a moment of hope raised his chin as he heard Tom’s voice again; but only for a second.
“Go away. Please leave my property or I’ll call the police.”
Fearing he really would, Matthew forced his bewildered body up again and stood blinking in the street light. Staggering forward, his addled mind searched for a logical explanation.
Tom was wrong, obviously. Matthew hadn’t noticed him becoming mentally inhibited, but his preoccupation for the last two or three years explained that. He hadn’t had time to notice nor worry about his neighbour, he thought, assuaging his shame at the lapse. A few years is a long time when you’re in your eighties.
But his own confusion? What was causing that? How much had he had to drink? It didn’t seem like much, but he knew drunks weren’t the best people at remembering quantities of alcohol. So, he was sloshed. He had to be.
The man at his house, well it can’t have been his house. That was obvious. Matthew knew it was he who must somehow be disoriented and had forgotten, or misheard the address the man said. Carefully, he scrutinised each house again. One of them was his. There was no doubt. In one movement of his head he would see his Christmas decorations and wonder how on earth he’d missed it.
He was always hopeless at finding things, and whenever Debbie intervened after he’d declared something (usually his car keys/ and or wallet) they were frequently somewhere he’d already looked. Losing his house was taking that to bizarre new levels, but what else made any sense?
Bright lights soon did fill his vision, but not the ones he was searching for. The blue flashing strobe lamps of a night patrol car pulled alongside him. Ignoring them, he decided now was a good time to leave the area and began walking at pace back down the hill.
Returning to the shop might not be a bad place to begin to understand anyway. He could restart his route home and be really careful not to make the same mistake that had led to this dreadful disorientation.
But he wasn’t to get the opportunity.
Chapter Five
The whir of the electric window of the squad car made his heart beat even faster than the thousand beats per minute already exhibited. “Excuse me sir. May we have a word with you, please?”
Matthew ignored them and kept on walking. They’d leave him alone. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?
“Sir? I have to insist you stop. STOP NOW! Or I’ll have to arrest you.”
Matthew couldn’t imagine on what grounds, but decided he had no choice but to obey. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe they could help him.
Stepping from the driver’s side, a pretty police lady pulled on her hat before pulling out a notebook. “Now then, sir. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what you’re doing out this evening? Don’t you have somewhere else you’d rather be?”
Matthew shifted uncomfortably. “Well. It’s all a bit embarrassing, to be honest.”
“Why don’t you start by giving me your name?”
“Of course. It’s Matthew. I’m Matthew Morrissey, of twelve Clifton Down Road. Somewhere round here!” Matthew passed off with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Mmm hmmm. But it isn’t, is it, sir?” she said, scribbling on her pad. A second, male officer had joined her from the car and stood a short distance away.
“I can’t seem to find it, that’s true. But I left only an hour ago to get batteries for my daughter’s Furby… It was a present from a kind old neighbour… Tom King,” Matthew rambled in the piercing silence offered by the two police officers.
Pulling her epaulette radio towards her mouth, she spoke words Matthew couldn’t follow, but they included his name and address. The crackling response seemed to suggest something was wrong.
“Who are you, really, sir?”
“Really? I’m Matthew Morrissey, as I said before.”
“The thing is, sir. We’ve had complaints… of a
gentleman matching your description causing trouble. Insisting he’s someone he’s not. Shouting and exhibiting threatening behaviour to an elderly resident.”
Matthew not appearing a likely hoodlum, she extended some courtesy. “I understand you’re lost. If you can convince me where you live, we’ll escort you there, make sure you’re safe and that’ll be that. But we can’t leave you out here, can we? We don’t know you. We don’t know what you might do.”
“Do? I won’t do anything. I just want to get back to my wife, my little girl and my family. I just want to go home.”
“Okay, sir. But home isn’t twelve Clifton Down Road, is it? Do you want to tell me where you really live?”
Matthew’s perplexed demeanour left an unanswered silence. “Have you taken anything, sir? It’s best to say if you have.”
Matthew shook his head. “No. I’ve had a bit of brandy… well, probably quite a lot, but I didn’t realise I was that drunk. Sorry.”
Stepping forward, the male police officer seemed to have a purpose.
“My colleague here is going to perform a search for drugs upon your person. Before he does, is there anything you want to admit to having.” Matthew shook his head again. What on earth was happening?
“Because, we will find it. It’ll be better for you; save us both a lot of time if you admit it now?”
“No. Nothing,” Matthew stated.
The male stepped even closer. “Put out your arms, please, sir,” he ordered. “Now, before I search you, there’s nothing in your pockets that’s going to hurt me, or you, is there, sir?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said again, then added, realising anything was possible on this bizarre night, “I don’t think so.”
The policeman paused and asked sternly. “Well? Is there or isn’t there?”
“No.” Matthew sighed and the officer patted him down. The humiliation, Matthew cringed. I’m being treated like a criminal outside (or very near to at least) my own house.
The officer turned to his colleague. “Clean,” he said.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 2
