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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “Now then, sir. I’m going to give you one last chance to tell us who you are and where you live.”

  “I’ve already told you.” Matthew was getting annoyed now.

  “Still sticking to your story, are you?”

  “I have nothing else to tell you. It’s not a story. But if you can help me find it… I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere… I’ll be out of your hair.”

  The police lady sighed. “Believe me, sir. There’s nothing I’d like more. I don’t want to fill in paperwork just because you can’t find your house. But if you stick to this story, I’ll have no option but to arrest you.”

  “What for! I haven’t done anything wrong.” Matthew raised his voice. He was a law-abiding citizen used to people taking notice when he spoke, he understood they had a job to do, but this was getting ridiculous. “Please, just help me find my house!”

  Both officers stepped forward. The lady took his arm in a firm grip. “I am arresting you on suspicion of being Drunk and Disorderly, and on suspicion of being a Vagrant. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence…” but Matthew had tuned out. He had no choice, and if he really was so messed up he couldn’t find his own house, he’d be better off going with them. He could sort it all out from the station when he was clear about what was happening to him.

  “I’m bringing in Matthew Morrissey here for Drunk and Disorderly Conduct and Vagrancy,” Matthew heard the woman say as he stood up straight, determined to show his respectability.

  “I am neither drunk, nor vagrant and my family will be frantic with worry,” he asserted. “If you must insist on keeping me here, then I have to let them know.”

  The custody sergeant smiled. “Of course, sir. All in good time. Let’s just get you booked in first, shall we?” It wasn’t a question and Matthew wasn’t about to make a scene; only whatever was necessary to go home as quickly as possible.

  After another body search (at least not in front of neighbours who might have been looking out at the commotion) he obediently followed the custody sergeant to his cell. As the keys rattled and the metal door clanged open to reveal the grey cube he was expected to spend his Christmas night, Matthew sighed.

  “When can I speak to my wife?”

  “I can let her know you’re here, if you like?”

  Matthew stiffened. Was he not even to be allowed to speak to Debbie? Would he even get home tonight?

  “It’s Christmas. Let me speak to my wife. I’m sure we can straighten this out and I can get home to my little girl.”

  The sergeant paused. Pursing his lips, he decided Matthew was no threat and led him back to the desk.

  “This was supposed to be the perfect Christmas. My little girl, Abi, she’s been terribly ill, and this is her first one at home for a couple of years.”

  The sergeant raised his eyebrows in concerned interest.

  “Leukaemia,” Matthew confirmed. “But she’s well now,” and he couldn’t help the grin that turned his mouth in a cramp-inducing crescent. He’d be home soon and this confusing incident would become part of the story of Abi’s first Christmas at Clifton Down Road. The first of many.

  He went silent as he finished dialling and it began to ring. The sergeant looked away to offer some privacy.

  “Hi, who’s that?” Matthew inquired when he didn’t recognise the voice that answered. “Oh. Sorry. I must have mis-dialled,” he said in response. Depressing the button on the phone cradle to reset it, he stared at the keys. Rehearsing his number in his head, he was certain he had it right. There was no ambiguity. It rolled off the tongue in his mind with an ease that confirmed his confidence.

  Pressing each number precisely, he dialled again. When he heard the same strange voice, the colour drained from his face. His knees buckled forcing him to support his weight on the counter. “Sorry again. Are you sure that’s not the Morrissey household? This is Matthew Morrissey here.”

  “Where did you get my number, you weirdo? First you show up at my door. Then you throw your weight about threatening my neighbour, who’s in his eighties for Christ’s sake. What are you playing at? I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t stop harassing me and my neighbours, I’ll take you to court. You’ll pay for this… Imbecile!”

  When the phone clicking had Matthew beaten. The receiver remained glued to his hand for over a minute before he edged it ever-closer to its cradle where replacing it would provide an insufferable stop to his sense of hope

  “You okay?” the sergeant asked unnecessarily.

  There were no words. Nothing could squeeze through the lump in his throat.

  “Did you not get through?” Matthew shook his head. “Is there anyone else you’d like to try?”

  Matthew considered. There was his mum and dad, and Mandy of course, but they were surely still at his house; and he wasn’t sure he could remember their phone numbers anyway—who could nowadays? So he shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  The sergeant nodded slowly. “Well. You’re a bit the worse for wear at the moment.” Matthew was sure he wasn’t, but what else was anyone to think? “Sleep it off here. We’ll look after you. Do you want some toast?” he offered kindly. “Cup of tea?”

  Matthew didn’t want anything but didn’t want to be ungrateful. Maybe a cup of tea might help to sober him up. “Coffee, please,” he asked on a whim of sense. “Make it strong.”

  The sergeant locked the door and left with an appreciative chuckle. “Right you are.”

  Chapter Six

  When the shutter went back on the eyehole in the door, it was still dark. It didn’t matter. Matthew hadn’t once succumbed to sleep. He wouldn’t rest until he was back home with his lovely family.

  His concerns for himself had waned in favour of a tsunami of grief at what his poor family must be thinking. He’d gone out for batteries, and for some peculiar reason he hadn’t come home. What would they be going through? They must have phoned the police and the hospitals. It’s a wonder they hadn’t burst into his cell to tell him Debbie was here to collect him. The fact their phone calls hadn’t reached the computer screen of the Desk Sergeant to coordinate his safe return was something he would not take lying down.

  He didn’t know how he had ended up making so little sense, but anyone should be able to put two and two together and reunite them. Especially at Christmas. It just shouldn’t take this long. But maybe Christmas provided the answer: less staff being less diligent, or more likely being completely overwhelmed with emergency calls that the fact he was safe had shaken him down the list of priorities. Fair enough, he thought as the door swung open.

  “Matthew. Sleep okay?” It was the same sergeant. He works hard, Matthew thought to himself and so offered him his best smile.

  “Not at all, but, hey. It’s morning now. I’m sure we can sort this mess out.”

  The sergeant smiled, but the warmth from last night was missing, or was he imagining it. “Follow me.”

  It wasn’t really following. Matthew walked beside him and another policeman marched behind him. Arriving at a door a short way along the corridor, the sergeant knocked before opening the door.

  A woman rose from behind a desk and waddled over. “Matthew?” she greeted with thick lips and a voice like she was in the middle of swallowing a cake. Peering through glasses that made her look as though she was underwater, she nodded nervously, “Come and sit down, please.”

  As she led him to an orange plastic moulded seat with metal stackable legs, the sergeant spoke. “You know how to fetch us if you need us,” he said holding her gaze until he was sure. The lady nodded with a smile which said she knew what she was doing.

  As the uniformed officers made a slow retreat from the room, Matthew studied the woman in front of him. He could hardly do anything else, built as she was to fill all but the furthest extremities of his peripheral vision. It was almost as though she had been extruded from a blob of humanoid dough to fill the space—i
njection moulded human in the form of the end of an interview room and cloaked in an explosion of crashing colours.

  Matthew stared, then quickly turned away. He didn’t like to judge people by their appearance. The scruffy so-and-so’s who frequented his boat yard with cash to buy his most expensive offerings constantly amazed him and they always got on famously. Matthew got on with everyone. But Debbie would struggle to maintain her composure in the face of the fashion faux pas exhibited in number on this lady’s full-to-bursting figure.

  Her floral dress was made from the type of pattern long since removed from all but the most out of date homes, and then it would have been used as carpeting or curtains. Dominant orange clashed robustly with a peach crochet cardigan that refused to pull over a bust struggling to remain in proportion despite the scope of canvas.

  It fell short of covering her waist and aided in framing peculiar bulges where her unfeasible chest wedged against a mound protruding beyond the dress’s waistband squeezing her stomach. Noticing his gaze, she attempted to pull it further around her, cheeks turning a furious pink that, as well as displaying her discomfort, managed to clash with the cardigan and the dress.

  Matthew looked away, his own cheeks flushing. He had no intention of making her feel awkward.

  “Do sit down, Matthew, please,” she burbled through her cake lips. As her hand waved, he noticed her wedding ring imbedded into her finger. Was it unusually thin, or did scale make it appear that way?

  Pulling out the chair, its flimsiness made him worry for its compatriot opposite with its hefty load.

  “So, Matthew. What have you been up to?”

  Matthew squinted. “I’m sorry. Aren’t you going to introduce yourself? If you’re questioning me, shouldn’t I have a solicitor present?” Matthew assumed he would have to answer for last night’s conduct in some way before they released him, but this was very unprofessional.

  “Matthew! It’s me! Celia. Celia Kay.”

  Matthew’s squint deepened “I’m sorry. I haven’t a clue who you are, and I’m not going to answer any questions until I have legal representation!”

  “There’s no need. I’m not here to question you, Matthew. You’re not in any trouble.” Matthew’s eyes moistened. “I’m not the police. I’ve come to take you back.”

  His face relaxed. Pupils which had been steel pinpricks, dilated. Tears of joy brimmed at his bottom lids and he batted them away. “Thank you, Celia,” he said, wincing at his uncertainty at her name. It was Celia, wasn’t it? Or was it Karen or Kay?

  As she stepped back out from behind the desk, he noticed her feet encased in grubby plimsolls that couldn’t have been white for a long time. The stitches, straining to contain her fleshy feet, looked stretched to bursting. She must be really limited in her choice of footwear, Matthew considered. Her toes will be frozen.

  Expecting cheery farewells from the custody desk now he was finally going home, he was disappointed when everyone acted indifferently. An officer opened the locks with various sets of keys and Matthew and his new favourite stranger stepped outside.

  “Goodbye,” Matthew volunteered cheerily. He didn’t want to add ‘Thanks for looking after me,’ because he was pissed off that he’d been forced to spend Christmas night away from his family. But it was all over now, and Matthew wasn’t one to hold a grudge.

  Dawn was breaking outside, and the pair walked out to an eerie calm that no other day would provide—everyone sleeping off the excitement and inebriation of the day before.

  “Do my wife and daughter know where I’ve been all night?” Matthew asked as they stepped towards a car that just had to be Celia’s. It was the only one in the vicinity that fit, looking as chaotic as she did.

  Even from a distance he couldn’t miss the mess. Through the windscreen, the dashboard shelf was littered with food wrappers. The glass itself was covered in dozens of little white rectangles that Matthew recognised as the adhesive parts of dozens of discarded ‘pay-and-display’ tickets.

  Celia paused to unlock the car (he’d assumed correctly.) As the door creaked open, Matthew gagged. The pungent aroma of food, both sweet and savoury, and in many levels of fermentation, reached up his nostrils, shot straight to his brain and gave him an instant headache.

  Getting back to Debbie and Abi was about the only reason he’d ever get in this car. Leaning in front of him, Celia dusted crumbs and debris from the seat. “There you go,” she offered with a smile showing carpeted teeth that can’t have been cleaned since her shoes were white and oddly were the only things that matched her ensemble.

  “Thanks,” Matthew said, covering his mouth. As Celia jostled and slid back and forth forever adjusting her seat, finally adopting a position virtually hugging the steering wheel, her face as close to the windshield as her ample flesh allowed, Matthew was aware she hadn’t answered him. It didn’t matter; he’d be home in a few minutes.

  Bumping away, the car seemed to be begging for a lower gear. Could she even see through the bottle lenses and between all the little sticky oblongs?

  Her driving competency indicated probably not, as ignoring a red light, Celia swerved around a cross-roads, thankfully clear so early on this Bank Holiday, but the motion sent cartons of all description sliding along the parcel shelf stirring up their pungent odour.

  The danger and the smell and disbelieving glances at his driver peering through the screen with a look of severity, distracted Matthew so that when Celia pulled to a stop outside a building that wasn’t his house. Narrowing his eyes, Matthew stared out at his surroundings.

  “Where are we? Are you stopping here before taking me home?” Matthew rubbed the nape of his neck. Eyes wide, he noticed his rapid breaths. Closing them for a second, he took a calming breath. He had to remain in control of his senses.

  “Why are you ignoring me, Celia?” he growled. Clenching a fist, he didn’t know what to do with the ferocity building in him. Slamming his palm on the dashboard, he yelled, “For fuck sake! What is going on?”

  Celia shrank into her door and clicked the lock. “Now now, Matthew. Don’t do anything silly.”

  With a scowl, he yanked at the door handle. It took only a moment to decipher the lock. Throwing the door open, he didn’t say anything to Celia as she trembled, straining to be as far from him as she could get.

  Whack! He hit the floor. Head spinning, he gasped. Instinctively covering his head with his forearms, he flinched, desperate to see his attacker but fearful he’d be more vulnerable.

  There were two of them, he could see that at least. Not one accustomed to fighting, he’d have to play it cool and wait for a chance to strike. Curling his right arm—his strongest—away from his head, he coiled it ready to pounce.

  “Come on, Matthew,” one of the men said with a sneer, leaning in close. Matthew judged a hit from this angle would be ineffective. “That’s not very Christmassy, now is it?”

  The man’s face was no more than a blur as a sudden pain seared his thigh. He could just detect the second man bent down to him too, but they were becoming hazy. Desperately pushing at the floor with all his strength, he had to get away. He couldn’t leave himself at the mercy of whoever these freaks were.

  Clawing the ground, he made no progress.

  “He’s nearly out for the count,” he heard a voice say, and then his brain contorted as it deciphered the straining grubby plimsolls on Celia’s puffy foot. With his lids listlessly closing she stepped back allowing her entirety to fill his view.

  Pained eyes stared down at him through her thick lenses. Short nails on sausage fingers were getting a good chewing. Removing them in a self-conscious shake of her hand, he was sure she mouthed “Sorry,” before everything went black.

  Chapter Seven

  Matthew’s head hurt. His eyes struggled to open and between the slits of light entering his senses it was impossible to decipher where he was. Attempting to rub away the grogginess, Matthew grimaced to find his arms tethered to his sides.

  Yanking at
them, he refrained from calling out so as not to draw his captors’ attention. Forcing his lids open, the bright light above stung them shut again. Head swimming, he jolted as far to the side as he could and retched.

  “It can make you feel a bit sick, I’m afraid.”

  He thought he recognised the voice but couldn’t open his eyes to be sure. Coughing until it hurt, he needed his arms to hold his weight, but his abs were forced to take the strain and he collapsed back exhausted.

  “Don’t struggle, Matthew. If you behave, I can have your restraints taken off. They’re only for your own safety.” She paused. “What do you think? Will you be good?”

  Matthew had nothing to lose by promising to behave. They were clearly aware he had woken. Restrained, he was defenceless. He nodded.

  Hope that the woman was the only one present stalled when she disappeared and returned with both the men who had attacked him. If he didn’t have their measure before, he had no chance feeling like this. He would find out what they wanted and come up with a better plan than fighting them.

  Moving towards him, one of them leaned in and grabbed his wrist. Mechanical ratcheting echoed round the room and was the first clue to his surroundings. When a hand helped him up, recovering from the pounding in his head, he saw the clean, boxy room. It was no surprise but he still didn’t understand.

  “Feeling better?” the woman asked. He recognised the rubber-lipped, fashion-less bulk of Celia.

  Matthew scowled. When he decided to speak, his lips were dry and his tongue slow to move. “Where am I? Where have you brought me?” he demanded with as much force as he could rasp.

  Celia looked at the two thugs in turn, her micro squint belying her uncertainty. “Come on now, Matthew. If you’re ready, we can take you to your room?” she asked, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell of her severe glasses.

  “Ready for what?”

  With one man either side, and Celia leading the way, they led Matthew down a long empty corridor. His back felt cold. Where was his coat? And his boots, he wasn’t wearing his boots. He staggered and was caught under the armpits to stop from falling.