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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  As he was virtually dragged along, posters dotting the walls depicting jolly cartoon images entered his view as he struggled to focus. One caught his eye displaying a list in red with a large cross underneath, and a similar list on the opposite side of the page, written in green with a large tick at the bottom—do’s and don’ts. Matthew’s bleary brain couldn’t comprehend any of them.

  Rubbing his eyes to regain focus, his hands were slapped down.

  “We’re not going to have to restrain you again, are we, Matthew?” He let his arms drop and made no attempt to read anything else.

  Reaching the end of the long passage, they came to a pair of robust looking doors. Celia keyed in a code to the keypad being careful to cover her hand so Matthew wouldn’t see. There was little chance he’d remember even one of the digits as his mind fought to give its power into just keeping him upright.

  There followed another corridor, shorter with more doors leading off. Two or three doors down, Celia paused again. Extracting a key from an impressive bunch, she slotted one into the lock. Reddening, she realised she’d selected the wrong one. Scrutinising the rest of the bunch, she tried three more before either through luck or reason, the door opened.

  “Here you are, Matthew. Your old room. You’re lucky it’s still here. You’ve been gone quite a while.”

  What are you talking about? He wanted to scream. But instead, he shuffled forwards towards a bed. Collapsing onto it, the restricting grip of the two gorillas made it a more graceful landing.

  “I’ll be in to see you in a bit,” Celia assured. “Get some rest, yeah?” she advised before waddling out, the three of them pausing to re-lock the door. The large window next to it allowed a view of them right the way down the corridor—and they, a view of him.

  With a sudden rush of consciousness, Matthew shot his eyes open wide. Unaware of even falling asleep, he wasn’t sure if he’d slept for a minute or a month. Glancing at the brightly lit ceiling, he was pleased to acknowledge he felt more alert. Pushing himself up, he swung his legs round onto the floor and sat up. With a resolute sigh he offered an ironic smile to Celia—his captor.

  Unsurprised to see that again she wasn’t alone, at least the lady with her was marginally less menacing than her male associates, only insomuch as overpowering her would be easier. Her hair scraped back, taut faced countenance was made more severe by her threatening stance clutching a clip-board and pen.

  “I’d like to take a few details from you. Get you properly settled if that’s alright?” She sounded surprisingly pleasant and meek.

  “I don’t want to be settled. I want to go home!” he stood up.

  “Sit down, Matthew. Please.”

  “Look. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I want to go home to my wife and my daughter, NOW!” Out of breath from his outburst, wiping spittle from his mouth, he continued, “I don’t know who you are, but Celia, here—if that’s her real name—promised to take me home. How the police let me into her custody is a mystery. And then I was jumped by your two goons and when I wake up, I’m tied to the fucking bed!”

  At first he thought it was amusement passing in glances between the two ladies, but then he saw the bewilderment and recognised the fear.

  “Matthew!” the clip-board woman shouted. Celia ducked behind her. They were afraid of him. “Please sit down and we can talk about this.”

  Talking about it was what he wanted too; frightening them would gain nothing. Perching on the edge of the bed, ready to run if he needed, he sighed, “Okay.”

  “How are you feeling… in yourself?” Matthew’s glare was of complete bafflement, but it seemed to come across as aggression because the clip-board woman was struggling with her next words. “Any thoughts to harm yourself… or anyone else?”

  His eyes widened. He had to get away from these crazy people. When his feet hit the floor, he noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes… or trousers. Gulping down a pang of panic as he saw his limbs cloaked in an unexpected fabric, he flopped back onto the bed.

  Holding out his arms he gasped. Finally, he understood where he was. ‘For hospital use only,’ was written hundreds of times in faded orange and green stripes all over him. Covering his arms and chest and partway down his legs. But not his back. The chill he felt on his skin told him what he knew already, recognising his attire—his back was bare.

  The words were as insane as the situation. ‘For hospital use only!’ Thanks for the warning. I was going to wear it to Marks and Spencer’s, Matthew shook his head in incredulity.

  It was almost possible to hear the cogs start in Matthew’s mind. He was in hospital. Specifically, hospital for the mentally ill. He’d believe it all to be a case of mistaken identity if they weren’t so sure of his name. There couldn’t be someone else who looked like him, also called Matthew.

  It made the issue of getting out of here different. These people were trying to help him apparently. He was convinced if he explained, he would be understood and be home very soon. “I’ll do what you want,” he agreed. “But you must let me speak to Debbie and Abi—my wife and daughter, to let them know I’m safe. They will be frantic.”

  The clip-board woman smiled. “I’m sure we’ll have let them know already.”

  “Well, could you check?” Matthew insisted.

  “Of course.” Drumming the side of her board with her pen, the noise chased her smile to the opposite side of her face making her expression lop-sided. Pausing, pen in mid-drum, she straightened her mouth again, “I think it’s probably best if you speak directly to Doctor McEvoy, if that’s alright?” she said. “You don’t want to be answering the same questions from me twice, do you? It’ll save time.”

  Matthew was all in favour of saving time. The quicker he could clear up this misunderstanding, the better. “Of course. Whatever you think,” he added to be sure to sound nice and cooperative.

  “I’ll arrange it. It might not be today though.”

  “Wait! What? I have to get home today! Debbie and Abi will be frantic!”

  With a cough, she added, “Sorry, yes, of course. Debbie and Abi. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Make sure of it. Please,” he said.

  She left the room and marched down the corridor, presumably to get things moving.

  “There. That wasn’t too bad, now was it?” Celia’s rubber lips caught on the words. They still flapped even though she was now silent. Matthew shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it for a while then, shall I?” Matthew shrugged again.

  He wasn’t sure if he was welcome to leave the room, or if the two men might come and restrain him again, so he lay back and stared at the ceiling. What was happening to him? And why?

  He understood why the police had arrested him. He had been drunk and couldn’t tell them where he lived. What else could they have done? But Celia? He knew now she must be a social worker, or a psychiatric nurse or something like that, but why? He’d see the doctor soon and demand answers.

  It was a relief that it was a hospital, he supposed. The brutal kidnapping he thought he was suffering would have been an unknown quantity. Now he just had to satisfy the doctor of his sanity, which should be straight forward.

  He shot his head round at a shuffling noise in the corner of the room. He hadn’t heard him come in, but there stood a slight built, lank haired man. Stood, Matthew decided, might be an overstatement. Stooped, or cowed might be better. The man looked terrified.

  “Hello,” Matthew offered. The man’s dark eyes widened. Edging around the room towards the door, he clutched at the wall for support, and when he reached the opening, he shot through with a wail of emotion like an injured child running to Mummy.

  Matthew jumped from the bed and strolled to the door to see what had happened to him. A glance down the corridor saw him batting at the double doors at the end. Sensing Matthew’s presence, the man darted round to face him.

  Backing up, trapped by the locked doors, a whimper echoed from the hard wall. Matthew took a step towards him w
hich felled him to the floor. Clutching at his knees he forced himself into the corner where the doorframe met the wall and pushed with his legs.

  “It’s okay,” Matthew tried to reassure. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The crying grew louder and the man began banging the back of his head against the wall muttering, “No, no, no… No, no!”

  Brow creased and eyes wide, Matthew struggled to contain his disbelief at his effect on the trembling figure. With no idea how to make it better, he walked slowly back into the room he was waiting in. The room Celia had referred to as ‘his.’

  Closing the door, he took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. It was the only place to sit. There was no chair, or table or anything else. Just the bed.

  Matthew perched on the edge. Fingers found their way to his temples and he began to massage in a circular motion. Pausing to squeeze the bridge of his nose, he screwed his eyes and let out a sigh.

  There was nothing to do but wait and so he swung his legs around and lay back. Having counted the polystyrene ceiling tiles, and then passing an inordinate time constructing faces from their dimpled patterns, the rage at the injustice ruptured like the first seismic tremor of an angry volcano.

  His jaw clenched, his arms went rigid and he balled his fists, clawing at the bed sheets until his nails threatened to rip through.

  Repressing a scream in his throat, he let it warble, mouth clamped closed and lips turned in to insulate the room, and anyone listening, from the cry. Tensing every muscle, he released his rage in one expulsive breath.

  “Keep calm,” he coached himself. “It will all be over soon.”

  What time was it? Matthew didn’t know. And where was his watch? Why hadn’t he brought his sodding mobile phone with him? All this could have been avoided if he had. They would have laughed, but they’d have come to guide him home. And now, stuck here, he could have phoned them; let them know he’s okay.

  But no. He didn’t even know where it was. He’d switched it off on Christmas Eve and declared “I don’t want to be disturbed. This is family time.” And now it was anything but.

  Swinging his legs round and standing up in one swift motion, Matthew stomped from the room with a fresh determination. This was ridiculous.

  He didn’t get far before the same doors that trapped the trembling man prevented his progress. There was a buzzer to one side of the door which he pressed. His natural politeness gave way to frustration when no-one answered his call and so he pressed it a few more times, pressing harder each time to no effect.

  At a distance, a face behind a desk creased and peeped out from a doorway. Tilting her head, she seemed to be inviting him to tell her what he wanted; from a distance and through a tiny Georgian wired window. Matthew shrugged at her preposterous request. He’d had enough.

  He could see her sigh. Planting her feet on the floor from where she had been sitting, she pushed herself up with both palms flat on her thighs as if moving were a great effort. Taking her sweet time down the corridor, she paused when clip-board woman exited a side room and the pair proceeded to chat.

  Matthew could feel his fists balling again and consciously unclenched them. He never liked upsetting anyone, but their control over his situation fuelled his rage.

  He’d been excused many the minor traffic violation with his polite subservience, whereas Brian, his boat-building business partner was almost carried off to the cells on occasion when his apoplectic rage roared at the very existence of the police in his life. “Why weren’t they out catching real criminals?”

  So Matthew knew the drill and understood he wouldn’t get out of here any faster by losing his temper. The pair of women stopped abruptly, ending their chat and quickening their pace towards him. Without the barked instruction to “Stand back,” clip-board unlocked and opened the door.

  Anticipating he was chasing up his doctor chat, she began with excuses which Matthew strained not to react to. “He’s ever so busy at the moment, I’m afraid. I’ll get onto him again now. I know you’re keen to see him…”

  Matthew coughed. “If you could, yes. But I wanted to speak to my wife, please. Now,” he added with an authoritative air.

  The nerves showed themselves again in the jittery response. Her mardy colleague stood silently beside her, chunky arms folded tight across her chest in its tatty maroon gilet. “Er… I don’t think that’s going to be possible just yet.”

  “Why not?” Matthew seethed.

  She shuffled from foot to foot. “Just not right now, yeah? Maybe after you’ve seen Doctor McEvoy…”

  “Well, have you at least told her I’m here?”

  She added knuckle cracking to her fidgeting. A shared look between the two women left Matthew none the wiser to what they were trying wordlessly to communicate, but something was up.

  “We let them know… Yes.”

  Why the strangeness? Why hadn’t they told him? As if reading his mind, gilet butted in with, “Yeah, sorry we didn’t come and tell you, but we’ve been busy.”

  With an elevated last syllable, she conveyed that expecting them to run around telling patients every phone call they make in the course of their busy day was beyond unreasonable. Matthew ignored her rudeness.

  “Are you sure?”

  She raised her eyebrows and snorted. “Yes. I’m sure.” Matthew glimpsed her rolling her eyes as he turned his attention to the friendlier lady nodding enthusiastically.

  “What did she say…? Debbie, was she angry?” Wondering if he’d given the wrong impression: that she was upset with him when he’d meant with this bunch of fools, he didn’t bother to correct the possible inaccuracy.

  “She thanked us for letting her know.”

  “Is she coming to collect me, because she’ll need directions? She’s not very good at knowing where places are.” The shuffling and knuckle cracking restarted in earnest, and rude woman folded her arms extra-tight.

  “Let’s see what Doctor McEvoy says, yeah?” and before Matthew could object the door swung swiftly closed and locked automatically. He wrestled his arm back to his side and refrained from banging the glass as the two women sped down the corridor away from view, not looking back even once.

  Matthew trudged back to the little room but couldn’t face sitting or lying on the bed again. The only window in the room was too high to offer a view. Tempted to shove the bed over to use as a step up, but he’d already noticed it was bolted to the floor.

  Matthew pondered for a moment his surroundings. Had anyone ever ended their life in this room? He shuddered, but a quick inspection indicated that to be unlikely. The room had been designed for safety, Matthew understood that. The bed had to remain static to avoid access to the window. Not that escape would be possible. Only a child could squeeze through the gap, but broken glass could be used as a weapon for harming the nurses or oneself.

  With the bedframe immovable, it was impossible it could be utilised to tie something to provide the opportunity for suicide. He could see no other way. There was conspicuously nothing else in the room: no hooks to hang a jacket, nor chair to kick away.

  The ceiling he’d studied for hours, counting the tiles and entertaining himself making pictures, was unusually high. No-one could possibly reach up and remove a tile and rummage around in the area reserved for pipes and wires to come to any harm.

  Relieved at the limited gruesomeness the room presented, he suddenly shuddered looking at the bed. How many troubled souls had slept there? Not for a few hours, like him, but for days, months, or perhaps even years.

  The austere safety precautions would be difficult to live with. They’d push the sanest of individuals over the edge of reason. Once hope is lost; hope of taking control in any way, what’s left. Nothing. The human psyche has evolved to cope by shutting down, by becoming depressed. Not caring could be the only way to survive.

  A gentle knock at the door roused him from his reverie. “At last!” he exclaimed, calling “Come in,” just as he would have in his plush office on
Bristol Quayside.

  He fell back in dismay as the visitor’s intention was not what he’d expected: not to take him to see Doctor McEvoy and release him from this madness, but to keep him even longer with the hideous offering of a tray of food.

  Even that was safe. He was certainly in no danger of sustaining burns from the cold slop that the nervous girl in a burgundy uniform accented with jarring green piping informed him was Cawl. Matthew had been to Wales plenty of times, and he’d never seen Cawl like this.

  To wash it down, there was tepid tea in a harmless cardboard cup; no sharp plastic to stab with, or polystyrene to choke himself on. The tray itself was also cardboard and threatened to dissolve in the gloopy mess if left for too long.

  “No thank you. I shan’t be staying long enough to warrant eating this.” And by long enough he meant, ‘I’m not about to succumb to malnutrition, and even then I’d consider eating the bedclothes first.’

  “Nurse says you have to keep your strength up. You’ll feel sick if you don’t line your stomach before taking your medication.”

  Unwilling to waste his energy arguing a point with someone with no authority, he smiled and allowed her to place the tray on the bed. How dreadful, he thought. They may as well put it in a bowl on the floor.

  Hours passed. Further forays into the corridor failed to bring anyone to his aid, and now daylight was disappearing fast. Standing with his thumb permanently on the buzzer, Matthew was shocked no-one came. But through the doors, he could hear the reason: screams and shouts from patients brought alive by the diminishing daylight.

  Walking up and down the short corridor beyond the double secure doors offered no reprise. There were two other doors; three if you included the toilet. One of the rooms must be the man he’d terrified by saying ‘Hello.’

  Knocking gently at the first door, even though it was pitch black inside. He didn’t want to frighten the man again, but he needed to understand his surroundings because waiting for the bloody doctor was losing its attraction. He had to seek alternative ways out other than via protocol.