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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “What? Yeah. Of course. Why?”

  Rolling her eyes, she snorted, “This house! The business! We’re really proud.”

  “Oh, yeah! We love this house. Brought up from nothing. Grew up in a council house.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, Alan. Your business is great, too. People rely on you.” Alan shot his wife a glare. “And we’re proud of both our children.”

  The sickly smile she offered Mandy was gratefully grasped. “Thanks, Mum.”

  “And both our granddaughters.”

  Mandy squinted, “Awww. You are lovely,” she cooed, blowing her a kiss.

  “Yeah. We’re proud of you both, and I’m not unhappy. I’m not saying that, but this place. Well I’d never have thought.”

  “And he puts it down to you, Alan,” Debbie smiled. “Letting him help you in the garage and the remote control boats. It all started there, he always says.” Debbie knew he lapped this sort of thing up. Other issues of childhood, the entire Morrissey family seemed blissfully unaware. Debbie saw. Her own mum being so transparent perhaps made her more critical.

  Alan’s grin creased his face and he sighed a contented sigh.

  “More brandy anyone?” Mandy piped up again, and realising it was the final dribble, “or cognac, or something else?”

  “Won’t Matthew mind you raiding his drinks cabinet?” Alan admonished.

  “It’s Christmas. Be quiet, Grandad!”

  “He won’t mind, Alan. Don’t worry,” Debbie diffused.

  “Where is my brother, anyway? Where has he gone to buy these bloody batteries? Taiwan?”

  The rest considered. They didn’t know what time he’d left, or what time it was now, but they had performed a lot of charades.

  “He must be having trouble finding somewhere open. Good job you didn’t go, Tom.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “I can’t walk so far anymore.”

  “Shall we see what films are on?” Mandy asked, remote control already in hand, the giant screen twinkling into life.

  When the final credits rolled, the Morrissey family, and Tom King, sat in silence. Matthew still hadn’t come home.

  “I’m gonna have a drive round, see where he’s got to. If he’s walked that far, he must be knackered.”

  “Alan, you can’t,” snapped Mary. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Everyone sat in various positions of anxious thought: Mary drummed an extended and manicured index finger against her glossy red (Christmassy) lips, Alan patted the arms of his chair, Debbie chewed an errant fingernail to the quick, and Mandy stood at the window, commenting whenever she feared she hadn’t spoken in a while that he really should have been back by now.

  “I should have gone,” ventured Tom. “It’s my fault.” All eyes shot to him, but no-one could be bothered to point out again how that would have been ridiculous.

  “Nobody should have gone,” Mary snapped. “There’s obviously nowhere open. Abi was happy to wait until tomorrow. It’s stupid.”

  Pushing up from her chair, she took her place staring out of the window next to Mandy.

  “Nothing’s happened to him, has it?” Debbie removed her finger from her mouth long enough to ask.

  “He’ll have just got carried away and tried every shop. He’s nothing if not thorough, is my Matthew.”

  “Our Matthew,” Mary corrected her husband.

  Oh, I thought it was my Matthew and your Mandy, Alan inwardly seethed.

  “Try his mobile,” Mandy suggested brightly.

  “Okay. He never has it with him, but it’s worth a try.” Pulling the phone away from her ear with a grimace, “Straight to voicemail,” Debbie sighed.

  “I think I’d like to go home now,” Tom said, hauling himself with visible effort from the chair. Grasping at his stick, he struggled to straighten up. “Sorry for all the trouble,” he choked, shuffling to the door.

  Debbie wanted to reassure him it was okay, but she couldn’t. It was his fault, and if anything had happened to her husband (and she was sure nothing had, wasn’t she?), then yes, he probably was to blame.

  A tumultuous explosion of little feet invaded the lounge, “When are we doing our show? Why is Mr King leaving? Where’s Daddy? Isn’t he back yet? He’s been ages. I want to play with Furby!”

  “Can we do the show without Uncle Matthew if he’s not coming back?” Charlotte asked, tugging at Mandy’s blouse.

  “I should think so,” Mandy began.

  “No! I don’t want to see it until Matthew gets home!” Debbie screeched. Moderating her tone, she added, “Sorry girls.”

  “Okay, Mummy,” Abi said through a tight hug before disappearing again to the land of play.

  “It’ll be fine, Deb,” Mandy gave her sister-in-law a reassuring pat on the arm.

  “I haven’t drunk too much. I’m going out to look for him.”

  Anxious glances were shared, but they trusted Debbie. They hadn’t a clue how much she’d had. It was easy to assume they had kept pace with one another, but Debbie had been busy in the kitchen, and they hadn’t seen her drinking.

  “I’ll come!” Mandy cried, bustling from the window to fetch her coat from where she couldn’t remember putting it.

  Desperate for some peace; time away from her in-laws; time to wonder where Matthew might actually be, Debbie sighed. “It’s okay, Mandy. I’ll be all right on my own. I could do with the peace and quiet.”

  “No. I’m coming. I won’t hear another word.”

  Turning to disguise her rolling eyes, Debbie mouthed, ‘Great,’ and headed to the front door without waiting, grabbing her keys from the hooks that dangled from a little blue boat by the front door.

  Hopping into the convertible Saab that Matthew referred to as ‘a classic,’ Debbie put the key into the centre console by the long hand brake and longer gear stick and started the engine.

  “Wait up, sis!” Mandy shrieked. Seeing her silhouetted in the doorway with its border of fairy lights and glorious wreath looked so hopeful, she had to wait as Mandy tumbled over herself in her hurry. Grabbing open the door, she hopped in still sliding on an Ugg boot. “I thought you’d forgotten me!”

  Debbie shot her a smile, “Of course not.” If she was worried, Mandy was probably worried too. Leaning across, she patted her knee. “Thanks for coming along to keep me company.”

  “Which way? Where’s the nearest shop?” Mandy peered up and down the street

  The closest shop was the little corner one quite close. As they approached and it was open, Debbie’s heart stopped. “If he came here, he’d have been home within an hour! And why wouldn’t he come here?”

  Bumping the Saab onto the kerb, Debbie fumbled to release her seatbelt. Mandy’s ashen face either meant she was travel sick and was about to revisit the brandy, champagne, cognac and goodness-knows-what-else, or she had caught Debbie’s worry.

  Marching into the shop, Mandy followed chaotically behind.

  “Hello,” Debbie hollered to gain attention.

  “Good evening, beautiful ladies,” the man behind the till greeted. “What brings you to my little store on Christmas night?”

  Debbie walked up to the counter. “I was wondering if my husband has been in? He came to buy some batteries, I’m not sure what time, but it was hours ago now.”

  The man looked thoughtful. “I have sold batteries today. What does your husband look like?”

  Whilst Debbie fished her phone from her coat pocket to get a photo, Mandy interrogated. “Have you been open all day?” The man nodded. “And has it been you here all day? I mean, could someone else have served my brother?”

  “I have been here all day. I live here. When I see somebody on the camera, I come out to serve. Ah yes. I remember him,” he said, peering across the counter to Debbie’s phone. “It was ages ago, though. Why are you looking for him? Has he not come home? To such beautiful ladies, I cannot understand.”

  “No he hasn’t,” Debbie
sighed. “and I’m getting very worried.”

  The man puckered his lips, his brows pinching together. “What is it? You look like you’re thinking.”

  Leaning on meaty, hair-covered forearms he spoke in a stage whisper. “I didn’t see him, but there was another man. A homeless man, your husband said. In my porchway there. Your husband gave him some money, so he said.”

  “Oh my god!” Debbie’s hand shot to her mouth. “That’s it. He’s been attacked! The silly sod got his fat wallet out and someone’s spotted it, haven’t they? Oh, no! No, no, no!”

  Scraping hair from her red face, Debbie bolted to the door. Staring up the brightly lit street, then down, she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Matthew! MATTHEW!”

  “We don’t know that is what’s happened,” Mandy reassured, but even she went quiet at the venomous stare from her sister-in-law.

  “Why didn’t you call the police? Heh?” Shaking her head in disgust, Debbie turned away from the shrugging man and snorted her contempt.

  Back outside again, she resumed her screaming of her husband’s name.

  “What are you doing?” Mandy dashed after her.

  “If he was at that shop giving money to homeless men, and then if he was mugged he’ll be close by, won’t he? He’ll have headed home and been followed. Come on!”

  Mandy had to agree. The cold air and the seriousness of what was happening had sobered her up. Scampering after her taller companion, her own cries might have seemed half-hearted, but they were heart-felt. With every cry of her brother’s name and every non-reply, a wave of fear crashed over her, rocking her on her toes.

  “Matthew? Matthew!” they called in unison.

  With silence the only response, Debbie turned to her sister-in-law “We’re going to have to report this to the police,”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Good evening, ladies,” a burly, shorn headed young police officer hailed, stepping from the squad car. The blue lights blazing atop combined eerily with the flashing red, white and green Christmas lights shining from store windows and hanging over the little street on the Edge of Bristol. Debbie and Mandy stood shivering in the shop doorway having exhausted their search walking almost all the way back to the house with no sign of Matthew. “Do you want to tell us what’s been happening?”

  The officer and his robust colleague took a brief account from them both, and the man behind the counter. Their expressions left Debbie and Mandy in no doubt they shared their concerns and they’d done the right thing in calling them.

  “Can I ask you a few questions about home?” he asked, removing a small notepad from a concealed pocket on his vest. “I just want to build a bit of a picture, you know? Don’t take it the wrong way, but was Matthew happy at home?”

  Debbie and Mandy both nodded earnestly. “Never better. We’ve had a difficult couple of years with our little girl being unwell, but she’s all better now. We were happier than ever.”

  “Any money worries? I know this can be an expensive time of year.”

  “Again, never better. Matthew was paid for a big contract. We have a lovely house, and quite honestly, we’re set for life with the money Matthew’s made.”

  Mandy joined in. “They’ve got the nicest house. Overlooking the bridge up there on Clifton Down,” she said dreamily.

  Mention of Bristol’s best known land mark produced a sharpness in the policeman’s eye he didn’t need to explain, but without cause: it didn’t sound like suicide was going to be a likely explanation in this case.

  “Did he often give money to homeless men?”

  Debbie clenched her mouth, sending her lips askew. “No. To be honest. I don’t wish to sound harsh, but those ones in the city centre, it’s like they’re proper con men. They all have a story and I think they’re raking it in.”

  The policeman made no comment, but scribbled away in his notes. “But he is generous. We give a lot to charities via regular Direct Debits. You know, the usual: Cancer Research, British Heart Foundation, NSPCC, RSPCA; all those. So if Matthew did give money, the man must have looked genuine.”

  The policeman smiled. “There are a lot of ‘genuine’ homeless, Mrs Morrissey. Would he have been carrying much money in his wallet?”

  Debbie reddened and nodded. “I don’t know, but he often has £50 notes from customers paying deposits for their boats.”

  The policeman barked some instructions into his epaulette walkie-talkie, then scribbled furiously on his little pad. “I think we’ve got enough to go on for now. The best thing you can do now is get off home. He might well be there already.”

  Debbie was sure he wasn’t. “Do you believe this homeless man saw his money and… hurt him?”

  “We will definitely look into that. But there are other possibilities. We’ll call into any establishments in the locality and ask around. Try not to worry. Nine times out of ten, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  Debbie and Mandy headed back to the car, not imagining there would be any reasonable explanation at all. Matthew wasn’t the type to go off on a jolly to pubs or clubs on any night, least of all Christmas night!

  No, the police could check all the pubs if they wanted. Maybe someone there might know the man who attacked him, but she was beyond certain they wouldn’t find her husband in any of them. She had to push that certainty aside. Right now, it was the only hope she had.

  The Saab crunched on the gravel drive as the pair sped in. When the momentum stopped, Debbie sat in silence as she switched off the engine, and Mandy uncharacteristically joined her. Still silent, she took her cue when Debbie shoved open the large Saab’s door and swung her legs onto the stones underfoot.

  Staying a few paces behind, she wasn’t looking to take centre stage in the telling of her brother’s disappearance. Detecting the moistness in Debbie’s eyes, she clutched her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze to say, ‘It’ll be alright,’ but neither of them felt confident that it would.

  Centre stage was thrust upon Mandy despite her reluctance when Debbie stood in unbreachable silence before the others, mouth opening and closing but making no sound.

  “What? What is it? What’s happened?” Alan barked as his wife stood beside him, gaping mouth covered by her splayed open fingers, eyes open almost as wide.

  “Well, we haven’t found him… but we know he went to the shop, and we know he gave money to some homeless guy. The police…”

  “Police? Why. What’s happened to my boy?”

  “The police are saying not to worry. Nine times out of ten there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “For what? They’re saying he’s missing?”

  “They reckon he might be in a pub or something.”

  Mary snorted. “Not my Matthew. That’s not him at all. On Christmas Night? With his family waiting! I hope you told them there was no chance he’d be in a pub!”

  Debbie spoke her first words since stumbling through the front door in a daze. “I don’t believe they do think that, Mary. They suspect he’s been mugged, and the fact he’s nowhere to be found anywhere near the shop he was last seen, he’s either really badly hurt, or…” Debbie didn’t want to consider what. “So, to be honest, I hope he is acting out of character and getting pissed in a pub or something!”

  “I suppose he could have seen Brian. It’s a long shot, but he’d feel obliged to go for a drink with his boss.”

  “Brian isn’t his boss,” Debbie objected.

  “Sorry, ‘senior partner,’” Mary corrected. “What are you doing?”

  “Phoning Brian… Hi, Sue, yes… Merry Christmas to you too. The thing is. Has Brian gone to the pub?” Her face slackened into an almost smile. “He has? Do you know if he met up with Matthew? ... No Matthew doesn’t normally do that sort of thing… Yes, it is Christmas… His mobile’s on the table. What pub does he normally…? Oh. Okay. Thanks, Sue.” Debbie stabbed at her phone savagely. “Looks like the police might be right, Mandy. Brian’s out—without his sodding phone, just like
Matthew. I’ll kill him!”

  Not completely reassured, it made sense, and when Debbie phoned a few pubs and put out a call for the pair and no-one had seen either of them, one of Brian’s little secret dens seemed to be a plausible explanation. Matthew would turn up really, really apologetic sometime soon, and everything would be okay.

  “When is Daddy coming home?” Abi asked tearfully, no mention of her and Charlotte’s show.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” Debbie invited, arms spread wide and welcoming. Abi and Charlotte rushed to the arms of their mothers and clung on tight to their waists.

  “I think Uncle Matthew has gone to the pub with his boss. You two ought to settle down in bed, and if he comes home soon, I’m sure we can send him up to tuck you in, Abi.” Looking to her sister-in-law for approval, Debbie nodded along.

  “That’s right Abi. You don’t want to get too tired and moody, do you?” Abi shook her head.

  “Can I have another mince pie before I go up?”

  “I’ll bring a couple up to you, with a glass of milk?”

  Both girls nodded enthusiastically. Charlotte wasn’t too keen on mince pies, but the idea of a midnight snack in this big house excited her. It felt like St Trinian’s. “Can we have some biscuits too,” she pushed her luck.

  Debbie smiled. “We’ll see.”

  As soon as the girls disappeared back upstairs, she allowed the clouds of despair to colour her face once more.

  Shuffling silently to the kitchen, Debbie prepared a midnight feast fit for Christmas night. The cupboards were well-stocked, and unsure what Charlotte liked, she placed a generous and varied selection onto a tray, along with milk in cups with straws.

  Once done, the distraction was over. Steadying herself on the marble worktop, she snorted at her own pathetic sensitivity and batted a tear from her eye. “Lots of husbands go down the pub on Christmas Day, and he wasn’t exactly sober enough to make the best decisions, was he?” she asked herself, shaking her head in acknowledgement that it was supposed to be the first sign of madness. Her desire to argue her logic, the second.