Stiffening at the hand patting her forearm, combining distastefully with a squinting of those big eyes into almond smiles, a microgram of tension evaporated as Mandy slid off her seat to the announcement she would ‘Leave her in peace.’
Debbie sighed. She was being unfair. If Mandy looked immaculate and was relaxed about Matthew’s disappearance, it meant she was sure he was fine. Moping would get her nowhere. Maybe she should take a leaf out of her book and copy some of that optimism. God knows, she could do with it.
She couldn’t shake the feeling something terrible had happened. If Matthew had needed space, it was a big enough house to keep to yourself in. “He stayed in his room for a week…” Alan’s words echoed round her head. Of course!
“Has anyone actually checked in the house?” she cried out. “We have three spare bedrooms!” There was no answer so she hopped from the couch and hurtled to the kitchen. Repeating her request met with stony stares and reluctant nodding. Mandy and Mary had looked everywhere—even under the beds and in the attic—both remembering clearly how oddly Matthew had responded to the good news of his sterling exam results. Perhaps witnessing that was what was keeping them on an even keel now.
“Even keel!” Debbie said out loud. “The boat yard! His work. We haven’t even checked there, have we?” She leaped up with a yell. Her eyes bright, met the stares of her in-laws. This time it was vigorous shaking heads that greeted her question, and it was obvious they all thought they knew exactly where to find Matthew.
“Phone him… on the office number,” Alan instructed, looking at the reconditioned seventies phone hanging on the wall. “Tell him he can stay there if he wants but we’ve all been worried sick.”
Debbie glowered. Why the criticism even now? She shook her head. “No. I’ve never known him like this. If he’s unstable in some way, we don’t want to guilt trip him. He might run away.”
Capering down the long hallway, she fairly skipped to the car and was sat behind the wheel before anyone else had a chance to be included in the plans.
She saw Mandy, and then Alan and Mary as they squeezed together through the front door, hurried down the steps and planted their feet onto the gravel, disquiet lining their faces, but she pretended she didn’t.
Wheel-spinning, her eagerness to be away her only thought. As her house faded in her rear-view mirror, a rage at the ridiculous and unnecessary heartache Matthew had put her through filled her and released in a flurry of punches on the steering wheel.
“You bastard! You fucking, selfish, self-absorbed, selfish,” she repeated, “BASTARD!” and she pummelled the steering wheel again. Salty tears wet her cheeks, dribbling into her mouth and down her chin. A bead of her raw emotion fell onto her sleeve. She watched as the droplet grew and pooled before plummeting onto her lap.
It was good letting it out. When she saw him now, she could just hold him and love him, not berate him.
The river grew wide here, butting onto Spike Island. Brunel’s S.S. Great Britain dominated the quayside, Matthew’s luxury launch business within sight of it was close now. Pulling the Saab into the car park which served the tourist attraction of the world’s first iron hulled ship, some swanky new apartments, and a range of new bars and restaurants to sustain them, was the first thing that slowed her racing heart.
It was crowded. Boxing Day was not the ‘stay at home with your family’ day for everyone. Loads of youngster’s, possibly students (although wouldn’t they have gone home to families around the country?) spilled onto the pavements from bars and cafes, the hubbub of conversation a constant buzz, Matthew might have found the crowd a comfort, but more likely it would have repelled him.
Despondency was brief as the next image which filled Debbie’s mind was Matthew having arrived at his office last night, now trapped because of the constant noise outside.
Striding across the tarmac, the plush office of Marsden-Morrissey Marine rose abruptly in front of her, numerous impressive yachts moored alongside. It didn’t look the sort of place you’d expect the military to use for manufacturing specialist equipment, but Matthew’s dogged determination had paid off. Of course, there were no examples of the amphibious craft on display. They weren’t exactly top-secret, but they observed a degree of confidentiality.
Pausing at the front door, she prayed it would be open, to fuel her certainty she’d find Matthew inside. When it was resolutely secure, she tried to maintain positivity and fished her key from its place on the Saab’s key ring.
Her hand rested on the light switch. Leaving the room unlit, she breathed quietly and peered into the dusky light. The stillness of the air sucked the buoyancy from her mood and she knew no-one had passed this way for days. The idea that Matthew may have, but had been deathly still since his arrival, wasn’t something she was willing to entertain.
Stepping past the huge framed posters of boats, along with accompanying models and pamphlets, Debbie padded up the plush carpeted stairs to Matthew’s office. Keying in the entry code—Abi’s date of birth—she stepped inside, switched on the light and closed the door.
Silent and untouched, the large space felt paused, confirming her original verdict that no-one had been in since the office closed for Christmas a week ago. Stepping to her husband’s desk, she sat in his plush leather captain’s chair.
The view over the huge expanse of oak, flanked either side by floor to ceiling Georgian windows glazed with rippled antique glass offering timeless vistas of open water to one side, and Brunel’s masterpiece to the other, would cheer the dourest mood. Pictures of the three of them adorned the walls, along with photos of Matthew and Brian shaking hands with some well-known faces: some celebrity customers, others, big business magnates and investors, including HRH The Prince of Wales.
If Matthew had been feeling distressed and had found his way to the office, then she could think of no reason why it wouldn’t cheer him up—unless there was some reason she didn’t know about.
Throwing open the top drawer, Debbie began a thorough search to uncover a possible motive for Matthew’s disappearance. Not really sure what she might be hunting for, she had vague notions of unknown money worries attempting to enter her thoughts. Shaking them off, she knew that couldn’t be the case, but she still glanced at the bank statements she came across in the drawer.
If anything, it might provoke concerns of how to spend it all. Not that Matthew had hidden anything, they didn’t really talk about the specifics of the business, but there was even more in there than she imagined when he had declared the payment from the MOD had left them ‘comfortable.’
Scanning the sheet further, there were no anomalies. No odd, unexplained amounts to a letting company for a mistress’s flat, no regular amount to a possible blackmailer’s account, no off-shore accounts, nothing like you see in the movies. Nothing. No clue.
Debbie’s lips pressed so tightly together they squashed the colour right from them, leaving a pale line mirrored by her straight brow stressing pin-prick pupils as her quick mind tried to fathom the situation.
If he had come down here, and the bars were even half as busy as they are today; and perhaps he’d popped into one for a drink, and maybe someone saw his fat wallet… That opened up a whole load more possibilities, didn’t it?
Her pale lips now represented the only hint of colour on her face. If she were not already sat, she’d have fallen as her legs turned to jelly.
Quickly concocting the worst story, her mind tortured her with ceaseless sickening scenarios—Matthew mugged and shoved into the dock, his body sluiced along the vast Avon River joining the huge tides of the Severn estuary and washing out to sea. She could see the newscast now… Man’s body washes up on beach; dog walker discovers, and then she imagined infinite beaches around the world where the Atlantic swell might deposit her love’s husk.
It wouldn’t even have to be a mugging. He was drunk when he left. If he’d had more in one of the bars, he might have fallen in the bloody river all by himself with no need of ass
istance from a villainous third party.
She would hurry down to the bars, ask around; check the bins for his wallet. It was gruesome and she hoped it led nowhere; that she’d got it all wrong, but in the front of her mind she could not escape that logic had decreed the quayside as Matthew’s most likely destination, and logic now provided infinite ways why he might never have returned.
She would phone the police, of course she would, but she didn’t want to be told not to make inquiries. She understood that questioning anyone involved might tip them off, but she didn’t expect that she would be doing that. Just finding out if anyone had seen her husband. And she didn’t want to be ordered not to do that, because it would drive her insane.
Closing the drawer, Debbie swung the chair round and planted her feet firmly on the dense pile of the carpet. “Here goes,” she said, standing up and nodding to the dozen or more photos of Matthew on the wall.
Striding into the first bar, she was greeted by three hipster beards at three different heights. The tallest one smiled down at her. Detecting her upset, he rushed a stool under her and insisted she sit down.
“Can I get you anything? A beer? A glass of water?”
The kindness opened the floodgates. As she sobbed, water and beer were brought to her, and her face reddened in the concerned stares from fellow patrons.
In-between sobs, she managed to tell them why she was there.
“Missing since yesterday? I can’t believe it,” Middle-beard shook his head.
“Matthew Morrissey? Yeah we know him,” short-beard volunteered. “He comes in some lunch times. Always tries whatever craft beer is on the specials board and leaves a tip. Showed us round the boats one time… beautiful. I’ll buy one one day,” he said looking around him to express, ‘when this place is paying enough.’
No-one had seen Matthew. They hadn’t been open yesterday, nor had any of the other bars or cafes as far as they knew.
Debbie walked into all the establishments on the wharf to be thorough, but after the bearded men’s discouragement, she wasn’t surprised when no further information came forth.
There were a few litter bins dotted about, but it was impossible to check their contents because they were designed to remain closed with a small resealing aperture to receive litter. It was a good design to prevent interference from gulls and escaping odours, but bad for seeing inside.
It would have been a needle in a haystack anyway, and with no-one seeing him there, she hadn’t been hopeful of finding anything even before she had examined the impregnable bins.
So much hope a couple of hours ago, evaporated now like steam from a puddle of piss. What was left to do? Wait? She couldn’t just do that.
Walking back to the car, she dialled the police as she went. By the time she opened the door and slumped into the driver’s seat, she was talking.
Listening to Debbie’s sobs, they talked her through a course of action that included nothing more than she had already done, and agreed to escalate the investigation. With those words, Debbie could take no more. When terms like ‘missing due to misadventure,’ echoed from the earpiece, she was no longer listening. On autopilot, she said polite goodbyes.
A few seconds of silence passed before she broke down. There was no doubting it. Matthew was gone, and right now, she was beginning to believe she would never see him again.
Chapter Fourteen.
He couldn’t tell, but he hoped Karen still occupied the nurses’ attention. Once restrained, there would be retribution, maybe taken to a secure section, Matthew wasn’t sure, but felt confident he had a little bit of time.
A whole new wing was under construction. Large panes of glass on each of the rooms suggested they were to be further high security rooms, like his. Sighing, a fire-escape seemed improbable but he had to know.
Dusk was setting in, drawing light from the corridor like liquid to a sponge. Matthew had to hurry to see, but the cloak of imminent darkness would be good cover if he could find a way out.
And there it was!
The last room at the end of the corridor glowed lighter than the rest. And the reason was, it had a door! He imagined it being some sort of therapy room, taking advantage of open air on a summer’s day. It was a new door. Nothing special; no key code or camera or anything. Whatever security was planned, it hadn’t been installed yet. Just a one-key multi lock stood between Matthew and outside! That and a massive pane of thick glass.
Eyes scouring the corridor with pin-prick pupils, his heart raced as panic set in. Why did he think this was a good idea? Big panes of glass like this were always safety glass—it was law. He knew it would be a waste of time hitting it with anything; the paint cans, scraper, even the stepladders would be useless, but he knew a way.
From his own use of tempered glass he’d learned that until fitted into position, they were fragile. An accidental knock along the edge of the sealed unit would see it shatter into a million pieces. He recalled the corners being the most susceptible.
But he still needed something the right weight and solidity to attempt it. Anxiously glancing back down the corridor, he knew his luck and his solitude couldn’t last forever.
The sharpest point was the handle end of the scrapers. But it would be impossible to use any of them on their own. Weighing a stepladder in his hands, his mind whirred, trying to engineer something quickly to produce the most force.
With two stepladders he might balance a lever. They were long, so he could place the pivot point more than twice as close to the glass as the area he would apply weight. He was almost smiling. This was definitely going to work.
He was about to tape the scraper to the pane to use as a point when he found something even better: a tatty, paint covered screwdriver that must have been used to prize open pots of paint. The sharp point would multiply the power even more.
Testing it all in slow motion, it worked perfectly. Climbing a third ladder to the top. He wasn’t sure of the height so he couldn’t calculate accurately his force, but his weight, multiplied by whatever speed he achieved in the time it took to fall from this height, he was sure would be enough.
Perched high up the ladder, he was certain his plan was good. He had only to land anywhere on the rungs below to affect a massive potency. With a deep breath, Matthew jumped, easily landing on the furthest end, striking the screwdriver in the perfect point to instantly shatter the glass.
Before the momentum of the fall had even been fully spent, Matthew knew he had made a terrible mistake. There was another aspect of breaking toughened safety glass that had escaped his recollection until now, but as the ear-shattering noise echoed like a bomb had gone off, he knew he’d have company soon. And the glass, now crazed, still remained a barrier.
Piling the ladders against the entrance wouldn’t stop them, but he hoped it might buy some time. As the first foot came round the corner at the end of the corridor, Matthew knew he had to act fast. Diving through the window, tiny crystals cascaded in a shower around him as he tumbled to the floor. Leaping up, he brushed broken safety glass from him and smiled. He was in the room. Now for the door.
Grabbing the screwdriver that had helped so much already, he had a different job for it this time. Squeezing the blade into the corner, he wriggled free the glazing bar that held in the glass. Pulling two off with one deft movement, the neoprene gaskets fell off like long black snakes swaying in their new freedom.
He could hear the door open and the ladders rattling. They were doing their job but wouldn’t forever. Peeling away the opposing corner, he freed the remaining bars and immediately attacked the glass, prying it from its place.
Breaking the seal, it fell backwards just as his makeshift barricade gave way and flooded the small corridor with Gestapo nurses.
“What the fuck is going on here?! Christ!”
They reached the room as the glass toppled and exploded on the floor. Matthew shot through the opening he’d created and he was outside, but without a clue where to head, he was trapp
ed; hemmed in by walls on all sides.
Flinching his shoulder away from the grab made by one of the nurses, his instinct was to lash out. His lunging swing was more effective than he’d expected as the screwdriver he’d forgotten sliced straight into his attacker’s hand.
Squealing in agony, the hand let go and Matthew was free to run around like a headless chicken. There was nowhere to go; no way out.
Running back over to the nurse he’d injured, by the time the colleague arrived it was to a terrible scene.
“Now, now, Matthew. Don’t do anything stupid.”
But it was too late, he already had.
The point of his screwdriver pressing into the man’s throat was his only ticket out. He couldn’t give up now. The trouble he’d be in would be so severe, it was now or never.
“Let me out of this crazy fucking hell-hole, and I won’t press this point through his fucking neck, yeah?” he said mocking their habitual false affirmative and pressing hard on the nurse’s throat.
He did it to be taken seriously; and to steady his trembling hand: the hand of a meek, generous man. This was not him at all, but these arseholes were keeping him from his family and they had to believe he would kill for them.
“Come on, now. We can talk, can’t we? You can tell me what’s bothering you.” Edging closer, the nurse took a step back when Matthew prodded, and snarled. “Okay. Not me, then. Is there someone else you’d be happier talking to?”
Matthew snorted. “Oh, let me think. Is there anyone I’d like to speak to? How about my fucking wife? Why won’t you fucking bastards let me speak to my wife? Hey? HEY?”
Thrusting so hard, he wasn’t sure himself if he might not pierce this jugular in his grasp, see his tormentor lying on the floor clasping frantically at his life draining away with every desperate pump of his heart—but he knew he never would. He never could.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 9
