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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  But this lot didn’t.

  He had to get somewhere quickly before they crowded him and found a way to overpower him.

  “Get me to the nearest exit, and I’ll let him live. Do it. Now!”

  “Okay. Keep calm, okay? You don’t want to hurt anyone, do you?” Matthew ignored the question and made his demand once more.

  “You’ll need to follow me inside. There are no exits out here.”

  “Liar!”

  “Look around… There’s nothing. Come on. It’s this way.”

  Matthew had a screwdriver, not a gun. How could he keep the burly bouncer/nurse under his control whilst he walked along the corridor to the exit? They were trained for this. He was chancing his arm in the most stressful circumstances.

  But he couldn’t give in. This was his only chance.

  “Here’s what you are going to do. You are going to walk calmly to where the exit is so I can see you. I will walk with my buddy here, and my other buddy,” he said nodding towards his weapon, twisting the point of the grimy tool. “And when I’m satisfied you aren’t tricking me… When I’M satisfied… I’ll let him live!” Squeezing his arm further into his captive’s neck, he screamed, “Do you understand?”

  The other nurse nodded, two more strapping specimens appeared at the doorway and Matthew stiffened. “You two keep back as well! All of you, keep back.” They nodded and stepped aside.

  It must have been obvious how much Matthew was struggling with his task. He was wiry, and efficient, but not strong; not in a brutish way at least. But obvious it appeared not to be, as with a huge relief, Matthew scuffled past the side-stepping figures of all who stood between him and his escape.

  The nurse he’d told to show him the exit, stood at the end of the corridor and pointed round the corner. Apparently the only way in and out of this place was the main entrance, or maybe he should think of it as just ‘the entrance,’ in light of that.

  Shuffling along, his charge offered no resistance. He’d done a good job persuading them he actually was a psycho. When he reached the corner, the nurse moved to the door.

  “Open it!”

  Tapping in the code—the same code Matthew had used already, the nurse presented his lanyard key and the door slid open to reveal a porch with another set of doors which led to the outside world.

  “Open those too.” Matthew calmed a little. He could hardly believe how well this was working.

  The nurse sighed, reluctant to let this nutcase out, but for the safety of his friend and colleague, he had no choice. No code this time, just the lanyard. The breeze was the most welcome sensation Matthew had felt in days.

  Backing from the door, he was outside with the nurse still inside. Shoving him with all his might, and with the adrenaline, that was surprisingly hard, he was free.

  His only plan now was to run fast before they could catch him.

  But he would never run. Before he had even begun to turn, the piercing, excruciating pain as twelve hundred volts seared his skin, the warning, “Taser! Taser! Taser!” occurring simultaneously, not before as he was sure protocol decreed, felled him in an instant.

  They swarmed around him, the injection entered his thigh and relinquished its load in one fluid movement. His thoughts drained from his head like an emptying bath, swirling around and leaving inescapably.

  The last thing he heard before everything went black was the hissing contempt in his ear of the nurse he’d attacked. “You’ll pay for that, you lanky fucker.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gasping for breath, Matthew jolted, clawing at his sides, he had to get away.

  His arms wouldn’t move. Muscles spasming, he felt restraints on his wrists. Trying to look down at what was holding him still, his head moved stiffly and a sudden nausea giddied him.

  Searing light hurt and he slumped, defeated.

  It had all gone horribly wrong, hadn’t it? He was back in high security and now he’d be under closer scrutiny than ever.

  His mind stalled, unable to push past the drugs clinging for a free ride around his blood vessels. Pinching his eyes together, bringing his attention to the front of his head to flood his brain with consciousness, achieved nothing more than exhausting him until he had no choice but to give into sleep, drawing him under until even the brightness couldn’t penetrate the fug.

  Panicked. Matthew jolted at the not-so-gentle shaking of his arm.

  “Meds,” was the only explanation offered as Matthew whirred forwards as the electric motor of the adjustable bed raised him to a high sitting position. “Open up,” the male nurse, in jeans and a scruffy T-shirt depicting some gruesome looking thrash metal band, said to him as his right hand approached his lips with a little pot of pills.

  “Open UP!” he repeated, shouting the second word as he pressed the plastic pot sharply into Matthew’s mouth. Leaning in, he spat the words into his ear. “If you don’t open your mouth voluntarily, then know this: we are well within our rights to make sure you have your medicine. We think it’s important, and you… You have proved beyond doubt you are not to be trusted. Open your f’ing mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

  No sooner had Matthew’s lips parted than a small handful of pills in a variety of shapes and colours were forced between them, swiftly followed by a beaker of tepid water.

  “Drink,” he barked.

  With no choice, Matthew swallowed the tablets in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the swooning giddiness that overcame him immediately, but he couldn’t fight it.

  The room spun. A nausea, so strong, swirled inside and he could barely recognise up from down. When the blackness returned, Matthew was grateful.

  It was silent as Debbie stared from the large bay window in Clifton Down road. Her husband had been missing for days now. She wasn’t even sure how many. Moving her head slowly from side to side, she was almost amused at her failure to recall. Almost.

  She had always thought that under these sorts of circumstances, she would know to the second. But maybe that was only for the spurned. For the utterly bewildered and numb, time meant nothing.

  The in-laws had returned to their respective homes yesterday, or was it the day before? And now it was just her and Abigail. Keeping in a light mood for her daughter had been her intention, but she knew she was failing miserably. Or failing depressed-ly, or distraughtly, hysterically, or on the verge of becoming unhinged-ly.

  Where was he? Where? Where? Where?

  The police had begun to take things more seriously, and had, in their own words, ‘extended the search.’ They weren’t dredging the Avon, but they had looked.

  Their efforts had mainly been ‘extended’ in providing her with leaflets and scruffily written websites and local groups she might try—groups full of people like her with husbands, wives, and children missing.

  The pamphlet from the Missing Person’s Bureau hurt the most. It was sympathetic but hopeless. ‘It’s hard for those left behind…’ it said, and ‘Most people turn up within forty-eight hours close to their home.’

  It hurt because the advice for what to do if that timescale was exceeded seemed geared to coping rather than finding. And it had been longer than that. She might not be sure to the second, but forty-eight hours? That had passed a long time ago.

  The statistics were terrifying. People missing for years, and the website was full of them. Dozens of new entries had been added since she first looked for Matthew, and she was sure the only people monitoring the pages were those with loved ones missing.

  Hundreds, no, thousands of faces smiled out at her from the screen. Black, white, Asian, male and female, representing all classes and areas of the country, and none even looked unhappy. Not one showed any indication they were about to disappear from the lives of the people who loved and cared for them.

  The photos were surreal. Happy, smiling faces now being frantically missed. The very photos taken to bring back a joyful memory now gnawing a festering sore.

  Debbie’s blank
stare left the window for a moment to answer Abi’s request.

  “Yes, you may help yourself to another mince pie.” Mince pie! Anything to do with Christmas made her angry now. Standing quickly, she stomped over to the tree with the intention of flinging the infernal reminder of Matthew’s disappearance as far as she could. To smash it; destroy it. But the few steps in its direction quelled the desire.

  What good would it do? A momentary release of her anger would hurt Abi. With a faint but resolute smile she determined Matthew would return. Something had happened, something terrible, but he would overcome, and he would come back to them. Debbie had only to keep their loving home in order until then.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Eat.”

  The orderly had demanded this of him for ten minutes now. He’d interjected other words occasionally—usually expletives letting Matthew know just how much of a pain he was being not eating, but he could muster no appetite.

  Being unstrapped from the bed was the only benefit to meal times. His arms ached with the lack of movement. He tried to shift his weight from time to time to avoid bedsores and cramps, but the rawness on his buttocks and hips showed it hadn’t been enough.

  “Sit up and eat your fucking food or I’ll force it down your fucking throat!”

  He would, too. They’d come in mob handed a few days ago and he’d opted for spooning a few mouthfuls in rather than be choked with a dry sandwich.

  It wasn’t that he wanted to misbehave, on the contrary: the sooner he could get in their good books, the sooner the opportunity for escape might re-present itself. But it was impossible. His limbs failed. His mind failed. He wasn’t really here at all.

  Whatever they were giving him for his ‘psychotic’ episode left him unable to think; unable almost to blink. And using no energy, even with his mind, meant he had little use of food.

  Moving his desert-dry tongue around his mouth, he didn’t know if he would speak, or even if he might attempt to eat. Its movement woke the terrible taste: chemicals and iron, like he’d sicked up blood after drinking petrol.

  Attempting to push himself up from the mattress, his arms were too weak for the job. The orderly launched at him and shoved him forward. “That’s it. You gonna eat now, yeah?”

  The ‘yeah’ grated on him making him want to throw the plate across the room, but he didn’t. He kept control and forced a few mouthfuls between his lips. Swallowing was another story. “Drink,” he hissed, mouth caked in bread sticking his epiglottis and stopping him breathing. “Drink…” he hissed again.

  “Give me a fucking minute, will you?” Shuffling away at a speed suggesting Matthew’s choking to death wouldn’t bother him, he poured stale water from a jug into a white plastic beaker and thrust it in Matthew’s direction with his meaty, tattooed forearm. “Take it then!”

  Matthew reached out in-between gasps for air. The cup shook in his feeble grip and as his other hand instinctively shot to aid it, he dropped the plate of food.

  “Stupid fucker!” the orderly screamed.

  “What’s going on?” a calmer voice entered the room.

  “Oh, it’s Matthew dropping his sandwich, Doctor… Sorry I got a bit frustrated. I should know better.”

  “Indeed you should. I’ll take it from here,” her gentle voice had a calm authority. Noticing the large man’s attitude towards her was amusing; like a cat telling off a bear. “Go and clear up the rec room or something, will you?”

  As the diminutive doctor strode towards the bed, the orderly grinned at Matthew. “I’ll leave you to it then, mate, yeah?” Reaching a fat hand out, Matthew wasn’t sure if he was expected to shake it, but instead, he received a fond pat of his arm. “See you in a bit.” Turning to the doctor, he smiled at her and added, “Give us a shout if you need anything.” And with that, he strode from the room and even had the audacity to give a tuneless whistle as he went.

  “So, how are we today?” she smiled over her glasses.

  Matthew couldn’t speak, but at least felt confident he didn’t have to persist with his charade of eating. “We’re going to restart your therapy. Maybe not today, but you need to do something soon. We want to get you better. Back to your old self.”

  This was the most positive thing Matthew had heard since being forced through the doors goodness knows how long ago. He nodded.

  Draining the last of the stale water, his arid lips formed the words, and a hushed whisper fell from his chapped lips. “Can I speak to my wife? Please?”

  The little doctor shuffled from foot to foot for a moment. “We’ll see what Doctor McEvoy thinks, shall we? He’s in charge of your treatment. What? Sorry?” she answered Matthew’s rasped response. “Oh, when will you see him… Give your therapy a chance for a few days, or a week, and you’ll be back on ward rounds like everybody else,” she smiled.

  Back on ward round. Yay! Matthew had no choice but to go along with whatever plans. He’d spotted the diversion and wasn’t at all convinced the Irish doctor would give him his phone call no matter how ‘therapy’ went. He wouldn’t hold his breath anyway.

  “Do you want to follow me to the rec?” she asked, eyebrows rising above her spectacles.

  Matthew nodded. As he shuffled from the bed, his legs collapsed and he clung to the bedframe. Forcing himself up, he took a determined wobbly step towards the door, and followed the doctor along the corridor.

  The exertion pumped adrenaline through his body just to give him the strength to walk. His brain cranked into action, fighting the medication for control of his senses. Pausing at the double doors, the doctor offered her lanyard to the sensor before covering her hand with her clipboard as she entered the presumably new code.

  Matthew glanced away feigning disinterest. If he was going to get the new door code, he’d have to play it calm.

  Shuffling into the rec room, the doctor saw him to a seat before smiling proudly at him and announcing, “I’ll get you started with therapy as soon as I can, okay?” and for once, the question appeared genuine. He’d stumbled upon the one person who seemed to care.

  Others in the room looked up at his arrival and quickly looked away again. Ignoring him was unanimous and seemingly deliberate. It suited Matthew. He had no desire to talk to anyone; apart from Debbie.

  “I’m busy now. I can’t talk. No! I told you, I’ll call you later!” The person holding the phone stopped mid-stride when he saw Matthew. He moved the device from his ear with gentle care and held it in his hand a few inches from his face.

  The bright screen cast shadows on his pock-marked skin, pores so deep and black a gentle abrasion would cause a cascade of blackheads to fall like sooty snow.

  The griminess continued in his greasy locks which hung over his face in dark triangles as the hair stuck together through adhesion rather than styling. Lowering the phone, Matthew watched in horror as the man proceeded to rub the screen on a T-shirt so filthy it had no hope of cleaning anything.

  Cautiously, Matthew shuffled forward in his seat. “Where did you get that?”

  The man gasped and held the phone close to his chest. “It’s mine!”

  Matthew nodded, “Of course. I just wondered where you got it because I’d like one, too. May I see it?”

  The man squinted, deciding whether to trust Matthew or not. Without moving closer, he held it out in Matthew’s direction so he could see the screen. The wallpaper depicted a skew-whiff photo of the garden through the doors at the end of the room. It was badly lit, and someone’s blurry arm had been caught in the image as they walked past.

  “Nice,” Matthew whistled. “Can I hold it?” The deliberation clear as it contorted the man’s face, blackheads threatened to burst from their cautious purchase on his bulbous nose. Holding the screen to his wholesomely clean ear was something Matthew would usually avoid at all costs. But if he spoke to Debbie, or Brian, or anyone, they couldn’t keep him here. It wasn’t normal; not right to retain him and deny him access to his family.

  Backing away, the ma
n screamed, “NO!” and thrust the mobile out of reach in the depths of his equally disgusting grey jogging bottoms. Matthew sunk back into the chair. He had to get that telephone, but he had to do it without upsetting another patient. He couldn’t risk being strapped to the bed again.

  Minutes later the man was sat at a table near the window, legs swinging in carefree contentment. Matthew approached, he hoped, in the least threatening manner possible; which given his emaciated pallor should have been easy. But as he shuffled slowly forward, shoulders rounded, eyes down to the floor, he suspected that threatened is exactly what the man felt.

  His leg stopped swinging and rested on the floor. Bouncing up and down, his extreme anxiety at Matthew’s approach was undeniable.

  “Wanna play a game?” Matthew quickly decided that perhaps winning use of the phone could work better than friendly persuasion. Interacting somehow might ease the distress.

  The knee stopped jumping. Covering the mobile with his grubby palms, he looked at Matthew before his eyes darted to the window.

  “You like looking out there, don’t you? How about Eye Spy?”

  A flash of excitement lit the man’s eyes for a second before he reigned himself and shrugged.

  “I’ll start if you want?” When no response came, Matthew began searching a suitable object. Instinctively choosing something easy, he was glad he did when after ten minutes guessing, and more than a hundred suggestions (many of which were the same but in a different order), he struggled to get ‘Grass,’ despite its dominance of the window’s vista.

  “My go!” he yelled when he guessed right. Bouncing with excitement, his eyes narrowed in thought. “I spy wiv my liddow eye… sumfin ‘ginnin wiv…wiv…” He glanced round the room, agitation causing his leg to vibrate again.

  “How about if I guess, you’ll let me have a go of your phone, just for a minute?”

  “wiv… ”

  “Deal?” The man pouted. “Deal?” Matthew asked again, hand extended to shake.