Grasping Matthew’s hand, he shook it and repeated, “Deal.” Matthew smiled and resisted the urge to smell his fingers. Suffice it to say they would need washing at the earliest opportunity.
“L!”
“Okay,” Matthew said, looking outside. “Lawn?”
“No.”
“Lines… between the paving slabs?”
“No.”
“Light?”
“No!” he squealed with delight.
It went on. And on. After ten minutes suggesting everything he could think of outside, Matthew turned his attention to the room and alighted on dozens of possibilities, “Lamp? Lamp shade? Light switch? Leather shoes?”
“No, no, no, no, and NO!” His eyes were ablaze with the thrill of his obscure object. “Do you give up?”
Matthew shook his head. “It’s not you, is it? Your name’s not Lenny or something, is it?”
The man scowled. “No. My names Malcolm. Why would you think it’s Lenny? Who told you I was called Lenny?” he eyed the room suspiciously.
“No-one told me.” Seeing the leg twitch under the table, Matthew got on with the guessing before Malcolm lost interest and decided not to give him the phone. “Linoleum? Laminate?” He was grasping at straws, scrutinising every corner. There had to be something he was missing. “Lock? Label? Laces?” he said without even seeing them before remembering laces were considered too dangerous to have on the ward.
“Do you give in? Do you? Have I won? Have I? Mmm?”
Matthew couldn’t afford for him to win. He needed that phone. If he couldn’t see it soon, he’d have to hope their newfound friendship prompted a better response if he asked to borrow it again.
Desperately scouring the room, he took a deep breath. Come on Matthew. You’re missing something. When he tells you and it’s bloody obvious, you’ll kick yourself.
“Leaning?” he said, looking at Malcolm resting on his elbow.
“No! Give up. You know I’ve won! Go on, give up.”
It seemed important to him; and pleasing him had been a major consideration in playing a game, so reluctantly, Matthew said, “Okay. I give up. What is it?”
Malcolm couldn’t contain his joyful glee as he pointed at his wrist.
“What, Malcolm. I don’t see it.”
Malcolm scoffed. Matthew was being thick. He shook his wrist in Matthew’s face, and even though the object was right in front of him, and the idea that this cretin had made an alphabetical error stared him in the face, he was still shocked when Malcolm jumped from his seat and skipped around the room, “Lastic band! It was right there on my wrist the whole time, you thick bastard! I beat you good, see? Las-tic baaaand!”
Matthew’s annoyance at the foolishness didn’t stop him noticing the phone unattended on the table. Scooping it swiftly, he stood and strode away, hoping he’d make it to the door before Malcolm noticed.
“Hey. You stole my phone! The nurse give me that cos I bin good. You can’t take it, you lost.”
Matthew paused. “Look, Malcolm, I just need it for a few minutes, and then I’ll give it back. I promise.”
“No! You lost. I won. You couldn’t guess lastic band. You never got it!” Malcolm lunged for the phone but missed as Matthew hoisted it out of reach.
“I couldn’t guess, Malcolm. No-one could, because there’s no such thing as ‘lastic band.’ It’s E-lastic. Elastic!”
“Fuck off. It’s lastic band. Everyone knows that!” Malcolm pitched for the phone again. This time, Matthew blocked him with a gentle shove.
“Five minutes, Malcolm. That’s all I’m asking. Five bloody minutes.”
“Hey leave him alone.” There could be no question the man in front of him would have little trouble stopping him, but that didn’t hinder the rest of the rec room’s residents from standing and joining the beast in solidarity. “Give him his phone back, now, or I’ll break your face.”
Matthew couldn’t. He needed this opportunity, this might be it. His only chance.
In one swift movement, he grabbed a chair, bolted through the door and propped it against the door handles, leaving an angry mob trapped in the room.
The monster-man picked up his own chair and flung it at the door making the glass shudder at the impact. Matthew scurried down the corridor. Any room would do. He just needed enough time to dial. Simply hearing his voice would let Debbie know that whatever they were telling her were lies. He was alive and well and in dire need of rescue.
Avoiding the toilets was preferable—it would be the first place they’d look when they escaped his blockade. But luck was on his side for once. A room beyond the office was empty, he could see through the glass. And when he tried the handle it opened!
Scuttling inside, Matthew rushed to the furthest corner and ducked down behind a chair. Stabbing at the screen with a quivering finger, he dialled his home number. Nothing. Was there no signal in this room?
Risking being seen, Matthew hurried to the barred window and raised the handset aloft to see if that would help.
“What are you doing?” A nurse demanded, marching towards him, her arms already reaching for the phone. “That’s Malcolm’s. You can have a go when you’ve behaved well enough, which at the moment seems very unlikely!”
Matthew jumped away from her. “Listen. I’ll give it back. I just need to make a call. I have to speak to my wife!” Dialling as he sprang from her reach, Matthew pressed the phone to his ear again. Nothing.
“You won’t do it with that!” Matthew stared, waiting for the bombshell. “It hasn’t got a SIM card. We just give it out so you can use the camera and play a few games. There’s no SIM, and no Wi-Fi! You’ll not get far with that.” She was laughing now. “Come on Matthew. Give it back.”
Staring at the screen, Matthew was dismayed to see she was right. That’s why there was no signal. That’s why he couldn’t hear anything! The little antenna icon at the top of the screen confirmed it ‘Insert SIM’ the blinking message warned.
Matthew placed the phone on the table and slumped in the chair.
“Come on. Out you get.”
With a dejected sigh, Matthew stared at the ceiling. “Just give me a minute. Please.”
Chapter Seventeen.
Matthew was relieved that despite the ruckus in his attempts to use Malcolm’s phone he had not been forced to stay in his room, and the straps had been removed from his bed. It was like the staff were confident in his staying put now. He’d made a few attempts at freedom, but, like a wild animal in the circus, they had trained him into submission.
But Matthew was waiting; watching. This caged beast was determined to escape at the first opportunity.
“Matthew? Doctor McEvoy is ready to see you now,” the friendly little lady doctor advised, peering up at him through her square black glasses. “Come on.”
Matthew followed happily. He would have to be careful, but he wanted answers from the good doctor. Taking his choice of seat from the three scattered around informally in the room Doctor McEvoy had selected, he chose the one nearest the desk. He didn’t want to give the impression he was anxious about this meeting at all.
Poorly drawn and coloured-in hearts adorned the wall and Matthew shuddered that he might have missed Valentine’s Day. He would always surprise Debbie with flowers and a meal in the finest restaurants, and now, he was sure she didn’t even know he was alive. How poignant must the day have been, thinking she’d never see him again? But she would. Of that, Matthew was prepared to promise.
“So, what about ye, Matthew, eh?” the leprechaun impression began. “You’ve not done so great since I last saw ye, have ye not?”
Matthew smiled. He knew a lot more about his stay here since the bewildered state he’d last seen the doctor. And with that knowledge came a new confidence.
“All I wanted to do was speak to my wife. I’ve been fobbed off every time I ask, and looking at the love inspired walls, it looks like I’ve been here for weeks. What on earth is going on?”
> Doctor McEvoy sighed and sat back in his chair. Crossing a shiny black shoe over his grey suit trousers revealing alarmingly jolly Tweetie-Pie socks, he prodded his chin with steepled fingers. “You still going on about that, are ye?”
“Still going on about it? Talking to my wife? Er, yes,” Matthew snorted. “I was picked up by the police on Christmas Day, which was bizarre enough in itself, and then you have kept me here, an isolated prisoner, until the middle of February!” Matthew shook his head and leaned forwards. “I haven’t worked out why, but it’s not on, and it can’t be legal.”
“Oh, it’s legal. And the quicker you engage with the treatment, the better for all of us!” Doctor McEvoy stopped as he noticed his own rising temper. With a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders and forced a smile onto his face. “Now, Matthew. We just want you to engage with us. Stop trying to escape. Stop frightening the other patients. And just engage. Let us help you. Will you do that, Matthew? Will ye?”
Matthew stared at the doctor, forcing his will into him with a piercing stare, desperate for the power of hypnosis to declare itself under his mastery. “Just let me speak to my wife, and I’ll do anything you want!”
Doctor McEvoy sighed again. Leaning forwards, placing both palms flat on the desk, he smiled a crooked smile. “You’re not going to let this go, are ye?” he shook his head to himself.
Matthew increased the stare. It seemed to be working! “No. Never,” he asserted.
“Okay. Okay,” Doctor McEvoy said, drumming the desk with his fingers. Matthew felt like jumping up and dancing, but his request was so simple, his glee was dampened by a growing fury at being denied this for so long.
“I’ll have to tell you the truth.”
The rage bubbled up. He was going to deny him again, wasn’t he? Just when he thought they were about to allow him the minimum of human kindnesses and let him speak to Debbie, this stupid doctor was going to refuse!
“The truth is, Matthew… And I didn’t want to have to tell you… I hoped it would just fizzle out like your other ideas. The truth is…”
Matthew waited before deciding whether to leap across the desk and kill the bastard opposite him.
“… We haven’t let you phone your wife for your own protection.”
Matthew’s fist grew tight, the blood squeezing from his white, hard knuckles. “Explain,” he demanded.
“We didn’t want to get you all upset.”
Screwing his balled fist into his thigh, the beginning of pain released some of the pressure and allowed him to speak again. “And why, for the love of all things holy, would talking to my wife upset me? Please, do tell.”
“Well, don’t shoot the messenger, but the truth is, Matthew,” he sighed the deepest sigh. “The truth is you don’t have a wife. You’ve never had a wife. She’s just a figment of your psychosis along with all the others.”
“Never had a wife! Are you quite mad?” he regretted it immediately. But his plan to stay composed struggled against such nonsense. Lowering his tone to sound calm, he added, “I was with them until the police brought me in on Christmas Day. What are you saying? I’ve imagined my whole life?”
Matthew’s stare remained. What did he expect? Surely not that he’d believe this bullshit? Why were they doing this? He had no clue, but he would have. He was determined.
“You’re going through some issues at the moment, for sure. We’re pleased you’re back…”
“Back? What on earth are you talking about?”
There was the sigh again. “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been through out there. The police picked you up in Clifton, so I suppose you were heading to the bridge again. Were you going to the bridge, Matthew?”
Matthew stared. “What are you talking about?” he protested again.
“It’s okay. We can help you now you’re back.” He smiled from beneath his jet black fringe. “You’re safe here.”
Matthew added opening and closing his mouth to the staring routine forcing Doctor McEvoy to fill the silence.
“So, you can see why we didn’t want to tell you. Although you do seem pretty calm about it. I presume it’s ringing true in that head of yours somewhere, yeah?”
Matthew forced himself from his bewildered haze and smiled. “That must be it. Thank you, Doctor.” He knew he wasn’t going to get anything from them that made any sense voluntarily. His only hope was to comply, and in so doing, convince them they didn’t have to watch him.
He had to get out of here. If someone was this desperate to keep him locked away from his family, then he was sure they must be in danger. And that was all the motivation Matthew needed to escape, whatever the cost.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Dear Mummy. Sorry Daddy isn’t here to give you this, but I still love you.
Abi xxxxxx’
Tears streamed down Debbie’s cheek as she read the Valentine’s Day card for the hundredth time. It upset her in so many ways. Obviously it was a painful reminder that her husband wasn’t here, and on this day that he always made so special… made her feel so special. But more than that, it was how Abi must feel to have written it.
Hovering her hand above the mantelpiece, unsure whether to display the card again where it would taunt her from every angle. Opting for laying it flat, she could tell Abi it fell if she asked.
Why was Abi sorry? Did she worry it was her fault Matthew wasn’t here? She knew she was guilty of discussing how the stress of Abi’s illness must have affected him more than any of them had realised.
Abi taking his place in writing the card must mean she thought he had a choice; that she had to right what he was doing wrong. Debbie couldn’t deny the thought had occurred to her too, and that upset her perhaps the most, she realised, and the guilt stung.
Were they as happy as she thought? Or had the success of Marsden-Morrissey Marine made him want more? Was he living off the proceeds she’d helped to build? Living it up on an exotic island with a newer, younger, mysterious girl on his arm?
She was ninety-nine percent sure that wasn’t the case, but it happened, didn’t it, to some people?
Pursuing the MOD deal, and then payment for that contract had taken a lot of energy. Caring for, and caring about, Abi had been shattering. What if that had held their marriage together? All that energy with its focus and purpose? What if she wasn’t enough—had never been enough? What if she’d just been along for the ride of his success?
No. She shook her head and bit her lip. He loved her; adored her. And he adored Abi, there could be no question.
He’d been missing for nearly eight weeks now. The arrival of Valentine’s Day had brought that hideous timescale home hard. Shaking her hand when she realised she was chewing a fingernail, usually immaculate, now shabby and torn, her hands hung conspicuously at her sides like a smoker unsure what to do with them the first week into a New-Year resolution.
Squeezing them into her skirt pockets was a comfort, but now she didn’t know if she should sit or stand. It didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. It was too much. First, years of hell with their daughter, now a living nightmare of utter misery for both of them.
A new emotion rocked her, and she tried at once to quash it: anger. Not at Matthew. She was already almost certain he was away from them by some dire necessity. Her anger directed at Abi. Her hand shot from pocket to open mouth as she gasped at the notion. Why would Abi act like her daddy was away from them on purpose? If she didn’t know how much she was loved after all she’d put them through…
Nausea at her own crassness clawed at her face, drawing her mouth into a downward horse-shoe. “He loves you, silly girl,” she sobbed to the empty room. And then she wasn’t sure if she was angry with Abi for underlining the possibility he may have chosen to leave them, or with herself for entertaining it for even a second.
Quickly absolving Abi of any blame, she condemned herself entirely. It’s what Matthew would want; to take any pain from Abi. She couldn’t be made to feel something s
he didn’t already suspect, so it was all her fault anyway, there was no uncertainty.
Slumping onto the sofa more from necessity than through choice, Debbie closed her eyes. Oh to fall asleep and wake from this nightmare. But sleep was as elusive as ever, her eyeballs bounced around under their lids trying to escape their sightless incarceration. Pinging open, they continued their scrutiny of the minutiae of the décor—patterns in the Laura-Ashley wallpaper taking on a life of their own as faces and beasts constructed themselves in Debbie’s mind. If only they could construct something useful.
Her eyelids suddenly concurred with her desire to close and remain shut in response to a knock at the front door. Knowing she had to answer it, and persuading her eyes open again with the promise it may be news of Matthew, she hauled her legs round and stood shakily.
Taking a breath to steady herself, she strode officiously to the door and heaved it open.
“Hi, Debs. How you doing?” Mandy stood in the porch with an artificially bright smile plastered on her boyish face. “I know. Terrible, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, nor an invitation, before bustling past her sister-in-law into the lounge. “It’s awfully dingy in here, Debs. Do you want a hand having a clean-up?”
It wasn’t dirty, or even untidy—the cleaner came three times a week and there wasn’t a thing out of place. But their beautiful home had soaked up Debbie and Abi’s misery and spewed it back through its every pore, poisoning the atmosphere like an emotional smog.
Mandy’s initial impression of chaos caused her to shake her head as she examined the spotless room with wide eyes. “Maybe a bit of a dust then?” but wiping any surface showed that didn’t need doing either.
Debbie shrugged and resumed her position as part of the furniture. Mandy sat beside her and patted her leg to break the silence. She was distraught at her brother’s absence, of course, but it must be harder for Debbie.
Mandy wouldn’t see her brother from one month to the next anyway. For Debbie, noticing little clues every minute of every day must break her heart. And the rejection, if he was happy and healthy and keeping away by choice, was a rebuff of Debbie, not her.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 11
