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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  “We’ve found him!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Knees buckling, her hurry to remove the door chain and allow the glorious angel in her police lady uniform into her home to confirm what she thought she heard, only made her fumble. At her third attempt, rattling the links to no effect, she paused, took a deep breath and smiled.

  Pushing the door completely closed, the chain slid from its keep in the effortless manner it was designed, and Debbie pulled the door open wide. “Come in,” she invited with a wave of her hand. “Please.”

  Understanding the shock, the WPC took a timid step into the vast hallway, her eyes following the long line of the straight Victorian corridor with its multitude of doors as they had every time she’d stood here. One day, if she won the lottery, she nodded to herself.

  Debbie ushered her into the lounge, cursing in her mind the insensitivity of the room’s rearrangement. They could venture putting it back to normal, tout suite. Breathlessly, and barely able to speak through the huge grin bisecting her face, Debbie asked, just to confirm, “So, you’ve found him? Really?”

  The police lady nodded. “Yes.” Eyes moving around the room, even her less familiar eyes recognised the changes. She awaited Debbie’s confirmatory nod before taking a seat. “He’s in a bad way.”

  Debbie’s mouth retained the contour of a smile, but her eyes clouded. Slowly, like memory-foam returning to shape, her lips centred and reformed into the line that had graced her dour countenance for months. “Oh?” she forced through the gap.

  “He was spotted at the top of the gorge. Passers-by thought he was probably…” she paused, not wanting to appear too insensitive, “heading for the bridge.”

  The not-so-subtle intimation at a possible suicide attempt was lost on Debbie. All she could think was how incredible he’d been so close all along! She could have looked from her window and seen him! “Why had he not come home then?” she demanded with a puzzled scowl.

  The police lady sighed. “He’s… not quite himself, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Leaning towards Debbie in what she hoped was a comforting way, she refrained from taking her hand, her face reddening at the abandoned notion. “He is a bit confused. Doesn’t seem sure who he is or where he’s supposed to be.”

  “You’re sure it’s him, though, right?” Panic widened Debbie’s eyes, the whites glowing manically. Their gaze softened at the firm nodding from the seat next to her.

  “Yes. He knows his name. And he does look like the photos. Albeit, a rough-sleeping, heavily bearded version.”

  Debbie gasped and rushed a hand to her trembling lips. “He’s been sleeping on the streets?”

  “It seems that way, yes,” the policewoman confirmed. “We don’t know what happened. Whether he’s been victim of a crime is of less importance than his immediate well-being. We can get to the bottom of what happened to him when he’s ready to talk.”

  She edged forwards on her seat ready to stand. “We’d like you to come into the station to see him.”

  “Of course!” Debbie leapt up in her eagerness.

  “I’ll drive you there if you like? You seem a little overwhelmed to drive safely.” Debbie nodded. “He probably won’t come straight home.” Interrupting the ‘Why?’ poised on Debbie’s lips, she explained, “We just want the doctor’s to give him the once over. He seems fine, physically, but with him having been gone for so long, we’d like to check.” Her eyebrows raised awaiting approval.

  “Yes. Of course. That’s fine. Whatever you think.” Debbie’s power of reason had deserted her weeks ago. She’d agree to anything the police lady suggested.

  Following her to the police car, a little hatchback, she hopped in beside her. Reaching round for the seatbelt clasp, her fingers shook and she had to concentrate to grab it and slot it into place.

  Stuffing her hands under her legs to keep them still, she gazed out of the window as the car made lamentably slow progress to the station. The views were pleasant, fields and occasional glimpses of the river far below, but they meant nothing to Debbie.

  Grimacing, she removed a shard of fingernail from her mouth. She hadn’t known she was chewing them. She didn’t even remember moving her hand from beneath her leg, but she must have. Forcing it back, she concentrated on the scenery.

  Gradually the outlook changed as the little police car edged into a more urban layout, and suddenly a large cube of concrete and glass loomed in the near distance. That must be it, Debbie pursed her lips. That has to be where they’re keeping Matthew.

  Her heart thumped against her ribs as if it too couldn’t wait for the first glimpse in months of her beloved husband. The car pulled into a designated space and lurched to a halt, the handbrake click-clicking into place.

  “Ready?” the woman smiled at her.

  Nodding, Debbie yanked at the door handle and leapt from the car, instantly springing back with a winded thud as the seatbelt hauled her into her seat.

  With an apologetic smile, her trembling fingers fumbled with the button until the policewoman leaned in and unclicked it for her.

  Stepping with ease from the car now, she followed on tentative tiptoes to the front door of the large new-looking building. The door whooshed open and they were inside, the atmosphere cramming professionalism and crushing oppression into the same space: unrest’s swirling around one another in fragile unease.

  They stopped at the custody desk and the police woman spoke to a man in uniform behind the desk. Debbie wanted to listen; they might even be talking to her, but her mind was already with Matthew, clutching him to her breast and squeezing; never to let him go ever, ever again.

  With no further instruction, Debbie was led through security doors to a cell door a few along from the main entrance. Glancing through a peephole, the officer from the desk pushed down hard on the handle and the door swung into the cell.

  A man sat on the bench at the end of the room, knees to his chest, matted fur on the hood of a green Parka obscuring his face. Debbie’s plan to rush over and take him in her arms stalled. Who was that?

  “Matthew?” the officer called out. The man didn’t move. “Matthew, your wife is here.” Motionless, a snort of heavy breath moving straggly tufts from the hood was the only movement the man made.

  Debbie took a step forward, fear gripping her: fear there had been a terrible mistake, and the police hadn’t found her husband at all; and also, fear of this man. He had an air that withered her. “M M Matthew?” she ventured. “It’s me.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the face hidden by grubby green fabric tilted up. A second, or an hour later, his features were clear to see.

  With a gasp, Debbie flinched before rushing over to her husband. “Matthew. Oh, Matthew. What on earth has happened to you?”

  Throwing her arms around him, she clutched at the filthy fabric, the smell of dirt and urine stinging her nose. Matthew remained still. He made no move to reciprocate the affection, just sat still like a mannequin.

  It must have been awful for him, Debbie understood. Obviously he was distressed. What had she expected? She had to admit, the part of her thinking she’d walk in to see the same person who’d left her on Christmas Day sitting smiling at her, was foolish. And she didn’t even want that anyway. No. If he’d chosen to stay away from his family, there had to be a reason. And this? This looked like a reason to her.

  She’d do whatever it took; be whoever it took to help him back onto his feet. Her in-laws had been right. He’d clearly had a nervous breakdown. She’d assumed he’d coped with Abi and her leukaemia, but assuming was never good.

  They’d rarely talked about it. They had sat in doctor’s appointments, after specialist’s appointments, again and again with a good old British stiff-upper-lip. There didn’t seem anything more to say whenever they’d gone home from the hospital. They both knew if Abi miraculously recovered, life would resume better than ever. And if she didn’t, then it never would. They knew that. They hadn’t n
eeded to talk about it: to live it before it had happened.

  And in the end it didn’t happen. So they’d done the right thing. But, now it seemed they hadn’t, because two years of unfelt grief had obviously crushed Matthew as soon as he’d deemed it safe enough to feel it, and it had overwhelmed him. It wasn’t so difficult to comprehend.

  And she would. She’d be the most understanding wife anyone had ever known, and they’d put it all behind them.

  “Come on, my lovely. Let’s get you home.” She held out her hands, palms down in invitation to haul him up from the hard little bench. Matthew stayed still. “Don’t you want to come home?” the thought wounded Debbie. Why had she assumed he would? He’d kept away for months, why presume he’d be ready to come back just because the police found him?

  His head jolted up and he stared straight into her eyes, the vacant look behind the dry shine of the pinhead pupils sent a shiver through her. But not as much as what he said.

  His dry lips parted. Fetid breath oozed from between brown furred teeth. It was the first time she’d heard her husband’s voice this year. She’d longed for him to phone her, just to tell her he was okay, or at least that he was alive. But when he spoke now, it wasn’t the comfort she’d craved. His words, now, wounded like a hunter’s spear, ricocheting round the cell.

  Taking a deep breath, he sighed slowly, as though not wanting to waste his expelled air on the words. “Who are you?”

  Chapter Thirty-one.

  Life force bleached from Debbie’s face. “What do you mean?”

  Matthew slumped back. The effort of the question too much for him.

  “What do you mean, ‘who am I?’” Debbie demanded again, immediately regretting her tone.

  Jolting at a touch on her arm, the kindly face of the young police lady squeezed a smile in her direction. “He’s not really himself, as I said. He may have had a blow to the head which has caused his amnesia. But that’s definitely him, isn’t it?”

  Debbie nodded. It was definitely Matthew. A very different Matthew.

  “You can see why we’re keen to have him checked out. The doctor’s on his way. I expect they’ll want to give him the once over in hospital though.”

  Debbie’s throat was too tight to speak. Turning her head, she concealed pools welling in her grey eyes. She didn’t know why she felt the need to hide.

  “You can go with him, if you like.”

  Of course. She wasn’t going to let him out of her sight any time soon. Pivoting on the spot, her instinct to sit next to her husband was under attack from an unexpected unease at his gruff manner. Opting for standing near him, his obvious discomfort in her presence told her she’d made the right choice, and ripped at her heart.

  Noise from the corridor preceded the entry of a bustling scruffy man on the morbid side of obesity, dirty hair hanging in stringy tufts on an untrimmed hairy face. Struggling to hold a pile of papers affecting their escape from a worn briefcase he gripped in both hands, as though the handle had abused his trust in the past, he lurched to a halt in front of Matthew where his high-pitched voice announced him as the duty doctor, Doctor Kay.

  Matthew treated him to the same indifference he’d greeted Debbie.

  “And you are…?” the doctor’s freaky falsetto carried around the cell. When Matthew failed to answer, Debbie interjected.

  “Matthew. Matthew Morrissey.” The doctor peered at her as though only just noticing her. The long black caterpillars balanced above each eye arched their backs. “I’m Debbie Morrissey. Matthew’s wife.”

  The caterpillars relaxed. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ so nearly spewed from Debbie’s lips, but she doubted this unhealthy looking specimen had answers yet.

  “Matthew,” he yipped, and in different circumstances his high screech would have been comical. “Matthew, I’d like to test a couple of things… reflexes, neural responses; things like that. Give me your hand,” he ordered, holding out his own meaty sausages.

  Matthew remained statue still. The doctor reached out further and took his hand. Matthew shot his arm back, bashing it into the wall behind the bench. “Get off me!” he roared.

  Stumbling back in surprise, the doctor’s heel entangled with the cascading papers falling from his briefcase. He slipped, glanced at what was troubling his feet and lost balance. With a hefty thud, he crashed to the floor.

  “Now then! There’s no need for that!” he squealed, shaken and winded.

  The police lady and the custody sergeant lunged forward to protect the doctor but Matthew had already resumed his position of silent stillness. The bubble rippling in Debbie’s throat erupted as a wail into the unforgiving acoustics of the featureless cell, attracting sympathetic glances from the two police officers.

  Heaving his mighty mass from the cold floor, the doctor dusted himself off, brushing at his knitted tank top with sweaty palms. “We need to get him into hospital. There are lots of reasons he could be displaying these type of symptoms. I take it this isn’t Mr Morrissey’s usual mode of behaviour?” he directed at Debbie.

  Thank goodness, she thought. He was offering an explanation; a reason her husband was behaving so irrationally. She had worried he’d end up in trouble, arrested, or sectioned or something. “What might be the matter?” she managed through a new optimism.

  The doctor squinted, blowing raspberries through rubbery blue lips. “Well, like I say. Any number of things. Given he’s been sleeping rough, he could be suffering from low sodium levels, or perhaps he’s sustained a knock to the head? He’s not diabetic is he?”

  Debbie shrugged and shook her head.

  “He may be malnourished; low blood-sugar, low salts, both those can cause confusion and violent outbursts. Or…” He rubbed at his matted beard. “He might be experiencing withdrawals from… substances, or possibly suffering from a mental health issue. We’ll know once we’ve run a few tests at the hospital.”

  Debbie sighed, heartened that a smile had grown quite naturally on her lips. She’d have him back soon. They’d give him sugars and salts and medicines and whatever else he needed and he’d be back to his old self. And at least now she knew he was safe. She wasn’t counting the days of her despair anymore.

  A giggle burst forth, surprising her. She’d be able to tell Abi, and Mandy and Alan and Mary! They’d be thrilled and relieved. Despite Matthew’s odd behaviour, there was no question; today was a good day.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  It was with undeniable reluctance that Matthew followed the doctor to his awaiting vehicle. His mind churned through the options which boiled down to two: go to the hospital, or stay in the custody of the police. Keeping his face hidden under his hood, he slumped into the back seat of the car emblazoned with Doctor livery on the doors and bonnet.

  Debbie slid in beside him and fought the side of her that wanted to reach out and hold his hand. He wasn’t well. There’d be plenty of time for that when they’d topped up his minerals. Poor Matthew. What had he been through?

  Resting her chin on her chest, she allowed herself another little smile as the driver sped them through the city centre to the hospital. Tall buildings hemmed them in giving an odd sense of security in their confining opulence.

  Arriving at the hospital, the car pulled into its allocated space and the scruffy doctor bustled from his seat presuming their compliance in following. Debbie noticed Matthew’s eyes darting to the exit. Her heart jumped to her throat. No! Don’t go! But he didn’t. He stepped in behind the doctor and the three of them walked through the swishing doors.

  Keeping up with the wheezing doctor took no effort. By the time they reached a side room along a corridor he was sweating through his shirt. Wafting dark pits in the air as he rolled up his sleeves, he heaved out a chair and invited his patient to sit on the couch while he caught his breath. Debbie was left to stand wherever, so long as she wasn’t in the way.

  Approaching Matthew, the doctor reintroduced himself as Doctor Kay and stood back as he made his intentions clear
.

  “Mr Morrissey. May I call you Matthew?” he squeaked. Assuming his agreement, he continued. “Matthew, I need to carry out a series of tests. But I can’t put up with the sort of behaviour you demonstrated at the police station.” He removed his thick spectacles to make absolutely sure their eyes connected. “If I am unable to rely on your behaviour, then I will call the police. Am I making myself understood?” Matthew didn’t move. “Will you behave?” Matthew still didn’t move, but Debbie was sure she detected a grunt. That appeared sufficient for Doctor Kay to proceed.

  Cautiously, he reached for Matthew’s hand again. The effort was intense, but Matthew forced himself to allow Doctor Kay to take it. Holding it loosely, he examined it before replacing it; almost as though he had no need of it but wanted to test he could.

  “Follow my finger,” he instructed. Matthew’s eyes followed the doctor’s Bratwurst as he moved it up and down and left to right. “Good,” he said before pulling what looked like a pen from his pocket. The pen was a bright torch which he shone into Matthew’s eyes. “Good. Now, can you touch my finger? And your nose? Again?”

  The hatred pouring from Matthew went unnoticed by the physician. Debbie saw. Why? He was only trying to help him. Trying to find out what’s wrong so he can help.

  Holding out both his hands, he requested Matthew’s and the effort was still evident. Debbie supposed she’d be reluctant to hold the doctor’s hands too. She didn’t know where they’d been, but under hot soapy water seemed unlikely given the rest of his appearance.

  Unhidden now, she saw his hands. There was no mistaking the absent wedding band, and she gulped down flames of rage that plumed from the fiery pit of scorn she never knew existed within her. She could only imagine what had led to its removal, but Matthew’s grungy look in no way suggested another woman. She sighed, fuming, but she had to let it go. For now.