I try hard to be more inspirational to my History classes. I don’t know if I succeed, but plenty of writing is done and handed in. By the time I’m heading off to the staff room during a free period before lunch, I deem a break is deserved.
“Ah, Mister Armstrong. You’ll be able to help.”
It’s Uma, and before I can ask what I’ll be able to help with, she’s grabbed my arm and led me into her Home-Economics room. “Come on. This way.”
Her class of textiles students are packing up their bags and heading for the door. “Finish off at home, class. I’ll help you with any problems tomorrow, okay?” Within minutes, they’ve all left, their compliance to Mrs Taylor’s request silently assumed.
I stand with raised eyebrows, awaiting instructions. “I need a tall man,” she declares. And before my mind panics as to what she might need a tall man for, she adds “to reach my top shelf.”
Prodding me into a large store cupboard, she locks the door behind her so deftly, it’s barely perceptible.
Ever the fool, I peer at the highest shelves, pondering what I need to pass her. When I turn, the blood rushes from my head to my furthest extremity at the sight which greets me. “Uma! Mrs Taylor!” I object, as the bare breasts, whose image still resides in the i-cloud, and which is seared on my retina, are pointing provocatively toward me.
“No! I can’t. We shouldn’t do that anymore, Mrs Taylor.” She chuckles, peering at me over her spectacles, licking a ruby red nipple as she holds her ample bosom in one hand. “What about Mr Taylor?” I rasp through parched lips, my resolve collapsing to the inescapable, like a sand-castle to the rising tide.
“He’s so boring. Always busy with his silly business.”
“You’ve only been married a few months!” I object again. And as it becomes clear she’s taking no notice, I add, “Someone might come in.”
“Ssshhhh,” she purrs, pushing her manicured hand into my chest as I fall back against the shelving. “I locked the door.”
“But your classroom,” I say. She’s on her knees now, the clunk of my buckle as my belt is undone rings in my ears, signalling the point of no return for my conscience.
“I locked that, too,” she coos, and it’s the last thing she says before her mouth is full of me and I’m in heaven.
From my delirium, a familiar sound seeps into my consciousness, raising the alarm in my head. A loud knocking floats on the air from the classroom door. My panic filled gaze struggles to maintain contact with the deep brown of Uma’s hooded eyes. She smiles with me between her full lips, unconcerned.
As the knocking persists, it gets louder and more urgent, but Uma carries on with expert calm as she concludes her undertaking. Rising from her haunches she rebuttons her blouse and wipes her mouth with such competence I almost believe she does this every lunchtime.
“Sorry, darling. I wasn’t expecting to be disturbed.” Opening the storeroom, she mouths ‘Wait here,’ and totters off to unlock the door, replacing her glasses to her eyes as she walks.
“Oh, hello. Is Eliot in there? Someone at the front door said she’d seen him come in here?”
Oh my fucking god! It’s Imogen’s voice. Imogen! Why is she here? What if she overheard?
“No, I’m afraid not. You’re Mrs Armstrong, right?” I don’t hear Imogen’s response, but I’m grateful that Uma is dealing with it so calmly. Any remaining colour leaches from my face as I cringe, wondering if Imogen will smell me on her breath.
“I’m sure he’ll be in the canteen. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
I let out a huge sigh when their voices fade as they walk away. Judging their distance, I adjust my clothes and bolt for the door. A quick glance along the corridor sees Imogen and Uma turn the corner to the Hall and I hotfoot it in the opposite direction.
I want to run and keep running forever. Why did I give in to temptation again? I want to leave. Call in sick, or just go AWOL, but I can’t risk it. I can’t risk running into Imogen in the car park. I can’t risk losing my job.
Passing one of many empty classrooms I dart into the Maths department and just sit. Breathing deep, away from my usual room and unlikely to be found by Uma Taylor, I begin to relax.
It’s not so bad. I haven’t done anything I’ve not done before; and I have long-since justified our brief fling. It was a stressful time, and like many husbands I’m sure, I had a misguided work romance. I won’t be the last, but Uma can be my last.
And as for today’s indiscretion? There can’t be many men able to resist such blatant temptation. I’m being too hard on myself. I’ll keep out of her way in future. It’ll be fine.
I suspect I’m fooling myself. Picturing Imogen knocking on the door, mere feet away from me with her, it’s unbearable. It would destroy her. She doesn’t deserve my infidelity. I’m glad I haven’t made a habit of it. I’d never cope with the guilt.
In a flurry of determination, I log into i-cloud and delete Uma’s breasts with a stab of such ferocity I fear the screen will crack. “Leave me alone, you harlot!” I hiss. Tossing the phone on the desk, I sigh and bury my head in my hands.
“Everything alright?” It’s the gentle tone of my mate Jonesy. Determined not to let my façade of coolness slip, I’m surprised how much his admiration means to me.
“Fine thanks, Jonesy,” I smile. I can tell he’s unconvinced. “Bit of a gippy tummy. Hope you don’t mind me taking the weight off my feet in here for a few minutes?”
“No, no. That’s fine. Would you like me to get you anything?” I shake my head and stand to leave.
“I’m feeling better now, thanks.” Jonesy frowns at me with a crooked smile.
“If you’re sure. Perhaps you should go home. I’m sure Karl will cover for you.”
I grimace, failing to know who he’s talking about.
“Karl King... Bruce!” he enlightens. I grin.
“Gotcha. Na. I’ll be fine.”
The desire to leave has dissipated a little. And I’m beyond reluctant to allow Bruce to cover for me. Imagining him sharing intimacy with Uma makes me sick. I’m not jealous—she obviously still wants me—but I imagine him knowing all about me, giving me laddish winks, and wanting to share notes when I need to put the whole thing behind me.
Taking the longest, meandering route possible back to my classroom, checking at every turn that I’m not about to bump into anyone I’m trying to avoid, I perch on my chair and let out a sigh.
Squeezing the nape of my neck, I stop and pinch the bridge of my nose. I can still see Uma’s face gazing seductively up at me from my trouser region which stirs at the memory.
Thrusting my hand into my briefcase, I yank out the huge tome from which I’m about to teach.
“Nothing like a bit of Russian Revolution to quell an errant arousal,” I hiss under my breath as the first of my A-level class knocks at the door.
Whilst there are times when the room is silent but for the scratching of pens on paper, I am absorbed enough to get through, and perhaps even impart some wisdom to my students.
As soon as the bell rings and I am alone once more, there is the familiar trouser twitch. I close my eyes tightly and sigh, but the deep breath I take to fuel it sweeps through my nostrils, the alluring aroma of Uma’s fragrance from where her lustful hand teased my chest adheres to my senses and I sit in a stupefied stance as my next class files in.
Forewarned of my mood’s fragility, I make extra, extra sure to avoid all thoughts of Uma, Mrs Taylor, for the rest of the day.
Chapter Nine
The Saracen’s Head is victorious for my mollification tonight. Going straight home to be with my loving wife is a more favourable option; to hold her and never let her go, but I can’t. I don’t trust myself to be normal; to not arouse suspicion.
My ringing phone rests motionless in my hand for minutes before I silence it and thrust it into the safe depths of my jacket pocket. I can’t listen to Imogen’s voice; I’ll crack. I know it
I want to tell the la
ndlord, unburden myself, have him reassure me he’d do the same and I shouldn’t blame myself, but I don’t. Instead, I take the furthest, smallest table and order two large whiskies at a time. After ten shots, I’m exceedingly drunk.
A taxi drops me half-way up the hill so I can sober up on the walk home. But walking proves too much for me and I collapse in a hedgerow, propped up by a neighbour’s garden gate.
It’s late and quiet, but I know I can’t let myself be seen. Any respect granted by my status as a teacher would be gleefully cast aside by anyone witnessing my drunken antics.
I hunker between a garage and the adjoining boundary fence, hidden from view by a big black wheelie bin. I won’t stay long, but I need to sleep off some of my inebriation. I’m sure I’ll be able to face going home then.
Whoosh! I’m back in the road. Feeling tapping at my sides, I jerk my head down and am alarmed to see my own arms shaking. My whole body is trembling.
Clouds stream like apparitions, their cloaks floating behind as they swirl all around. Faces loom at me, black mouths snarling. Putrid breath; the stench of death.
I’m shaking so much it’s hard to focus on anything, but I already know what’s there. The debris is too scattered to notice anything specific. Turning my head slowly, afraid of what I will see, I force myself to look where the blood and glass were before.
The primal scream of a tortured animal screeches from the chasm mouth of the cloudy Angel of Death as she races toward me. Recoiling, I brace myself for collision but she flies straight through me rocking me back on my heels.
Her passing clears my vision and I wish it hadn’t. I can’t tear my eyes away from the horror. Blood drips from the sky, bouncing off the tarmac like scarlet summer rain. It pools on the leaves of trees until they can carry the weight no longer, then cascades to puddle on the ground.
Streaming, like storm water to a drain, it transports my gaze with every ripple of gore. At the end of the stream flows a river of my worst nightmare. The constant drone of a car horn assaults my ears, blocking out the sound of my scream.
”Nooo!”
Running towards the car, tears cloud my view, but there is no escaping the fact it’s horrifically familiar. And I’m certain I recognise the broken tail light too. It’s a Mini. Just like Imogen’s.
“No. No. No!” I yell with every stride, my heart pounding in my ears. My shoes slip and slide on the loose gravel, but my eyes focus like a hawk.
The Mini’s windshield is shattered. A female figure lies metres away.
A thunderous roar of gushing liquid momentarily grabs my attention. I gape in dazed dismay as the river of blood rises in a flash flood of death, raising the Mini first, then the body, carrying them away from me, wave after wave, but it’s too late. I’m already certain it’s Imogen’s car and someone is dead.
My head reels as a sharp image of recollection plasters itself to my mind as clearly as a fresh Polaroid: it was the passenger side which was shattered. If Imogen was driving; the body must be Jess! No! My little princess.
With a gargling cry of despair, I dive into the river. I’ll die along with them.
Fingers of blood reach out, grasping my face, tugging at my hair. I can’t live without my girls, but I can’t fight my instincts to struggle against the torrent of sickly red.
As the fingers tug at me I gulp for air, but it’s not air, it’s blood filling my lungs and I’m drowning.
With a sudden life-confirming wheeze, I’m on my feet. I stumble forward into the wheelie bin, spewing volcanically over its little black wheels. The smell of my own vomit makes me puke again. Lurching from the garage wall, I face plant into the hedge; I have to escape.
Standing, coughing, retching, a rush of cold dread tips over me like a bucket of sick as I spot the first light of dawn. I’ve not been home. What will Imogen think if she wakes up and I’m not there?
It’s not likely she’ll picture me puking in a neighbour’s garden, but the alternative explanations are even worse. “Imogen. Jess,” I sob, my gruesome nightmare cleaving its way back to my thoughts.
In that moment, I know I have to get to them. I have to warn them. I have to save their lives.
The sleep may have sobered me up, but I feel graver than ever. Shivering, my teeth chatter and I hobble up the hill. The sun races me to see who will reach my house first. Like a theatre spotlight, it shines on my fragile frame in the porch as I fumble keys from my pocket.
I’m not as quiet as I would like to be. The key enters the barrel with the resonance of a rip-saw in the eerie silence of my sleepy home. Holding the latch, I ease the door back into its frame before slowly releasing it.
I let out a slow breath and tiptoe to the kitchen. I need water, and I need to undress to hide my sick-stained clothes.
“Where have you been?” Her voice is composed and measured. My heart stopped cold in my chest, I turn to face her. She’s the picture of the civilised English stiff-upper-lip. Staring at me with controlled calm, she pours tea from a pot on a tray into a dainty china cup with matching milk jug and sugar bowl, complete with cubes and sugar tongs.
She says nothing else, but sips her tea, glaring at me over the rim of the cup, daring me to respond. My mouth fails me, opening and closing, gulping for salvation; for the Universe to smile upon me and make it all go away.
“I’m sorry. I got drunk.”
Imogen’s pupils shrink to pin pricks as she spits out, “You’ve been gone all fucking night!” Hearing the profanity from her pure lips shocks me.
“I know, I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Moving towards her, I anticipate her shifting from my reach. When she doesn’t, and even lets me hug her, the unexpectedness makes it awkward.
Clutching at my revolting shirt, she hides her face as a sob escapes her delicate form. She seems relieved. She must have considered my absence was down to something more damaging than my insobriety; and of course, in a way, it was.
Hurting her, hurts me. I clutch her closer. She lets me, but then I sense her stiffen and she shoves me away. “No!” Her trembling fingers rattle the teapot as she needlessly tops up her half-full cup.
With a huge sigh, I pull out the chair next to her and slump down. Reaching for her hand, I raise mine to placate when she snatches it away. “Listen,” I beg. “I know I’ve been weird lately. I can’t really explain why. My mid-life crisis having a second bloom, I think.”
The smash as Imogen’s teacup clatters onto the saucer (catapulting the milk and delicate little cubes of sugar) echoes around the kitchen, underlining a point, but I can’t remember what.
Imogen leaps to grab a cloth and is dabbing away at the spilled milk as I sweep together the jagged pieces of crockery. The change of focus is strangely soothing and I continue.
“I’ve been having these terrible nightmares. Terrible, awful nightmares.” I shudder. “There’s a spirit, Death, I’m sure. It’s so real. And it’s been trying to show me something. I’m seeing a car-crash. I didn’t know at first, if I was involved, or just a witness.”
Pausing for breath, I’m alarmed at the tears streaming down my face. Ripping a wad of paper towels, I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Imogen is staring at me, giving nothing away. I try and regain my gist.
“Every night it’s worse. Every night, the message gets clearer, like I’m running out of time to stop it.” Struggling for the right words, I rub the nape of my neck. When I speak, emotion has tuned my voice up an octave and I squeak out the crux of my speech.
“It’s you, Imogen! The nightmare. It’s about you. I think I’m having some sort of precognition, but it doesn’t have to come true. If you...”
“Who’s Uma?” she cuts in, ignoring me completely.
Wincing, images of my betrayal burst into my mind, flooding away any intent in a tsunami of shame. I stutter, adding to my physiology of penitence. “Uma?” I blurt, overly perplexed in my now almost Mickey Mouse voice. “She’s, er, a Home-Ec teacher at Radcliffe. Why?”
The last wo
rd catches in my throat. I can see her, between my legs. Remembering my pleasure and Imogen’s frantic knocking, I look away, unable to hold her gaze.
“No reason,” Imogen says. With an abrupt turn, she storms from the room. I run after her, but my hung-over slouch is no match, and I miss her just as the bathroom door slams.
I stand, motionless, for what seems like forever, staring at the barrier between us. Patting my thigh absently, my mind searches for solutions. Maybe I could make breakfast.
Heading straight downstairs, I’m grateful to have a mission. But as I rummage through the fridge, I know I won’t be able to face it when I have to rush to the sink. I make sure to clean up my mess thoroughly before collapsing on the sofa.
Hauling my bedraggled, blood-soaked body from the river of red, I collapse onto my back, gasping for air. Propping myself up on bent elbows, I scan the river as it streams swiftly away from me.
Recovered slightly from the exertion—physically, at least—I jump to my feet for a better view. It’s quiet now; just a surging inevitability flowing ripple after ripple away from me with no sign of my girls anywhere in sight. Standing, hands-on-hips, a sob poised at my lips, I frantically scan the horizon.
“Imogen! Jess! Where are you?” I fall back to my knees, the gurgling river of blood the only sound.
“Imogen!” I wake myself, screaming. Recognising at once where I am, I sit up and call her name again. “Imogen! Don’t be gone. Please don’t be gone!”
I bolt from the lounge into the kitchen to sinister silence. I hunt for a note. There’s the pen and pad. A heavy dot at the top of the page suggests the beginning of a message, written in an angry hand that she thought better of.
Rushing to the window, I’m dismayed but not surprised, to see a space in the drive that Imogen’s Mini usually occupies. I wish she’d taken the Range Rover; so much bigger and safer.
“Who’s Uma?” The memory of Imogen’s question punches me in the face. Blood diverts from my brain to my limbs, rushing oxygen to my muscles so I can run away. But I can’t, and I don’t know what I can do, so I slump back onto the sofa.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 65
