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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  The strain eases further, as morning after morning, memories of my nightmares fade. I allow myself a smile of growing giddy acceptance it may be over.

  And I continue to wake on time—even early enough to enjoy closeness with Imogen before we both head off for work.

  With a frown, I ponder the welcome change. Was it that I just needed Imogen to heed my warning to wear her seatbelt? Or was it Jonesy’s suggestion of my fear of losing my family through my own silly behaviour?

  The reason it’s unclear to me is I’m not sure which course of action has brought the change. Sure, my girls have listened to their safety briefing, but my avoidance of Uma Taylor might well be what’s done it. With a resolved sigh, I shrug. It doesn’t matter. Everything will be fine now. And either way, cutting Uma from my life is something I’m more than happy to do.

  My good intentions are soon tested in school the next day. It’s strange; I don’t care about her; I loathe her for what she’s made me do, but seeing how hurt she is gives me that familiar stabbing in my chest.

  It’s that which tempts me to allow her to find me, but the awkwardness makes it worse.

  “How are you?” she says as I leave the staffroom with a coffee in hand.

  “Fine. Really good,” I say. My mind whirs. Of course I’ve resolved to keep it platonic between us (even less than platonic), but I know how manipulative she can be; and how my resolve crumbles as blood routes south from my brain. So, I’m blunt. I mention Imogen in every sentence and gush about the new hot tub too much.

  “Imogen’s keen on every detail of the design; I just want to get hot and bubbly with my incredible wife...” I stumble over the last words, my brain retracing what I’ve said in a post-speech edit.

  Did I lay it on too thick? Has bemoaning Imogen’s anal approach to the intricacies of hot-tubs, immediately followed by provocative comments, come across as flirting?

  I’m stunned because even I’m not sure. I shake my head vigorously to bring me to my senses as though escaping the pull of trance from a stage hypnotist.

  Uma can’t have failed to notice. The wry smile playing on her ruby lips combines with a knowing twinkle in her eyes. Her pupils dilate alluringly, pulling me into their dark pools. When perfect white teeth bite into the plumpness of her full bottom lip, I have to get away.

  “So, yeah. I’m great,” I mumble. “Gotta go.” As I stumble over my own feet in my hurry to escape, her mirth makes me feel foolish.

  Fuming at my inarticulate weakness, I thank god it’s Friday. I’ve never looked forward to a weekend so much.

  A twinge of desire to pull into The Saracen’s Head twitches the steering wheel of my Mercedes. It’s almost auto-pilot, despite my absence for more than a week.

  The darkness of my mood forces the shoots of my smile into a broad fake grin; kidding myself that the ease the brooding Saracen has tempted me is somehow an amusing little foible.

  Hauling the car back into line like an unruly steed, I’m roaring up Scott’s Road, keen to reach the haven of home. My eye is drawn over the golf greens as I approach the house. Lorries and diggers have turned up, likely to implement the plans to turn the old quarry into a reservoir. I hadn’t realised it would happen so soon.

  I’m not keen on change. I’ll miss the ruggedness of rocks in their jagged juxtaposition to the immaculate green. I’ll miss the freedom of gazing into its gorge-like depths. But the beauty of a large body of water is undeniable. Even if it is man-made, diverting a Lee tributary to add to the dwindling resources of Lee Valley Water. No drought warnings this year then.

  The quarry reclamation occupies my thoughts when I pull onto the gravel, and as I fumble my key into the lock to let myself in. Stepping inside, the atmosphere in the hallway is heavy. The relative lightness of late not sufficient to bring back the carefree Armstrong household. But, I’m glad I’m here, and not at The Saracen’s Head.

  With a notion to make tonight fun for my girls, an extended index finger taps thoughtfully at my lips. I’ve done cooking, both family feasts and romantic meals. With a grin, genuine this time, I decide it can be ‘Film Night.’

  I consult the TV guide and select a few possible movies, from family comedies, to intriguing sounding thrillers. I prepare popcorn, and some more nutritious film-fodder, and set them in little bowls on the coffee table.

  Wine seems too formal for tonight, so I make a punch: alcoholic, but mild enough for Jess to join in too. A glance out the window is my first clue to my eagerness for them to see how great I am.

  Excitement turns to apprehension when my girls don’t arrive back at the time I expect. Shrugging it off, I sit awhile on the couch admiring the spread I’ve created.

  I hear a car. Jumping up, I dash to the window. I knew it wouldn’t be them; the engine noise wasn’t right, but the crushing disappointment fits more with them having been missing for days, not an hour or so late home.

  I laugh a shrill chortle to myself, shaking my head in artificial amusement; I’m being silly—aren’t I?

  The banshee screech of death from my nightmares fills my memory. A shudder rocks my spine and stands my hairs up straight. “Please let them be okay,” I pray without knowing to whom.

  Why am I having those sort of feelings? Isn’t the nightmare in the past now?

  I’ve barely had the thought when the silence is shattered by the shrillness of the doorbell. I stumble over my feet, knees weak with worry.

  Who is it? I’m not expecting anyone.

  In the short distance to the door from the lounge, I have recreated my nightmare in vivid Technicolor. Imogen has crashed her Mini, not wearing her seatbelt, she’s flown through the window, and Jess, dead from the force of the blow to her beautiful head as it bounces off the dashboard, unprotected by the cushioning shield of the airbag because I haven’t fucking had it turned back on.

  In my mind, beyond the inch and a half of wood are stood two dour police officers with the worst news.

  Ring. Riiinnnggg! The shrillness hurts my ears this close. I reach my trembling fingers out and grasp the handle. It takes me three attempts to gather the strength to turn the latch and haul the door open.

  As it swings back on its hinges, my body wilts in expectation that my shattering vision will accost me now.

  “Dad! Come and help Mum get the shopping in!” she shouts, already skipping to the car.

  “Probably should have taken the Range-Rover,” Imogen calls, her head disappearing back into the boot of the Mini before she re-emerges clutching M&S bags in each hand.

  The relief almost floors me, but I walk with vigour across the drive and scoop half a dozen bulging bags of groceries from the car, striding back into the house before either of my girls’ witness the tears in my eyes.

  I don’t mention the film plan until all the shopping is away and we’re considering dinner plans. I’ve regained my composure by then.

  “Actually,” I announce, ushering Imogen and Jess towards my surprise in the lounge. “Ta-dah!”

  The delicious aroma of warm vol-au-vents, popcorn, and chips and dips (including healthy celery and hummus) fills our noses and my two favourite girls giggle at the feast before them.

  “I thought we could watch a film—‘family film night.’”

  “Yay!” cries Jess as she leaps across the room and flies onto the couch in one seamless movement. Patting the seat next to her, she’s looking at me, and as Imogen sits too, I’m soon sandwiched in a triple embrace.

  Glances of mirth are shared as we all enjoy the humour of the rom-com Jess chose. The ‘mildly alcoholic’ punch has gone to my head more than I would have expected—my body has been fooled it’s an innocuous soft drink and allowed its effects to run riot unchecked.

  My bulging bladder forces me to relinquish the cosiness of my cwtch on the couch. Hauling my tipsy self up, I have the presence of mind to offer refreshments. “Tea or coffee anyone?”

  “Oh, yeah. Please,” Jess answers without lifting her eyes from the screen. Imogen smil
es and nods before asking, “Would you like us to pause the film?”

  I shake my head and bid a brief farewell before hurrying to the downstairs toilet. Drying my hands, I amble into the kitchen, lift the kettle to check its weight and decide I need to put more water in. A smile plays on my lips at how perfect everything is.

  My vibrating trouser makes me jump from my reverie so violently, I drop the kettle into the thankfully empty sink. Fumbling for the lid which has fallen off in the kerfuffle, I pluck my phone from my pocket just in time to see Uma flash up once before voicemail takes the call.

  My heartbeat throbs in my ears as my mind races. Why is she phoning me now?

  “Everything okay, Dad?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Dropped the kettle in the sink!” I say with a tut and a rueful shake of my head. As Jess turns away, back to the film, my phone buzzes again, still in my hand. I almost drop that too when I see Uma’s next move: the voluptuous orbs of her perfect bare breasts are inches from my face in full Retina display. I could almost reach out and touch them.

  “What’s that?” Jess turns to ask from along the hall.

  I shrug. “Do I want to upgrade my downgrade!” I say with a classic head wobble.

  I press the power button with forceful rage. “Fuck off, Uma. Fuck right off,” I hiss under my breath. Forcing my phone back into my pocket, I slink back to my place in the lounge. Pausing before sitting, I use the hot mugs to plough their own resting places between the food dishes.

  Slumping down with my best effort of a carefree sigh, I stare at the film, taking in precisely none of it.

  “You okay?” Imogen asks with a frown.

  I plaster on a huge grin before declaring, “Never better.”

  As the comedy washes through my eyes, but fails to penetrate my mind, the merriment is lost on me. I laugh when they do and glug down full glasses of punch, one after another.

  Dourness radiates from me, infusing the atmosphere like a bitter stick of incense until all three of us have given up chortling along, and instead sit displaying body language so sour, even I notice: Jess leaning on the arm of the couch, chin in hand; Imogen mirroring her the other side, and me, bolt upright in the middle; a fleur-de-lis of gloom.

  I should be happy, or at least relieved. Some higher power must be smiling down on me, because if the phone call, or the nude text had happened minutes before or after, oh my god, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I feel like hitting myself. How did I get myself into this situation? Why do I have to be such a cliché?

  When the film ends, we all say it was good, and then they leave me; Jess up to her room, and Imogen to do the dishwasher of all things.

  I know I ought to go and help (although, I have done my bit today by providing the film feast), but while I’m on my own, I decide to check my phone.

  As the apple logo does its thing and the screen bursts into life, I can barely breathe.

  Ten new messages!

  I listen out for Imogen and can hear her clattering away in the kitchen. I open the first message. Uma’s naked bosom from a different angle, her sensual lips caught in the frame giving the picture far more allure.

  In the next images, her breasts are full frame, and from the other side. I wipe my mouth as saliva escapes my lips and dribbles down my chin as I literally drool at the ruby raspberry nipple, bursting with sultry sex.

  My lips quiver in fervour of their taste on my tongue. I can almost touch them; almost savour them. I pout, my mind taking me there; gorging on her in heavenly oblivion. I know I should stop—should never have started—but there are only a few more messages left to open, and I know I’m not going to stop now.

  In a seductive tour of flesh, a bigger picture is emerging—one of incremental movements displaying her taut skin, hinting at the pose she’s in; guiding my eyes lower and lower down her torso until picture number nine is of the very lowest portion of her firm fleshed, bronzed tummy with a hint of shadow where it dips deliciously to her most intimate place.

  I sit on the couch, phone in my hand, heart pounding as it pumps blood into my furthest extremity until it’s almost painful and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  I want to see picture number ten, but the fact I want to; am desperate to, makes me angry. She must be laughing to herself, in full knowledge I’ll be in this state. I wish the pictures weren’t there, but they are and I can’t resist them.

  With a deep breath, my finger pauses over the button on the screen to open number ten; expectation so high, a small whimper leaves my lips. I jump as a bead of cold sweat drops down my back. Heart thumping, breath rasping like a dirty phone call, I pause to be certain Imogen remains at a safe distance.

  Open.

  Thump, thump, thump I feel sick. And it’s not even what I expected! Now, I’m utterly at her mercy:

  ‘Naughty, naughty, Eliot!’ The message reads. ‘Whatever would your wife say?’

  The words burn my eyes. She’d know if I opened the last picture, I would have opened all the others. Which means she’s in no doubt I wanted to see her most intimate parts.

  How am I going to cope? The ‘I’m so happy with Imogen, thank-you-very-much,’ hasn’t fooled her; which is incredible because I wasn’t aware I was trying to fool her. But there’s no denying it. I wanted to see her; all of her, and I still do.

  “Are you coming to bed, or what?”

  She’s cross. I’ve left her to do the dishwasher to sit gawping at my phone. I sweat, certain for just a second that she knows.

  My smile is weak and sickly as I answer, I’m sure. And Imogen’s quick turn of her head shows she thinks so too. As she huffs from the room, I raise my eyes to heaven. What have I done?

  I haul myself up before my absence is even more peculiar and reach the top of the stairs in time to see Imogen disappear into the en-suite. As unrealistic as the possibility seems, with her obviously cross with me, I hope she isn’t in the process of pre-coital beautification—I’m really not in the mood.

  It was going so well. It can be again. I just have to put Uma in her place. With the weekend stretching out before me, I almost convince myself it will be easy. But a little voice, quiet but firm, tells me it won’t be in the least bit easy. It won’t even be possible.

  Prodded awake, not gently roused with a romantic continental breakfast, Imogen is up and dressed and staring at me; a woman on a mission. I prop myself up on my elbows, retracing in my mind a likely reason for her unsmiling countenance.

  The pictures pierce my thoughts like an arrow, and I wince, but she isn’t staring at me because of that. After nagging me to get out of bed, and go in the shower, she makes her plans for the day clear.

  No longer is she tiptoeing around me, wondering what’s wrong. Her attitude has taken on a mundane normality. Today, she is insisting we need to make the final choices before the hot-tub can be installed. I have debated excusing myself, but I’m hoping it can’t take that long, and maybe we’ll go somewhere nice for lunch.

  It does take long. Very long. It’s not helped by the fact I couldn’t care less. They all look the same to me: big pools of hot water with bubbles. I try to pick one as a favourite, but it sets Imogen off in a whirl of uncertainty and I soon wish I hadn’t opened my mouth.

  The final decision still hasn’t been made when we leave the showroom—apparently I’m being mardy because I’m hungry.

  It’s difficult to enjoy lunch with Imogen whilst she glowers at her Chicken Caesar Salad, so I perhaps overdo it a little bit on the beer.

  I carefully sidestep a row by offering a massage when we get home, which thankfully evolves into the intimacy we’ve been enjoying of late.

  Imogen seems to know better than to drag me round spa showrooms again on Sunday, and instead we go on a family walk. Jess offers the tiniest resistance before throwing herself whole-heartedly into the venture.

  It’s like years ago, when Jess was a little girl. She’s climbing on a hollow tree laying in a small copse.

  “
I used to play on this,” she declares, wearing a huge grin showing every one of her white teeth.

  “Used to?” I tease, and she proceeds to sit astride the log, grasping a dry stump of branch either side, and revving them like a motorbike.

  “Brrrrmmm, brrrmmm,” she purrs, and Imogen and I hold onto one another in silent guffaws. Wiping a joyful tear from my eye, thoughts of Uma seem a million miles away. But the photos aren’t. They’re within instant grasp in my pocket.

  Glancing back to Jess, who’s now ‘walking the plank’ before landing with a theatrical splash on the grassy ground. I guffaw a bit too hard, but I’m determined to wrest that floozy from my mind.

  I’m used to waking without having had the nightmare now. It’s been a week and all very normal. Stretching, refreshed, planting my feet firmly into Monday, I rummage in my bedside draw from where I’ve hidden temptation from myself.

  Plucking my phone victoriously from beneath pants and socks, certain Imogen is nowhere near, I switch it on for the first time since images of Uma’s naked body embedded themselves on my mind.

  No messages. Good.

  Monday morning assembly is as tedious as ever.

  As I find my mind wandering, each time the seductive pictures of Uma invade my thoughts, I force them into submission, projecting Mrs Monotone’s face over the top.

  Stifling a chuckle at my ingenuity, my attention is drawn to Uma’s red lips, mouthing something at me from across the sea of children’s heads as they sit in cross-legged acceptance of the school routine.

  I’m tempted to try to lip-read, but instead, I turn in disgust. What does she expect after her little performance on Friday?

  For the remainder of Mrs Monotone’s monologue, I give my finger nails careful consideration.

  A pupil’s demands of my time in questioning GCSE revision timetables (how would I know?) prevents me from my usual pole position sprint up the corridor and I’m quickly trying to turn to avoid the inevitability of Uma.

  I hear her cries from a distance before her hot breath is in my ear and she’s tugging at my shirt.