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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  I don’t hear her return, and as she puts a cold hand on each of my shoulders and smooches my neck, I jump. Not the effect she wants. Rushing my hand to meet hers and hold it in place only goes a small way to reassure her touch doesn’t repulse me.

  “See you later,” she sighs into my neck.

  “We should go away,” I blurt. “We need a holiday.”

  With that one simple outburst, I’ve smashed any doubt she may have had that she’s just imagining my difficulty being close to her. And I don’t know if I’ve said the right thing as she slowly raises herself from our awkward embrace.

  “Yeah. We need something,” she sighs.

  A distant call of “Bye,” echoes in the hallway as the front door clicks signalling Imogen’s departure.

  “Bye. Have a good day,” I call to the empty space.

  My eyes are raw with tears held at bay. One escapes now and trickles down my face. My nose channels it towards my mouth and I taste the salty disappointment as I swallow it and ingest it.

  Its arrival is like a burning ember, smouldering in the pit of my stomach, and I don’t know what will extinguish it. Eyes raised to heaven, I wonder if I’ll find out before it’s too late, and the smoking cinder becomes an uncontrollable inferno.

  I know, despite my firm hand with Uma, and her apparent comprehension of my wishes, I have to avoid her. I have to let these desires pass, which I’m sure they will.

  Avoiding the staffroom and the canteen all day not only achieves my solitude, but gets me ahead of my marking and lesson planning. I feel like a respectable teacher; like perhaps it is the vocation I’ve always pretended.

  Strolling from the school with new purpose, and late—not as soon as the bell rings—I drive home with a smile on my face. I recoil with pain as I move my leg, grateful for the E-class’s smooth automatic gearbox meaning, now it’s in position, I can leave it put, not having to press down on the clutch.

  The smile becomes fixed, and my eyebrows knot at growing perplexity in my concerns for my marriage. If only we could get away; without it being a ‘make-or-break’ sort of deal, I could keep thoughts of Uma at bay for long enough to banish her completely.

  Going to Bath and rekindling our first encounter sounds like a good idea, but is it too desperate? Like an admission we’re in trouble? Despite my suggestion of it, the idea is uncomfortable.

  Another idea strikes me with such force, my laughter at its ingenuity echoes round the interior of the Mercedes. “Why didn’t I think of that before,” I shake my head in rueful rebuke.

  Wasting no time, I speed dial while I’m driving (hands-free, of course.)

  “Come on. Pick up, pick up.”

  “Hello?” Imogen’s mother’s soft tones fill the cabin from the fourteen speakers dotted around every conceivable crevice of the E-class’s interior.

  “Nia! It’s your favourite son-in-law!”

  “I only have one son-in-law, Eliot,” she only half-jokingly points out.

  “That’s how I know I’m your favourite. Listen,” I say, before we can get into a discussion about things I could improve to secure my place in her limited affections. “Your daughter is super-stressed at the moment. She won’t admit it, but I’m sure all this new responsibility as a partner in her practice, well... It’s taking its toll.

  “I suggested we get away. Have a holiday or something, but she seemed a bit reluctant. What do you think?”

  I can hear her mind whirring. What mother could resist the call of her only daughter in need?

  “Well you should come here, of course. It’s beautiful this time of year.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” I declare, my grin broadening. Their company is always a chore, but bringing Imogen home for the nurturing I can’t seem to provide will only put me in their good books.

  “The thing is, Nia: I don’t know if I can persuade her to take the time off. Half-term is week after next, so it’s ideal for me, but...”

  “Leave it with me!” she cries triumphantly. “There’s no point her becoming ill. She hasn’t had time off for ages. It’s nearly two years since we’ve seen her... you both, and Jess,” she amends.

  “Exactly. She’s working too hard. Perhaps don’t mention I called. I don’t want her stressed thinking I’m worrying about her.”

  “Okay, bach,” (she never calls me that.) “Leave it with me.”

  And so it is, with surreptitious phone calls, Imogen is persuaded from work, and our little family are planning our trip over the mighty Severn to the peace of Wales.

  Ten days (including two weekends) without temptation, with the mountains and ocean as a back-drop, and the Lewis’s swimming pool as a distraction, everything will be okay.

  Half-term would have been time away from Uma anyway, but with Imogen at work every day, and the danger of how easily we could meet up if she decided to entice me; being hundreds of miles away suits me fine.

  I wonder if I could use my leg pain as an excuse to miss school until then, but it’s unlikely to be giving me much of a problem after a few days. I’ll just have to be strong, then after half-term, I’m sure I’ll be over her.

  The next few days prove easier to avoid Uma. With no assembly, only the canteen and staffroom have any risk attached, and I’m avoiding those; my leg giving me the perfect excuse for that at least.

  Packed lunches and a flask have aided my solitude. I’d be an easy target for Uma, sitting here, alone at my desk, but I’m confident the message has hit home. Confident, yet slightly disappointed.

  “What is wrong with you, Eliot Armstrong?” I shake my head in admonishment, sipping at my scolding coffee and wishing it had a shot of Irish in it.

  By Thursday, the isolation is hard, and I risk venturing beyond the confines of my classroom. At break, I limp to the staffroom. Cheers at my return are hailed by my colleagues, with an absent Uma.

  I want to ask if she’s in school. But the notion that she might be avoiding me knots in my stomach where it sits, festering.

  At home time, my heart lifts as soon as I step outside. It’s silly, really, but seeing the gap where Uma usually parks reassures me of her affection. Yes, it does bother me that I care. I know I’m being stupid, but let’s call it male ego—a remnant from my mid-life crisis.

  My phone reminds me over dinner (which Imogen has cooked again, a tart she prepared last night for re-heating), that the Mini has its appointment with Moorcroft BMW tomorrow. Perplexed, I remind Imogen.

  “I’ll take it,” she says. “Well you can’t exactly drive in your condition, can you?” she responds to my floundering lips, and she’s right. I’d half-hoped to be recovered by now, but operating the clutch would be painful.

  “Okay. Four o’clock. Is that going to work with your surgery times?”

  “It’ll be fine,” she barks. I think she is finding being nagged grating, so I refrain from adding ‘Don’t forget.’

  Imogen is working a full shift of ‘Doctor’s-on-call’ again this weekend. I’m glad we’re off to Wales. Despite it being an excuse, I do believe they are taking advantage since she made partner.

  Jess, as usual, is with Amy, cramming for exams again. They seem to have more exams than bloody lessons nowadays.

  She has kindly provided me with a sandwich and a beer before leaving me with my poor foot up while I find a film to sleep through. The marking in my briefcase gets a glance before I decide I’m well ahead of myself due to my week of classroom solitude, so I open my third beer (I’ve had to move from the couch to get it, but I’m not actually an invalid, even if I am playing the part well.)

  Imogen walks in to find me snoozing. She won’t have expected me to cook, she’s been nursing me tenderly all week, but she can’t hide the disappointment on her face.

  My groggy head, thick with sleep and alcohol, struggles to instruct my limbs into action. Imogen stops me before I injure myself further. “No, no. Don’t get up.” Bustling her bags down, and her coat off, she sighs and turns to me again. “Wanna
sandwich?”

  “I feel bad, cos you’ve just walked in, but yeah. Please.”

  “I’d offer you a beer, but...” she gesticulates to the empty bottles. I smile weakly.

  Imogen returns after a few minutes with a delicious round of sandwiches filled to brimming with chicken and ham and salad. They’re even topped with crisps. Perfect. “Thanks,” I proffer.

  Slumping beside me, she assumes control of the remote, asking with elevated eyebrows if I concur with her viewing choice. Surprisingly, in light of her busy day of doctoring, she selects a hospital drama. I nod. I’m not keen, but I’ve done nothing all day, so I don’t object.

  She decides when we should go to bed, and seems to have ruled out any romantic coupling because of my invalid status. It would be disrespectful to the care she’s given me all week if I suddenly recover for a quickie.

  Instead, we spoon, but closeness is lacking. I stroke the back of her head until she falls asleep.

  On Sunday, I’m determined to be less useless. Hobbling around the kitchen, I prepare a traditional roast pork with all the vegetables and potatoes in one tray so I can forget about it.

  Jess returns home. I wasn’t expecting her, but she tells me she’d mentioned her plans yesterday. When Imogen gets in, exhausted, she seems pleased with the efforts I’ve (we’ve) gone to.

  It’s not much, but it goes some way to repairing the tear in our closeness. One more week until we go away and everything will be fine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peering across the hall shows Uma in her place in assembly. She won’t return my gaze, but I’m not fooled. Her face doesn’t display her usual carefree scorn. She looks like she might have been crying, but I can’t allow myself to weaken.

  I look away, and don’t glance back, and when we stand up to leave, I make sure I’m a good way down the corridor before she’s even exited the hall.

  The walking stick is unneeded now, but I carry it with me to excuse myself if I need to hide in my room.

  Uma’s sad face looms in my mind. I don’t want her to be upset, but part of me is pleased. It was hard to take when I suspected for a moment she was avoiding me.

  She’ll be okay. She must have known we didn’t have a future. I certainly didn’t make any promises. At break, I decide to magnanimously show my face again. If she comes up to me, I’ll be civil. That can’t do any harm, can it?

  Limping in creates less excitement than last week. I can’t milk it forever. And yet again, Uma isn’t there. But, today, I know she’s in school.

  The question of her whereabouts sits on my lips before I suck it back in. It doesn’t matter. If she’s upset, I should give her space. It’s only fair.

  She’s missing at lunch time too. I wonder if I should seek her out, but decide against it.

  I’m still thinking about her over dinner at home and excuse myself to do some marking. It must seem suspicious—I never do that, but Imogen doesn’t appear bothered.

  I take the pile of papers from my bag and begin to read the first essay. The words won’t go in. I can put it off, or I can mark it anyway. I give a ‘B’. I skim through the rest of the pile with equal ambivalence and then sit back in my chair, hands clasped across my chest in contemplation.

  I have to try harder. What I want is a beer, but Imogen’s look of disgust when she came in from work on Saturday is etched on my mind.

  The next day disturbs me. On a trip to the photocopier, I spot Uma a way along the corridor. There’s no way she hasn’t seen me. I’m preparing what I might say, when she turns and walks in the opposite direction.

  So taken aback am I, I call out, “Uma, wait.”

  But she doesn’t wait. She hurries away from me and disappears. Now I’m offended. She can’t hold a grudge because I don’t want to ruin my marriage. And for what? She’s married too. What’s her problem?

  Tutting, I take out my frustration on the unfortunate photocopier, slamming the lid down onto the textbook with spite. Grabbing the finished copies from their tray with too much haste, I almost drop them on the floor. I’m relieved when I scoop them up safely, because I’d likely screw them up in a fit of pique if they dared cause me such bother.

  Churlishly, I award a large amount of homework to form 11G. It’s not their fault, but their sighs and frowns are satisfying. Aware I’m being no more than a bully, I consider retracting the instruction before they reach the door. But no. I hardly ever give any extra work. I’m fed up with everybody taking the piss. Uma’s treatment of me goes to show: I’m too soft.

  On Wednesday, I feel disappointed that I allowed myself to be drawn into Uma’s little game, and I keep out of sight in my class again. It’s not just childish retaliation. I had already decided that avoiding her was best. And if I don’t have contact at all before our trip to Wales, it will be perfect.

  By Friday, knowing I won’t see her for at least ten days of half-term travelling, I can resist the urge no more, and at break time, I pop my head into her room.

  There will be no repeat of my last visit to Home Economics. That took me by surprise. I’m prepared now. But I don’t want to go away with bad feeling between us. It’s getting out of hand.

  I wonder if I should arrive with a peace offering—nothing extravagant; maybe some Rolos from the vending machine.

  Chocolates in hand, I rap softly on the door. When there’s no answer, I knock again slightly louder. Still no answer.

  Trying the handle, it’s not locked. I push gently and it opens. I don’t know why, but instead of walking in, I peep around the door, as though I was expecting the sight which greets me.

  At the far end of the room, she’s there. And she’s not alone. Her back is facing me, sheathed in a silken blouse through which a frilly bra strap is visible. Her golden hair is being caressed as she is wrapped in a full embrace.

  “Eliot!” Bruce’s macho voice calls to me. Uma’s face remains entrenched in his neck.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to interrupt!”

  “Eliot! El! Wait up, mate.”

  I’m not your fucking mate, I think but don’t say. I’m halfway down the corridor when I open the packet of Rolos. By the time I make it to the staffroom, I’ve finished the lot.

  “You okay, Eliot?” a cute young maths teacher asks. I nod without speaking. Rude, but she’s too attractive to risk talking to.

  Get me to Wales. Get me to Wales and the mind-numbing company of my in-laws, now!

  The matter of packing my bags, then the car, keeps Uma from my mind, but whenever there is a quiet moment, all I see is her and him together.

  But it’s none of my business. Her moving on is the best thing that could happen. Give it time and I’ll get over it. And time is just what I’m going to have.

  And so it’s with a fresh determination, I sit in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, gazing at the uninspiring scenery of the M4 motorway.

  It’s getting better though. As we pass the junctions for Reading, then Bristol and Bath, I find it easy to fill my mind with loving memories of time with my wonderful wife. I allow a smile to play on my lips. It’s a smile of hope and relief.

  “When we get over the bridge, you can drive,” Imogen instructs. Despite it being her parents we’re visiting, she doesn’t like the winding roads. I look across from gazing out of the window.

  “No problem. I need a wee, anyway.”

  “There it is!” Jess declares from the back seat. And sure enough, squinting into the distance provides the first glimpse of Britain’s longest bridge, The Second Severn Crossing.

  Traversing the immense estuary is liberating. It truly feels like we’re leaving not only England, but our worries (albeit self-inflicted worries) behind.

  Taking full advantage of everything Magor Motorway Services has to offer, I return clutching a cardboard cup-holder with various large beverages and a box of sickly donuts.

  “You’re not going to eat those in the car!”

  I wouldn’t usually take notice of such a
comment, but as the whole purpose of this trip is to better my marriage, I pause before deciding to open the box to sell my wares.

  “Custard... Caramel... Peanut butter and jelly?” She’s hooked.

  By the time we’re turning off the M4 towards Newport, and beyond that, Brecon and the mountains, we are all three chomping donuts, their sticky fillings squirting down our chins, threatening to stain the tan leather upholstery.

  The sugar in the confectionary and coffees combine with the astounding scenery to generate excitement. Travelling isn’t something we have done for a couple of years, what with Imogen’s extra work-load and Jess’s GCSE’s, and so this feels like a real break away.

  I know my reasons for wanting respite were unconventional, but I sense I’m going to enjoy more than the time-out from Uma as the views become breath-taking. I wish Imogen was still driving because the occasional glimpses available to the driver are unfair.

  Mountains, soaring from the valley floor, strain to touch the scudding clouds of beckoning autumn with thick orange arms. Lakes near the peaks glisten in the early afternoon sun; accented buttons on a military coat. They’re peaceful now, but they’re ready to break the restraints of their Cambrian rock and fight to the death for whatever cause they’re called for.

  The sugar’s surely getting to me and making me all poetic!

  “How long now?” Jess asks from the back.

  “Who cares?” I say. “Just look out of the window at that view!”

  “About two or three hours, hun,” Imogen intercedes, shaking her head at my over-enthusiasm. But the thing is, this is likely to be the best bit of the trip for me. By day ten, I’m liable to feel murderous towards her suffocating parents.

  The scenery gets better and better, and the mountains bigger and bigger. Signposts to this castle ruin here, and that waterfall there tempt me to go off itinerary, but my girls aren’t keen.

  “Come on, El. Mum and Dad are waiting. They’ll have prepared food and everything.” Reluctantly, I ignore the tourist temptations and plug on.