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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  The last clutch of massive peaks squeezes us towards the coast as we turn steeply to Barmouth. Up and up the steepest hill, the road turns almost back on itself to accommodate the gradient. A final corner, and there it is.

  Like something from Scooby-Doo, it stands, three stories high, turrets and all, reminding me how well-off they are. It’s nice, but I think my parent’s place in Scotland is better. Not as big, but it boasts its unique Armstrong design.

  The front door is open already as I pull the Range Rover into the driveway. Imogen’s parent’s stand, arms folded, and I’m sure her dad even glances at his watch. We didn’t say what time we’d be here, so I don’t know what his problem is.

  Imogen and Jess are out of the car before I’ve even taken off my seatbelt.

  “Imogen, darling. How are you?” Nia gushes. “Jessica. Aren’t you quite the little lady? Courting?”

  “No-one calls it that anymore, Grandma!” That’s as far as she goes with her reply, and I’m relieved. I don’t want to hear it.

  Nia’s dad removes himself from the light hug he’s become reluctantly involved with. “Eliot,” he says with a questioning intonation.

  “Simeon,” I riposte with a nod. He offers an outstretched hand which I take. His crushing grip is so unnecessary, but I’m prepared. Staring into each other’s eyes, it could develop into a wrestling match right there on the porch if one of us doesn’t let go soon.

  I know this show of force means a lot to him, so I defer. Removing my gaze, I loosen my grip. He slaps me on the shoulder, “Good to see you!” he enthuses now he’s won. “How’s work?”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “You’re over that whole ‘being passed up for promotion’ malarkey? Any other prospects on the horizon?” I sigh. He already bloody knows the answer.

  “No. I’m happy where I am. I think it worked out for the best. It would have been a lot more admin, not teaching. And that’s always been what I love. You know? Making a difference in kids’ lives?” I thump my heart and squint my eyes. I can bullshit with the best of them.

  “Quite,” he says, fully aware I’m taking the piss, but unsure how to antagonise me further. And he’s got ten days. There’s no rush.

  After a tour of the improvements they’ve made to ‘Plas Ty Dal’ (Tall House), as if it needed any, we are treated to finest fillet steak that Simeon cooks on a huge range in their huge kitchen, pronouncing the Welsh Black to be the tastiest meat around.

  It is delicious, but I just can’t enjoy it.

  “Do you actually like steak, Eliot?” I pause, forkful poised between plate and mouth.

  “Yes, of course! It’s one of my favourites.” The gurning disbelief Simeon displays makes me want to stab the fork into his face. Instead, I refrain from eating the next mouthful and indulge him with a cheery, “Why?”

  Dabbing his lips with a starched linen napkin, he’s shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing. I’m curious, that’s all. Serving best fillet steak ‘well done’ seems sacrilege. But, if that’s how you like it, who am I to judge?”

  Whom indeed.

  “I merely wondered if you’d prefer something else?” ‘A burger perhaps, or chicken nuggets?’ he doesn’t say, but he might as well. I’m tempted to ask for ketchup, just to annoy him.

  “No. Thank you. It’s fantastic. The best steak ever,” I declare, forcing him to smile graciously. You won’t rile me so easily, buddy!

  The wonderful scenery takes on a new meaning: annoyance. Simeon’s propensity to show off means I have to simper along to him boring on about every peak you can see from the house, and stories of derring-do of his winter hikes climbing frozen waterfalls, hundred mile hill cycles, and frozen water swims.

  “If you’re here for New Year, we do a swim from the beach there.” I sip my wine and smile politely.

  “I’m not sure it’s my thing,” I say.

  “You don’t run, do you?” he says, looking me up and down as if I’m not in great shape.

  Shaking my head, “I walk,” I say, hoping that shuts him up, but he won’t fold so easily.

  “Really? Is there anywhere worth walking where you live?” And now the scenic grandeur is seriously beginning to grate.

  “It’s not mountainous, obviously...”

  “And no beaches...”

  “...And no beaches,” I seethe, “But it is very pleasant. Very English,” I challenge.

  “Yes. I suppose.”

  That’s as far as our conversation goes for days. After the weekend, I join the three ladies shopping in Porthmadog and Bangor. We even take a trip along the coast to the unofficial capital of North Wales—Liverpool.

  We spend plenty on Simeon’s credit cards. He’s neglected to join us due to business obligations, and I’m grateful for small mercies.

  With only a few days of our visit left, Simeon calls me to his study. I’m in trouble and it feels like being back in school.

  I sit opposite him, the vast expanse of his oak captain’s desk a physical expression of the emotional barrier between us. The chair I’m obliged to occupy is small. Not just lower than Simeon’s, but narrow too, forcing me to sit with my shoulders hunched and my arms resting unnaturally in my lap.

  I’m wondering what on earth I’m doing here, but with his next two words, he removes all doubt and stops my heart dead.

  “Who’s Uma?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’ve had enough. What can he possibly know, or think he knows? My little dalliance with Uma is in the past and I’ve come here to make sure it stays that way, and he wants to bust my chops over it. With a cold stare, I answer, “A work colleague.”

  “And that’s all she is?”

  “Yes.” I’m not giving in to his tactics.

  Contemplating me from across his desk, steepled fingers prod his chin as he plans his next move. “And what’s this dream about? This... nightmare?”

  Relieved we’re no longer talking about Uma, not directly anyway, I elaborate more. “It’s been bothering me for weeks, but it’s okay now.” His expression remains unchanged. “I kept having these awful visions: An Angel of Death taking me to the scene of a terrible car crash. After a few nights of having the same nightmare, I realised it was Imogen and Jess in the accident!”

  My mouth dries under the heat of his unremitting glare. “It turns out,” I manage to utter, “Imogen hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt, and the airbag was turned off after we baby sat for Imogen’s friend, Susie?” I force through my sandpaper throat conversationally in a desperate attempt to calm the waters, before adding, “When she went away...”

  Still the granite stare.

  “Not your guilty conscience?”

  “No!” I protest.

  “You don’t worry Imogen will leave your sorry arse and take Jess with her?”

  “No! Why are you saying that?”

  Glaring at me again, he spits, “Listen to me, Eliot.” He’s shifted forward in his seat, towering over me despite our similar height standing. “You’ve always been a disappointment.”

  “Thanks very much!”

  “I said listen!”

  I’m so tempted to walk out, but I want to find out what he knows.

  “You haven’t kept my daughter in the manner to which she’d become accustomed, but at least you haven’t held her back.”

  That’s how I feel, but it stings to hear it from my father-in-law’s lips. I sink in my seat, wishing it could be over.

  “But if these nightmares are what I believe they are: your guilt relating to this ‘Uma’ woman surfacing in your sleep, then mark my words: you’ll be sorry. You will incur my immense displeasure.”

  Who does he think he is? The Welsh Mafia or something. Seeing an opportunity to calm the situation, I decide to do my best to reassure him.

  “Rest assured, Simeon. That is not what those dreams were about. And I promise, on my life... On Jess’s life, nothing is going on with Uma.”

  With a knowing nod, he sees right through m
y protestations. “Nothing is going on. I believe you.” I smile at our apparent common ground. “But I don’t believe nothing ever has.”

  My stuttering retort is met with a raised palm of contempt. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to know. I’m sure my daughter is no fool and has forgiven you for her own reasons. But don’t you dare let her down again!”

  With that, he stands, pushing his chair back violently. Walking past my floundering frame, he turns upon reaching the door. “Coming?” he barks, and strides from the room.

  Prizing myself from the confines of the chair, I move to follow, but nausea slows my pace. How does he know? Imogen must have told him; or Nia. I gasp. She’s tried so hard to satisfy me, and I’ve thrown it back in her face. I bet she knows Uma is the real reason I wanted this break.

  Dinner is awkward. Attempts to bring me into the conversation are thwarted by my failing to concentrate. I flash my all-conquering white-toothed smile and assure I’m fine, but any fool could see I’m not.

  And then my phone buzzes. Everybody hears it.

  “Aren’t you going to get that,” Imogen challenges.

  “No. We’re on holiday. It’ll just be PPI or something.” The shrill ringing goes unchecked for six excruciating blasts on our eardrums and I don’t even glance at it. I make no attempt to remove it from my pocket to see the number flashing on the screen. I move no muscle in my entire body. A rabbit in the headlights, I wait for it to stop.

  They can’t possibly believe me, but as the last ring’s reverberation dies down, like a pre-ordained signal, they return to chatting in a good impression of carefree camaraderie.

  How can I explain my weirdness? Particularly in light of knowing they know? But what if I had looked? And pictures of god-knows-what part of Uma’s anatomy were suddenly clear for all to see?

  I’ve done the right thing. I’ve bought myself time to come up with something.

  As Nia begins to tidy away the plates, I offer to help, but she says it’s fine. “You all go through to the lounge. I’ll only be a minute popping these in the dishwasher,” she says with a cheery smile.

  “Can we watch a film?” Jess asks brightly. “I love us sitting together.”

  The plan is readily agreed. Whilst walking the few steps to the lounge, I excuse myself to the toilet.

  “Don’t you want to choose what we watch?” Imogen’s cold tone tells me she knows exactly what I’m about to do.

  I flash my smile again, my cheeks reddening in recognition of its failure to reach its target. “I’m easy. You guys choose. I’ll only be a minute.”

  There are two toilets downstairs, but I go to the en-suite in our guest quarters. I need to be alone. I’ll come down in my slippers, citing that as the reason I’ve climbed two flights of stairs.

  My jelly legs find the climb difficult to the point I’m using the handrail for support to heave myself the last few steps. Stepping into our room, I quietly close the door behind me, walk to the bathroom, and slide the bolt into place.

  Sitting on the toilet, the charade of actually doing what I said I’d be doing failing to appease my shame. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I am certain who the missed call is going to be from. And I’m absolutely correct.

  1 missed call- Uma taunts me from my screen. My hand is shaking as I swipe to hear the message she left upon no answer.

  My eyes widen at the result. The pornographic pictures from her last message are all open in full retina reveal. As it dials voicemail, thankfully they fade to be replaced by my message options.

  I click to listen. Pressing the phone so hard against my ear, it’s threatening to embed into my skull, I wait with bated breath for her voice.

  “Eliot?” she says, not with the oozing sex-appeal I’m used to. “It’s Uma. Can we talk?”

  I’m fuming. So that’s her game. Make me jealous with Bruce, and now she wants to talk! I don’t think so.

  Without waiting to listen to more, I delete the message. Avoiding looking at the images, I select and delete them too. One final measure, I block and remove Uma as a contact from my phone; something I should have done a long time ago.

  Strolling into the lounge, stopping short of a carefree whistle, I quickly join the debate of what film to watch with a sense of relief. I have two more Uma-free days. I’m going to make the most of them.

  Fingers drum the top of the steering wheel. I stare, mesmerised by the three-pointed star in the centre. The motion of it moving side to side is the first clue of the winding road I’m on.

  I jump at a tear as it trickles down my face. Batting it away, I realise I can’t see. Squinting, I can barely make out the road in front of me. The bright beam of my headlights reflect back at me from heavy rain, combining with the thick wetness of my eyes.

  I scan the narrow lane for a place to stop. Tail lights of a car up ahead pierce my hazy head. My eyes open fully, their moistness distorting even more my ability to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  They’re familiar. I’m sure I know the lights. With a gasp of recognition, my mouth opens to call out a name. Before I do; before I hear the name and unlock who I’ve seen, the windscreen is filled with the floating apparition of Death as it falls from the sky.

  Swerving hopelessly serves only to demonstrate how impossible it is to avoid the inevitable. The squeal of brakes locking sears my head as the wheels slip on the wet surface of the lane. Blind, I have no chance to rectify the spinning.

  The sound of a thousand ships hitting a thousand harbour walls, metal twisting to its breaking point and snapping like the first strand of a fraying guitar string, fills me and absorbs me like pooling water and I become one with it.

  Everything is black. The residual echo of the immense momentum as it comes to rest at this precise moment fades, wave upon wave of sound dispersing into the night sky until it is silent. There is no sound at all. No thud of my heart beating. No hiss of my breath. Silence.

  Sucking a creaking breath from the morning air, I’m gagging again. Desperate to get the words out, for someone to tap my back, or perform the Heimlich, or something.

  Panic burns my streaming eyes as my brain tries to remember how to breathe. When I think it’s too late; my very last breath the croaking warble of death, emergency protocol kicks in: the little numbskulls in my brain zipping down fireman’s poles to reactivate oxygen intake, the grating buzz of their alarm hurting their tiny ears, and the glow of ‘red-alert’ radiating from my face, puce with the strain, as air is finally sucked in and I’m alive.

  Coughing up spittle that entered the wrong chamber in the confusion, I’m able to breathe normally once more. The numbskulls relax, “Disaster averted, guys. Good job!”

  Taking a few deep breaths to bring oxygen levels back to satisfactory, I glance around the room for the first time. I’m alone. Where’s Imogen? Throwing my dressing gown on, I pad over to the door. Something makes me open it cautiously.

  Despite the size of the house, I detect talking. Like a child creeping downstairs to listen to his rowing parents, desperate to glean the reassurance that everything will be okay, I reach halfway and wait with bated breath.

  “I haven’t anything concrete to go on,” Imogen’s voice echoes from the kitchen. “Just El being weird. I mean, why did he ask to come here? And why on earth didn’t he want you to tell me?”

  “I suppose we can deduce from that, he isn’t planning to leave you. He wanted to get away from something or somebody.”

  After Nia’s reassuring words, there is silence for a while before she speaks again. “I know what your dad thinks—that he’s having an affair.” I can barely contain my squeal of anguish. But that isn’t news to me. What is news—great news—is Nia, and presumably Imogen too, don’t believe it.

  I let out a gentle sigh.

  “Well, what then?”

  “There’s more than one reason for a man to feel guilty. You say he’s been coming home late, smelling of drink, not perfume.” More silence whilst I assume confirmatory nodding takes
place.

  “Well then. An affair seems unlikely, doesn’t it? He’s drinking, obviously, but what’s he running away from? My guess is he’s gambling.”

  I hear Imogen gasp.

  “I can tell he feels... like he’s second fiddle. Your career is going so well. He was so dejected being passed up for promotion, you can understand it.” Bless her, defending me. “Don’t panic, but I worry he may have got himself into debt, and into trouble with the wrong kind of people.”

  “Shit! Do you really think so? Of course. It makes so much sense.” She’s so relieved I’m apparently faithful to our marriage, she sounds pleased I might be an alcoholic gambler. “What should I do?”

  “You’ll have to confront him, but gently. He’ll deny it, of course. But if he has got into trouble, it’s unlikely to be something we won’t be able to sort out. Our coffers are quite full, Imogen, bach. Just so long as he stops.”

  I’m so thrilled at Nia’s support, I want to rush in, tell them I’m not in any trouble, but I don’t. Until I can be confident of not ‘acting weird’ anymore, it could be the perfect smokescreen.

  Eyes turned to heaven, I mouth, thank you, and creep back upstairs to shower.

  Hot water crashing all around me, I’m liberated in my thoughts. “Why the sodding nightmare again?” I ask the steam. And why was it different? I was driving. It was me who had an accident. I’m sure it’s a metaphor: Uma calls me; I have a nightmare. And a car crash, how perfect. That’s exactly what Uma and I are together—a car crash.

  But it’ll get better if I keep ignoring her. She can’t phone me, or text me anymore, so all I need to do is wait. Hearing that conversation between Imogen and her mum is the lifeline I needed. If I can’t make things work now, I don’t deserve them to.

  Apart from deciding I’m most likely a heavy drinking gambler in debt, in my absence, the day’s itinerary has also been decided. We’re not going to Zip-World, despite every shop we go in displaying leaflets telling of a one hundred kilometre per hour zip wire which is apparently the longest and fastest in Europe. And we’re not going white-water-rafting, no. We’re not doing any of the things I’ve been keen on doing all week. We’re going on a steam train.