Plenty of time to talk, and not much else. Great.
My love of the scenery is well known, and with the slow pace of the steam locomotive I’m able to take it all in. But with Simeon’s guide-book commentary, I think I’ll soon come to detest it.
In the event, it proves more palatable than entering into the discussion Imogen and Nia seem so keen to have with me.
Every lull in conversation provokes a dig in the ribs, spurring Imogen to tackle the elephant in the room; or the train.
But Simeon never fails to come up with some little known fact as we meander through the high mountains to Blaenau FFestiniog where we’re to board another train; this time one which travels deep underground the workings of an abandoned slate quarry.
I’m surprised. I thought he would have been as keen as the ladies to interrogate me. It must be something they haven’t mentioned to him, or I’m sure he would be.
The noise of the Slate Caverns makes it far easier to avoid the topic. But when it’s about to close, and we’re perusing the gift shop before our return journey, Imogen manages to corner me.
“Eliot,” she begins. She’d have been better blurting out her questions before I have a chance to sidestep. Not fully understanding my reluctance, I don’t want to tell her I’m not gambling. Not yet. I have to avoid the question “Well if not that, then what?” But I don’t want to lie to her either. Not if I can help it.
Pretending I haven’t heard her, I pluck the nearest thing Jess could have conceivable interest in from the shelf next to me. Holding it jubilantly aloft, I call out.
“Jess. Jess! Look. Pencil cases with pictures of the slate caverns on.”
When she understandably fails to race over and share my glee, I take my find to her and join in her search for crystals; picking them from a tray of hundreds and deciding which one ‘feels’ right.
I can’t believe what flaky shit I’m doing, but it sure kills a lot of time. So much, that when Simeon is barking orders for us to leave or we’ll miss the train, Jess still hasn’t chosen and leaves empty handed. Good job. They were extortionate.
I feign sleep as dusk falls on the journey back. We eat our last meal with Imogen’s family, before heading home tomorrow, in a fine restaurant overlooking the harbour.
Simeon is well known to the staff, and they give us their finest table. Being pleased to be in the company of Imogen’s father is a new experience for me, but until we leave tomorrow, I’m not letting him out of my sight.
Back at the mansion, I’m never more than a few feet from him, ready to engage in discussions arising from his vast local knowledge if Nia or Imogen get that look in their eye again.
“Careful, Eliot. Alcohol stays in your system longer than you realise,” he warns as I take more than my fair share of a bottle of vintage something-or-other he’s taken from his wine cellar.
He’s right. Maybe part of me wants to risk not going home. Missing work will mean missing Uma. If that is the case, it’s a foolish part of me, because Imogen is more than capable of making the drive back, even if she would moan about the winding roads.
I sip slowly in deference to my orders. My eyes have glazed as thoughts try to reassure me it’s going to be fine.
If I can avoid the gambling accusation, I can avoid raising further suspicion. I know the real reason I’ve been weird, and thankfully Imogen and Nia don’t accept it. With this perfect opportunity, all I have to do is get back to my normal self to banish their suspicion.
And to do that, all I have to do is keep away from Uma.
Chapter Eighteen
Frantic fingers drum the steering wheel, my vision blurred, not by poor weather, but by welling tears. I feel sick.
The terrifyingly familiar figure of Death, swooping in front of the car makes me shriek in anguish.
Swerving to escape the collision which seems certain. The horrific sound of twisting, bending metal; the stench of burning brakes and oil overwhelm my addled senses and I lose consciousness.
Tap, tap, tap on the glass. She’s there: the hooded figure of Death. I can see her face, fraught with agony, the face is Jess. And then it’s Imogen. Both my beautiful girl’s faces merge before mutating into a grotesque hag who beckon’s me from the car.
Struggling with the handle, I throw open the door, and step into the world of destruction, silent now after the apocalypse seconds before.
My heart thumps in my chest, breaths rasping in and out of my lungs. The hag stands before me, gesturing to the broken plastic triangle of my previous nightmares. I know what it is. It’s the shattered rear light cluster of Imogen’s Mini.
What with the morphing faces of Imogen and Jess, there’s no doubt what has happened, so the crone’s obsession with pointing at the same things over and over baffles me.
With a banshee shriek, she shoots to the sky to join similar gowned figures, circling like the vultures they are. Blinking, suddenly I can’t see again. My eyes point where I expect the crashed car and motionless female figure—it’s all so familiar—but my sight is hindered by something.
Shuddering at a tickling on my cheek, a droplet reaches my lips and my tongue.
Blood.
With a gasp, I look around me again. Torrents of red rain are tumbling from the sky, pooling on tree leaves; cascading into ever-growing puddles on the floor. Even in my dream, I know I’ve seen it all before, which only makes it more perplexing.
I stare in horror as the pools merge into one all-consuming lake of blood; the level rapidly rising from a gush of gore covering my shoes and rising up my leg.
Scanning the horizon, desperate for sight of Imogen and Jess. I don’t see them, but there is a car in the foggy distance.
The blood is up to my chest and I’m treading the gruesome liquid to keep from drowning.
“Imogen! Jess!” I scream. I have to know they’re okay.
“It’s okay, Eliot. I’m here.” She strokes a soothing hand across my forehead. Gasping for breath, I clutch her fingers to my face, streaked with tears.
Gazing into the loving calm of her almond eyes, I try to speak. “I’d lost you again. I’d lost you.”
“We tried to wake you. You seemed upset.” Jess throws her arms around me. “Was it the same nightmare?” I nod.
Jess glares at her mother. I frown in failing comprehension. “You gonna tell him?” she challenges. Imogen shifts uncomfortably.
“Tell me what?” My mind races, but the obvious possibility is what Imogen confesses to. Or rather, nods along to Jess’s accusation.
“Mum still doesn’t wear her seatbelt!” My eyes widen in disbelief. I was certain Uma was the cause of my returning nightmare, but is it possible it is a precognition? Somehow I intuited Imogen’s continuing foolhardiness?
Shaking my head, I’m speechless.
“Sorry, it’s so uncomfortable.”
Finding my voice in a fit of incredulous rage, I yell, “I’m sure flying through the windscreen will be a hell of a lot more ‘uncomfortable!’”
“Yeah, Mum. I can’t believe you still don’t wear it.”
“How? I mean, didn’t you get it fixed?” I splutter. “It was booked in, but you said you’d do it instead of me because of my injury. Was that a lie?”
“No! I meant to. I did, but things got hectic and I had to cancel, and well, I forgot about it then.”
Taking a few deep breaths, I feel my nerves calm enough to climb down from my high horse, and demand that I rebook it and take it in myself this time.
She sheepishly agrees.
The silence of the journey home isn’t entirely Imogen’s fault. My mind is playing over my recurring nightmare, but Uma is looming in my thoughts too. I’m happy to let her think my unsmiling face is because of her. She really has pissed me off.
Halfway, beyond confident my supposed gambling problem won’t be getting a mention, I attempt to lighten the mood with some normal conversation. Jess jumps on the chance and we’re soon back to our affectionate normality.
&
nbsp; Everything is going well. I’m sure we’re on the home straight now. A couple of months, and my revisited mid-life crisis will be a distant memory. And if I can make sure Imogen’s Mini gets its repairs, the nightmares will surely cease too.
With a new purpose, I ponder the meaning of my repetitive vision. Despite the terror, my hideous visions could be seen as an incredible gift.
Have I saved Imogen’s life? We’ll never know for sure, because the very thing I’m cautioning against won’t happen as a result of that very warning. But I’m beginning to be more and more certain that saving her is exactly what this amounts to.
And there could be more. Maybe I’m looking at all this the wrong way. If I’m seeing the future; a possible future anyway, that’s incredible. Could this be the start of something? Some far greater purpose where my visions save more and more people? Will I be averting more disasters?
Because If my dreams can save my wife and daughter, who else?
Chapter Nineteen
Monday morning, and I’m up, dressed and refreshed after a nightmare free sleep. Imogen is to continue driving the Range Rover until the Mini is sorted. The only thing I have to concern myself with is continuing to evade Uma Taylor.
I sneak into school, hidden behind a crowd of sixth formers. Even Alix fails to notice my arrival. Taking my place at the side of the cross-legged children, I examine my watch and my fingernails for a good while before even allowing myself a glance towards Uma. When I do, my eyebrows arch in surprise—she isn’t there.
Brows gradually lower over the course of the assembly. When we’re asked to stand ready to file out, I realise I haven’t listened to a single monotonous word.
Not expecting Uma to recover from whatever has kept her away, at lunchtime, I’m still reluctant to mingle in the staffroom. Keeping to myself, I grab a sandwich from the cafeteria and take it back to my classroom.
A quick search of the internet brings up the local BMW dealership, and I call them to book in Imogen’s Mini. When I mention the car’s registration, the receptionist’s tone changes.
“Will you make sure you bring the car in this time, please? It causes a problem for our workshop team when people don’t show up.”
I apologise, and she soon succumbs to my charm. I’m confident she’s looking forward to seeing me, but unfortunately, they’re booked all this week, and so it’s next Monday before they have a slot. That’s fine. Imogen has agreed to use the Range Rover until then, so I can relax.
With a sigh, I click open my briefcase and get on with marking. By the time the bell rings signalling the end of lunch, I’m finishing the last of the work. When my next class comes in, free from the shackles of being behind, we have an enjoyable debate about Oliver Cromwell and the Restoration of the Monarchy.
The Saracen smiles at me as I drive past, beckoning me in. It would be so nice to wash away the stresses of late with a couple of ales, but mission ‘don’t be weird’ prevents me.
Instead, I call into the convenience store and pick up ingredients for dinner. I don’t feel like cooking, having been spoiled in Wales for ten days, but I want to wheedle my way back into Imogen’s good books.
An uninspiring carbonara is on the menu, I decide, but with tagliatelle rather than spaghetti. Finished off with an Italian red from our wine club offerings—that should make her happy.
She looks exhausted when she gets home. The time away has built up a back-log of paperwork which she gets on with immediately after dinner. Jess is at Amy’s—again—so I’m left to entertain myself.
I wonder for a moment if Uma is trying to call me, and what must be going through her head when she can’t. Imagining her disappointment both thrills me and prods my guilt. If I wasn’t so weak-willed, I could deal with it better. But she’s the one who’s made it difficult with the inappropriate pictures and comments.
I slump into the deep cushioning of the soft leather sofa. Aiming to save some wine for my wife, by the time I’m on my third glass, I forget and finish it. The warmth of mild inebriation feels good; comforting.
I notice my hand tap-tapping on my knee. It’s my first clue to what’s going on inside. My heart feels tight in my chest, not painful, more a knot of emotion.
The feeling rises to my throat and I want to cry out; wail into the night, I’m so unhappy, sitting here on my own while my wife with her big important job does her big important work.
I can kid myself that I’m making a difference in kids’ lives; that I’m fulfilling my destiny, but it doesn’t feel like that. I feel the same as I did all those months ago when Uma first popped into my life.
It’s a good job I removed her contact details, because my thumb is itching to make the movement that would let me hear her sultry voice; my eyes wet with the possibility of seeing her delectable curves. She’s never too busy for me. I always seem to be her priority, even over her husband. Especially over her husband.
“Coming to bed?” Imogen pokes her head into the lounge. The television has gone into standby and I didn’t even notice. She must wonder why I’m sitting in silence with a wine-stained glass in my hand.
I want to speak but my throat is still thick with the unspent force of my restrained emotion. Staring at her, no sound coming from my gaping mouth, eyes moist with the truth threatening to pour from them, her eyes reciprocate as she turns briskly away and pads up the stairs.
“In a minute,” I manage to rasp, and I’m sure I hear her mumble, “Whatever.”
There’s no sign of her when I wake in the morning, and Jess stayed at Amy’s, so I’m alone again.
I can’t face breakfast. Gazing into the depths of the larder, various choices put their hands up desperate to be picked, but I close the door. “I’ll grab a coffee at break,” I tell them.
It’s one of those days, when I arrive at school, I don’t recall how I got there. I must have glanced at the Lee as it snaked its way across The Meads; I must have seen the gruesome Saracen’s Head; I must have crawled through the morning traffic, past the old Town Hall, but I remember none of it.
As I pull into my space, noting the absence of Uma’s S-Class Mercedes, I am pondering, with arched eyebrows, if I’m safer driving on auto-pilot? I’m still in a haze of thought when I walk into class to take the register and seem to complete most of the morning without engaging my brain.
I don’t spot Uma at break time, nor in the canteen at lunch. Declining Jonesy’s gurning invitation to sit with him, I take my tray to a quiet corner to eat alone—or rather with some first-formers who don’t speak to me, but who graze in gratifying silence in my presence.
As they shift uncomfortably away to clear their partially finished food, a prick of conscience gets me as the mild berating from the dinner lady for not doing a good job assails my ears. But I had to be alone with my thoughts.
On my way back to class, I make the foolhardy decision to call into Uma’s Home-Economics room. I don’t know what I want to say, but some notion of re-kindling our platonic friendship is on my mind.
When I arrive to the unexpected face of another colleague; a Mrs Teale (or something); a limited stature, pale prune of a woman usually to be found in the kitchen area, teaching cooking, she expects my surprise and offers explanation without being asked.
“Mrs Taylor’s not here, I’m afraid.” Her brown smile makes me retch at the idea of eating any of the offerings from cooking class. I smile in a ‘doesn’t-really-matter’ way, but she continues her explanation. “She’s off at the moment.”
I don’t bother to add, “So I gather,” but nod and display a purse-lipped smile.
Leaning closer, even though she’s across the room, in a loud stage whisper she adds, “Personal problems,” then pulls some strange faces that I suppose are expressing her opinion as to what those personal problems might be.
I’m sure she’s directing them at me; either because she thinks I should understand due to my close relationship with her, or more likely, that she thinks I’m to blame.
S
he confirms that, when she calls out as I’m leaving, “Perhaps you should give her a call?” And despite my intentions of moments ago, I have no plan to call her. I’ve had another lucky escape.
My mood is okay again. I recognise my agitation for what it is and know it’s just a rough patch on my clear sailing through my self-imposed crisis.
The monotony of choosing what to buy for dinner on my journey home wounds me, but I defend myself against the numbing blow, confident I’ll get the measure of this foe.
Staring at the shelves, I can’t think of anything to cook. My hand even pauses on a ready-made pizza for a moment, before I wrest myself from the clutches of convenience and decide on seared sea-bass in a flurry of emergency inspiration.
As I make my preparations, adding herbs and spices to olive oil and butter ready to pan fry the fish, my hypnosis is broken by the unexpected ringing of the telephone.
Of course, no-one but a psychic expects the phone to ring, but this is unusual because everyone phones on our i-phones nowadays. The only time this loud kitchen carbuncle rings, it’s always someone telling me about PPI, or inquiring into the car accident I haven’t had so I’ll pass my bank details to them to receive my ‘compensation.’
As annoying as those calls are, it doesn’t explain the trepidation I’m wrestling with as I stare at the ringing phone.
It’ll stop in a minute. It won’t ring forever. But it doesn’t stop. Nine, ten, eleven rings and it’s still going. Grabbing the handset up from the cradle, I press the earpiece to my head gently, and listen. Nothing. The line is dead.
My heart returns to normal speed and I begin brushing a clove of garlic around the inside of my salad bowl to give a hint of flavour, but not over-power the sea-bass.
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 73
