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

by Michael Christopher Carter

  I shouldn’t be driving, but I have no choice. Gripping the steering wheel hard, I force air into my lungs, hold it for a ten count before exhaling. After three or four repetitions, I’m in danger of hyperventilating, but I am calmer.

  Grabbing at the gear stick, I select D for drive and brush the accelerator with my right foot. Pulling out of the lay-by, I rumble up the quiet track up to where it joins an almost as quiet country lane.

  The first spot of rain is big and makes me jump. But anything would make me jump now. It’s quickly followed by billions of its brethren, tumbling from the grey sky like trillions of watery acrobats; each meeting their demise on the hard surfaces below before joining together; a sum greater than their parts.

  Trailing little rivers run down the screen. They mesmerise me and soothe my cramping brain. With a swish, they’re obliterated by the automatic wipers as they squeegee across the glass.

  Glancing both ways, I join the lane and drive slowly. It’s all my vision will allow. Overriding the wiper function to speed it up, I’m dismayed I still can’t see. I realise with a gruesome chuckle that the water I’m trying to clear is in my eyes.

  Squeezing tears from my lids, they fill again at once so I press on. I become aware of my fingers drumming distractedly on the steering wheel. Staring at the hypnotic three-pointed star between my hands, I gasp as I recognise where I am.

  For the briefest moment, I wonder if it’s all a dream, but I know it’s not. But I am living it. This scene right now is exactly what I’ve seen dozens of times. Exactly!

  Knowing what might be about to happen should warn me, but it’s too late. As my eyes strain to see what is up ahead, I see the tail lights only when I am upon them.

  Turning hard, the traction control kicks in just in time to prevent a full sideways skid, but not in time to keep the twitch from transferring to my already shaky hands. My leg travels up and down as the brakes anti-locking safety feature judders into action.

  I squeal.

  In my mind, Uma has grabbed my foot from beyond the grave. In the seconds it takes for logic to work its magic, it’s too late and impact is unavoidable.

  Bracing myself, my leg still oscillating up and down, I brace as the first crunch of breaking plastic reaches my ears.

  But there is no more. The first impact is also the last. The relief explodes in tasteless guffaws as my shaking hands finally release their grip of the steering wheel.

  Tap. Tap, tap.

  A hooded figure stands the other side of the smeared and foggy window peering in.

  Death.

  Tap, tap, firmer this time. The ignition still on, with a hollow acceptance of my nightmare becoming real, I lower the window.

  The figure leans in to me. “Eliot?”

  “Imogen. Oh, my love what are you doing here?”

  “Me? Why are you here, and whose car is this?”

  She doesn’t know. Thank goodness. ‘Thank you, God’ I think with a glance to the sky, then baulk at my callousness, and the realisation that what I’ve done is unlikely to have God’s stamp of approval.

  My poor brain is forced to pump some bullshit reason why I’m in Uma’s car. My mouth dries as I remember with horrific clarity that Uma has died for no reason at all. It was my repulsion at Imogen knowing about us that made me react so violently. And she was only bluffing.

  This time the laughter cannot be contained, and I’m holding my sides with distraught mirth.

  “What’s so fucking funny? Get out and see what damage you’ve done to my car.”

  I open the door and walk to Imogen’s Mini, still chuckling.

  “Eliot!” she rebukes.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s relief. This is my nightmare. This is it. It’s kept me awake for weeks; months, and this is it!” Even Imogen is smiling now. “The road, the rain, even being in the strange car, it all fits. Except it was a lot, lot worse. All those sleepless nights for what?” I examine the back of Imogen’s car for the first time. “Some slight rear-end damage!”

  “Well, I’d like a once over before I drive in it. Make sure it’s safe. I’ve still got more house calls.”

  I nod. “Hang on a minute. Why are you in this? Where’s the Range Rover?”

  “Do you know how much fuel that thing uses? And what a pain it is on these country roads? I had unexpected patient visits, and I wanted to use my car. Don’t worry, I wore my bloody seatbelt.” She snorts. “Just as well with you driving like a lunatic. What are you doing in this car? Whose is it? Is it hers? That Uma woman?”

  She’s angry.

  “You better explain yourself, Eliot. I didn’t want to say, but she’s been phoning me.” She looks down at her shoes, then up at me again with a steely glare. “I met with her last night. She said she’d prove to me you were having an affair. It all sounded like bollocks. But now, here you are in her fucking car!”

  “I can explain,” I blurt, “She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Come on, let’s get in the car, out of the rain. I’m getting soaked.”

  Imogen steps towards the Mercedes. I can’t let her in there. She’ll realise. She’ll smell the sex. I hurry towards her Mini and jump in. Before I’ve noticed what’s wrong, Imogen’s in the passenger seat and I’m behind the wheel.

  “Good idea,” she says. “See if you’ve damaged the steering or whatever.” I frown, unsure how she could possibly think the minor damage could have done anything serious. I’ll explain she’s being silly, but first things first.

  “Let me just say, I was totally unaware she’d been bothering you. She’s had a thing for me. Phoning me and making inappropriate suggestions; I even blocked her number.” I sigh. I’m doing really well, I can hardly believe it.

  “She cornered me today. And when she told me her news, I felt obliged to help her. I’m too soft, really.”

  My calmness is lapped up by Imogen, sitting staring at me.

  “Today was her last day. She sprung it on me out of the blue, but apparently she’s got terminal cancer.”

  Imogen’s eyes well. She’s seen enough of that particular disease as a GP.

  “Go on,” she invites, the news still not explaining why I’m here, and in Uma’s car.

  “It’s going to sound silly. She asked me a favour: to take her car back home whilst she took a taxi to the airport. She wants to be with her family.” Imogen nods in sympathy. She’s so lovely. Despite what Uma tried to do, she cares about her. If only she knew the truth!

  “Originally, she asked if I’d drive her there, then drive her car to her house, but at the time ‘date night’ was still on, so we came up with this.”

  “This what?”

  She’s calm, but not settling for less than a full explanation. I sigh again.

  “This is the silly part.” I grin. “After she left in the taxi, and I was behind the wheel, I didn’t want to go straight to her house. I was testing it.” I blush. “It’s an S-Class, you see. I wanted to see what it had under the bonnet.” (Not in the boot)

  She’s nodding.

  “Okay. Now what?” Her i-phone is in her hand and she appears to be phoning someone.

  “Who are you phoning?” She frowns at me like I’m being a moron.

  “RAC. I’m not driving. They can tow the Mini, you can drive me back to get the Range Rover.”

  No. We can’t do that.

  “The Mercedes might be more damaged,” I stutter. “Why don’t you get off on your home visits, and I’ll stay and get Uma’s car towed. Make sense?”

  She’s certain to say yes, but she doesn’t.

  “Get them to tow her car if you’re worried, but I’m not driving. I haven’t got any back lights! I can’t drive in this rain without lights. I will have that bloody accident you’ve been dreaming about!”

  And she’s right. But neither of us know quite how right until the squealing of brakes fills the air. Uma’s car won’t protect us. The sideways skidding has left it bumped to the side of the road.


  The rear-view mirror is filled with a dark shape. I’d smile as I recognise how I could have interpreted it as the Angel of Death whooshing from the sky. I would smile, but not now. Not as the UPS van that is sure to kill us fills my view.

  As the stench of burning rubber consumes the air, the sound of grinding metal assaults my ears.

  As I jolt forwards at high speed, I see the figure of my beautiful, wonderful wife as she rises from her seat and flies towards the windscreen.

  My sight is obliterated by the airbag exploding from the steering wheel. My last sight of Imogen is her legs as she flies through the windshield.

  I sit back, breathless. I’m in pain. My head hurts. I turn to where Imogen was sat seconds before, but she’s not there.

  I grasp at the door handle. “Imogen!”

  The door won’t open. Leaning back, I kick at the window. It shatters and I climb through.

  “Imogen! Imogen!” I cry.

  My vision is blurred. The crimson rain of my nightmares is clouding my sight. I weep as what I’d seen time and again as blood rain is my own blood, trickling from my head into my eyes.

  I see her, just as in my nightmare. A lifeless figure feet away from me. Stumbling towards her, my legs give way, and I fall to my knees. Outstretched fingers fail to bring me closer.

  “Imogen!” I cry one last time before the blood in my eyes blinds me and I collapse on the ground.

  Epilogue

  Five years later...

  I wake, gasping for breath, as I do every morning. As I have every morning since the accident; reliving every little detail.

  I can still see the three-pointed star etched in my mind; still see the blood dripping in my eyes; still see Imogen, helpless, just feet away from me.

  Most nights I avoid sleep for as long as I can, but I can’t put it off forever and inevitably succumb, and always straight into my nightmare.

  At least I understand it now.

  We were both right. I was right about it being a precognition. Admittedly, I got the details muddled; made it more other-worldly, but I wasn’t in control of it. When I relive it, it’s completely true to life. No Angels of Death, or rivers of blood. Just the grim facts.

  But Jonesy was right too. I have lost my wife and my daughter, and Uma too. I’ve lost everything.

  He stands in the doorway, looming; sneering.

  “You’ve got a visitor.”

  I swing my legs round and plant my feet on the cold floor. I’d forgotten about my visitor. She put a request in, which of course I accepted, but I made no note of the date. Dates mean nothing to me now.

  A plea of insanity was never something I considered, but I would now. My marbles are rolling around my head threatening to leave at any moment.

  I follow the prison officer along the corridor to the visiting room. He turns to me. “Hurry up, Armstrong.”

  I’m not Eliot any more. Only ever ‘Armstrong.’ I don’t care. I don’t even recognise myself anymore. If I did, I’m not someone I want to know.

  It didn’t take long for the police to discover Uma in the boot of her car. Certainly when I regained consciousness in intensive care, they knew all about it.

  Forensic evidence told them all they needed. There was no denying it. They were in no doubt we’d been intimate, and when. They were certain I’d pushed her; my hand prints were on her shoulders; so I pleaded guilty. There was no point doing anything else.

  We arrive at the visiting room, and there she is. I walk towards her, my insides shrivelling with every step.

  She’s staring at me. An unblinking glare.

  Pulling out the chair opposite, I slump, utterly defeated. My mouth opens to ask how she is, but she holds a hand up. She doesn’t want pointless pleasantries.

  “You’re going to give me a divorce,” she commands. I nod, but I haven’t seen her for years. I want to say more to her than that.

  “You’re looking well. Your scars... they’re... better.”

  “Thank you, Eliot,” she says without expression. “I’m remarrying.”

  It makes no difference. I lost her the moment what I’d done came to light. I want her to be happy. It’s the least I owe her.

  “Anyone I know,” I ask irrelevantly. But when she answers, my heart drops to new lows.

  “Yes, actually.” Her smile is cruel. But I deserve any pain she wants to inflict. “Karl King.”

  I can’t contain the shock. “You’re marrying Karl King? Bruce? How do you even know him?”

  “He was there on the day I came into school to meet you. He was very charming. And then at Uma Taylor’s funeral. Yes I went,” she answers my open-mouthed disbelief. “I felt I had to.”

  When I fail to make any sound, Imogen carries on. “And well, let’s just say he’s been a great comfort since your fall from grace. He made it his business to care for me... And Jess.”

  “But marrying him?” I stutter. “Why? Do you love him?”

  “Maybe. And it’s none of your business anyway. Marriage is a sure-fire way to get a visa. And he’s been so kind and supportive. He doesn’t judge me by how I look,” she spits. “He sees me as more than my scars.”

  She shifts more upright in her seat. “I have worked hard at the top of the practice for six years now. I’ll always have a job there, but after all I’ve been through, I deserve a new adventure and the partners all support me”

  My mouth opens and closes a few more times, but no noise escapes.

  “I’m going to be a Flying Doctor. This will be the last time you will ever see me, Eliot Armstrong.”

  My eyes are moist, and my throat is thick. “I did love you, you know that?” She makes no comment. “And Jess? Will I see her?” She shakes her head.

  “No, Eliot. You won’t see either of us ever again. She doesn’t want anything to do with you. Finding out her father was a philandering murderer kind of put her off.” Folding her arms, she stares at me, daring me to react.

  “She’s coming to Australia with us. She’s finished university with a first, and she’s going to continue her medical studies there.”

  As if I wasn’t hurting enough, she twists the knife further. “She hates you, Eliot.”

  Standing up to leave, having delivered her news, she turns to me and speaks one last time. “My lawyer will be in touch.”

  And then she walks away. Her heels clip-clopping out of my view, and out of my life.

  She hates me, and Jess hates me, Karl ‘Bruce’ King probably fucking hates me too!

  But how can I blame them?

  I hate myself.

  The End

  About the Author

  Michael grew up in the leafy suburbs of Hertfordshire in the eighties. His earliest school memories from his first parent’s evening were being told “You have to be a writer”; advice Michael didn’t take for another thirty-five years, despite a burning desire.

  Instead, he forged a career in direct sales, travelling the length and breadth of Southern England selling fitted kitchens, bedrooms, double-glazing and conservatories, before running his own water-filter business (with an army of over four hundred water filter salesmen and women) and then a conservatory sales and building company.

  All that came to an end when Michael became a carer for a family member and moved to Wales, where he finally found the time and inspiration to write.

  Michael now indulges his passion in the beautiful Pembrokeshire Coast National Park where he lives, walks and works with his wife, four children and Golden Retriever.

  If you’d like to contact Michael for any reason, he would be delighted to hear from you and endeavours to answer all messages whenever possible.

  mailto:info@michaelchristophercarter.co.uk

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