Sighing, Carys supposed it was all very normal; apart from how she was feeling. Already, she was convinced Marco had changed. And she was definitely irritated by him. Maybe her bedroom performance had disappointed after his months and years of waiting for intimacy with his bride (she was pregnant!) Maybe it was male cockiness after finally sowing his oats. Or maybe the honeymoon was over.
The previous occupants had installed satellite television. The receiver dish was still attached to the front of the house so it was an obvious choice to get the benefits for themselves. Marco, like most men it seemed to Carys, was looking forward to sports and maybe films. Whilst she liked a good film, Carys was excited mainly by the prospect of the documentary channels.
She imagined, with twenty-four-hour program choices, that there would be a lot of documentaries of huge interest to her. Among other things, she could expect programs, at least occasionally, about psychology and other topics of interest to students of psychology. Disappointingly, they were almost conspicuous by their absence. But there were other topics also sadly lacking.
What she did find, but had little interest in, was bountiful programs on topics as dull as Americans living in the Florida Everglades, Americans who drive on incredibly dangerous roads, people with lots of cats or dogs, or so much crap in their houses they could barely make it through the front door.
But there was another documentary subject that consumed the schedule more than any other. She watched at first with detached, slightly amused interest, but obsession was only around the corner. Carys was doomed now her attention had been grabbed by the most prolific of Discovery channel’s output. Only sharks could offer comparable airtime.
It started off with the compelling account from a credible sounding policeman who swore blind he’d been abducted by aliens. Carys flinched at the artist impression of his description, peeking back at the screen though her fingers. She’d seen them. An uncomfortable knot tightened in her belly.
The policeman had experienced time missing he couldn’t account for, just like Stephen! The creatures spoke in his head, looming over him in some scientific looking room, just as they’d done to her!
The narrator of the program sounded suitably sceptical. Carys felt indignant. The policeman being interviewed was good enough to have authority over civilians, and give evidence in a court of law, but suddenly he’s a fool because he says he saw a UFO.
Other documentaries she watched followed a similar pattern. Airline pilots, high-ranking military, more police officers; all people she’d always respected, she was now expected to dismiss as fools because of their eye witness testimony.
Whilst she felt vindicated about her own experiences she also felt more afraid. There were programs running one after the other, after another throughout the day and night, and Carys couldn’t get enough. It was a dangerous obsession, but she couldn’t stop.
Marco arrived home from work, parked, walked through the gate and into the kitchen from the back door, and frowned. Scowling, he presumed the loud blaring of a television was emanating from one of the nearby neighbours.
Expecting that Carys would have returned from college and made a start on cooking dinner by now, he was dismayed at the lack of confirmatory smells. Had something happened? Had the college bus broken down?
Pulling his phone from his pocket, his thumb scrolled to ‘Carys Mobile’ and pressed send. He ended the call as the voicemail began its message. Out of battery, he assumed.
With apprehension mounting, he walked from the kitchen into the hallway to the toilet. Drying his hands, he shook his head and squinted. The loud television noise was coming from upstairs. How was that possible? Bounding up, two at a time, he flung open the door.
Carys barely looked up before staring back at the documentary which had been showing throughout the day.
“What on earth are you doing?!” Marco demanded.
Stony silence was the cold reply.
“I thought dinner would be started! How long have you been back from college anyway?” Struck by a notion, he raised his voice. “Why are you watching television in the bedroom and not the lounge? Have you even been to college today?”
Carys still didn’t look up or speak.
“You haven’t, have you? Have you been in bed gawking at this… this... crap all day?”
The look Carys gave him in reply made him hanker for silence again.
“Leave me alone,” she growled with quiet rancour.
“I’ll make dinner then, shall I?” he hissed, half-placatory half-antagonistically.
“Do what you fucking want,” she spat, her face glowing with hateful rage.
Marco retreated like a wounded puppy, went back downstairs and looked around the kitchen for inspiration. He became quite enthused as he prepared a Bolognese with fresh ingredients from the larder. He hoped the delicious smell might tempt his bride from her pit.
As it was quick to prepare, it didn’t give very long for Carys to calm down; and he didn’t want to risk more abuse by calling up that dinner was ready. He couldn’t just eat without telling her, so he decided to let it simmer. “Let the flavour develop,” he said out loud to himself.
He nearly died of shock when Carys put a placatory hand on his shoulder while he stirred the sauce. He hadn’t noticed her coming downstairs.
“Sorry,” she said.
Marco was happy his plan had worked, and gladly accepted her apology. Turning round, he gave her a huge genuine grin. “Dinner’s ready,” he announced with renewed confidence.
He dished out and placed the two full plates onto the table. Carys didn’t need coaxing to sit down, but despite assuring Marco the food was tasty, she pushed it around her plate eating little of anything.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m not feeling very well today.”
Throwing his arms around her, a pang of guilt left a nasty nausea in his chest. Why hadn’t he considered her feeling unwell? Why had he jumped to the worst conclusion? She just hadn’t looked ill, had she? Not physically, anyway.
“No, I’m sorry,” he offered magnanimously. “I was horrible to you, and you’re not well.”
Carys responded agreeably to the sympathy. Snuggling up on the couch together, Marco was happy again. He’d been really foolish. Everyone had warned him about the female hormones during pregnancy and he’d forgotten at the first hurdle. He vowed to be more thoughtful in future.
“What do you think about UFO’s?” Carys blurted. Marco was relieved to have a pattern answer to hand that had been discussed at one of the Bible study groups he’d led.
“The church doesn’t deny the possibility that other life may exist on one or more of the infinite number of stars and planets out there,” he explained. “I’m not sure how I feel about it, but it’s nice to think that God, and the concept of life on other planets aren’t mutually exclusive.” Carys was pleased too. She believed in God. Maybe Marco might accept their little bundle after all.
From shock, to contentment, to a restful night, Marco woke refreshed. Leaning over, he kissed his wife goodbye and wished her well enough for college today. Shrugging in reply, she hadn’t decided.
She knew she should; that the mental stress would be helped by mixing with her classmates and learning new things from Professor Simpson. But she wasn’t sure she could cope. She just didn’t feel able to handle any of it: the class, catching the bus, finding clothes and getting dressed; even with getting out of bed.
In less than a minute’s thinking, she’d reduced her options to one thing. Resolved to staying in bed, she flicked the on button on the TV remote and up came the pre-selected Discovery channel, which was already halfway through a UFO program. It was one she’d seen before, but it didn’t matter. They were all the same, anyway.
Realising she needed the toilet, a reverberating dong echoed through her mind from the alarm that she was reluctant to move. These were signs of serious mental illness, not just pregnancy hormones. She wasn’t ready to admit it to herself yet th
ough.
She found that after the third or fourth documentary she’d already seen, they were losing their appeal. Flicking through the channels proved a revelation. She discovered a channel specialising in conspiracy theories. The eminent Mr David Icke, whom she had discussed with her classmates in college, was giving a talk to a rapt audience on the subject of the Illuminati.
It was all news to Carys. She’d never entertained conspiracy theories before. The Millennium bug over-exaggeration had annoyed her, and the ‘twin towers’ attack three months ago was already attracting conspiracy theorists.
She thought, on the whole, that government bodies were hard-working, and trying at least to get it right. Seeing her diligent policeman father may have swayed her judgement, she considered, in the onslaught of trailers for conspiracies programs advertised in the first commercial break.
David Icke, the butt of her classmates’ digs, was talking so much sense. Amongst other theories, the proposal that government bodies, particularly the United States and British governments, were fully aware of aliens. So much so, they’d done deals with them, allowing a certain number of citizens to be abducted and experimented on, in exchange for certain technological advances.
He argued that not only were governments aware of the extra-terrestrials living among us, but that aliens were actually serving in office in some of the most powerful positions in the world. And the reason we weren’t able to recognise these aliens? Because their true appearance was hidden, existing on a different frequency to our own perception.
Like a radio, he said: just because you listen to a station and then retune to another radio station, the first station still exists. It’s still there, broadcasting the same information it would if you were listening to it. Only you’re listening to a different frequency. It’s no different
“I know how simple it sounds,” he was saying, “but the simplest explanations are often the correct ones.”
The idea sounded preposterous yet plausible to Carys. She wasn’t sure how to take the suggestion that heads of state (The Queen was even suggested!) were in fact aliens whose true identity were lizard like aliens known as ‘The Reptilians’.
The ‘different frequency’ theory struggled to convince Carys with people she had been aware of since childhood. It was easier to believe some old presidents of America were not as they appeared; the past looked like a different world anyway, but the Queen?
But he was so convincing. She tried to grip onto the doubts; to use them as a foothold back to the real world, but she was teetering.
The type of alien with which she was more familiar, Mr Icke referred to as ‘The Greys.’ There were others too: giant humanoids with blonde hair, tall ones, diminutive ones, all with different names and places in the universal hierarchy.
Staring, eyes wide and dry, it all got too much for Carys, and she drifted off to sleep during one of the subsequent broadcasts. By the time Marco returned from work, she was sat up, gently snoring. He bounded upstairs, expecting her to be in bed this time having established her being unwell. He stroked her forehead dotingly, asked if there was anything she would like for dinner and offered to bring her a cup of tea.
In response, she turned up her lips in the pretence of a smile. He was being lovely. Why did she find him so utterly irritating? It hit her hard. When she’d told him yesterday she was feeling unwell, she hadn’t meant physically. And she was certain he knew what she did mean. So why was choosing to ignore it? Pretending she had a fucking cold or something? Did her husband not know her at all?
And if he wasn’t just brushing it under the carpet; if he really didn’t know what she’d meant? Well, that showed such a lack of understanding of her, she felt disgusted. Grinding her fist into the bed sheets, she struggled to control the urge to spit the bitter contempt from her mouth.
The dankness hit Marco in the face like a wet fish as he lovingly brought the cup of tea he had promised. Attempts at conversation were met with indifference, just like yesterday. Her agitation was unmistakeable, so Marco retired from the room making remarks about his plans for dinner.
With every step Carys heard as Marco walked down the stairs, her irritation grew, until by the time he’d reached the bottom stair she was ready to scream. Instead, she knocked her cup of tea flying across the room. As it flew, scolding liquid burnt her skin in the few places it touched. It was all Marco’s fault. Leaving hot tea next to someone clearly unwell was stupid. Could he not see the dangers?
Marco hadn’t even stepped off the bottom step when he heard the crashing noise and turned straight round again. He recognised it for what it was, but half-worried she’d fallen in her ill state, attempting to go to the toilet. Given the force he’d heard, the sight of Carys sitting calmly on the bed surprised him.
Glancing at the large tea stain on the wall, and then down at the broken cup on the floor, he was angry that his good deed had been rubbished, but he was scared as well. He didn’t understand what Carys was going through, and understood even less what on earth he should do to make it better.
Instinctively recognising that demonstrating his displeasure at her behaviour might make things worse, he smothered his resentment and walked back down the stairs to prepare dinner.
Carys sat seething. She was livid. How could she be married to such an idiot with so little understanding of her condition? The moderate pain the hot spilling tea had caused, galvanised a feeling within her to seek more. With a sick compulsion, she knew it was the only way past the anger; the only way to regain control. This seething monster wasn’t her. She had to find her again, and she knew just how to do it.
The cup glistened, wet with cold tea, its broken pieces laying jaggedly on the floor. She knew what she would do. She would have that control again. She would feel that thrill again. She would feel alive.
And Marco would learn just how carefully she needed to be treated.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Amish and Rebecca
Marco found inspiration for dinner in the tense atmosphere hard to come by. After a brief look through kitchen supplies, he decided on sausage and mash. Not one of Carys’s favourites, but what the hell.
When it was cooked he debated eating alone but decided against it for fear of antagonising his wife further. He popped his head around the kitchen door and called up the stairs.
“Carys!” he waited, not expecting a reply, and none was forthcoming. “Carys!!” He called a little louder. “Dinner is on the table.” Attempting to inject into his tone a sense of being considerate but firm. He was determined not to take any nonsense.
Sat staring at the food on his plate, he was dismayed at his lack of appetite. When it became clear Carys wouldn’t be joining him, he pushed his meal away towards hers and sat a while in contemplation. He would have to go and check she was okay. It all was getting a bit ridiculous now.
With a huge sigh, he slumped up the stairs, not bothering to disguise the sound of his footsteps, nor his displeasure. Pausing half way, the silence, disconcerted him. What was she doing up there? Sleeping? Maybe she’d wake in a better mood.
Hesitating outside the bedroom door, it was now closed when it had been ajar. Peeved that he should be made to feel unwelcome outside his own bedroom, he raised a reluctant hand to knock. There was no response to his gentle rapping. Twisting the handle, he pushed the door gently.
Carys sat in the middle of the bed rocking forwards and backwards. The blood on her wrists had clotted and was starting to scab. The wounds looked raw and painful. There was a red stain on the bed; thankfully not enough for Marco to worry she was in danger, but he couldn’t contain his distress at what he saw and let out a wail of anguish.
“What have you done you silly, silly girl? How is that going to help, hey?” he couldn’t believe his beautiful wife of only a few weeks could be in such a state. He couldn’t believe she would spoil herself in this way.
“God made those wrists that you’re abusing!” he said self-righteously.
&
nbsp; Carys flung what was left of the cup, missing him by inches. Either her aim wasn’t brilliant, or she hadn’t actually meant to hit him. It had the desired effect of shaking him up.
“Hey! There’s no need for that,” he cried.
Carys screamed. A primordial, hair-raising scream that shook the ceiling and hurt his ears. “You don’t understand!” she yelled at him. “You don’t care about me!” Marco gasped.
“Of course I care!” he yelled back. She leaped up, and in one bound made it round the bed to him where she unleashed her clenched fists on his broad chest.
He wasn’t hurt, but he was angry. This was a step too far for Marco. “Behave yourself. You’re acting like a spoiled little brat!”
“You don’t care. You haven’t even asked what’s wrong!”
She had a point, but he was loath to give her any leeway after her appalling behaviour. Looking again at her bloody wrists, he understood this wasn’t a rational human being he was dealing with. He tried to keep calm.
“I’m sorry,” he forced through gritted teeth. “You’re right. I haven’t.” her shoulders dropped in response to his mollifying tone.
“What’s wrong, my darling?” he finally asked.
Relief that she was being taken seriously wasn’t enough to calm her “I can’t tell you,” she said shyly. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
Marco soothed and reassured that of course he wood, but given her weird behaviour, he was wary of whatever it might be. Bracing himself, when he heard her say it, he grimaced.
“I have an alien baby growing inside me, and I don’t know if I can cope.” As soon as the words left her lips, her hand shot to her mouth to silence them. Wincing at the betrayal of her deepest secret, as well as from the wounds on her wrist. What had she done?
Maybe her baby would look completely normal, and there’d never be any need to tell him… ever. In one ill-thought blabbering moment, she had ruined everything.
The HUM: The complete novel Page 19
