The Codex File (2012) by Miles Etherton Page A

the game. On the next channel a couple of manic chef’s were cracking jokes rather than eggs. On the next a bad Australian actor was failing miserably at his marriage. Then news, archived sport, a black and white film, a talk show host bearing private details, a futuristic cartoon, adverts, arrogant presenters, boring financial analysis, trashy American soap opera, more chefs, canned laughter.
    How many of these awful content channels are there?
    Before he could find out the noise of the letter box opening and a dull thud arrested his thoughts. At least some things were still normal and hadn’t been swallowed up by UKCitizensNet he thought as images of emails, blogs, social networks, and self-publishing video sites flashed before him again.
    The post consisted of a glossy double glazing brochure, an AA membership renewal form, even though his membership had expired 18 months ago, and a letter. Only the letter didn’t find its way to the bin.
    The family solicitor conveyed his sincerest condolences. But then who hadn’t? He was writing to discuss the contents of the will.
    Michael already knew most of Colette’s estate had been left to him with a few items being left to her parents, sister, and other remaining relatives. Out of respect for him, those named in the will had agreed not to claim anything until he had ‘fully recovered’, as his solicitor delicately put it.
Fully recovered?
    That was a joke. Not after what he’d seen in their house.
    Looking up from the depressing letter Michael’s eyes widened a little as he looked at the smooth blank screen of his eCitTV set. The bottom of the screen was changing from its sharply defined black edge to a blurred red colour.
    Inside the screen something was bubbling, boiling almost. Michael’s heart missed a beat as a cold sweat enveloped him and his pulse quickened. The vicious red tide lapped feverishly against the inside of the glass screen. His jaw dropped a little as the ebbing mass withdrew from the screen like a wave moving out to sea. Then with thunderous ferocity the bloody tide exploded out through the screen as if it were as brittle as matchwood. The blast cascaded into Michael, whipping up the chair, sending it soaring backwards. Warm blood streaked across his body. Glass splinters tore across his face. Shards of glass embedded in his skin like an overused pincushion.
    The back of the blood-drenched chair crashed into the wall, he heard the sound of glass crack. His eyelids shot open. The blood was gone. He was where he should have been, in his armchair. To his left the eCitTV control was lying face down on the expensive glass coffee table, two yawning cracks running in opposite directions.
    He frowned, inspecting the damage.
    But as he leant over, gleaming globules of sweat dropped from his forehead, spreading on the cracked glass. For a brief instant the eCitTV set was bubbling red again. He was reliving the nightmare that tormented him every night as his heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Every night it was the same.
    Climbing the stairs.
    Opening their bedroom door.
    Colette tied to the bed.
    Blood staining everything.
    Nausea.
    Clare.
    At least he knew when he woke each morning that it had been a dream. But this was the first time he’d had such an experience - a hallucination - whilst awake.
    He breathed deeply, pushing his chest out fully as he exhaled. The words ‘fully recovered’ reverberated around in his head.
    He would make an appointment to see his solicitor for as soon as possible.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    The faded green box file sat on the dining room table. Michael just stared at it, scratching the several days’ stubble on his chin. He thought he knew everything about her. They had no secrets.
    He’d been wrong.
    He didn’t know the box file existed. And he didn’t know about the Post Office box either.
    His visit to the solicitors had been pretty routine to start with. As he’d expected they’d all been ‘shocked’ and ‘deeply