Don't forget - I have some fantastic bestseller author giveaways on my Blog starting July 28th! Novels by Kathryn Croft, Mel Sherratt, Nuala Casey, Luana Lewis, Jane Isaac, Daniel Clay
and a signed copy of The Lie by CL Taylor - all up for grabs!
See you then...My new Psychological Mystery, DARK PLACE TO HIDE, is due for release on Amazon on 30th July – just nine days away. So here’s a sneak preview of the Opening Chapter...
Dark Place to Hide by AJ Waines
Harper - 25 July
A handful of words – that’s all it takes. He lays them out for me, leaning forward man to man, his palms on his knees. His tone is pacifying as if he thinks I’ve guessed; as if by now I must have worked it out.
‘Your wife’s had a miscarriage,’ he says.
The doctor’s words force my spine into the back of the seat, crushing me. I am being shunted further and further back, watching the floating faces of the two nurses beside him trying to reach me, their expressions creased with sympathy. Those words in themselves are ripe with disarray. A baby. It’s a complete shock. I didn’t know.
But there’s more.
There’s a moment first, when I think of what this means to you. The child you’ve been waiting for, hoping for, longing for – we both have. You must be torn apart.
The doctor straightens up. He’s delivered the bad news and, for the medical team, it is cut and dry. Shock, distress, sadness – that will be my onward journey in their eyes; hard, but inevitable. But they are wrong.
What he has told me doesn’t make sense.
How can you be having a miscarriage?
You can’t possibly be pregnant.
I can’t remember the correct order of events after that. They said I could see you, Diane, but I must have stalled because the next minute I’m wandering off towards an open window by the stairwell with a plastic cup of water in my hand. One of the nurses must have handed it to me. She must have thought I needed time to prepare myself to face your grief, a period of quiet to find the right words of solace and comfort for you. But instead, a loud voice inside me is yelling, How can this have happened?
Blood is pumping hard and fast into my temples, my neck, my chest and I hate myself for letting this question fog my brain when you’ve been rushed in here in pain, in panic. Of course, I was frantic when I got the call. I nearly sprained my ankle racing up the stairs to get to you, distraught and almost out of my mind. They said you had been found at the side of the road in a pool of blood; you were in intensive care and my mind was racing. I thought at first you’d been struck by a car or attacked in a secluded lane. I thought I’d lost you and I’d find a white sheet covering your face.
One emotional state, however, is now shaking down all the others and rising to the top. It is no longer panic or desperation, but confusion. It is starting to look like you have hidden a massive transgression from me; one that could shatter a marriage in the blink of an eye.
‘This way, Dr Penn,’ says the nurse. ‘Diane wants you to come through, now.’
She must have mistaken my sigh for a sign that I’m impatient to see you. In fact, I need more time. I let her guide me, like a marionette, through two sets of double doors towards your bed. I find myself hiding my shaking hands from her as if I’m afraid she’ll think I’m not man enough for you.
My eyes stumble on your face; worn and framed with sticky clumps of hair. You’ve been through a fight. My spirit dissolves at your vulnerability. I grab your hand.
‘I’m okay,’ you say, saving me from having to ask.
The nurse steps forward holding a clipboard. ‘Your wife collapsed. She was on the verge of a haemorrhage, Dr Penn – it was touch and go there, for a while.’
You shake your head a little as if it was nothing; it’s so like you to play down your own misfortunes.
‘I didn’t know,’ you whisper. I can see no trace of remorse or guilt and I reproach myself for looking for it; I should be resoundingly and solely grateful that you are alive, able to recognise me, form sentences. Still, I probe your dewy eyes for signs, but there aren’t any. You catch my frown. You think I’m perturbed because you hadn’t told me.
‘I’m so sorry, Harper,’ you whimper.
I sit beside you. It was only a few hours since we’d laughed at breakfast; you dropping your buttered toast and catching it between your knees. You’ve always been quick like that – co-ordinated and sporty, like your sister. Now you look gaunt and pale – a different person.
‘How are you feeling? Are you in pain?’
You rub your belly and wince. ‘I had to have a D&C – it’s fading now. I have to stay here for a couple of days, they said.’
‘What happened?’ I mean the bigger question, the series of events, sweeping all my accumulated uncertainties into one giant enquiry, but you hear only one strand of it.
‘We got pregnant,’ you say, ‘and I didn’t even know.’ Your face buckles at this moment of recognition. We got pregnant.
I thumb the tears gently away from your eyes, trying to ease away the pain. Wishing I could bear it for you.
‘How many weeks?’
‘Only seven…’ You look down at my hand, holding on.
Seven weeks ago. My mind scatters as I try to pin the date into the calendar in my head. It would have been early June. We’d been in London the weekend of the 31st May and we’d made love – that much was true. I remember it, because I haven’t been able to function in that department as often as I’d have liked. Nevertheless…
‘I’m sorry,’ you say, again, your eyes struggling to focus.
For what, exactly? My male pride is bursting to ask, but now isn’t the time. You are my wife, hurting, suffering and in disbelief. I need to put a hold on my questions and be here for you. You need my support. There’s been a baby – the one thing we’ve been waiting for; the dream, the rapture that would have made everything complete. And you have lost it. Your body has rejected it.
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say, kissing your limp fingers. All your movements are in slow motion and you can barely string two words together. I know you’re playing it down; the physical pain, the distress – being brave for my benefit. I can’t confront you with the rest of it – not now.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ you whisper. ‘Just hold me.’ I scoop you into me and feel your feverish sweat roll against my cheek. We’ll have to talk about it later. The answers are all there, I just have to wait. Then the truth will be laid out, not only for me, but also for you. As it happens, I have my own secret to share. I have my own concealment to lay bare.