Dark Place to Hide Read online

  Dark Place to Hide

  AJ Waines

  Copyright © 2015 AJ Waines.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  Find out more about the author and her other books at

  www.ajwaines.co.uk

  In memory of my father, Gordon Waines

  (1925-2014)

  You had a resolute zest for life and were a true inspiration - always

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  THE EVIL BENEATH

  GIRL ON A TRAIN

  NO LONGER SAFE

  Chapter 1

  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 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 – coordinated 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 w
ords 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.

  Because there is also something I haven’t told you.

  Chapter 2

  29 July

  The day after you came home I was back at my specialist’s clinic for one of the injections he prescribed. I told him what had happened and asked whether there was the slimmest sliver of a chance the baby could have been mine. He didn’t falter in his response. I hoped for a tiny shard of doubt, but there was none. On the basis of my recent results, it was impossible.

  It’s a cliché, but I hoped you and I would tell each other everything – all the important stuff at least. This issue certainly falls into that category. Isn’t it the most important issue: our own family, our offspring, our entire future? I should have said something to you when I made the initial appointment. I should have spoken up the moment I had doubts. We’d never discussed infertility – well neither of us had used that word. You said something to me once – about six months ago. You were sitting on the carpet, sewing a button onto your coat, and you looked up at me. I was taking measurements of the fireplace, my hands covered in red dust from the broken bricks that keep falling down from our crumbling chimney. Your voice was matter of fact and undemonstrative as if we were continuing, out loud, the conversation you must have started in your head.

  ‘How would we know if one of us couldn’t have children?’

  My reply came straight out. ‘We’d need to have tests, I suppose.’

  ‘When?’ you said, squinting up at me as I stood in a spear of sunlight.

  ‘I don’t know. At a stage when we felt we’d tried long enough and nothing had happened.’ You went quiet and I should have said more instead of leaving you with my clinical reply. I should have checked how concerned you were, but I moved away to fetch the dustpan for the hearth. Whilst you didn’t pursue it when I returned, your words had sown their own dark seed in my consciousness. I’d started to look at dates, search on the Internet and to examine myself in the mirror. We’d got our timing right too often; the conditions had been set perfectly too many times – there had to be a problem.

  The day of my first appointment came and went in May and I didn’t say a word to anyone. You were at school, as usual, no doubt keeping your seven year olds enthralled with spelling contests or stories about the rainforest. I should have taken you with me, we should have gone together, but I was afraid. On the one hand, I hoped I’d get away with it, hoped I’d be wrong and my fears would be misplaced. I didn’t want to lay doubts in your mind and worry you when the tests might show my sperm to be fit and strong, kicking hard to find their way home. But perhaps a bigger part of me already knew.

  I got the results six weeks ago. Once I found out, I was even more of a coward. I couldn’t destroy your hopes, your brightest dream. How could I begin the sentence that would tell you it was never going to happen? That any child we might have could never come from me? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I kept telling myself I would when the time was right. But when was there ever going to be a right time to bulldoze over the rest of your life?

  You spent most of yesterday asleep after I brought you home from the hospital. I made sure Alexa came to sit with you when I went to the specialist, but she said you didn’t stir. This afternoon, she was here again while I went to the supermarket. I couldn’t think straight, drifting blindly along the aisles and ended up with mainly dog food. Now I’ve returned, you’re lying on the sofa, your head propped up with extra pillows, supping camomile tea.

  ‘Has Alexa gone?’ I ask, half in hope.

  ‘Yes – literally two minutes ago.’

  ‘She must have heard my car coming back.’

  You cringe because you know I’m probably right. I can’t seem to do much about the prickly relationship Alexa has with me. She’s so easily offended and seems perpetually put out by the very fact of my presence.

  ‘I wish she’d lighten up,’ you say, annoyed on my behalf.

  ‘You remember how horrified she was when you told her we were getting married?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it – she looked like someone had died.’ You bite your lip like it’s your fault.

  ‘I suppose, for her, something had gone for good – she’d had you all to herself for years and suddenly your priorities were elsewhere.’ I don’t need to remind you that she’s never got over it.

  You’re distracted by Frank, who has brought a soggy tennis ball in from the garden and dropped it on your lap, waiting for you to throw it for him. ‘Not inside,’ I tell him, picking up the ball and walking with it to the open back door.

  ‘It’s okay,’ you insist, ‘as long as he doesn’t hurt himself.’ You’re more worried about his welfare than any upheaval he may cause to the furnishings.

  ‘You’re too attached to him,’ I say in mock rebuke as I throw the ball down the lawn. You were thrilled when Mark asked if we’d have his border collie ‘on loan’ while he went to Peru.

  ‘I know.’ You stare at the rug in front of the fireplace. ‘I won’t want to give him back. How long have we got left?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Is that all?’ You give a little moan; exactly the same kind of sound that Frank makes when he wants to come in from outside. It shows how natural it would be to bring a new life into our family; we both know there is space.

  You’re surprisingly calm after what has happened. You had to spend two more days in the ward, but you seem relaxed and unperturbed by now. I put it down to your natural resilience, but also the sedatives – they’re pulling your mouth into a near smile as if you’re floating in a warm, but false pool of serenity. Your expression looks odd, out of context, but if it means you feel stable, I don’t care.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I know you went through a lot of physical pain, but what you said afterwards made sense; you hadn’t built up a strong emotional attachment to the baby, because you didn’t know he or she was there.

  ‘I’m shocked more than anything,’ you say, as I kneel on the floor in front of you. ‘They can’t say if it was a boy or a girl, it was too early.’ You cradle my face. ‘I suppose I’m glad really. Best not to know – it would only make it more…’

  ‘I know…’ I kiss your palm.

  ‘I think it will take me a while to process everything, because the idea is so new. I was a mum for a few weeks…’ You rub your flat belly. ‘I had no idea – it’s so weird.’

  ‘I always thought you’d know.’

  ‘Me too. I’m really cross with myself. And yet, it has also saved us from building up all our hopes and excitement.’ You close your eyes and have to stop every few words to swallow. ‘I’ll probably feel the loss a bit later, Dibs.’

  You use my nickname and it knocks me off balance. You teased me with the name, after hapless Officer Dibble from ‘Top Cat’. We discovered we’d both been fans of the cartoon as kids, and the name had stuck. But, I mustn’t let the tenderness sway me. Now is the time.

  I pause, make fists with my hands and tell you about my condition. I explain I was scared and ashamed and should have told you.

  You try to sit up, but it hurts. I put my arm behind your back. ‘How long have you known?’ There is no shred of animosity in your question.

  ‘About six weeks.’

  ‘What’s the problem? Why can’t you…?’

  I explain the issue briefly in medical terms, but I know you’re not able to take it in. The salient point is that I’ve been producing sperm, but the count is too low.

  I shift forward to the edge of the s
ofa, on the edge of a cliff, waiting for your next response, waiting for it to sink in. If there is a miscarriage then what went before happened without me. Surely?

  You put your finger on your lip. ‘You’ve had tests. You did all this on your own?’ Your eyes are full of sorrow for my decision to go it alone, not reproach.

  ‘It was wrong of me. I’m sorry.’

  I’d conned myself into believing I hadn’t told you because I didn’t want you to worry, but I know that’s not true. In reality, I was terrified. Panic-stricken that my sterility would change how you felt about me. I couldn’t risk seeing your eyes dip away then quickly recover – as you took the hit that your super-fit, passionate, lustful husband has been firing blanks.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ you say, pulling me back to you. It’s your trademark – to so easily slip into forgiveness in your desire to protect me.

  ‘I should have told you – we should have discussed it. My masculine ego got in the way. I thought you’d think I wasn’t a proper man…’

  ‘No – never…’ You nuzzle into my neck. ‘How could you think that?’

  But, there is another issue at stake here. It’s setting fire to the air around us. I want you to realise and jump to your own conclusion so I don’t have to drag you towards it. If I’m infertile – then how…?

  You laugh unexpectedly, but it’s hoarse and shallow. ‘Both our bodies have let us down.’

  I don’t want to have to spell it out. But I do need to know.

  ‘Something had to be wrong,’ I say. ‘We’d had nothing at all, since you came off the pill.’

  ‘I know. Over a year…’

  You can’t see what I’m getting at. You aren’t hearing me. Your medication is making you detached from reality and you can’t seem to grasp the enormous repercussions. Firstly, the fact that all our future plans are shattered; our road ahead has turned into rubble – it leads nowhere. Secondly, the obvious unthinkable deduction that runs alongside your miscarriage. I can’t be the father. Your brain must be too foggy to take it in.

  I wait. Perhaps, at any moment, you will put the two ends of the wire together and get the flash. But it doesn’t come. You really are spaced out and instead you ask another question. ‘There must be treatment? Something you can do?’