How did i not see, p.1
How Did I Not See, page 1
First published in Great Britain in 2021 by
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Copyright © 2021 Kally Haynes
The right of Kally Haynes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.
ISBN 978 1913913 939
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
To my son Danny & Chloe
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
One
2015
In the underground car park, I slip into the red Bentley and slam the heavy door. Nick insisted he came with me for safety. But with confidence, I didn’t feel I lied. I insisted I’d be fine. If I’m honest, I have to talk to my husband on my own. I want answers. I want to hear what he has to say. Driving into the centre of Birmingham city feels strange; the roads, for once, are empty. I guess it’s normal for the day after Boxing Day. Not that it matters much. Still, I can’t help but notice a man asleep on a bench; one arm dangles and beer cans roll underneath him – the afters of last night, I guess. I continue to cruise past the BBC building on the right and ease the brakes to stop at the traffic lights. My hands grip the leather steering wheel. How could my husband do this? What kind of person is he? How did I not see? How did I allow it to happen? I bite my lip, almost wanting to draw blood as a punishment to myself. Hands are clenched into fists and I bang the steering wheel. A menacing taunt echoes loudly in my head: ‘She was born stupid.’ Even in death, my dad was right.
Powering the three-litre engine forward each set of traffic lights turn amber. A set of nerves jangle in the pit of my tummy; they scream, ‘Go home. Go back.’ But I don’t. I have to know the real truth. And why would Nick lie?
Five minutes later I slip into an empty parking space on the opposite side of the King Edward Wharf apartments. My heart steps up its beat as I stare across the road to the canal-side tower blocks. A sigh escapes me, and before I lose my nerve, I fling the door open. Depressing dark clouds gather and pigeons scatter as though disturbed by an invisible murky force. It’s a bad omen. With leaden feet I crush abandoned leaves as a hostile wind whips up my hair, leaving me almost blind. I shiver and clear wisps of blonde from my vision with trembling fingers. Then, quite unexpectedly, I’m distracted when I side-step chewing gum glued onto the footpath, as the substance triggers an old memory.
A child squealed, ‘I dare you!’ I kneeled in warrior mode and shoved the sticky texture into my small mouth. A game I thankfully grew out of. But what happened to her, the brave one? I give a despondent shrug and edge closer to the apartments. Why did I believe him? Why didn’t I question him more? Trust, that’s what. I trusted him. Susie, my best friend, was bang on from the start, and I curse myself for not listening to her warning. The thought set off another alarm shortly before I met my future husband. Why didn’t I take any notice?
Amber, the clairvoyant, had cradled my watch in her hands, her eyes firmly closed, deep in concentration. I shifted around on the hard oak chair for a comfortable position but without much luck. A bowl of half-eaten cat food was next to a dish of water on slate tiles. Beyond the patio doors in the terraced garden, I spotted carp fish swimming around under a net, most likely to keep the cat out. A dream catcher of Native American feathers dangled on one wall. Nervously I ran my fingers over the cold polished wood table and settled my eyes into the flicker of tea lights. The scent of vanilla smoked the air while I waited in anticipation for Amber’s words of wisdom – well, ones sent via her spirit guides.
What did my future hold? Was Mr Right just around the corner? I’d had my fill of being a singleton: the never-ending disappointing dates, the long lonely nights spent on my own. I wanted to feel loved, I wanted to feel passion, I wanted to feel the arms of a strong man, one who’d protect me and not betray me.
‘What’s happening in December?’ Her small, intense eyes questioned me.
I repeated her sentence like a dummy, ‘What’s happening in December?’ I thought she’d be telling me. That’s why I was there.
‘Well…’ she continued, holding my watch as her eyes connected with mine. ‘Your life is going to change.’
I edged forward. ‘How do you mean?’Can she see something? ‘Change how?’ I asked with a thrill of tiny pleasure.
Then, surprisingly, she shoved my watch back in my direction, and my elation melted to nothing. I straightened up and grabbed the leather strap. Last time she held on to it for much longer. How could she be finished? She’d only just started.
She jerked up and scraped the chair legs backwards; her expression was blank. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t see any more.’
My tummy fluttered nervously. How can she do that? I stuttered, ‘But—’
She’d cut in super-fast. ‘There’s no charge – as I explained earlier, I can only tell you what I see, and now there’s nothing.’
I forced words out: ‘You said change? I don’t understand.’ She can’t do this.
But Amber pushed her chair under the table like I was dismissed. So, with no choice, I left in silence and fumed that I would never to use her service again.
I stumble on the uneven footpath and it jolts me back to the present. I steady myself and fix a stare up to the seventh-floor balcony of my husband’s apartment. Is this what Amber meant? My life changed, that’s for sure, but not in the way I ever imagined. No wonder Amber shut up shop and practically booted me out. She saw something alright; she just didn’t want to be part of it. And if Nick is telling the truth, then I don’t bloody well blame Amber. Perhaps I’d do the same. There’s a chance Nick might have got it wrong. Plus he stated the police didn’t arrest my husband?
When I catch raised voices from above, I tune in. My husband barks out a suspicious snarl, ‘What do you mean, you’re pregnant?’
I struggle for breath. Amy is pregnant? The words echo around my brain and my heart begins a slow bleed. It wilts and dies inside me. More of his harsh words are spat out. I don’t understand them; they’re not sinking in. They don’t make sense. It’s a lie; it has to be. But only when Amy screams back does a scarlet rage gather inside me, exploding in my veins.
Two
September 2014
Our wedding photograph, dated 24th May 2014, sits proudly on the kitchen windowsill. A few people had commented on my skin tone. They assumed it was tan to complement my white satin dress. I’d just smiled and sort of agreed. The day was perfect: the sun was bright in a clear blue sky, the church behind us as we posed for the photographs. It sends warm tingles up my back when I pick up the photo. It’s a daily reminder of my perfect life. Well, it would be, if only my period would miraculously fail to mark its presence promptly every month. At thirty-one, I should be with a belly full of life. Not barren, like a discarded wasteland. I sigh and replace the frame, patting the corners of eyes with a clean tea towel. To serve as a distraction, I concentrate on the spicy tones of velvet wine; it seeps into my veins like the blood I’m losing. When something rubs against my jeans, the touch softens my heart. I discard my glass and I swoop down to ruffle Timmy’s tan fur, grateful for the diversion. They say dogs can pick up on your mood; how you feel affects them too, so I read. But how would I explain to Timmy the never-ending disappointment, the longing to create a baby with the man I love? It’s what a woman is made for – to feel whole, complete with what nature intended. What life is all about, basically?
Greg embrace
Stroking Timmy, it reminds me just how thoughtful my husband is. For shortly after we had wed he’d burst into the kitchen. He cradled a Yorkshire terrier, one he’d already named as Timmy. He was a rescue from the dogs’ home. At first, I’d held back, not quite believing. When it had sunk in, I’d whipped him from Greg’s arms and nursed Timmy into my bosom – almost like I’d given birth for real, nuzzling his fur with happy tears. Greg had known how I’d longed for a dog, having been denied one as a child on the account of Dad’s career in the army, being constantly on the move. In some ways, Greg reminds me of Dad. That’s rather strange, really, as he wasn’t exactly a father figure. Thoughts on him are best not to dwell on, and I drown them out with gulp of Yellow Tail red wine.
Greg somehow thinks that by homing Timmy it will spurn on a baby, like karma. What you give out you get back – that sort of thing. Surely, after five months, a tiny seed should have boomed by now? It could be me. My fault. I don’t want to go there, so I force my mind back to Timmy and recall the day of his arrival. His tummy was so soft and warm, like a wool-covered hot water bottle. I murmured, ‘We need to go and buy baby stuff.’
‘Timmy is not a puppy, you know.’ Greg laughed light-heartedly.
I swung Timmy in my arms and added, ‘I know that, but he feels like one.’
‘Babe, I wish I could go with you, but I have to get back to work. ‘He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
I lowered my head and hid my disappointment. ‘Okay.’ But it soon evaporated when I locked eyes with Timmy as I tickled his belly. I hardly felt Greg’s peck on my cheek as he left.
I break away from the memory and notice my wine glass is almost empty. Karma has not worked its magic, I think, picking up the bottle. Timmy barks to run free in the garden and I flick on the outside lights. The air is cold and bitter. A full moon glows from a velvet sky; the contrast is eerie when an owl hoots. I shiver and ease the door to.
From the window, I watch Timmy dart down the long garden, weaving in and out of trees. He brings on a warm chuckle. No matter how hard he races after squirrels, it’s a lost cause. I’ve tried to explain to him, but I’m not sure he understands. And that’s another thing I’ve noticed. How often I rattle on to Timmy. I’m not overly worried because I googled it, and guess what? All animal lovers do it. Maybe I should have drawn a line on the dog buggy. Not one of my best ideas. I couldn’t help it, though, when I took Timmy on our first-ever shopping spree. Nor could I resist decorating his bedroom in powder blue and stencilling on cartoon characters of puppies. The revamp of Timmy’s room had felt good. It was a reminder of my working days. It had also brought on a flash of regret. To be honest, I’d have preferred not to have given up my job until I fell pregnant. But Greg was full of persuasion for me to finish; he was certain we’d conceive soon. But I haven’t, have I? Anyway, how can I go back to work now? There’s Timmy to look after. It would be so unfair to leave him all day alone. I sigh and think, Perhaps next month I could be painting a pink room. Another wine is poured and I reflect on the fact that Timmy’s bedroom was a great idea at first. However, I couldn’t bear to be apart from him so he ended up in our bed. I wasn’t sure if that was normal, so I googled it. Evidently, it’s a common occurrence for there being three in a bed for the furry kind.
The pushchair now gathers dust in the garage. It had felt far too uncomfortable with the odd stares from strangers as I wheeled it over Clent Hills of Stourbridge with Timmy inside. To be honest, I don’t think he was too impressed either. But I thought after an hour’s walk he’d be tired and welcome a rest. I know I was shattered when we arrived home.
Timmy nudges open the door and darts back inside to the warm kitchen. Cold radiates from his fur and he laps up water from his bowl. I settle on a high stool and rest my elbows on the island. My finger traces a line across the black granite to the last dregs of Yellow Tail. Timmy has been walked twice today; now he’s in his basket next to the radiator licking his paws. Automatically my fingers tap to the clock’s rhythm, the endless drone, the sound so pointless. I wonder if the spikes are taunting me with their slow motion, and stupidly I will them to fast-forward to bring Greg home. He’s been working such long hours recently. With the last of the red finished, I pause, wondering whether to open another bottle. Yellow wins with a large measure, but the smooth velvet taunts my conscience with unease. I should cut down, I know, and I promise I will. It’s hard, though, to let go of the comfort that settles in my tummy, filling it with warm tones. It makes it easy to turn to happy thoughts, and I cast my mind to the fateful night of when I met my husband. Who wouldn’t want to delve back in time over and over to glory in wondrous memories?
I was bored of the same crowd in the local pubs; they made it virtually impossible to meet someone special. So, I turned my luck to online dating; apparently, according to the internet, it was the new trend. It was surprising just how many singletons were out there, all on the lookout for their perfect match, that particular person to cuddle up to or walk hand in hand on a sandy beach with under the stars. To begin with, it had looked very promising. There were a couple of months of:
hi.x
hows ur day
what u up 2
Then frustration had kicked in until a decent, normal message landed in my inbox. I was pleasantly surprised – Jason was hot! And it didn’t take me long to scrawl through his pictures at speed with lust in mind. We engaged back and forth in communication for weeks without actually ever talking for real. Jason came across as a gentleman with old-fashioned manners, and I had to admit I was quite impressed. His messages were articulate and interesting. He certainly believed in romance. And I imagined, had he been in the war, he’d have sent long, loving letters back home to his wife. Which, in my fantasy, was me. He wrote that his nature had stemmed from being raised by loving parents on their farm. A countryman with a warm heart appealed. Oh yes, he ticked all the boxes and was very much a possible candidate of being the one. At first I guarded my story, but then gradually I opened up. I felt I could trust Jason. There was stuff I did hold back on, though. That needed to be spoken about in person, if ever at all. Maybe one day. Maybe not. That was best left out until another time.
Finally, we agreed to meet on a Wednesday evening in early April. A hint of winter was still in the air even though daffodils were visible along the grass verge of the footpath. Promptly at 7.30, I steered my VWGolf onto the pub car park. Butterflies fluttered in my tummy as I scanned around, biting my lip. I should have found out what car Jason drove, then at least I would have known if he had arrived? I hung on for a bit in the hope of spotting him. But after around five minutes of tapping the steering wheel, I gave up and assumed he must be already inside.
There were logs burning in the grate as I stepped inside. A handful of couples were dotted around with one man seated at the bar. From his back view, I was certain it was Jason in dark jeans and a navy blazer. In one of his pictures, I was sure he had something similar on. My mouth suddenly felt dry and my hands became clammy as I’d crossed the flagstone tiles, heading for the gap between him and the vacant barstool. But it was a stranger who glanced up in surprise, not Jason.
Immediately I blushed and stumbled over my words, offering an apology. ‘I’m…sorry… I thought you were someone else.’ My flush burned as I was drawn into his sapphire-blue eyes and his smile produced faint lines across his forehead when he said, ‘That’s okay, and I don’t mind a pretty lady sitting next to me.’
My heart had beat with rapid movement. Never had I been called that before, and as I made to move, he sounded disappointed, glancing at his watch. ‘I think I’ve may have been stood up, actually.’
