‘Angels’. And it was dark and the lights swirled and it smelled of smoke and perfume and aftershave, and all across the room couples were moving in to each other.
She shut her eyes for a second. ‘I love this song.’
‘Ah no, you don’t.’
‘What? It’s nice!’
‘It’s shite is what it is.’ He paused, stubbing out his cigarette under his foot. ‘Wanna dance?’
She pretended for a minute she was thinking about it, like she might say no. But she couldn’t help smiling. ‘OK.’
Keep reading for an exclusive extract from
The next in the thrilling Paula Maguire series
Prologue
I’m dead.
I don’t mind. I want to be dead. Nothing could be worse than staying alive, not like this. But all the same I’m running away.
I can feel the blood between my toes, my feet slipping on the roots and branches. They’ve taken my clothes from me. You’re dead, they say. No one will miss you. You’re evil. The world is better off without you.
And I know they’re right, but I’m running anyway.
I know they will catch me – I’m lost, no idea where I’m going, and after what they’ve done I can hardly stand, but I’m running. In the dark the forest is full of eyes, and branches claw my face like scratching hands. Overhead, the moon is as white as a face with the flesh stripped back.
My own warm blood is splashing on my skin. My heart is bursting in my chest. You have no heart, they told me. You are dead inside. You are scum. Yes, yes, it’s all true, but, but, but. I can hear them nearby in the trees. The high voice of the wee girl. Saying my name. I know they’ll find me, panting and stumbling, but I can’t stop. I am so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like this.
The noise stops. The moon lights up the path ahead, empty, and I run, and as I run I’m thinking one thing:
my baby. Oh my baby.
Chapter One
Ballyterrin, Northern Ireland, April 2011
‘We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’
Paula’s lilies were wilting already. She shifted on her swollen feet. The bulk of her belly meant the only way she could comfortably stand was with one hip jutted out, leaning on it, and she didn’t think such an insolent pose would cut it before the altar. She’d already seen the priest’s eye travelling over her stomach and then pointedly not looking at it. Catholics – they were good at pretending things that did exist didn’t. And vice versa.
She stared straight ahead, her legs buckling under the cool satin of her dress, glad that its length hid her puffy ankles and enormous underwear.
What am I doing here?
The church smelled of incense, and cold stone, and the slightly rotting sweetness of the flowers.
Across from her, Aidan was also staring rigidly ahead. He was tricked out in a new grey suit, clasping his hands in front of his groin in that position men adopted during moments of gravitas or penalty kick-offs. She wondered if, like her, he was having to stop himself mouthing the too-familiar words of the Mass
. Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) Christ have mercy (Christ have mercy) Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy).
The phrases found a treacherous echo in her bones. She heard Aidan cough, once, in the still, heavy air of the church. On that warm spring day, it was full of the ghosts of candles, and dust, and long unopened hymn books.
What are we doing here?
She wanted to catch his eye, but was afraid to.
‘Do you have the rings?’ Aidan stepped forward and deposited them on the Bible, two hoops of gold, one large, one tiny. Then he moved back into position, eyes downcast.
‘Repeat after me,’ said the priest. The bride and groom arranged themselves in suitable positions. ‘Patrick Joseph Maguire, will you take Patricia Ann O’Hara to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, to have and to hold from this day forth, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?’
Paula’s father –
She shut her eyes for a second. ‘I love this song.’
‘Ah no, you don’t.’
‘What? It’s nice!’
‘It’s shite is what it is.’ He paused, stubbing out his cigarette under his foot. ‘Wanna dance?’
She pretended for a minute she was thinking about it, like she might say no. But she couldn’t help smiling. ‘OK.’
Keep reading for an exclusive extract from
The next in the thrilling Paula Maguire series
Prologue
I’m dead.
I don’t mind. I want to be dead. Nothing could be worse than staying alive, not like this. But all the same I’m running away.
I can feel the blood between my toes, my feet slipping on the roots and branches. They’ve taken my clothes from me. You’re dead, they say. No one will miss you. You’re evil. The world is better off without you.
And I know they’re right, but I’m running anyway.
I know they will catch me – I’m lost, no idea where I’m going, and after what they’ve done I can hardly stand, but I’m running. In the dark the forest is full of eyes, and branches claw my face like scratching hands. Overhead, the moon is as white as a face with the flesh stripped back.
My own warm blood is splashing on my skin. My heart is bursting in my chest. You have no heart, they told me. You are dead inside. You are scum. Yes, yes, it’s all true, but, but, but. I can hear them nearby in the trees. The high voice of the wee girl. Saying my name. I know they’ll find me, panting and stumbling, but I can’t stop. I am so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like this.
The noise stops. The moon lights up the path ahead, empty, and I run, and as I run I’m thinking one thing:
my baby. Oh my baby.
Chapter One
Ballyterrin, Northern Ireland, April 2011
‘We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’
Paula’s lilies were wilting already. She shifted on her swollen feet. The bulk of her belly meant the only way she could comfortably stand was with one hip jutted out, leaning on it, and she didn’t think such an insolent pose would cut it before the altar. She’d already seen the priest’s eye travelling over her stomach and then pointedly not looking at it. Catholics – they were good at pretending things that did exist didn’t. And vice versa.
She stared straight ahead, her legs buckling under the cool satin of her dress, glad that its length hid her puffy ankles and enormous underwear.
What am I doing here?
The church smelled of incense, and cold stone, and the slightly rotting sweetness of the flowers.
Across from her, Aidan was also staring rigidly ahead. He was tricked out in a new grey suit, clasping his hands in front of his groin in that position men adopted during moments of gravitas or penalty kick-offs. She wondered if, like her, he was having to stop himself mouthing the too-familiar words of the Mass
. Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) Christ have mercy (Christ have mercy) Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy).
The phrases found a treacherous echo in her bones. She heard Aidan cough, once, in the still, heavy air of the church. On that warm spring day, it was full of the ghosts of candles, and dust, and long unopened hymn books.
What are we doing here?
She wanted to catch his eye, but was afraid to.
‘Do you have the rings?’ Aidan stepped forward and deposited them on the Bible, two hoops of gold, one large, one tiny. Then he moved back into position, eyes downcast.
‘Repeat after me,’ said the priest. The bride and groom arranged themselves in suitable positions. ‘Patrick Joseph Maguire, will you take Patricia Ann O’Hara to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, to have and to hold from this day forth, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?’
Paula’s father –