Book Title: The Scars of Life
Author and Publisher: David Blyth
Cover Artist: David Blyth
Release Date: June 1, 2023
Genre: Contemporary Romance/Literary Fiction, mystery/suspense
Tropes: Sexual identity, bisexuality, forbidden love
Themes: Psychological twist, mystery, family drama
Trigger Warning: Supplementary themes involve sexual identity and a teenage incestuous occurrence: neither are covered in detail, or described graphically, as they were ‘incidents’ rather than relationships, though they have an impact on the development of the narrative.
Heat Rating: 2 – 3 flames
Length: 95 000 words/362 pages
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
It has a HEA of sorts – it fits vaguely into the romance genre with a lot of psychological suspense and mystery interwoven.
Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited
Paperback also available from Barnes and Noble
A troubled mind, a dysfunctional love story, a psychological twist….
Blurb
Paul Somerfield, a young journalist for Planet Earth magazine, shares a brief friendship with the enigmatic Mike Stokes during an assignment in Devon. It leads to a disruptive fascination and a reluctant complicity in events that evolve from Mike’s tragic past.
On a journey where emotions influence his brittle control, Paul pursues the truth. But the truth has many disguises which disrupt his relationships, his rationality and his life.
A reminder of how fragile the stability of love and trust can be: a journey that follows fear and doubt as they steer lives into a downward spiral of destruction.
Excerpt from mid Chapter Eleven. Weeks before their wedding, Marie discovers some unaccountable evidence of Paul’s past:
Often, when on a night shift at the hotel, Marie would spend the morning in and around town, shopping or visiting friends, before returning to the empty flat for a few hours sleep in the afternoon. One such morning, however, she arranged to leave work a little earlier to be sure of not missing Paul before he left for the office.
Hearing him in the shower as she entered the flat, she called loudly. “Darling, it’s me.”
A shampoo head appeared around the shower door. “Hi, you’re early.”
“I snuck off a bit early today—must pick up my bracelet from the jewellers and I keep forgetting to ask you for the slip. Got room for me in there?” She was undressed before he had a chance to answer, and creeping behind him in the shower, snuggled up to his soapy back.
“I see,” he said with a knowing smile, “thought you’d get back early for a quickie, or did you expect to catch me with the woman upstairs?” He turned and kissed her. “No need to make pathetic excuses—I’ll oblige any time.”
“Mmm … must do this more often when I’m on nights, I can’t imagine a nicer way of finishing the day or starting yours.” Paul’s enthusiasm, even at so early an hour, left no question that the change in their normal routine was a pleasant one. Within minutes, the confines of the shower were abandoned in favour of the bathroom floor, which was soon swimming in water.
“You randy bugger! The woman upstairs doesn’t know what she’s missing.”
“Funny … that’s what she said yesterday,” Paul replied with a giggle.
“It’s such a good job you’re a bad liar, though the fact she’s sixty if she’s a day makes trusting you on that score easier. You forgot, the luscious blonde moved out just after we moved in,” she reminded him, as she wrapped herself in a towel.
Still lying on the bathmat with hands behind his head, and a silly smile, he explained, “Shit! And I assumed it was my exhaustive love making which aged her prematurely.”
“Oh yes, Mr Macho? Hey, get that sexy body of yours off the floor and into some clothes before I ravish you again, it’s nearly half past eight.”
Paul leaped up and disappeared into the bedroom to get ready for work.
“Where’s your bag, Paul? I’m sure I was with you when I took my bracelet in—probably dropped the slip in there. I’m dying to get it back…. Okay, found it.”
While rummaging through the camera bag, which in Marie’s opinion always needed a good clear out—though she knew better than to interfere—she came across a piece of folded paper, crumpled by the equipment. Gathering as many sweet wrappers and chewing gum papers as possible, while Paul was occupied dressing, she was about to dispose of them, when remembering the purpose of her search, she opened the note to check if it was the repair receipt.
On a piece of headed paper from the Gables Guest House, Salisbury, she read the following:
Paul, I didn’t arrange to meet you here to drag up memories of events in Devon. I see they still trouble you and that makes me feel sad. Maybe time will help heal any old wounds—it did for me, remember? (Smile). I have no regrets. Your friendship is important to me—one day you might know why. But now there is a lot you don’t understand. I hoped us meeting could clear up some of it but now—well I’m glad it didn’t. If I tried to change your opinion, it would have been unfair to you. You will come to understand judge in time. You must make up your own mind—I don’t deserve the opportunity of being able to control future events.
Paul, you have lots of skills—more than I will ever have—but dealing with your emotions needs a bit of work. Sorry, mate. (Smile).
You sometimes hide your feelings until they start to hurt inside. Then you let anger cover up the hurt. It can end in a bad way—I should know.
I can’t see now when we’ll meet again, but I think hope we will. It might even be important that we do. If so—you will know the time and the place. Until then remember—life leaves many scars. It’s a bit like love in that way, isn’t it? Know love for what it is, Paul.
Your friend,
Mike
A blank, imposed to eliminate other possibilities, filled her mind. Marie sat back on her heels in the centre of the room, still wrapped in the damp towel. Around her, the flat echoed with the silence of doubt. Holding the crumpled letter clasped below her chin as though in prayer, the clutter of wrappers around her kneeling form lay like fragments of her existence.
Paul found her in that same trance-like state a few moments later when he hurried into the room to collect his camera bag. “Marie?” he asked, looking down with a frown of curiosity, having begun a conversation from the bedroom and obtained no response. “Marie, what’s up?” he added, with a hint of alarm at her silence.
She looked up, eyes wide and unseeing, lips motionless and fractionally apart.
Falling to his knees amongst the litter on the floor, he cupped her ashen face in his hands. “Darling, whatever’s wrong?”
David Blyth was born in Staffordshire, in the UK. He graduated from Nottingham and Wolverhampton Universities.
He lived for many years in South Africa, where he witnessed the political and social transformation during and after apartheid.
His interests, apart from writing, include anything that helps him to stay relatively sane.
The Scars of Life was written during a two-year overland exploration of southern, central and east Africa; much was achieved sitting under the shade of a huge mango tree on the shores of Lake Malawi, always with a beer near at hand.
Separate Development, which is in fact his second novel, though published first, was written at his home in the English Midlands.
He is currently working on his third.
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