3 years ago, I published
Breaking Faith as a paperback and on 24 October 2010 I published it as an ebook
through Smashwords.
Those who've read the book
have enjoyed it: some of their comments are shown below. I'd like more people
to read the book. That is, after all, why I wrote it; to be read.
So, I'm offering the
chance for everyone to read it free, here on the blog. I'm posting a chapter of
the book each Friday until the whole novel has appeared.
The Prologue was posted on
6 January. Here's a link, if you missed it: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, tell your
friends. The more who read, the happier we'll be.
What others
have said about
Breaking
Faith
...I could
not believe how determined this book was to make me read it...set in the summer
of 1976, it details Faith’s journey from isolation, deprivation and abuse...to
enlightenment...A shocking but captivating story...’ Shirley Mace
I read this
book in one sitting, unwilling to put it down, immersed in Faith’s journey from
darkness to self-knowledge. The characters drawn with a fine brush...The
denouement is sudden, violent and completely satisfying. Mr P. F. Field
...a story
of triumphant human spirit. The novel simmers with heat, lust, decadence and
sexuality...Stuart Aken is indeed a writer to watch. Karen Wolfe, author.
1
1976
Monday 9th February
‘You’re having me on!’ I
thought one of my former lovers must be playing silly buggers.
‘What do you mean, Mr Longshaw?’ Her voice had an
edge of nervousness, almost fear, to it.
‘Pulling my leg. I mean you’re not really Faith
Heacham.’ It couldn’t be her.
‘I’m sorry; I don’t know what you mean by pulling
your leg.’ Her anxiety was briefly overcome by undisguised frustration. ‘But I
am Faith Heacham.’
I struggled to accept that Faith Heacham was on
the phone to me, of all people. But her naivety convinced me. I answered the
rest of her hesitant questions and, in spite of misgivings from a small warning
voice, invited her for interview.
Abby tried to recapture my attention, playing the
coquette, shrugging her gorgeous shoulders and bringing beguiling movement to
her breasts.
I closed the mouthpiece with my hand. ‘Patience.’
The door from the kitchen opened and, apprehensive
at once, Abby flung one arm across her chest. But, seeing it was only Ma, she
relaxed again.
‘Until one o’clock, then. TTFN.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Ta ta for now.’
‘Oh, I see. Good morning, Mr Longshaw.’
The short call finished, I replaced the phone and
wondered what had made me agree to interview this strange girl from the
village.
Abby saw my puzzled frown. ‘Who was it, Leigh?’
Carrying coffee mugs on a tray, Ma stumbled over
Abby’s polyester wrap on the floor and kicked herself free of it.
‘Faith Heacham.’
Ma frowned at the name. ‘Shilling short of a
pound.’ Thumping down the tray in emphasis.
I decided against pointing out the anachronism; Ma
didn’t take kindly to that sort of criticism. ‘I’m interviewing her after
lunch.’
Abby arched delicate pencilled eyebrows. ‘You’re
interviewing the village idiot?’
‘Didn’t sound like an idiot. Local, uncertain,
nervous, naive but not stupid. Voice like burgundy silk, with none of the
coarseness you’d imagine. Funny, I’ve never heard her speak, you know. Wouldn’t
expect that voice from a tiny wench like her.’
‘Beats me why you want a Girl Friday anyway.’
‘Answer the phone when I’m working, amongst other
things.’
‘Stick an extension in the Perv’s darkroom and get
him to take messages.’
‘Of course! I never thought. Merv’s unique and
candid misogyny would be perfect. Work like a charm on every secretary,
receptionist and potential model who called. Good idea, Abby.’
‘Sarkey sod.’
I tripped the shutter. ‘Shift your lovely bum a
tad to the left. Beautiful.’ Another work of genius captured on film.
‘Can’t Ma take messages?’
‘I do.’ Ma’s face said all she needed to on that
subject and she left without another word.
‘She does. It’s not just that. Takes me hours to
type a letter. Paperwork clogs up my creative cogs, I’m forever running out of
film and paper, and the tax return’s murder. Anyway, a good pair of legs under
a mini or micro and some bold boobs in a see-through might keep those damned
reps out of my hair. Do wonders when clients visit in person.’
‘All three of them.’
‘Cheek. If I had some glamour here to greet them,
there’d be more.’
‘Faith Heacham hasn’t got legs or tits. She’s not
glam. She’s skinny and square. I’m glam. I’ve got legs and tits.’ She displayed
to best advantage.
‘And very beautiful they are, Abby. But you’ve all
the organisational skills of a bramble bush, and your idea of accounting is,
“Any money? Yes, stroke no. Spend it”. Anyway, you’d not work the hours I want
for the wages I’m offering.’
She yawned her boredom again and I prepared to
finish the session with a last couple of shots. ‘Move a bit further over, honey,
and don’t pose. It’s “Housework au Naturel.” remember? You’re supposed to be
actually doing the hoovering.’
‘As if I’d get involved in housework. I’m not a
skivvy. Anyway, if it’s supposed to be au naturel, shouldn’t I be completely
nude?’
‘They’d never publish it. And I’d never get you on
page three like that.’
‘Even so, wouldn’t you like…?’
‘Of course, even if it’s just for my personal
collection.’
She did; leaving just the shoes to enhance the
length and shape of her legs. I repeated the poses I’d already done.
The roll finished, Abby decided she’d had enough.
She took my hand off the film magazine I was about to remove from the ‘Blad.
‘That’ll wait. I won’t.’ She dragged me into the sitting room, where Uncle
Fred’s framed sepia parents, stiff in matching gilt frames, glared Victorian
disapproval at us from the ancient oak mantelpiece. The roaring fire countered
the ice in their stares, making the sheepskin rug yet more inviting. Abby
rested her lovely skin on the soft wool and pulled me down to join her.
An hour or so later, I left her glowing inside and
out, languorous on the creamy fibres. At her request, I stuck a stack of
singles on the radiogram and wandered off as Hot Chocolate sang ‘You Sexy
Thing’, appropriately enough.
Back in the office, I replaced denim flares and
the psychedelic shirt Abby had insisted on removing from me during the shoot,
and took the films to the darkroom for processing.
Merv, however, was not lurking in the orange glow
of his domain. The stockroom door was ajar and, fixated by his view through the
tiny window, he didn’t hear my approach. I loathed his attitude to women.
‘Stripping another unfortunate female?’
‘You do it.’
‘Merv, comparing my photography of women with your
lewd mental despoiling is like placing Velazquez in the same frame as Vargas.’
He grunted. ‘Seen that ‘un starkers.’
I peered over his shoulder, down through the
white-encrusted skeletal sycamore to the lane end where a small, anxious young
woman stood ankle deep in fresh snow. It took me a moment to recognize her,
though she wore her usual cast-offs and was expected.
‘Not that one, Merv. I doubt even the doctor’s
seen that little body.’
‘I ‘ave! Seen the lot. Outside it were an’ all.
Doesn’t shave its armpits. All ‘airy they was. Mucky little twat.’
I left Merv his fantasy, unwilling to explore or
argue and suddenly aware of the dangers of his corruption and loathing meeting
with her reputed purity. ‘Depending how things go this afternoon, you may soon
see her; face to face.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m interviewing her in twenty minutes.’
‘It’ll never effin’ model for you!’
‘Girl Friday, Merv.’
‘Waste o’ time. Less brains than a shagged sheep.’
‘I’ll accept your expert assessment of the sheep,
Merv, but have you actually met the girl, spoken with her?’
‘Everyone knows. Even its effin’ dad says it’s
thick as cow dung.’
‘I admit he seemed determined to brand her an
idiot before he sent her out to work. Anyway, I’ve nowt to lose by giving her a
hearing. The only other two who responded were great to look at and fun in bed
but the blonde had all the mathematical aptitude of an artichoke and the
redhead thought typewriter keys were arranged alphabetically.’
‘You’ll not gerrit in bed, Leigh. Never tecks its
knickers off. It’ll not even teck off its coat if it knows a man’s lookin’ at
it.’
I turned him away from the window to face me but
he couldn’t meet my eyes, despite our equal height. ‘I want that order printed
and finished, Merv. I’ll deliver it after the interview.’
‘Waste of effin’ time if you ask me. It’s got
nothing you want.’
I left Merv to it; confident he’d do his usual
perfect job. As a photographic printer and technician, he was brilliant; as a
man… I shuddered.
At my desk, I picked up the morning paper and
waited for Faith Heacham to knock at my door. Recalling her, apprehensive in
the snow, I wondered again how the skinny, ragged, village idiot had persuaded
me to interview her.
###
Of course, whilst I want you
to read the book, it would be even better if you bought it. So, if you can't
wait until next week's instalment, check the links below, which will take you
to a place you can make your purchase, either as paperback or ebook, depending
on your preference.
Sample or buy as any format Ebook: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken
Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079
Barnes & Noble - Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Breaking-Faith/Stuart-Aken/e/2940011126079
Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from USA Amazon
Amazon paperback or Kindle To buy from UK Amazon
Apple idevice:
United Kingdom: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/isbn9781849233149
Web site: http://stuartaken.co.uk
Tweet with me: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
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