Un-Expected Read online

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  Editor: Chris Quinton

  Cover Designer: Meredith Russell

  Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Worrall

  All Rights Reserved.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  Copyright

  All Rights Reserved

  Note from the Author

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About Lisa

  Trademarks Acknowledgement:

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and the trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Tupperware: Tupperware®

  Corona: Grupo Modelo

  Guiness: Guiness©

  Aptamil: Aptamil Professional

  Dr Browns Bottles: Dr Browns

  Lansinoh: Lansinoh Laboratories

  Supernatural: CW

  Smirnoff: The Smirnoff Co.

  SKY: BSKYB

  Eddie Stobart: The Stobart Group

  American Werewolf in London: Lycanthrope Films

  Princess Leia, Han Solo, Luke Skywalker,

  Chewbacca, C3PO & R2D2: The Star Wars Corporation

  Fairy Liquid: Procter & Gamble

  Miss Marple: Agatha Christie

  Chapter 1

  Micah’s pulse raced. This was it. A million thoughts flew through his mind, too fast for him to latch onto a single one. He swallowed hard as a fresh spurt of blood covered his fingertips. Glancing up at the pale face, etched in a mask of agony, frightened blue eyes staring back at him, he summoned up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s okay,” he said softly, reaching up to squeeze limp fingers. “Stay with me. We’re gonna do this together. You and me.”

  “You said… it would be… walk in the park.”

  “Well… more like a brisk jog,” Micah grinned.

  “Bastard.”

  “That’s it, get pissed off,” he encouraged, not batting an eye as he lifted his best friend's bare foot onto his shoulder. If he had time to think about it, he might have considered it quite bizarre that he was seeing quite so much of said best friend, but he was far too busy trying to deliver her baby to think about anything else. Micah swept two fingers around the perineum as another contraction hit and the baby’s head crowned for the third time. “Another push, Sarah and we'll have the head. Bear down and we can meet this beautiful boy.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Micah scoffed as Sarah’s body ignored her protestations and concentrated on the job it was made to do. “You are doing it. Bear down, that’s it… keep it coming…” The contraction slowly receded and he gave her thigh an encouraging squeeze. “Fantastic job, darlin’. One more and we’ll be singing happy birthday, won’t we, Dad?”

  “The only thing he’ll be singing is soprano,” Sarah panted as she flopped back onto the pillow. “You touch me again and I’ll cut your dick off!”

  Micah bit back his snort of laughter at the understanding nod from Gary, Sarah’s adoring husband, as he smoothed her hair off her sweat-dampened forehead. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard something along those lines and he was more than certain it wouldn’t be the last. He was also fairly sure that in a couple of years Sarah would be saying the same thing again. Sarah’s belly hardened beneath his hand and he looked at the monitor as the contraction began to build strength. The baby’s heartbeat started to climb, which was perfectly normal. This was it. He felt that familiar frisson of excitement flow through him and he moistened his lips. “Okay, Sarah,” he said briskly. “I know you’re tired, but we’re nearly there. Deep breath in and push!”

  He kept up a steady stream of encouragement, and whooped when the baby’s head didn’t slip back down the birth canal after the next contraction. Then the head was delivered to a resounding scream from Sarah. “Sarah, honey, stop pushing. I don’t want you to tear,” Micah instructed firmly. “I need you to listen to my voice. I want you to pant, and with the next contraction we’ll have a baby.”

  “I can’t… I changed my mind.”

  “Probably should have thought of that before you had that early night, Webb,” Micah shot back. The next contraction began almost straight away and Micah briefly gripped Sarah’s knee. “This is it, baby. I want little pushes while I ease him out. That’s it… another one… fantastic, honey. Blow your breath out. Think about all the blow jobs you gave behind 4C… yes… just like that….” Micah let out another yell as two shoulders slipped easily into the world followed by the rest of Sarah and Gary’s baby boy, his Godson.

  Once the cord had stopped pulsing Micah clamped it and held the scissors out to Gary. “Come on, Daddy. I’ve done my part…” Gary was in a state of euphoric shock. Micah had to steady his hand as the other man cut the cord in between the clamps, and Baby Boy Webb was on his own. Micah rose with the baby in his arms and placed him on Sarah’s breast, no
t quite being able to join in the celebration; he wasn’t done yet.

  While Sarah and Gary laughed, cried and stared in exhausted amazement at their new son, Micah efficiently drew the Pitocin into a syringe and injected it into Sarah’s thigh. Not that she noticed. He shook his head with a soft smile as he placed his hand on her abdomen, waiting for the injection to take effect. In the five years he’d been one of the midwives here at Cherry Tree Birthing Centre, he didn’t think any woman had ever paid attention when he’d administered the drug designed to deliver the placenta.

  Thankfully the final stage of labour didn’t take long, and within twenty minutes he had weighed and discarded the disc-like placenta after checking it was intact. Turning back to Sarah, he surveyed his handiwork.

  “You can stop staring at my girl parts now,” Sarah said sarcastically. “You’re done down that end… get your arse further north.”

  “Sorry,” Micah said with a wide grin. “But I’m damn good. Not a single tear. Actually, if it weren’t for the fact that you shit yourself, you would never know you just had a baby.”

  “You are seriously disturbed,” Sarah shook her head and gazed back down at her son. “If Uncle Micah ever tries to tell you the story of your birth, kick him in the shins and run like hell. Mummy would like to try and retain a little dignity.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Micah cooed, gently lifting the baby from Sarah’s arms. “We are going to have some serious fun, little man. I’m going to teach you all the ways to make your mummy get that crinkle above her nose when she’s piss—sorry—ticked off. I’m also going to fill you full of E-numbers, additives and preservatives, then send you home to your parents. It’s my job, no matter what Mummy says. It’s on page one of the Uncle Handbook. Right there with getting you your first lap dance when you’re twenty-one.”

  “He’s ten minutes old, Lewis,” Sarah griped. “Don’t start corrupting him already.”

  Micah chuckled softly as he gently lowered the baby into the scales. He made a note of his weight before measuring his length and his head. He completed all the tests he needed to do and updated his notes, then quickly administered the vitamin K injection, mumbling soothing noises as the baby let out a wail. With practiced ease, he fastened a nappy, and dressed the tiny boy in a vest and a baby-gro before wrapping him in the blanket Gary handed him. Picking the baby up, he dropped a gentle kiss on his soft skin and then placed him in his father’s arms. He settled himself in the chair in the corner and proceeded to finish the rest of his notes, allowing Sarah and Gary some alone time with their new son.

  Watching the way Sarah stared in stunned awe at the baby had Micah swallowing past the lump in his throat. She was a year older than him, and she and Gary had already been trying for three years before they moved back to the tiny village where Sarah and Micah had grown up. That had been four years ago, so it had been seven years of miscarriages and three costly IVF treatments before they were able to see the beautiful puffy little face now yawning up at them.

  “Look at him,” Gary grinned happily. “You’d think he’d done all the work. Who does he look like?”

  “You,” Sarah replied immediately. “Poor little sod… and my dad.”

  “He looks like Winston Churchill,” Micah piped up, not lifting his gaze from his notes. “All babies look like Winston Churchill… it’s the law.”

  “You’re a knob, Micah,” Sarah shot back. “I’m going to rescind the Godfather invitation if you’re not careful.”

  Micah closed her file and slipped his pen into the top pocket of his scrubs. Standing up he walked over to the bed and stroked a gentle finger over the baby’s downy cheek. “You can’t. I have to have some kind of reward for wiping your arse.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead softly. “He is eight and half pounds of perfect, Sare. You did good.” Raising an eyebrow he tilted his head as he gazed down at the little boy he was planning to spoil within an inch of his life. “Are you seriously going to saddle him with,” he faked a shudder, “that name?”

  “It was my father’s name,” Gary said firmly. “And his father’s name before him. It’s tradition.”

  “Then why is your name Gary?” Micah reasoned. “Doesn’t it tell you something when your own mother refused to carry on the tradition? How can you do it to him? He’s going to get his arse severely kicked his entire life.”

  “Shut up the two of you,” Sarah sighed heavily with a roll of her eyes. “Micah, get over it. We like it, it’s cute. Now hold your Godson… Algernon Micah Webb.”

  Supporting the baby’s head in the crook of his elbow, Micah kissed him softly. “Don’t worry, Algie. When you’re eighteen I’ll pay for you to get it changed.”

  *

  Micah yawned widely as he slid behind the wheel. He turned the key and sighed heavily when the digital clock on the dash informed him it was nearly three-thirty. He should have been in his bed hours ago. His shift had ended at eleven and he’d been on the way to his car when he’d received a frantic call from a panicking Gary. Sarah’s contractions were three minutes apart and she was using swear words he’d never even heard before. Reassuring the terrified about-to-be-a-daddy that he would be waiting for them when they arrived at the birthing centre, Micah had turned around and headed back inside. Now it was all over and mother and baby were sleeping soundly with Daddy on the chair-bed beside them, he was more than ready to go home.

  Mentally crossing his fingers, Micah inserted the key into the ignition of his ancient Ford Fiesta and caressed the dashboard lovingly. “Come on, old girl. Don’t let me down now,” he mumbled and shoved the car into second gear. He depressed the brake pedal twice, then pushed the clutch all the way to the floor and turned the key. The engine turned over and spluttered ominously. Before it could die completely, Micah banged a fist on the dashboard. The engine caught and settled into a semi-steady purr.

  “That’s my baby,” Micah said soothingly, fastening his seatbelt with a grateful smile. He’d had Fiona since he’d passed his driving test. His father had presented him with the keys when he’d run through the house screaming that he’d passed. Little had he known Fiona would be the last present his father gave him.

  Three weeks later, Graham Lewis had been killed in a car accident. Micah knew he could have bought a brand new car twice over with the money it had cost him over the years to keep Fiona on the road. Not that it mattered because he would never part with her, even when she was no longer driveable, he had a spot already picked out for her in his mum's garage. Of course, he'd have to convince his mum to get rid of the rowing machine, exercise bike and weights bench taking up Fiona's final resting place. She’d protest, of course, but like most of his mother's impulse buys the 'home gym' had been used maybe three times since its instalment—two of which had been him.

  Micah steered Fiona out of the car park and headed for home. At this hour the streets were practically empty. He passed only a couple of other cars as his journey took him off the leafy suburban streets and onto pitch-black country lanes. Micah switched on his high beam and caught the terrified gleam in a large pheasant's eyes which had trotted out into the path of the car. Cursing the pheasant and its parents, Micah yanked the wheel and swerved around the frozen bird, missing it by inches. Fiona groaned indignantly when Micah straightened the wheel and pressed the gas lightly in an attempt to encourage her to move a little faster.

  He yawned widely, sighing gratefully when he approached the crossroads sign indicating the turning for Little Mowbury. Micah opened the window and gave a slight shake of his head at the rush of cool air that blew his hair into his eyes. He was nearly home, just another five minutes and he'd be tucked up under the duvet, waiting for his memory foam mattress to do what it said on the tin, and mould itself to the contours of his body before carrying him off to dreamland. The last thing he wanted to do was fall asleep at the wheel and spend the rest of the night in Miller's Pond.

  Micah pulled up outside Rosewood Cottage and turned off the engine. He glanced out
of the window at the tiny picture perfect two up, two down that had been his home for the last four years. Named for the rose-covered trellis adorning the front of the house, in the moonlight it really did look as though all it needed was a satin ribbon tied around it to fool you into thinking it was a novelty chocolate box.

  He opened the car door and hauled himself out, tiredness affecting his balance. He stood and the world tilted. God, he needed sleep. He closed the door as quietly as he could given the lateness of the hour, and locked it before forcing his feet along the path to the house. The keys put up a bit of a fight as he jiggled the lock, but the usual swift kick to the bottom left hand corner of the old oak front door did the trick and it sprang open. Micah stepped over the threshold and hung the keys on the hook on the wall, then turned to close the door behind him.

  Before the latch caught, his sleep deprived brain vaguely registered the lights on in Lilac Cottage across the tiny road. He knew old Mr Nelson's place had finally been sold, but he hadn't realised the new occupants were moving in so soon. But he was sure his mother would have plenty to say on the subject at some point, since she was the oracle when it came to Little Mowbury and everyone in it. Yawning widely, he locked the door, and all but crawled up the stairs. He collapsed on his bed, fully clothed.

  *

  "For fuck's sake!"

  The shout woke Micah from what little slumber he'd had and he tried to summon the energy to look at his watch. Nine-thirty? Really? By the time he'd driven home and climbed the stairs, the illuminated hands had been inching toward four, which meant he'd only had five and a half hours sleep, if that. Not that he hadn't complained vociferously time and time again that his spare door key was for emergencies only, and he needed at least six and a half hours to regain his basic motor functions. And let's not forget he had phoned last night directly after receiving Gary's call, to impart the vital information that it was going to be a long night. Which could only mean the owner of the voice currently turning his kitchen air blue hated him.