Free The New Samurai by Jane Harvey-Berrick Page A

towed – not when he might need it for Sylvie.
    He was running back to the hospital when it occurred to him that Wayne might have arrived at Bournemouth by now. He skidded to a halt and dialled his number.
    “Hello, mate,” came the calm voice. “I thought you’d be on the big date with Elle by now. Come to your senses, have you?”
    “Wayne! Don’t you ever pick up your bloody messages!” shouted Sam. “I’m at the hospital; Sylvie’s gone into labour. You’ve got to come back!”
    When Wayne spoke, his voice sounded faint and more than a little confused.
    “But she’s not due for another month?”
    “Well, the baby doesn’t know that,” yelled Sam, “so get back here now!”
    Finally the penny dropped, and Wayne was bellowing down the phone.
    “Right. Right! I’m on my way! Sam – stay with her, won’t you? She’ll be terrified if she’s all by herself.”
    Sam promised, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do – he’d have been happier running in the other direction, wrestling grizzlies, facing a mob of Millwall fans – anything but being relied on by a scared, pregnant woman.
    He sprinted back to the hospital, and even the few seconds it took to find out where the maternity ward was located seemed too long.
    Sam heard Sylvie’s screams echoing down the corridor before he saw her. The sounds had a feral, uncontrolled edge to them, and it stopped him in his tracks.
    One of the nurses who’d wheeled Sylvie in saw Sam, and marched purposefully towards him. She had a set of surgical scrubs in her arms.
    “Put these on, please,” she said.
    “What?” said Sam, in shock, his feet still rooted to the spot with no apparent intention of ever moving again.
    “Baby’s on the way,” said the nurse, sharply. “We can’t have dad miss the main event, can we?”
    Sam’s jaw dropped open.
    “What? No! I…”
    But the nurse pushed him into a room and ordered him to change. Sam did as he was told then was led like a lamb to the slaughter into Sylvie’s birthing suite.
    “Sam! Sam!” screamed Sylvie in between shrieks.
    Sylvie was laid across a bed, her stomach huge and pulsating like an overblown jelly on top of a spin-dryer. There was entirely more of her on view than Sam had ever wished to see. He swallowed nervously and looked away.
    Then the nurse pushed a horrified Sam further into the room towards Sylvie.
    “Take her hand and help her with her breathing,” she instructed.
    Thrashing wildly, Sylvie grabbed Sam’s hand and hung on with a vice-like grip that actually made him wince. He was pretty certain he’d have a row of nail marks up his arm the next day.
    There was also some pretty colourful language coming out of Sylvie’s mouth. Sam hadn’t heard swearing like that since his rugby days: and Sylvie was also inventing a few he’d never heard before. She had quite an imagination.
    “Er… I spoke to Wayne,” said Sam as soothingly as he could manage, with his right hand being mangled, “and he’s on his way.”
    “That bastard!” screamed Sylvie. “You think I’m ever going to let him near me again after putting me through this? He’s never touching me again!”
    The midwife looked puzzled. So Sam wasn’t the father after all. Even so, the mother had clearly chosen him for her birthing partner. During her years with the NHS the midwife had seen it all. Drawing her own conclusions, she sighed. Why was it that all the good-looking ones were gay?
    Sylvie clamped down on Sam’s hand and he nearly let out a yell himself.
    “That’s it, mum!” encouraged the midwife. “One more big push; baby’s on the way.”
    “Get it out! Get it out!” snarled Sylvie, her eyes rabid.
    “Nearly there: one more big push!”
    Sylvie screamed and twisted Sam’s arm so hard, she held him in a wrist lock. He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder to see what was happening, and really wished he hadn’t. The walls lurched suddenly and Sam felt his knees start to buckle.
    He