History
Dark Sanctuary was my second book after Deep As Bone - and due to the lack of success of the former, I approached it in an entirely different way. This time I was going to write a book that was more commercial, more sharply written, constructed in a modern, clipped, quick and pithy read. I would waste no time on too much description of scene or character - I would let the story bloom out from short sentences and plenty of swift conversation and vibrant repartee. I would also put in, I thought, extensive connections to my home country, South Africa. The London agent, who had loved Deep As Bone, loved Dark Sanctuary. I was in, I was up, I was on my way! Until the changes came. From receiving the book in glowing terms, I was then requested to make changes. This I did diligently upon every request - until eventually the book was a mere shadow of its former self. All to the good, I thought. But then, ultimately, I could never seem to get it right and the agent, understandably, got tired and bored with the re-reading and re-reading. And so Dark Sanctuary never quite reached the acceptance I so valiantly sought. But here is an excerpt. See for yourself how you feel about it. |
Excerpt
By evening I had recovered. My mother produced her magic formula of scrambled eggs and sliced tomato on toast. I had to
appear cheery – it was the only way she would go home. The minutest display of emotion would stall her.
‘You’ve been fantastic to come up and look after me like this, mum.’
She began to cry immediately.
I stared at her in dismay.
‘You think I’m nothing!’ she snorted through a tissue.
‘Of course not! That’s a terrible thing to say.’
But reluctantly, I understood what she meant. It wasn’t that I thought she was nothing, it was that I thought nothing of her.
My mind never touched the value of her contribution in my life. I always thought everything was my father. I had sudden perception
of the hurt my mother suffered. And I had no idea how to respond.
She helped me out when she said almost aggressively, ‘You seem to enjoy putting yourself in danger, Suzahne, and then expecting
half the country to run around you. Those men wished you harm. You could be dead!’ She looked down suddenly, struggling with
words. ‘You’ve been behaving strangely ever since you came back from South Africa.’
‘I came home with my father’s body in a coffin. How do you think I felt?’
‘I understand that,’ she said patiently. ‘But you’ve changed. It’s like you got some new religion or something.’
I looked at her. It’s called guilt, mum.
She went on, ‘You’ve dyed your hair that ghastly white blonde. You’ve moved yourself way out of town. You never call me.
You went all that way to another country and came back withdrawn and rude. I hardly know you anymore.’
She oozed hurt and bewilderment. How could I explain something that was more than grief? When I saw the body of my father
lying on that mortuary trolley under the white glare of fluorescent light, the only colour I registered was the obscene slash of
purple flesh below his beloved face. Guilt had twisted its blade in me; a shocking thrust of self-blame as though I had taken the
knife to him myself.
My father had gone to South Africa to verify the insurance claim of a business magnate who had been robbed once too often. In the
middle of the investigation, he had been attacked and killed in his hotel room. The point was that he shouldn’t have been there
in the first place, had no need to go. It was because of me that he went.
Because of me that he died.
I looked across at my mother. How could she understand what it was like for me to grow up under the doting eye of a father whose
expectations were way beyond my capability? I had covered my scholastic inadequacy with rebellion. On several occasions my father
had been called to the school because of a fight. In one memorable instance, a dispute over a pen with two boys had resulted in one
of them falling down a flight of stairs. I still bore the scars of that encounter – a line deep as a surgeon’s cut under my jaw and a chip
of skin missing from the side of my nose. But I had kept the pen.
Now my mother was watching me with that familiar expression of disappointment, her eyes dark and angry, her plump arms
folded defiantly across a pigeon-like bosom. I noticed her hair was dull and her dress too tight.
Her expression softened suddenly. ‘You have to come out of mourning sometime, Suzahne. I know how you feel.’ Her eyes were
teary. ‘Sometimes I feel – I think – I wouldn’t hesitate to kill the person who killed your father.’
The image of my mother advancing dumpily, dangerously armed with a knitting needle should have made me smile, but
instead the room shrank inwards. Her eyes were on me as she made this threat.
Looking only at me.
###
By evening I had recovered. My mother produced her magic formula of scrambled eggs and sliced tomato on toast. I had to
appear cheery – it was the only way she would go home. The minutest display of emotion would stall her.
‘You’ve been fantastic to come up and look after me like this, mum.’
She began to cry immediately.
I stared at her in dismay.
‘You think I’m nothing!’ she snorted through a tissue.
‘Of course not! That’s a terrible thing to say.’
But reluctantly, I understood what she meant. It wasn’t that I thought she was nothing, it was that I thought nothing of her.
My mind never touched the value of her contribution in my life. I always thought everything was my father. I had sudden perception
of the hurt my mother suffered. And I had no idea how to respond.
She helped me out when she said almost aggressively, ‘You seem to enjoy putting yourself in danger, Suzahne, and then expecting
half the country to run around you. Those men wished you harm. You could be dead!’ She looked down suddenly, struggling with
words. ‘You’ve been behaving strangely ever since you came back from South Africa.’
‘I came home with my father’s body in a coffin. How do you think I felt?’
‘I understand that,’ she said patiently. ‘But you’ve changed. It’s like you got some new religion or something.’
I looked at her. It’s called guilt, mum.
She went on, ‘You’ve dyed your hair that ghastly white blonde. You’ve moved yourself way out of town. You never call me.
You went all that way to another country and came back withdrawn and rude. I hardly know you anymore.’
She oozed hurt and bewilderment. How could I explain something that was more than grief? When I saw the body of my father
lying on that mortuary trolley under the white glare of fluorescent light, the only colour I registered was the obscene slash of
purple flesh below his beloved face. Guilt had twisted its blade in me; a shocking thrust of self-blame as though I had taken the
knife to him myself.
My father had gone to South Africa to verify the insurance claim of a business magnate who had been robbed once too often. In the
middle of the investigation, he had been attacked and killed in his hotel room. The point was that he shouldn’t have been there
in the first place, had no need to go. It was because of me that he went.
Because of me that he died.
I looked across at my mother. How could she understand what it was like for me to grow up under the doting eye of a father whose
expectations were way beyond my capability? I had covered my scholastic inadequacy with rebellion. On several occasions my father
had been called to the school because of a fight. In one memorable instance, a dispute over a pen with two boys had resulted in one
of them falling down a flight of stairs. I still bore the scars of that encounter – a line deep as a surgeon’s cut under my jaw and a chip
of skin missing from the side of my nose. But I had kept the pen.
Now my mother was watching me with that familiar expression of disappointment, her eyes dark and angry, her plump arms
folded defiantly across a pigeon-like bosom. I noticed her hair was dull and her dress too tight.
Her expression softened suddenly. ‘You have to come out of mourning sometime, Suzahne. I know how you feel.’ Her eyes were
teary. ‘Sometimes I feel – I think – I wouldn’t hesitate to kill the person who killed your father.’
The image of my mother advancing dumpily, dangerously armed with a knitting needle should have made me smile, but
instead the room shrank inwards. Her eyes were on me as she made this threat.
Looking only at me.
###