Read The Dead Lie Down online

—The Spectator

‘I could barely put this book down . . . definitely worth a read.’

—Birmingham Post

‘The language and atmosphere are high-quality stuff, and the portrait of a woman in the throes of postnatal depression will be a revelation to some, to others a reminder.’

—The Literary Review

‘The phrase “psychological thriller” could have been invented for this gripping novel. . . . Little Face is not simply a crime novel. It is a thorough and deep exploration of the dynamics of an on-the-surface happy family, revealing the seething secrets beneath. . . . An accomplished thriller that will appeal to anyone who enjoys a rattling good read but will send especially shiversome chills down the spine of any parent.’

—Bradford Telegraph

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First published in Great Britain under the title The Other Half Lives
by Hodder & Stoughton 2009
Published in Penguin Books 2010

PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Hannah, Sophie, 1971-
The dead lie down / Sophie Hannah.
p. cm.

eISBN: 9781101435328

1. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PR6058.A5928D43 2010
823’.914—dc22 2009050146

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For Jane Fielder

Thursday 13 December 2007

I didn’t want to go first.

Three seconds ago—four—I had said, ‘All right.’ Now Aidan was watching me. Waiting. I bit back the words Why me? You suggested it—why don’t you start? To ask would have made him think I didn’t trust him, and I didn’t want to sully the moment by saying something petty.

The air around us felt charged, taut with anticipation. Energy radiated from our clammy, clasped hands. ‘It doesn’t have to be everything,’ Aidan whispered. ‘Just . . . as much as we can . . .’ Unable to finish the sentence, he decided he already had. ‘As much as we can,’ he said again, stressing the last word. His warm breath settled on my skin every few seconds, like a tide of air that kept sucking out, then blowing back in. We hadn’t moved from our spot at the foot of the bed, in front of the mirror, but it seemed, suddenly, as though everything was speeding up. Our faces gleamed with sweat, as if we’d run for miles, when in fact all our movements—through the hotel’s revolving glass door, towards reception, into and out of the lift, along the narrow spotlit corridor to the closed door with a gold ‘436’ on it—had been slow and deliberate, a thousand heartbeats to the footstep. We both knew something was waiting for us inside the room, something that could only be put off for so long.