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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for The House of Whispers
  3. Title Page
  4. Note to Readers
  5. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  19. Twelve
  20. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  25. Sixteen
  26. Seventeen
  27. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  32. Twenty-One
  33. Twenty-Two
  34. Twenty-Three
  35. Twenty-Four
  36. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  37. Twenty-Five
  38. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  39. Twenty-Six
  40. Twenty-Seven
  41. Twenty-Eight
  42. Twenty-Nine
  43. Thirty
  44. Thirty-One
  45. Thirty-Two
  46. Thirty-Three
  47. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  48. Thirty-Four
  49. Thirty-Five
  50. Thirty-Six
  51. Thirty-Seven
  52. Thirty-Eight
  53. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  54. Thirty-Nine
  55. Forty
  56. Forty-One
  57. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  58. Forty-Two
  59. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  60. Forty-Three
  61. Forty-Four
  62. Forty-Five
  63. Forty-Six
  64. Forty-Seven
  65. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  66. Forty-Eight
  67. Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
  68. Forty-Nine
  69. Fifty
  70. Fifty-One
  71. Fifty-Two
  72. Fifty-Three
  73. Fifty-Four
  74. Fifty-Five
  75. Fifty-Six
  76. Fifty-Seven
  77. Fifty-Eight
  78. Fifty-Nine
  79. Sixty
  80. Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
  81. Acknowledgements
  82. About the Publisher

‘And if I were you – if I had your talent, I mean – I would be bloody well nurturing it in my spare time, not sitting about feeling sorry for myself. I mean, let’s be honest: we both know you could do with some joy in your lonely little life.’ The words stung despite her laugh, but she shook up the nail polish, unscrewed the cap and continued stroking blue onto her nails. The next day I went to the art supply shop and bought what materials I could afford.

There was just about space for the easel in my room. I’d bought a pre-stretched canvas, primed and ready to go, and a set of acrylic paints: a box of tubes every colour of the rainbow, but it was the darker colours that called to me. On my virgin palette, I squeezed out black and grey, greens and browns and reds and oranges, and then I picked a brush and I dipped it into the paints and swirled and stroked the colours onto the canvas, knowing but not wanting to know what was coming. Knowing that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

And, underneath my hand, a landscape started to appear – fields and hedges and trees and birds – but I couldn’t stem the feelings that exploded through my brush and I lashed the colours onto the canvas, twisting the picture into something dark and angry; a visible ejaculation of fear, of horror and of shame.

It was only when I’d finished, as the students in the rooms around me started to wake, banging doors and shuffling off to breakfast, that I saw how far I’d demolished the landscape; how I’d warped the birds into dribbling beasts of horror; how the flowers, the golden fields and the hedges had morphed into something dark, twisted and angry; how I’d given trees whispers of faces that observed with beady eyes and spiteful, pointy mouths; how I’d sucked up the beauty of nature and spat out something sick, which oozed malevolence, darkness and evil.

But, as I’d sat there, spent, and taken in the finished painting in its entirety, I’d realized that not only was there a beauty to that destruction, but that the act of painting it had taken away a sliver of the self-hatred that sat on my shoulder, ugly and dark, like a beast that needed constant feeding. From then on, when the feelings became too much to bear, I’d buy more supplies and start another picture, sitting up all night as my soul drained onto the canvas. These landscapes were the ones that formed the basis of the collection that was shown at my first exhibition.

It had been, in every sense, a triumph.

Six