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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

I get out and look back down the road, and first I see just the bike – it’s bent and broken – and, after I’ve thought how hitting that will definitely have damaged the paintwork, I think: that’s odd. Why would a bike hit my car? And I take a few more steps and then I see a trainer – an Adidas trainer, and another one, with a foot in it, lilac shorts, brown legs and then there she is, lying splayed in the road; her, and the bits and pieces from her basket scattered across the tarmac. I remember a stick of French bread, and fat, juicy tomatoes, their skins split, spilling seeds, nestled on the verge as if they’d grown there.

And at that moment I still think she’s going to get up and brush herself off. I’ve never witnessed anything like this, and I can’t comprehend that she isn’t okay. The enormity of the scene doesn’t catch up with me. I run over to her and drop down on my knees next to her. Her face is fine, unbruised, her skin a little tanned from the sun, a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, but one earring is missing, knocked out by the impact. I see it on the ground next to her, and I pick it up and hold it out, thinking: ‘You’ll want that back.’

But the girl can’t speak; she just looks at me, her eyes pleading silently with me to do something, anything, to save her. There’s a gurgle in her throat and a creeping pool of blood seeping out from under her head but I can’t move because I realize then that she’s dying. I do nothing but stare at her, paralyzed with shock, my hand clutching her earring, and our eyes are locked at the very moment her life leaves her.

Not only do I kill her, but I fail her, too. Grace is right: the girl dies on the road, without love or comfort, in front of a stranger. Those brightly coloured flowers on the verge are the last thing she sees. Those birds cheeping overhead – the birds that have haunted me ever since – are the last thing she hears, and I know nothing of who the girl is, of what her hopes and dreams are. I don’t know that she’s my age; that she’s just got her A-level results, too. I don’t even know her name. What I do know is that she’s dead and that there’s nothing I can do for her now. Numb with shock, I look around. I see that there’s not a single witness, and I edge back towards the car on legs of jelly. I climb into the car, and for another terrified, confused moment, I think. Then I start the engine and make an even bigger mistake: I drive away.

I saw nothing.