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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’d go through the evening – the whole day – from the girl’s perspective: the excitement of getting her exam results and confirming her place at university. Her parents proud of her; she overjoyed. Maybe she was picking up provisions for a celebratory barbecue, the French bread and the tomatoes to go with burgers and sausages. I imagined her cycling down that lane. Was she happy? What did she see? What did she feel?

What were her last thoughts?

Did she realize too late what had happened? Did she have that awful moment of wishing she could rewind time? Was she even aware of she’d been hit by a car, or did she just find herself lying on the tarmac looking into the eyes of a stranger while she struggled to gasp her last breath? Did she know, when she was looking at me, that I was the one who’d killed her? Was she in pain?

Did she hate me?

I’d lie awake at two o’clock and three o’clock and four o’clock and go over the events of that evening in my head. Had I been tired? Was I too hungry? Did I need glasses? Had I had a headache? Was I distracted? Why didn’t I see her? Because, despite everything, the facts spoke for themselves: a girl died that day, and she died because of me.

Why me? I pleaded in those godforsaken early hours. Why my car? And then I’d squirm in my bed, feeling selfish for even thinking that because she died, her life cut short before it really even started, while I got to live. I’d go down that horrible, beautiful country road again and again in my head, playing a version of events where there was no impact; where I carried on and made it to the chippy without two lives changing so irrevocably on a country road by a small Kentish village. A version in which I had nothing bigger to worry about than niggling Dad that I wanted to do Fine Art instead of Management Science.

I’d imagine a version where the impact was just an overhanging branch. I’d stop and get out, the other cars whooshing past, hooting even, and I’d be dismayed that the car’s paintwork was scratched – maybe the roof was even a little dented – and Dad’s wrath would be the worst thing I’d have to face. I’d be grounded for a week or two, or have to pay for the damage myself, and that would be fine.