Chapters (82)
- Cover
- Praise for The House of Whispers
- Title Page
- Note to Readers
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twelve
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-Five
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Two
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Eight
- Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Priory Hospital North London: 20 December 2019
- Acknowledgements
- About the Publisher
He stabbed at his Satnav. ‘We’re not there yet. It’s just… right here, I think.’
‘No, it’s good here, thanks. If you can pull over.’
I got out by the bus stop. As the cab pulled away, I crossed the road and hesitated at the gate to the graveyard. The storm lashing Kent hadn’t made it here yet, but the light was dampened – flat and expectant – and the air was deathly still. I followed the path round to the grave and stopped in front of it. What could I say to the girl I’d accidentally killed?
I stared at the stone and the graves around me faded from my peripheral vision as my eyes bored through the stone to what lay beneath – through the earth and the coffin – through its wood and satin lining until she was lying below me once more, looking up at me, her limbs splayed, her lips parted, and that tell-tale trickle of blood creeping, ever larger, onto the tarmac beneath her head. From beneath the gravestone she looked up at me and my eyes locked onto the empty sockets of hers. I fell to my knees, my hands touching the cold of the stone as if I could transmit some warmth, some energy, into the depths of her final resting place. If I could bring her back to life, I would.
‘It was me. I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t see you. There was nothing I could do.’
Around me, the trees sighed and rustled, restless with the approaching storm. An oily black crow flapped and settled on a branch above me, and my hands clutched the edge of the gravestone more tightly. I waited but felt nothing: no reciprocal energy rising from the depths of the earth.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry every day of my life.’ Nothing. ‘Did you see I took your toy dog?’ I asked. ‘Did you feel me there today?’ I waited again for a sign – for something – but there was nothing but the rustling and chittering of the graveyard. ‘You know that I care, don’t you? Do you see what I do for you every day?’ My voice was a hoarse whisper as a decade of guilt clawed its way up from my belly, snagging at my throat.