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Back The House of Whispers
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

Hi Abi, how are you? I know – long time! How have you been? How’s the art coming along? Have you exhibited again?

I’ve had a blast in Australia. I’ve moved around a bit and seen some different places but my last job came to a natural end and, after lots of soul-searching, I think it’s time to come home. You can only wander for so long, right? I’ve decided to look for a job in London, maybe do some volunteering or something where I can make a real difference. Are you still in London? It’d be great to hook up and, if you have any leads on places to stay, that’d be great. I’m back next month. Cheers, Grace

Grace. Grace, Grace, Grace.

She’d been the first person I’d met at university. It had been my very first afternoon and I’d sensed her before I’d seen her, as if her presence had charged the air itself. Dad had dropped me and my suitcases at the Halls and left, muttering about parking meters and rush-hour traffic, and I’d found my room, unlocked it and heaved my stuff inside. It wasn’t anything much: the scuffed grey paintwork was the colour of rain clouds and, without any personal stuff, it was as bare as a prison cell. I could still give you an inventory of what was there when I arrived: bed, desk, desk chair, easy chair, wardrobe. I added the contents of two suitcases and, later, an easel, canvases, paintbrushes, turpentine. Two dinner plates, two side plates, two bowls, two mugs, two glasses, two sets of cutlery.

‘What if you have friends over to eat?’ Dad had asked.

‘I won’t have friends over,’ I’d said. I don’t have friends.

I’d lain on the bed that first afternoon, staring at the pages of a book, my eyes scratchy with unshed tears; my ears unable to drum out the unaccustomed roar of the London traffic and the sounds of London life: engines revving, sporadic shouts, sudden bursts of police sirens that left my heart thudding. I felt naked – more than naked; I felt as if my skin had been torn off, leaving me red raw and vulnerable; my sense of self as warped as a Picasso. I’d lain on the bed and tried to picture a force field around my body – a buzzing line of light that would keep the world, with its horrors, away from me. I hadn’t learned, then, about PTSD. I hadn’t learned how to deal with it.