Okay so here it is!! My weekend guest (who I am not inviting for a sleep over because her book scares the shit out of me)...Ellen Allen!
Seriously! Just read the excerpt I took from the first chapter! Mother trucker!! I'm only half way through the book, because my reading time is at night. But trust me! Reading this at night...not a good idea! This book isn't just thrilling, it's captivating and so realistic it's scary!Stay tuned for my review when I eventually build the courage to finish it.
Word count: 78,000
Formats: E-book (epub, mobi and pdf)
ISBN: 978 148 353 1953
When love leads to death, be careful who you trust
Eighteen-year-old Emily Heath would love to leave her dead-end town, known locally as “The Sham”, with her boyfriend, Jack, but he’s very, very sick; his body is failing and his brain is shutting down. He’s also in hiding, under suspicion of murder. Six months’ ago, strange signs were painted across town in a dialect no one has spoken for decades and one of Emily’s classmates washed up in the local floods. Emily has never trusted her instincts and now they’re pulling her towards Jack, who the police think is a sham himself, someone else entirely. As the town wakes to discover new signs plastered across its walls, Emily must decide who and what she trusts, and fast: local vigilantes are hunting Jack; the floods, the police, and her parents are blocking her path; and the town doesn’t need another dead body.
**This book is unsuitable for younger readers; it contains discussions about murder scenes, conversations about sex, and profanity.
“This book just blew my mind wide open. I went into reading it with no expectations of what it would be about and the first chapter had me reeling, gasping for air.”
“Definitely a different kind of mystery that keeps you on your toes and guessing. I LOVED the ending and was so glad for the way it turned out. I HIGHLY recommend this book to anyone who loves a good who dunnit!”
In a previous life, Ellen Allen was an Associate Director in a small consultancy firm (focusing on Sustainable Development and Climate Change) running research projects and writing client reports. She doesn’t find fiction writing too dissimilar in process but she gets to use her imagination considerably more! She now lives in the south of France with her small daughter. If you want to contact Ellen Allen you can find her on the following websites;
Six months ago, my boyfriend was quite a catch. Ask anyone. But that was before the stubbly face, the cruddy clothes, the living rough in the woods. Before the headaches forced him to constantly rub his forehead like he’s trying to remove indelible ink. And way before now where he’s covered in blood, slumped under HOT DRINKS & CAKES on the supermarket café floor.
He’s holding her hand. It’s still attached to her body, despite the way her arm has been hacked apart. The artery inside is exposed like a kid’s toy, as if someone just wanted to see the inner workings, replace the batteries. It’s pulsing even after she’s dead; little electric shocks of blood splattering the tiles as if someone is squeezing a carton of apple juice a little too tight. Her hair is plastered to her head from where she’s tried to wipe it away. Funny how years of ingrained habits never leave a person. Even as she was dying, she couldn't bear her fringe in her eyes.
He has a strange look on his face. Like he can’t quite process everything that’s just happened, everything he has done. Finally, he asks, “Are you okay?”
I nod, but I really want to shake my head. Blood is seeping from his nose, which reminds me of something Mum’s new husband Stevie once said, how his family’s jam factory was bombed in the war. How the houses down the road were smeared in jelly, dead bodies covered in marmalade, everything buried in strawberry jam. “Sure Jack,” I say. “I feel great.” But I really want to cry.
His skin’s so pale, so sick, like he’s undergone some kind of bleaching process from those chemicals you see on the telly that you apply to your teeth. He sighs, letting her hand fall to the floor. “I don’t want to drag you into this,” he says.
I shiver. The endless rain has filled us up and we’re defrosting into guilty puddles on the crusty polyester. Ridiculous thoughts whirl round my brain. Why are there carpet tiles on the floor? The grim residue of thousands of crumbs and split drinks has been weaved into the thread. What were her last thoughts? Was it the obvious, for Jack to just disappear, to get off her, to stop doing what he was doing? Or something more banal, like the fringe in her eyes or a useless errand she forgot to run? If we peel back her clothes, I’m certain she’s wearing matching underwear. We both have that in common. We wore our best bra and knickers for our Special Day, only, I’m not wearing mine anymore and hers are drenched with blood.
“You don’t think I’m already involved?” I say. He’s not making any bloody sense. This isn't my Jack.
But then I’m not exactly sure who my Jack is.
Out now! New YA contemporary thriller, The Sham