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309 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 2017

xxxAfter the unexpected death of her mother, Grace along with her sad, embittered father and gruff, older brother have all been struggling to cope with the big blank she left behind. They awkwardly circle each other, talking but not really talking.
I look down. I'm standing in a puddle.
In the corner, the lamp flickers and fades, only to burn again with a hot brightness - too bright for a forty-watt globe. I launch myself across the room and onto the bed, shuddering and panting. I clutch my pillow for protection and watch as the puddle grows, creeping in a perfect circle, as if the water is being drawn from beneath the floorboards. It's bottomless as a well and inky, like old blood. The patch of light on the floor begins to move as if time is in fast motion; the reflection travels metres in seconds, coming to rest in the centre of the puddle. Time stops. The water is no longer black but illuminated, with the rippling image of a white-painted window. (...)
The light from the lamp takes the edge off the darkness, but not enough to carry to the top of the stairwell. I press up against the headboard. Whatever it is, its breathing is deep and laboured, and it's getting closer. Now I can see a pixelated shadow, low, crawling, and an arm flung wide, slapping down with a thud, fingers grasping at the carpet. (...)
I let out a hysterical shriek. The thing stops moving. Downstairs, Diesel barks, and the thing lifts its head. In the darkness it looks at me; faceless, it looks right at me.
- ch11, p109
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xxx"Ballad for a Mad Girl" hits the ground running and kept me at the edge of my seat throughout the whole book. I don't know what else to say except that you should try and read for yourself!
Ruby's is exactly as I remember it: eighties decor with faded plates and scratched cutlery, but filled with warm light and amazing smells. Dad's wearing a dress shirt. It's as creased as his face, but it's a revelation to see him wearing something other than hi-vis workwear.
ch9, p90
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I dip my fingertips in the dust in the bottom of the charcoal box and paint cloudy smears, leaving a ghostly white silhouette in the centre. The dots still dance. If I squint they look like a line of marching ants. Or tiny numbers. All I have to do is play connect the dots. I pick up the tick and follow the numbers: hard, black lines. The charcoal shatters, but I go on, trying not to let the numbers get too far ahead or I'll lose them. I grind each piece to a nub, and when I run out I use my fingers and the corner of an eraser, working the dust, smudging: light here, dark there. An eye. Lashes. A bridge of nose and one slender arm, reaching.
ch6, p63
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