The Wicked Girls: An absolutely gripping, ripped-from-the-headlines psychological thriller
Autor Alex Marwooden Limba Engleză Paperback – 21 iun 2012
Poate un copil să fie cu adevărat întruchiparea răului sau este doar victima unor circumstanțe tragice? Aceasta este întrebarea care bântuie paginile romanului The Wicked Girls. Subliniem o premisă care a șocat publicul: în vara anului 1986, două fete de doar unsprezece ani se întâlnesc și, până la apusul soarelui, devin ucigașe. Descoperim aici o explorare brutală a stigmatului și a memoriei. După două decenii și jumătate, soarta le aduce din nou față în față. Kirsty, acum jurnalistă, și Amber, care lucrează într-un parc de distracții, trebuie să decidă cât de departe vor merge pentru a-și proteja noile vieți. Găsim în această carte o tensiune insuportabilă, alimentată de atacuri violente ce au loc în prezentul narativ, transformând totul într-o cursă contra cronometru. Ritmul narativ amintește de The Ice Cream Girls de Dorothy Koomson, dar structura este mult mai sumbră, ancorată în realitatea crudă a sistemului de justiție și a presei de scandal. Alex Marwood folosește experiența sa de jurnalist pentru a diseca modul în care societatea consumă tragedia. Față de lucrările sale ulterioare, precum The Poison Garden, unde explorează dinamica cultelor, sau The Darkest Secret, centrat pe secrete de familie, acest debut rămâne cel mai visceral prin prisma vârstei protagonistelor. Este un roman polițist care nu caută doar vinovatul, ci analizează anatomia unei fapte care nu poate fi niciodată iertată.
Preț: 57.75 lei
Preț vechi: 78.33 lei
-26%
Puncte Express: 87
Carte disponibilă
Livrare economică 20 august-03 septembrie
Livrare express 06-12 august pentru 42.27 lei
Livrare prin curier în România Termenul estimat este afișat lângă disponibilitate.
Transport gratuit de la 400.00 lei Plată online sau ramburs, în funcție de opțiunile comenzii.
Retur gratuit în 14 zile Comandă securizată și suport în română.
Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780751547986
ISBN-10: 0751547980
Pagini: 400
Dimensiuni: 126 x 196 x 34 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Editura: Little Brown
Colecția Sphere
Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom
ISBN-10: 0751547980
Pagini: 400
Dimensiuni: 126 x 196 x 34 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Editura: Little Brown
Colecția Sphere
Locul publicării:London, United Kingdom
V-ar putea interesa
-
Two Little GirlsKate MedinaPreț: 93.24 lei -
BAD GRACES PBKyrie MccauleyPreț: 71.21 lei -
Worse Than MurderMichael WoodPreț: 72.09 lei -
HOLLY JACKSON COLLECTION: 4 Book Box-SetHolly JacksonPreț: 365.50 lei -
GIRLS WHO PLAY DEAD PBJoelle WellingtonPreț: 65.01 lei -
Friends Like TheseJennifer Lynn Alvarez-18%Preț: 53.41 lei64.91 lei -
All the WickedCatelyn WilsonPreț: 124.71 lei -
-25%Preț: 59.15 lei79.17 lei -
-26%Preț: 58.15 lei78.57 lei -
-18%Preț: 89.43 lei108.72 lei -
-8%Preț: 113.38 lei123.58 lei -
-23%Preț: 91.25 lei118.27 lei -
-26%Preț: 57.85 lei78.40 lei -
-26%Preț: 58.65 lei78.87 lei -
-26%Preț: 84.72 lei114.35 lei -
The Prized GirlAmy K. GreenPreț: 61.67 lei -
Death in the DarkBryce MoorePreț: 72.26 leiRecomandat -
No Rest for the WickedRachel Louise AdamsPreț: 71.94 lei -
Preț: 71.30 lei -
-21%Preț: 94.76 lei119.71 leiRecomandat
De ce să citești această carte
Recomandăm această carte cititorilor care caută thrillere psihologice profunde, inspirate din cazuri reale. Veți câștiga o perspectivă nuanțată asupra moralității și a modului în care trecutul ne modelează identitatea. Este o lectură esențială pentru fanii genului care apreciază suspansul construit pe dileme etice, oferind o poveste despre supraviețuire și secrete care refuză să rămână îngropate.
Despre autor
Alex Marwood este pseudonimul unei jurnaliste britanice de succes, care și-a pus amprenta asupra presei din Regatul Unit înainte de a deveni o voce de referință în literatura polițistă. Absolventă de literatură engleză la Manchester College, Oxford, ea folosește expertiza sa în cercetarea faptelor diverse pentru a construi narațiuni credibile și tulburătoare. Succesul său a fost confirmat de premii prestigioase, inclusiv premiul Edgar pentru The Wicked Girls. Locuiește în sudul Londrei, continuând să scrie romane care explorează latura întunecată a naturii umane.
Descriere
The word-of-mouth bestselling debut from multi-award-winning bestseller Alex Marwood
That's us. We're the girls who killed Chloe. We are the devil now.
One fateful summer morning in 1986, two eleven-year-old girls meet for the first time and by the end of the day are charged with murder.
Twenty-five years later, journalist Kirsty Lindsay is reporting on a series of sickening attacks on young female tourists in a seaside town when her investigation leads her to interview funfair cleaner Amber Gordon. For Kirsty and Amber, it's the first time they've seen each other since that dark day when they were just children. But with new lives - and families - to protect, will they really be able to keep their wicked secret hidden?
An absolutely gripping, ripped-from-the-headlines psychological thriller perfect for fans of The Suspect by Fiona Barton and The Rumour by Lesley Kara
'[I] devoured every page . . . cleverly plotted and pacy, with all the storylines thundering towards a final, gripping conclusion. I loved it' Elizabeth Haynes
Praise for Alex Marwood:
'So good I wish I'd written it myself'
VAL McDERMID
'Without a doubt, she is one of crime fiction's brightest stars. Not to be missed'
MEGAN ABBOTT
'Alex Marwood has become one of my must-read crime writers'
SOPHIE HANNAH
'Scary as hell'
STEPHEN KING
'I cancel all engagements for a new novel from Alex Marwood'
ERIN KELLY
'Crime writing at its best'
LISA JEWELL
'I can't wait to see what Alex Marwood comes up with next'
JOJO MOYES
_____________________
Don't miss the shocking new novel from Alex Marwood - THE POISON GARDEN is out now
That's us. We're the girls who killed Chloe. We are the devil now.
One fateful summer morning in 1986, two eleven-year-old girls meet for the first time and by the end of the day are charged with murder.
Twenty-five years later, journalist Kirsty Lindsay is reporting on a series of sickening attacks on young female tourists in a seaside town when her investigation leads her to interview funfair cleaner Amber Gordon. For Kirsty and Amber, it's the first time they've seen each other since that dark day when they were just children. But with new lives - and families - to protect, will they really be able to keep their wicked secret hidden?
An absolutely gripping, ripped-from-the-headlines psychological thriller perfect for fans of The Suspect by Fiona Barton and The Rumour by Lesley Kara
'[I] devoured every page . . . cleverly plotted and pacy, with all the storylines thundering towards a final, gripping conclusion. I loved it' Elizabeth Haynes
Praise for Alex Marwood:
'So good I wish I'd written it myself'
VAL McDERMID
'Without a doubt, she is one of crime fiction's brightest stars. Not to be missed'
MEGAN ABBOTT
'Alex Marwood has become one of my must-read crime writers'
SOPHIE HANNAH
'Scary as hell'
STEPHEN KING
'I cancel all engagements for a new novel from Alex Marwood'
ERIN KELLY
'Crime writing at its best'
LISA JEWELL
'I can't wait to see what Alex Marwood comes up with next'
JOJO MOYES
_____________________
Don't miss the shocking new novel from Alex Marwood - THE POISON GARDEN is out now
Recenzii
Genuinely disturbing and emotionally unsettling, The Wicked Girls is irresistible
Having read it and devoured every page, I really wish I'd written it! It was cleverly plotted and pacy, with all the storylines thundering towards a final, gripping conclusion. I loved it
The Wicked Girls is utterly compelling. It's psychologically rich, complex and masterfully plotted. I couldn't put it down, even when I sensed it was taking me somewhere very dark indeed. I can't wait to see what Alex Marwood comes up with next
The best thriller I've read since Sister. Taut, gritty and utterly compelling
I devoured The Wicked Girls over one weekend and loved it. I held my breath during the last few chapters
In The Wicked Girls, debut author Alex Marwood's taut crime story poses bigger questions about tabloid witch hunts and the nature of evil
The Wicked Girls is ingenious and original -- a novel that surprises and rewards its readers, delivering a twist of an ending that I never saw coming, then realised it was the only ending that could truly satisfy. Real, chilling, true to its world and its characters. In short, a knock-out
Original, thought-provoking and utterly brilliant
A rundown seaside amusement park provides the backdrop for Marwood's memorable first novel . . . Marwood fills this disturbing thriller with sordid red herrings and brutal reflections
One of the best books I read this year: The suspense keeps the pages flying, but what sets this one apart is the palpable sense of onrushing doom
Having read it and devoured every page, I really wish I'd written it! It was cleverly plotted and pacy, with all the storylines thundering towards a final, gripping conclusion. I loved it
The Wicked Girls is utterly compelling. It's psychologically rich, complex and masterfully plotted. I couldn't put it down, even when I sensed it was taking me somewhere very dark indeed. I can't wait to see what Alex Marwood comes up with next
The best thriller I've read since Sister. Taut, gritty and utterly compelling
I devoured The Wicked Girls over one weekend and loved it. I held my breath during the last few chapters
In The Wicked Girls, debut author Alex Marwood's taut crime story poses bigger questions about tabloid witch hunts and the nature of evil
The Wicked Girls is ingenious and original -- a novel that surprises and rewards its readers, delivering a twist of an ending that I never saw coming, then realised it was the only ending that could truly satisfy. Real, chilling, true to its world and its characters. In short, a knock-out
Original, thought-provoking and utterly brilliant
A rundown seaside amusement park provides the backdrop for Marwood's memorable first novel . . . Marwood fills this disturbing thriller with sordid red herrings and brutal reflections
One of the best books I read this year: The suspense keeps the pages flying, but what sets this one apart is the palpable sense of onrushing doom
Notă biografică
Alex Marwood is the pseudonym of a successful journalist who has worked extensively across the British press. Marwood lives in South London and is working on her next novel.
Extras
The girl is dead. She doesn’t need to go near her to see that. Chinless, sightless, rag-doll dead. Wearing a striped tank top and a tube skirt; both have gathered around her waist, puppy-fat breasts and white thighs reflected in the mirrors, back, back, back to infinity.
Amber is not looking directly at the body. She’s nowhere near, in fact. She’s cleaned the mirror maze so often that she knows its tricks and turns, the way a figure at the far end of the building can seem, when you enter, to be standing right in front of you.
Or – in the case of the dead girl – half lying, her head and shoulders pressed against the wall.
Amber grips the door frame, struggles to breathe. Oh shit, she thinks. Why did I have to find her?
She can’t be more than seventeen. The mottled face – the mouth half open as though she is trying, one more time, to take a breath – still has traces of unformed childhood around the jaw. Blonde hair, blown and flicked up. Giant hoop earrings. Eyes made huge by half a pot of electric-blue eyeshadow, glitter gel spangling the naked décolletage. Platform boots, improbable in the angles they form with the mirrored floor.
She’s been at Stardust, thinks Amber. Saturday. It’s Seventies night at Stardust.
She feels sick. Glances behind her through the open door and sees that the concourse is empty. As though all her colleagues have dropped off the edge of the world.
She steps inside and closes the door to block out the light. Doesn’t want anyone else to see. Not yet. Not while shock has ripped her mask away.
Thank God I’m wearing rubber gloves, she thinks nonsensically. She has cleaned the place every night for the past three years and, however careful she is, her fingerprints will be all over it. Let alone the prints of half the visitors who’ve passed through since this time last night. They try to keep the smudges down by handing out disposable plastic gloves on the door, but you can’t actually force someone to wear them; can’t police the interior 24/7.
Innfinnityland is the only attraction Amber cleans herself, since her promotion. The place makes everyone uneasy, as though they are afraid that they will get lost and never find their way back, or that the mirrors themselves are infected with ghosts. Too many times the work, which needs to be autistically methodical, has been rushed and skimped, and smears have remained; and in a place like this, a single smear becomes an infinite number, the original hard to track down if you’re not working your way through, fingertip by fingertip, glass by glass. She decided long ago that it was easiest simply to do it herself. Wishes fervently now that she hadn’t.
The girl has green eyes, like Amber’s own. Her handbag –mock-croc – has fallen open and scattered poignant remnants of plans made, hopes cherished. A lipstick, a bottle of JLo, a pink phone with a metallic charm shaped like a stiletto court shoe . . .breezy statements of identity, turned tawdry beneath their owner’s glassy stare.
There is no blood. Just the impression of squeezing fingers livid on her neck. This is the third one this year, Amber thinks. It can’t be a coincidence. Two is coincidence; three is . . . oh, you poor child.
Amber is cold to the bone, though the night is warm. She edges her way forward slowly, like an old person, one shaking hand supporting her against the mirrors as she moves. As she advances, new reflections cross her sight line: a million corpses strewn across a hall of infinite size.
Then suddenly, herself. Face white, eyes large, mouth a thin line. Standing above the body like Lady Macbeth.
What were you going to do? Touch her?
The thought freezes her to the spot. She’s not been thinking. Shock has turned her into a creature of instinct, an automaton. Has made her forgetful.
What are you doing? You can’t be involved. You can’t. Anonymous. You’re meant to be anonymous. Get involved, they’ll work it out. Who you are. And once they know who you are…
She feels panic start up inside. The edgy tingle, the queasy itch. Familiar, never far from the surface. She needs to decide quickly.
I can’t be the one to find her.
She begins to back away. Feels her way back to the entrance. The dead girl gazes at infinity. Damn you, Amber thinks, suddenly angry. Why did you have to get yourself killed here? What are you even doing here, anyway? It’s been closed for hours. The park’s been closed for hours.
She catches her own thoughts and lets out a barking, ironic laugh. ‘Shit,’ she says out loud. ‘Oh God, what am I meant to do?’
Go and find help. Do what anyone would do, Amber. Go out there and act the way you feel: shocked and scared. No one’s going to ask questions. There’s someone killing girls in this town, but it doesn’t mean they’ll recognise who you are.
But they’ll take your photo. You know what the press are like. Anything to fill their pages; details to make up for lack of facts. You’ll be all over the papers as the woman who found the body.
I can’t do this.
Someone tries the entrance door, the sudden noise of the handle turning uselessly making her jump. She hears Jackie and Moses: Jackie chattering and flirting, Moses responding in monosyllables, but the smile clear in his voice.
‘She’s always in here,’ says Jackie. ‘After tea break. Amber? You in there? The door’s locked!’
Amber holds her breath, afraid that even the sound of her exhalation will call to them. Oh God, what do I do? I’ve got to get out of here.
‘C’mon,’ says Jackie. ‘Let’s try the back. Maybe she’s taking a break.’
‘Sure,’ says Moses.
That’s it, there’s no escape now. She hears their footsteps recede down the steps as they walk off towards the entrance to the service alley. Two minutes before they get here, maybe. She can’t get away, can’t undo the moment of discovery.
She straightens up, steps over the girl’s marionette legs and hurries to the emergency exit hidden behind the black curtain beyond. Best they find her out on the steps, out in the fresh air, throwing up.
Amber is not looking directly at the body. She’s nowhere near, in fact. She’s cleaned the mirror maze so often that she knows its tricks and turns, the way a figure at the far end of the building can seem, when you enter, to be standing right in front of you.
Or – in the case of the dead girl – half lying, her head and shoulders pressed against the wall.
Amber grips the door frame, struggles to breathe. Oh shit, she thinks. Why did I have to find her?
She can’t be more than seventeen. The mottled face – the mouth half open as though she is trying, one more time, to take a breath – still has traces of unformed childhood around the jaw. Blonde hair, blown and flicked up. Giant hoop earrings. Eyes made huge by half a pot of electric-blue eyeshadow, glitter gel spangling the naked décolletage. Platform boots, improbable in the angles they form with the mirrored floor.
She’s been at Stardust, thinks Amber. Saturday. It’s Seventies night at Stardust.
She feels sick. Glances behind her through the open door and sees that the concourse is empty. As though all her colleagues have dropped off the edge of the world.
She steps inside and closes the door to block out the light. Doesn’t want anyone else to see. Not yet. Not while shock has ripped her mask away.
Thank God I’m wearing rubber gloves, she thinks nonsensically. She has cleaned the place every night for the past three years and, however careful she is, her fingerprints will be all over it. Let alone the prints of half the visitors who’ve passed through since this time last night. They try to keep the smudges down by handing out disposable plastic gloves on the door, but you can’t actually force someone to wear them; can’t police the interior 24/7.
Innfinnityland is the only attraction Amber cleans herself, since her promotion. The place makes everyone uneasy, as though they are afraid that they will get lost and never find their way back, or that the mirrors themselves are infected with ghosts. Too many times the work, which needs to be autistically methodical, has been rushed and skimped, and smears have remained; and in a place like this, a single smear becomes an infinite number, the original hard to track down if you’re not working your way through, fingertip by fingertip, glass by glass. She decided long ago that it was easiest simply to do it herself. Wishes fervently now that she hadn’t.
The girl has green eyes, like Amber’s own. Her handbag –mock-croc – has fallen open and scattered poignant remnants of plans made, hopes cherished. A lipstick, a bottle of JLo, a pink phone with a metallic charm shaped like a stiletto court shoe . . .breezy statements of identity, turned tawdry beneath their owner’s glassy stare.
There is no blood. Just the impression of squeezing fingers livid on her neck. This is the third one this year, Amber thinks. It can’t be a coincidence. Two is coincidence; three is . . . oh, you poor child.
Amber is cold to the bone, though the night is warm. She edges her way forward slowly, like an old person, one shaking hand supporting her against the mirrors as she moves. As she advances, new reflections cross her sight line: a million corpses strewn across a hall of infinite size.
Then suddenly, herself. Face white, eyes large, mouth a thin line. Standing above the body like Lady Macbeth.
What were you going to do? Touch her?
The thought freezes her to the spot. She’s not been thinking. Shock has turned her into a creature of instinct, an automaton. Has made her forgetful.
What are you doing? You can’t be involved. You can’t. Anonymous. You’re meant to be anonymous. Get involved, they’ll work it out. Who you are. And once they know who you are…
She feels panic start up inside. The edgy tingle, the queasy itch. Familiar, never far from the surface. She needs to decide quickly.
I can’t be the one to find her.
She begins to back away. Feels her way back to the entrance. The dead girl gazes at infinity. Damn you, Amber thinks, suddenly angry. Why did you have to get yourself killed here? What are you even doing here, anyway? It’s been closed for hours. The park’s been closed for hours.
She catches her own thoughts and lets out a barking, ironic laugh. ‘Shit,’ she says out loud. ‘Oh God, what am I meant to do?’
Go and find help. Do what anyone would do, Amber. Go out there and act the way you feel: shocked and scared. No one’s going to ask questions. There’s someone killing girls in this town, but it doesn’t mean they’ll recognise who you are.
But they’ll take your photo. You know what the press are like. Anything to fill their pages; details to make up for lack of facts. You’ll be all over the papers as the woman who found the body.
I can’t do this.
Someone tries the entrance door, the sudden noise of the handle turning uselessly making her jump. She hears Jackie and Moses: Jackie chattering and flirting, Moses responding in monosyllables, but the smile clear in his voice.
‘She’s always in here,’ says Jackie. ‘After tea break. Amber? You in there? The door’s locked!’
Amber holds her breath, afraid that even the sound of her exhalation will call to them. Oh God, what do I do? I’ve got to get out of here.
‘C’mon,’ says Jackie. ‘Let’s try the back. Maybe she’s taking a break.’
‘Sure,’ says Moses.
That’s it, there’s no escape now. She hears their footsteps recede down the steps as they walk off towards the entrance to the service alley. Two minutes before they get here, maybe. She can’t get away, can’t undo the moment of discovery.
She straightens up, steps over the girl’s marionette legs and hurries to the emergency exit hidden behind the black curtain beyond. Best they find her out on the steps, out in the fresh air, throwing up.