Contents

       Cover

      Blurb

       Book List

       Title Page

       Author Bio

       Dedication

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Extract

       Endpages

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      This is the story of a boy who was dead but could not die.

      And a girl who lived but was not alive.

      There was a name that caused fear and missed heartbeats to those unfortunate enough to hear it spoken. A name so suited to the disease that the words themselves described the symptoms and the purpose in a terrible dark perfection. So afraid were the people of the city that they dare not speak of it, for fear of in some way drawing the attention and wrath of the thing itself. It was called The Consumption and like an ominous descending fog it choked the life of anyone unfortunate enough to be caught within its wisps. The cruellest of diseases, The Consumption would take every last drop of life as it turned a once recognisable, living person into something far less. A mere blood stained whisper of humanity’s l memory. To its victims, The Consumption was devastating; to those who watched their loved ones waste away to a dry husk, more so.

      First there is the cough, subtle at first, small as a tickle. But the tickle soon becomes an itch, an itch that comes from the lungs and so cannot be scratched. There is no relief as the choking and choking and choking grips the windpipes and begins to slowly, oh so very slowly, drown them in their own blood. Drip, drip the lungs begin to fill; drip, drip the lips splutter and spill. The Consumption can take its own time and savour the misery wrought; after all there is no cure and it is, at the point of bloody coughs, firmly rooted within the body. Now is the time for the sweating to begin as the body temperature rises and sweat pours forming puddles around the lost desiccated soul. As the body shakes and rattles, the sweats run. Now he Consumption really earns its name, leaching all that it is to be human, slurping the mind of sanity, and petrifying the body to bone. All that is left for death to usher into the next world is a withered, mindless thing. And this is exactly what happened to the boy’s mother.

      They lived in a one-roomed hovel, the boy his mother and an unknown number of skittering cockroaches, by the city docks. It was always dark inside no matter the time of day. What little light fought for survival against the dank dark was provided by small brown wax candles that produced a smaller brown flickering light. Slivers of sunlight penetrated the cracks in the rotting wood door, but soon became lost in the gloom. They brought a damp stench and clung to the air and wet the lungs and offended the nostrils. There were no beds—only two dirty grey uncomfortable mattresses made from stitched sacks and straw, placed on the cobbled stone floor. One for his mother and sometimes his father—if truth is told, the father was rarely seen and spent most of his time pissing at the gin shops. The other mattress belonged to the boy. They slept in ragged sheets that wouldn’t keep a small rat in bedding. The boy barely noticed his father and was not even truly aware of him until his mother was in the cold grip of The Consumption. In his memories, the mother’s smile lit up the dark; she was soft and warm despite the harsh cold world. Her hair was red curls, wild, that tickled his nose whenever she cleaned his face with kisses. She would sing to him at night, sweet angel songs as she sat in front of a cracked mirror putting on her coal soot make-up.

      “Mummy