Follow Me (33 page)

Thank you to the red lipstick wearing goddess that is my agent Diana Beaumont. I’m endlessly grateful for your faith, patience, advice, encouragement, and friendship. Plus, you crack me up when you call anyone a silly arse. I’d also like to extend my thanks to Juliet Mushens and all those at United Talent, especially Sarah Manning for her unerring behind-the-scenes hard work. Next time I come to the office I’ll bring a cake with no nuts in it. Promise.

To Eleanor Dryden, in whom I’ve found a fellow late night lover, an expert and talented editor, and someone who gets Freddie even more than I do. Eli, the support, commitment and energy you’ve put into Follow Me is tremendous, and the story is so much the better for it. I hope very much that this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship. And to Victoria Jackson, Oliver Malcolm, Kate Ellis, Helena Sheffield, Jennifer Rothwell, and all the lovely, dynamic team at Avon: thank you for welcoming me into the family. And for the chocolate biscuits. Especially the biscuits. And to Jo Marino and Sabah Khan from Light Brigade PR for spinning my mad ideas into publicity pitches.

Various people gave their expert knowledge and time to explain aspects I researched for this book. And they usually had to do it twice, as I’m a bit slow on the uptake and/or I wanted a different answer to fit with the plot. Dr Hayley King for her medical opinion, continued emotional support, and a fascinating conversation about the effect of tasering. Dr Matthew Jones, Sarah Jones, and their esteemed dinner party guests, for their pharmaceutical advice on how best to sedate someone with a cup of tea. Matt Cook for coding, and software hacks. To Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett and Holly Baxter for telling me how truly awful (and great) being a millennial is. To Deb and Bob at Retreats For You for a safe haven. Thank you to Clare Mackintosh, and Amy Jones’ other half for insider police information. And I will never again mock the television idea of the stunning female cop, with the perfect hair and killer heels; I’ve met the real deal, and she’s even more impressive: thank you to the awe-inspiring, cocktail drinking, wonder woman Amy Jones, who gave so much of her time, memories, and knowledge of the UK police force. Nas totally wants to be you when she grows up.

To Wendy, Paul, Miranda, Julie and all at Orchard Physiotherapy St Albans, who keep me ticking over, working and walking: thank you.

Thank you to Lucy Shaw, Lauren Bravo and Fleur Sinclair for bringing light, joy, writing advice, and winning outfit game into my life. You all hold a special place in my heart. And to Li Wania, Jenny Jarvis and Kate McNaughton for continued support and cheerleading. I owe you all a million drinks, and possibly some babysitting (where applicable). And to my wonderful, incomparable limes; Claire McGowan and Sarah Day, who bring it all from encouraging thumbs up, to reassuring hugs, speed reading, writerly words of wisdom, love, laughs, Taylor Swift sing-a-longs and much, much wine (not necessarily in that order). Without you guys I’d never write a word, though I would probably get up earlier.

To my mum and dad, I may be a writer, but I struggle to put into words just how much you have done and continue to do for me, and just how grateful I am. I love you. And to Chris for being an excellent brother, and very handy for reaching things off high shelves. To Hannah, Guy, Ani and Bertie, and all my family both here, in Ewyas Harold, and in America, for your love and support. And to my wonderful Sammy, thank you for everything you’ve done for me: for every pep talk, plot planning session, beta reading, spell checking, and emergency chocolate bar you’ve bought. It would take more than all the emojis in the world to convey how much I love you.

And finally thank you to all those dedicated, brave police officers who risk their lives daily to uphold justice and protect us: you guys are the real superheroes.

Want to know what inspired Angela Clarke to write

Follow Me
?

Read on to find out more…

Q: What inspired you to write
Follow Me
?

A: Like many people, I use Twitter (and Facebook and Instagram!), and I love the interesting articles, books, films, songs, and glorious creative projects social media platforms have introduced me to. I’ve been part of online social movements and charity campaigns I feel passionate about. I’ve made great friends, and if I didn’t have one already, I’m quite confident I’d find a husband on Twitter too. It’s a source of constant joy, which is why it’s so distressing when someone does behave badly, aggressively, or offensively towards you on there. I’ve written a number of feminist articles in the past, and the trolls really aren’t keen on that. I’m fascinated by what drives people to troll. I watched documentaries, read up on case studies, including about those who were convicted for harassing feminist activist Caroline Criado-Perez, and observed friends I know in real life say dreadful things to others online.

The reason people troll is probably varied; mental health issues, disillusionment with their own lives, they get a kick from it etc. But the motivation I kept coming back to, was those who seem to simply forget there is a real person at the other end of the Internet. Would these people say the same vile threats to your face? Apparently not, I experience much less hate in real life than I do online. I thought, what would be an extreme way to illustrate people getting whipped up by online buzz, and make them forget that there’s a human being on the other end of the Internet? Showing social media users retweeting, liking, and sharing a killer’s clues of who would be their next victim. And so
Follow Me
was born.

Q: Are the characters based on real people?

A: I was fortunate enough to interview an ex-policewoman who had been in some pretty hairy situations, as part of my research. Her spirit and determination definitely found their way into Nas. It was important to me that Freddie and Nas were articulate, convincing, driven, compassionate, and brave (and sometimes foolhardy) women. Because those are the women who fill my life. Those are my work colleagues. Those are my friends. Those are the women who inspire me. Those are real women. Some people have said they can see bits of me in Freddie, which makes me laugh; Freddie’s way cooler than I am. I wish I was Freddie, but I am much more like the goody-two-shoes people pleaser Nas!

Q: Do you think your discussion of social media will affect what people write about in public forums?

A: If just one person thinks twice before they post something mean or cruel, then I’d take that as a win. Technology is developing so quickly, we’re all having to learn what social etiquette, norms, and even laws are needed as we use each new tool. But yeah, perhaps disabling your geolocation services on your phone might not be a bad idea.

Q: How did you find writing your debut novel? What is the hardest thing about writing?

A: Writing a story is fantastic fun. I could write all day, every day and I’d be happy. It’s the editing that gets to me. The moment I have to turn my tale into something that is spellchecked, drafted, and readable by someone else, is the moment the hard work starts.

Q: Where are you most comfortable writing?

A: I have a degenerative connective tissue disorder called EDS III, which means that though my mind could write anywhere, my body is best in the memory-foam-pimped chair in front of my physio approved desk at home.

Q: Have you got a writing desk, if so can you describe it?

A: I have a reclaimed teachers’ school desk. It’s wooden, over a metre long, and parked in front of a pin board that covers my study wall. On the notice board are things I find stimulating, or heartening. Photos of family and friends, postcards of artists’ work I love, cards and notes, and a sprinkling of Moomins. Yup, you read that right. Gotta love the Moomins. I also pin up motivating quotes. My favourite is from Hilary Mantel (New Statesman April 2014); ‘The inner process, the writing life, it doesn’t change at all. Every day is like the first day, it’s like being a beginner. There’s no time for complacency. You need to be extending your range all the time.’ I try to write with that in mind.

Q: Finally, what can we expect from your next novel?

A:
Are You Awake?
is part of the Social Media Murder series. So expect to see some favourite characters, and more techy twists, turns and tension. I’ll give you one hint: You have six seconds to view this suicide note and twenty-four hours to save the girl. Snapchat, I’m coming for you!

Freddie and Nas are back.

You’ve got six seconds to view this suicide note and twenty four hours to save the girl’s life.

Are You Awake?

By Angela Clarke

Coming soon

Love
Follow Me
? Then you’ll LOVE other books by Avon.

Turn the page for an exclusive look at the first chapter of
Sunday Times
bestseller Little Girl Gone by Alexandra Burt.

Available now in all good bookshops!

Chapter 1

‘Mrs Paradise?’

A voice sounds out of nowhere. My thoughts are sluggish, as if I’m running under water. I try and try but I’m not getting anywhere.

‘Not stable. Eighty over sixty. And falling.’

Oh God, I’m still alive
.

I move my legs, they respond, barely, but they respond. Light prowls its way into my eyes. I hear dogs barking, high pitched. They pant, their tags clatter.

‘You’ve been in a car accident.’

My face is numb, my thoughts vague, like dusty boxes in obscure and dark attic spaces. I know immediately something is amiss.

‘Oh my God, look at her head.’

A siren sounds, it stutters for a second, then turns into a steady torment.

I want to tell them…I open my mouth, my lips begin to form the words, but the burning sensation in my head becomes unbearable. My chest is on fire, and ringing in my left ear numbs the entire side of my face.

Let me die
, I want to tell them. But the only sound I hear is of crude hands tearing fragile fabric.

‘Step back. Clear.’

My body explodes, jerks upward.

This isn’t part of the plan.

When I come to, my vision is blurred and hazy. I make out a woman in baby-blue scrubs, a nurse, slipping a plastic tube over my head and immediately two prongs hiss cold air into my nostrils.

She pumps a lever and the bed yanks upward, then another lever triggers a motor raising the headboard until my upper body is resting almost vertically.

My world becomes clearer. The nurse’s hair is in a ponytail and the pockets of her cardigan sag. I watch her dispose of tubing and wrappers and the closing of the trashcan’s metal lid sounds final, evoking a feeling I can’t quite place, a vague sense of loss, like a pickpocket making off with my loose change, disappearing into the crowd that is my strange memory.

A male voice sounds out of nowhere.

‘I need to place a central line.’

The overly gentle voice belongs to a man in a white coat. He talks to me as if I’m a child in need of comfort.

‘Just relax, you won’t feel a thing.’

Relax and I won’t feel a thing? Easy for him to say. I feel lost somehow, as if I’m in the middle of a blizzard, unable to decide which direction to turn. I lift my arms and pain shoots from my shoulder into my neck. I tell myself not to do that again anytime soon.

The white coat wipes the back of my hand with an alcohol wipe. It leaves an icy trail and pulls me further from my lulled state. I watch the doctor insert a long needle into my vein. A forgotten cotton wipe rests in the folds of the cotton waffle weave blanket, in its center a bright red bloody mark, like a scarlet letter.

There’s a spark of memory, it ignites but then fizzles, like a wet match. I refuse to be pulled away, I follow the crimson, attach myself to the memory that started out like a creak on the stairs, but then the monsters appear.

First I remember the darkness.

Then I remember the blood.

My baby. Oh God, Mia.

The blood lingers. There’s flashes of crimson exploding like lightning in the sky, one moment they’re illuminating everything around me, the next they are gone, bathing my world in darkness. Then the bloody images fade and vanish, leaving a black jittering line on the screen.

Squeaking rubber soles on linoleum circle me and I feel a pat on my shoulder.

This isn’t real. A random vision, just a vision. It doesn’t mean anything
.

A nurse gently squeezes my shoulder and I open my eyes.

‘Mrs Paradise,’ the nurse’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, but I have orders to wake you every couple of hours.’

‘Blood,’ I say, and squint my eyes, attempting to force the image to return to me. ‘I don’t understand where all this blood’s coming from.’ Was that my voice? It can’t be mine, it sounds nothing like me.

‘Blood? What blood?’ The nurse looks at my immaculately taped central line. ‘Are you bleeding?’

I turn towards the window. It’s dark outside. The entire room appears in the window’s reflection, like an imprint, a not-quite true copy of reality.

‘Oh God,’ I say and my high-pitched voice sounds like a screeching microphone. ‘Where’s my daughter?’

She just cocks her head and then busies herself straightening the blanket. ‘Let me get the doctor for you,’ she says and leaves the room.