The Last Thing I Remember by Deborah Bee blog tour

Blurb:

Sarah is in a coma. She was mugged. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’s a nice girl from a nice family. She’s a victim. That’s what they say.

Kelly is in the waiting room. She’s just a kid. A typical schoolgirl. Bullied a bit, probably. She doesn’t know anything. That’s what they say. So why is she there? Why does she keep turning up?

Can Sarah remember what happened to her, and work out who is it that keeps coming into her room at night?

I have been lucky enough to be given an extract from the book to share with you. I have just finished this book and my review is coming tomorrow so make sure you check back for that. This is a must read this year!

A short intro to the book from Deborah Bee

Imagine waking up and being unable to move, unable to see, unable to communicate. Imagine your past is a blank piece of paper. You don’t even know your own name. But you can hear. And the only way to piece together your life is to listen to the people around you: nurses and doctors, family and friends. Sarah was mugged. She’s in a coma. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’s a nice girl from a nice family. That’s what they say. She may be aware of what’s going on – or she may not. She may survive – or not. Her witnesses are unreliable. The only thing they all agree on is that she is a victim. Kelly is in the waiting room. She’s just a kid. A typical schoolgirl. Bullied a bit, probably, given her prissy uniform. She doesn’t know anything. They all agree on that, too. So how come she’s there? Why does she keep turning up? What does she care? And who is the nameless man who keeps turning up at night?

Extract:



Chapter 1

Sarah



Day Zero – 11 p.m.

Hello. Hello?

Can you hear me?

Hello? I’m here.

‘Alright, Lisa?’ A man’s voice.

I’m not Lisa. Am I? Am I called Lisa? What’s my name?

Hello?

There’s the sound of an engine switching off and running footsteps.

‘Another day in paradise, Tom. What you got?’

That’s a woman talking. She is out of breath.

‘Brain trauma. Female. Late twenties.’

He sounds Australian. There is shouting in the background andmore running. And a siren.

‘Tottenham?’

‘Yeah, Haringey.’

‘Evening, Lisa.’

Another male voice. Not Australian. More London.

‘The one from White Hart Lane. We should keep a squad up there permanently on standby.’

There’s the sound of scraping and clanking. Their voices are getting lost in the distance, cut short by gusts of wind.

‘Thanks, Matt. We’ll take her from here.’

‘She say anything, Tom, did she? On the way. Did she, you know…?’

That’s the London man.

‘Nah, mate. She didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything about anything else either. Usual procedure. Best leave that sort of stuff to the experts. You know.’

‘She’s not even conscious, is she?’

That was the woman again.

‘No… Hang on a minute – she did say something.’

That’s the first guy again. The Australian one.

‘Well? What’d she say?’

‘She said thank you’

‘She did?’

Everything is quiet, apart from the traffic and the restless wind. Footsteps. Running. Someone arrives, breathing hard.

‘Come on. The trauma unit is ready.’

‘Can I just get that down on the report? So, she was conscious when you arrived on the scene?’

‘She was then. We sedated her of course but, yes, at the scene she was conscious, just for a bit.’

‘And she said thank you?’

‘Yeah, Matt. “Thank you” – that’s all she said.’

‘What’d she say thank you for?’

‘I dunno. She’s British. The Brits always say thank you.’