– ‘The Magic of Wor(l)ds’ blog is a hobby, reviews and other bookish stuff on this site are done for free. –
Today I’m on the ‘Glasshouse’ blogtour, organised by Rachel’s Random Resources.
To promote this book I have an excerpt, but before I let you read it first some ‘basic’ information.
About the Author :
When Morwenna Blackwood was six years old, she got told off for filling a school exercise book with an endless story when she should have been listening to the teacher/eating her tea/colouring with her friends. The story was about a frog. It never did end; and Morwenna never looked back.
Born and raised in Devon, Morwenna suffered from severe OCD and depression, and spent her childhood and teens in libraries. She travelled about for a decade before returning to Devon. She now has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Exeter, and lives with her husband, son and three cats in a cottage that Bilbo Baggins would be proud of. Her debut psychological thriller, The (D)Evolution of Us, is published by #darkstroke, and has become an Amazon best-seller. When she is not writing, Morwenna works for an animal rescue charity, or can be found down by the sea.
She often thinks about that frog.
They’re doctors. But can you trust them?
‘Now if I carry out this oath, and break it not, may I gain for ever reputation among all men for my life and for my art; but if I break it and forswear myself, may the opposite befall me.’
~ from the Hippocratic Oath (translated by WHS Jones)
Psychiatrists, Drs Whittle and Grosvenor, have dedicated their lives to helping their patients, but their approach, and the complications it reveals, lead them into relationships that harm not only themselves.
As their lives entangle, both men find that doing no harm is not as cut-and-dried as they perceived.
Can the patients in their care really trust them? Or are more sinister motives at work?
Delve into the dark world of psychiatric institutions where doctors and residents play a dangerous game where no one is infallible!
This extract is taken towards the end of the novel, and Sasha Grosvenor, a psychiatrist, has himself broken down…
I discover that the club is – as its name should have suggested – underground. A metal barrier around the top of a descending, spiral staircase, and a poster and a sandwich board are all that greets you from the top. ‘New kids on the indie scene’, Charcot, are playing this evening, it announces, and from the noise emanating from the club below, it is packed. A group of teenagers are sitting on the top steps, swigging from bottles. One of them is attempting to light what is clearly a spliff. As I approach, I remove my jacket, undo my tie and push my shirtsleeves above my elbows. The blond adolescent uncups his hand from his face, leaving the spliff dangling from his lips, and flicks a switch on the side of his lighter. An extremely long flame shoots up, causing him to jump back. His three friends laugh at him, and he says with the spliff bobbing in his mouth, “Fuck me! I nearly lost my eyebrows there!” The rolled-up bit at the end of the spliff quickly burns up and drops off. The lad draws on the spliff, raises his eyebrows and splutters a bit. His mates laugh again, as does he. Then he registers me, and cocks his head up to meet my eyes. His are a little bloodshot. He smiles. “You all right, mate?” he asks. “You looked well stressed!”
“Yeah, bad day at the office,” I reply, returning the smile, and making to go down the steps to the hatch where a girl who is mostly eyeliner and tattoos and glitter, is taking money. The lads shuffle to the side, and the blond one offers me the spliff.
“Take a couple of tokes on this, mate,” he says with a grin. “That’ll sort you out.”
I thank him, take the badly-rolled joint, and do as he suggests. I have never smoked marijuana before, but I have smoked cigarettes, and I know that etiquette with drugs is that you draw it deep into your lungs and hold it for as long as possible, so this is what I do. It is vile, and I cannot suppress my coughing fit, which induces the lads to laugh again. I am about to hand it back, when the drug – whatever it is – hits my frontal lobe like a brick. It is so powerful that I almost stagger back. And I laugh, pull back my hand and take another pull. This time I gain control, and let the smoke 145escape from my lips slowly. The lads are watching me, grinning, which makes me laugh again, and the smoke comes out of my nostrils, which hurts like hell, but we are all in hysterics now, so I shake my head, pass the spliff back to the blond lad, and make to go down the stairs.
“Good idea, mate,” the blond lad says. “The band will be on in a minute.”
The Magic of Wor(l)ds