Lucy Clarke

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29. Sarah

      

       30. Isla

      

       31. Sarah

      

       32. Isla

      

       33. Sarah

      

       34. Sarah

      

       35. Sarah

      

       36. Isla

      

       37. Isla

      

       38. Sarah

      

       39. Isla

      

       40. Sarah

      

       41. Sarah

      

       42. Isla

      

       43. Sarah

      

       44. Isla

      

       45. Sarah

      

       46. Isla

      

       47. Sarah

      

       48. Isla

      

       49. Sarah

      

       50. Isla

      

       51. Sarah

      

       52. Isla

      

       53. Sarah

      

       54. Sarah

      

       Epilogue

       Read on to enjoy an exclusive extract of The Castaways

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       Author’s Note

       A Q&A with Lucy Clarke

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

      

       Also by Lucy Clarke

      

       About the Publisher

      

       Prologue

      Salt water burns the back of my throat as I surface, coughing. My legs kick frantically, trying to propel me nearer the boat. The hull is close, whale-sized, solid. I lash out, white fingertips clawing at the side, but there’s nothing to grip and I go under again, mouth open, briny water shooting up my nose.

      Suddenly there’s an iron hand around my arm, pulling, dragging me upwards. My kneecap smashes against the side of the boat as I’m hauled on board, a pool of water spilling from me. I blink salt water and tears from my eyes, staring into a face half hidden by a beard. A dark gaze meets mine; the man speaks quickly, asking questions, draping a blanket over my shoulders.

      I say nothing. My whole body shakes beneath the stiff fabric.

      I look down at my feet. They are pressed together, white, bloodless, impossibly pale. Beyond them, stacked in the centre of the boat, is a tower of briny, dark cages, where lobsters writhe, tails and claws snapping and clacking.

      ‘What happened?’ the man asks over and over, his voice sounding distant as if it’s an echo in my head.

      I don’t answer – won’t take my eyes off the lobsters. They are not red as you see them in pictures, but black and shining, huge claws flecked with white. Can they breathe out of the sea, I wonder? Aren’t they drowning, right now, here in front of me? I want to throw them back into the water, watch them swim down to the sea bed. Their antennae quiver and flit as we motor towards the shallows.

      There’s a sudden roar of a boat engine close by. My head snaps up in time to see a blur of orange flashing past: the lifeboat. For the first time I notice the small crowd gathered on the shoreline. My fingers dig into the blanket as I realize: they are looking for us.

      Both of us.

      I am shaking so hard my teeth clatter in my head. I look down at my hands, then slide them beneath my thighs. I know everything is different now. Everything has changed.