In Search of Adam. Caroline Smailes

      

      In Search of Adam

       Caroline Smailes

       Praise

      ‘An utterly riveting tale from a word magician who truly knows the beat of the grieving human heart.’

      —Elizabeth Baines, author of Balancing on the Edge of the World

      ‘Staccato prose that crackles with experience.’

      —Danny Rhodes, author of Asboville

      ‘Original, authentic and technically brilliant, Caroline Smailes’ In Search of Adam is a debut of remarkable quality and devastating power.’

      —Nicholas Royle, author of Antwerp

      ‘Caroline Smailes has done for child abuse what Mark Haddon did for autism.’

      —Lynne Hatwell, dovegreyreader review

      ‘An engrossing and touching read from a new talent.’

      —The Big Issue in the North

      ‘Caroline Smailes’ writing combines a unique and compelling lyricism with a truly courageous authenticity. In Search of Adam is a beautiful, brutal and highly original novel. It blew me away.’

      —Megan Taylor, author of How We Were Lost

      ‘An accomplished, courageous and insightful debut novel.’

      —Damian McNicholl, author of A Son Called Gabriel

      ‘In Search of Adam is a profoundly affecting book. It deals with the horrors of a damaged childhood caused by a mother’s suicide, a father’s neglect and child abuse. Dark stuff, but it is handled with a deep sensitivity and realism by Newcastle-born author Caroline Smailes.’

      —The Journal (Newcastle).

      ‘A stunning insight into the disturbed mind of a girl living in the North-East. It has re-defined what writing can do for the reader—it can change the way you look at people.’

      —Terry Deary, author of Horrible Histories

      ‘I think it [a novel] should impart emotional energy. Not every good novel will do this, but most will. In Search of Adam is one of them. By the end of the first chapter, I was saddened and uncomfortable. The book has an emotional engine that Smailes guns mercilessly. The story succeeds as a study of disconnection, contamination, and the loss of momentum in a young life.’

      —Spike Magazine

       For my Gary

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Epigraph

1980

1981

       1982

       1983

       1984

       1985

       Ever After (1992)

       Happy Ever After

       Thoughts

       Afterthoughts

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

Praise

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

       Genesis 01 : 003 : 016

       The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat.

       Edward Lear, 1871

       1980

      On March 26 1980, I was six years, four months and two days old. I was dressed and ready for school. It was 8:06am on my digital watch. My mother was still in bed. I went into her room to wake her. I found her lying on top of her duvet cover. She wasn’t wearing any clothes. Her ocean eyes were open. She wasn’t sleeping. And from the corner of her mouth, a line

       of

       lumpy

       sick

      joined her to the pool that was stuck to her cheek. Next to her, on her duvet I saw an empty bottle. Vodka. And there were eleven tablets. Small round and white. And I saw a scrap of ripped paper. There were words on it.

      

       jude, i have gone in search of adam. i love you baby.

      I didn’t understand. But I took the note. It was mine. I shoved it into the pocket of my grey school skirt. I crumpled it in. Then. Then I climbed next to her. I spooned into her. Molded into a question mark. Her stale sick mingled and lumped into my shiny hair. I stayed with my mother, until the warmth from her body transferred into me. We were not disturbed until my father returned from work. At 6:12pm.

       Exhibit number one—my mother’s note.

      In the days between my mother’s death and her funeral, I noted that someone from every one of the thirty-one other houses in my street came to visit. Some just stood in silence in the hallway. Some drank coffee at the wooden kitchen table. Others sat with my father in the lounge. Smoked cigarettes and drank from tin beer cans. My father liked these visitors the best. There were some neighbours who came each day. Just to check on my father. And between them they decided on how best I should be cared for.

      I