CHRISTINA DALCHER earned her doctorate in theoretical linguistics from Georgetown University, specializing in the phonetics of sound change in Italian and British dialects. She and her husband split their time between the American South and Naples, Italy. VOX is her debut novel.
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Christina Dalcher 2018
Christina Dalcher asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008300654
‘VOX is intelligent, suspenseful, provocative, and intensely disturbing – everything a great novel should be.’
Lee Child
‘A petrifying re-imagining of The Handmaid’s Tale in the present, and a timely reminder of the power and importance of language.’
Marta Bausells, ELLE
‘This book will blow your mind. The Handmaid’s Tale meets Only Ever Yours meets The Power. Read it and shout about it in more than 100 words if you need to.’
Nina Pottell, PRIMA
‘A novel ripe for the era of #MeToo.’
Vanity Fair
‘A bold, brilliant and unforgettable debut.’
Alice Feeney
‘A truly compulsive novel.’
Stylist
‘Thought-provoking and thrilling. I was left speechless!’
Woman & Home
‘Any woman who has ever been shamed into silence will recognise the terrifying vista so vividly portrayed in VOX.’
Roisin Ingle, The Irish Times Women’s Podcast
‘A disturbingly prescient cautionary tale. It will also get under your skin and make you extremely angry, regardless of your gender.’
Starburst Magazine
‘My favourite book of the year so far…’
Lisa Hall
‘Chilling and gripping — a real page-turner.’
Karen Cleveland
In memory of Charlie Jones
linguist, professor, friend
ONE
If anyone told me I could bring down the president, and the Pure Movement, and that incompetent little shit Morgan LeBron in a week’s time, I wouldn’t believe them. But I wouldn’t argue. I wouldn’t say a thing.
I’ve become a woman of few words.
Tonight at supper, before I speak my final syllables of the day, Patrick reaches over and taps the silver-toned device around my left wrist. It’s a light touch, as if he were sharing the pain, or perhaps reminding me to stay quiet until the counter resets itself at midnight. This magic will happen while I sleep, and I’ll begin Tuesday with a virgin slate. My daughter, Sonia’s, counter will do the same.
My boys do not wear word counters.
Over dinner, they are all engaged in the usual chatter about school.
Sonia also attends school, although she never wastes words discussing her days. At supper, between bites of a simple stew I made from memory, Patrick questions her about her progress in home economics, physical fitness, and a new course titled Simple Accounting for Households. Is she obeying the teachers? Will she earn high marks this term? He knows exactly the type of questions to ask: closed-ended, requiring only a nod or a shake of the head.
I watch and listen, my nails carving half-moons into the flesh of my palms. Sonia nods when appropriate, wrinkles her nose when my young twins, not understanding the importance of yes/no interrogatives and finite answer sets, ask their sister to tell them what the teachers are like, how the classes are, which subject she likes best. So many open-ended questions. I refuse to think they do understand, that they’re baiting her, teasing out words. But at eleven, they’re old enough to know. And they’ve seen what happens when we overuse words.