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A big novel about a small town, The Casual Vacancy is J.K. Rowling's first novel for adults. It is the work of a storyteller like no other.
About the Author
J.K. Rowling is the author of the bestselling Harry Potter series of seven books, published between 1997 and 2007, which have sold over 450 million copies worldwide, are distributed in more than 200 territories, translated into 74 languages, and have been turned into eight blockbuster films. She has also written two small volumes, which appear as the titles of Harry's schoolbooks within the novels. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and Quidditch Through The Ages were published by Bloomsbury Children's Books in March 2001 in aid of Comic Relief. In December 2008, The Tales of Beedle the Bard was published in aid of the Children's High Level Group, and quickly became the fastest selling book of the year
For further information about J.K. Rowling, please visit her new website: www.jkrowling.com
Book Description
When Barry Fairbrother dies in his early forties, the town of Pagford is left in shock.
Pagford is, seemingly, an English idyll, with a cobbled market square and an ancient abbey, but what lies behind the pretty facade is a town at war.
Rich at war with poor, teenagers at war with their parents, wives at war with their husbands, teachers at war with their pupils... Pagford is not what it first seems.
And the empty seat left by Barry on the parish council soon becomes the catalyst for the biggest war the town has yet seen. Who will triumph in an election fraught with passion, duplicity and unexpected revelations?
Prologue
Barry Fairbrother did not want to go out to dinner. He had
endured a thumping headache for most of the weekend
and was struggling to make a deadline for the local
newspaper.
However, his wife had been a little stiff and
uncommunicative over lunch, and Barry deduced that his
anniversary card had not mitigated the crime of shutting
himself away in the study all morning. It did not help that
he had been writing about Krystal, whom Mary disliked,
although she pretended otherwise.
“Mary, I want to take you out to dinner,” he had lied, to
break the frost. “Nineteen years, kids! Nineteen years, and
your mother’s never looked lovelier.”
Mary had softened and smiled, so Barry had telephoned
the golf club, because it was nearby and they were sure of
getting a table. He tried to give his wife pleasure in little
ways, because he had come to realize, after nearly two
decades together, how often he disappointed her in the big
things. It was never intentional. They simply had very
different notions of what ought to take up most space in
life.
Barry and Mary’s four children were past the age of
needing a babysitter. They were watching television when
he said good-bye to them for the last time, and only
Declan, the youngest, turned to look at him, and raised his
hand in farewell.
Barry’s headache continued to thump behind his ear as
he reversed out of the drive and set off through the pretty
little town of Pagford, where they had lived as long as they
had been married. They drove down Church Row, the
steeply sloping street where the most expensive houses
stood in all their Victorian extravagance and solidity,
around the corner by the mock-Gothic church, where he
had once watched his twin girls perform Joseph and the
Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and across the Square,
where they had a clear view of the dark skeleton of the
ruined abbey that dominated the town’s skyline, set high
on a hill, melding with the violet sky.
All Barry could think of as he twiddled the steering
wheel, navigating the familiar turns, were the mistakes he
was sure he had made, rushing to finish the article he had
just emailed to the Yarvil and District Gazette. Garrulous
and engaging in person, he found it difficult to carry his
personality onto paper.
The golf club lay a mere four minutes away from the
Square, a little beyond the point where the town petered
out in a final wheeze of old cottages. Barry parked the
people carrier outside the club restaurant, the Birdie, and
stood for a moment beside the car, while Mary reapplied
her lipstick. The cool evening air was pleasant on his face.
As he watched the contours of the golf course
disintegrating into the dusk, Barry wondered why he kept
up his membership. He was a bad golfer: his swing was
erratic and his handicap was high. He had so many other
calls on his time. His head throbbed worse than ever.
Mary switched off the mirror light and closed the
passenger side door. Barry pressed the auto lock on the
key ring in his hand; his wife’s high heels clacked on the
tarmac, the car’s locking system beeped, and Barry
wondered whether his nausea might abate once he had
eaten.
Then pain such as he had never experienced sliced
through his brain like a demolition ball. He barely noticed
the smarting of his knees as they smacked onto the cold
tarmac; his skull was awash with fire and blood; the agony
was excruciating beyond endurance, except that endure it
he must, for oblivion was still a minute away.
xxxxx
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