The power of a mother's love is tested in this race-against-time debut thriller, perfect for fans of ROOM and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN.
OBSERVER THRILLER OF THE MONTH
‘A page-turning, adrenaline-soaked read . . . an eloquent and meditative insight into motherhood and what it means, its many small trials and wonders.’ Alison Flood, Observer
‘I devoured it in one breathless sitting. Outstanding.’ Clare Mackintosh, author of I Let You Go and I See You
‘It tore at every maternal fibre in my body. I couldn’t put it down.’ Fiona Barton, author of The Widow
Lincoln is a good boy. At the age of four, he is curious, clever and well behaved. He does as his mum says and knows what the rules are.
'The rules are different today. The rules are that we hide and do not let the man with the gun find us.'
When an ordinary day at the zoo turns into a nightmare, Joan finds herself trapped with her beloved son. She must summon all her strength, find unexpected courage and protect Lincoln at all costs – even if it means crossing the line between right and wrong; between humanity and animal instinct.
It's a line none of us would ever normally dream of crossing.
But sometimes the rules are different.
‘Fierce Kingdom is a bold exploration of the ferocity of a mother’s love - riveting and beautiful, and all too real. You’ll find yourself asking, what would I do? It’s brilliant.’ Shari Lapena, author of The Couple Next Door
‘Unbearably tense and yet beautifully written, Fierce Kingdom demands to be read in one sitting. After finishing, I pulled my loved ones a little closer.’ Paula Daly, author of The Mistake I Made
'I was absolutely captivated by this book. So, so tense, but wonderfully written. The perfect book.’ Gillian McAllister, author of Everything But The Truth
Format & Editions
For a long while Joan has managed to balance on the balls of her bare feet, knees bent, skirt skimming the dirt. But now her thighs are giving out, so she puts a hand down and eases onto the sand.
Something jabs at her hip bone. She reaches underneath her leg and fishes out a small plastic spear – no longer than a finger – and it is no surprise, because she is always finding tiny weapons in unexpected places.
‘Did you lose a spear?’ she asks. ‘Or is this one a scepter?’
Lincoln does not answer her, although he takes the piece of plastic from her open hand. He apparently has been waiting for her lap to become available – he backs up, settling himself comfortably on her thighs, not a speck of sand on him. He has a fastidiousness about him; he never did like finger painting.