Darlene
A psychological noir about desire, diagnosis and the stories we choose to believe.
After her release from a psychiatric hospital, Darlene resumes a life already explained by others—doctors, courts and institutions that claim to understand her. As she revisits the figures who once treated, desired and defined her, the boundary between care and control begins to dissolve.
Quietly unsettling and psychologically incisive, Darlene explores identity, memory and the cost of allowing others to write your story. As certainty begins to unravel, Darlene discovers that the most dangerous stories are often the ones told in the name of care.
A lean, unsettling, and genuinely intelligent piece of work. The prose has a clinical precision that suits the material perfectly.
— Louise Candlish
Sunday Times bestselling authorPhillip Michael Shirley's writing is a force. This intriguing story brings unexpected light and understanding into psychological darkness.
— Kate McElderry
Author of Declan SomeoneThe important things are left unsaid, resonating in the reader's mind long after the ending.
— Catherine Jansen-Ridings
Author of The Shame ChildEvery novel begins with a question. This is Darlene's.
The city beyond the glass had changed again—new scaffolds, new lights, new names for old streets—but the library remained a sealed system, orderly and indifferent. Darlene sat at the long table and waited.
Some of us are monstrous intruders—devilish impostors. We belong, but we are not welcome, because the truth of us cannot be spoken. The unexamined grotesque. The inner thing. It makes us watchers: the wolf in sheep’s clothing, standing in plain sight. We are what you only dare to think—and even then, only in whispers, deep in the sewers of the mind.
She let the thought settle. It did not trouble her.
And then, at last, Dr. Berman arrived. Darlene didn’t look up.
‘Didn’t expect you to come,’ she said, deadpan.
Berman paused in the doorway, letting the silence settle before stepping in. ‘Neither did I. Old times, I suppose. And another reason.’
Darlene’s gaze was steady. ‘The book,’ she said.
‘I’m writing a novel,’ Berman said, her voice careful.
‘Let me guess. It’s about me?’