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The Poison Tree: A Novel Hardcover – January 6, 2011
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This taut psychological thriller begins when Karen and her nine-year- old daughter, Alice, pick up Rex from a ten-year stint in prison for murder. Flash back to the sultry summer in 1990s London when Karen, a straight-A student on the verge of college graduation, first meets the exotic, flamboyant Biba and joins her louche life in a crumbling mansion in Highgate. She begins a relationship with Biba's enigmatic and protective older brother, Rex, and falls into a blissful rhythm of sex, alcohol, and endless summer nights. Naïvely, Karen assumes her newfound happiness will last forever. But Biba and Rex have a complicated family history-one of abandonment, suicide, and crippling guilt-and Karen's summer of freedom is about to end in blood.
When old ghosts come back to destroy the life it has taken Karen a decade to build, she has everything to lose. She will do whatever it takes to protect her family and keep her secret. Alternating between the fragile present and the lingering past with a shocker of an ending, The Poison Tree is a brilliant suspense debut that will appeal to readers of Kate Atkinson, Donna Tartt, and Tana French.
- Print length336 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherPamela Dorman Books
- Publication dateJanuary 6, 2011
- Dimensions6.25 x 1.25 x 9.5 inches
- ISBN-100670022403
- ISBN-13978-0670022403
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Editorial Reviews
From Publishers Weekly
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Review
“A terrific suspense debut, reminiscent of another British woman’s auspicious bow: Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca. The shadows gather until the ending looms like a threatening figure. This one gets the writer’s ultimate bit of praise: I wish I had written it.”
—Stephen King
“A compelling creeper . . . More please, Ms. Kelly! Quickly!”
—The Washington Post
“There is a brooding sense of impending doom and imminent danger. . . . [T]he explosive ending, its revelations about the threesome and the lengths to which people will go to preserve or take what's theirs, makes THE POISON TREE a rich and satisfying pleasure.”
—USA Today
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I let the telephone fall from my hand. Panic first cripples and then revives me. My fingertips tingle as they feel their way around the coffee table, scrabbling first for my car keys and then for my cell phone. I seem to have eight limbs as I try to get dressed in the dark, pulling on my coat and a pair of oversize sheepskin boots that I usually wear as slippers. At the threshold I hesitate for a second, then rush back to my desk and fumble in the drawer for my passport and a credit card that I keep for emergencies. I pull the door behind me in silence, although blood roars and rushes in my ears. With shaking hands I double-lock it: whether to keep someone in or to keep someone out, I can’t know yet.
Outside, I tiptoe, but there is a crack and a squelch as I flatten a snail beneath my sole, and when I tread in a puddle by the gate, cold water seeps through the soft suede and licks unpleasantly at my bare toes.
In the dark interior of the car I turn the key in the ignition and wince as the air blows icy cold, dispersing the fluffy clouds of my breath. My hands are so cold they feel wet; I am relieved to find a pair of woolen gloves bundled in my left pocket. Before put ting them on, I use my cell phone to cover the last caller’s tracks. I call the house phone, wait for the click of connection, and hang up before it has a chance to ring. The windshield is opaque with frost and I do not have time to wait for the heaters to defog the glass. I wipe a porthole in the passenger window and squint back into the dark recess of the bedroom window. If he had heard me, the light would be on by now. He would be silhouetted at the window, mouthing my name. Would that stop me? Would anything?
The car is pointed directly at the front of the house. If I turn the headlights on, they will shine into the window, so with no beams to guide me and only a smeared handprint of visibility through the windows, I pull out into the road. Only when I have guessed my way to the end of our lane do I switch on the full beam. The countryside is frosted and stark. Naked hedgerows cast eerie shapes in front of me and the high banks of the narrow road throw up shadows that take human form. The dead, the missing, and the missed surround me now, passive spirits who have become active ghosts. I am afraid to glance behind. They pursue me as I drive aggressively, suicidally, mounting the grass verge when I take a blind bend much too fast. The seatbelt digs into the flesh between my breasts as I make an emergency stop to avoid hitting the truck that suddenly looms in front of me. It’s a filthy vehicle of indeterminate color, tools loose in the back, moving so slowly that the driver must be drunk. I have no option but to slow to a crawl behind him.
I ought to use this enforced pause for rational thought. But there is nothing rational about this situation. I am driving alone in pajamas and wet, clammy boots on a country lane in the middle of the night. Nobody knows where I am or why. I had only been thinking of the others, but for the first time it strikes me that my own safety might be compromised if I continue.
A glance at my speedometer tells me that we are traveling at twelve miles an hour. I toot and flash, but by the cold blue glow in his cab I see that he is making a phone call. I map the road ahead in my mind. I have driven it so often that I know every pothole, kink, and curve. I take a deep breath, crunch the gears, and plunge blindly into the passing place I calculate is just to my right. The driver of a black car coming in the opposite direction has had the same idea and we skim each other as we pass, with a sickening screech of metal on metal. I accelerate. Let him chase me if he wants to make something of it. My left-hand mirror is wrenched from its casing and falls to dangle lifelessly at the side from a lone wire, like a severed limb attached to its body by a single vein. The retreating driver sounds his horn angrily, the Doppler effect making it drop a forlorn semitone as it continues in the direction of my house. The truck is between us and it is too late to turn and see if the driver was alone or carrying a passenger, if it was a regular car or a taxi.
I pick up my crazy pace. Only a speed camera, predicted by a luminous sign, persuades my foot to the brake. On the borders of the town the scrubby roadside edges give way to narrow pavements and trees thin out to accommodate houses, a pub, a gas station. Lampposts appear, imitation Victorian globes like a parade of tiny moons, and I realize with a corresponding lucidity that this is it. The event I have been expecting and dreading for a third of my life is finally here.
It suddenly feels very hot inside the car. My hands are sweating inside my gloves, my eyes are dry, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I have given up so much and done so many terrible things already for the sake of my family that I can only keep going. I do not know what is going to happen to us. I am frightened, but I feel strong. I have the strength of a woman who has everything to lose.
1
I try to see the city through his eyes. It has been only ten years, but London has changed. Will he notice the subtle developments of the last decade? Does he register the lack of telephone boxes or the proliferation of Polish grocers? What about the plugged-in pedestrians with white wires connecting their ears to their pockets? The red circles on the road that welcome us into and usher us out of the congestion zone? I’m dying to know what he is thinking. His eyes, though, are fixed on the sycamore pods and leaves stuck under the windshield wipers. Running commentary has never been his style, but this silence is unnerving.
Alice is talking enough for the three of us, a high-pitched stream of consciousness that spills from the backseat. She has made this journey from southeast London to our home on the Suffolk coast four times a year, every year of her life. She loves traveling home through town, preferring to inch through dirty streets rather than cruise around the highway, even though it adds hours onto our journey. I always save this route for a special treat, when her behavior throughout our visit has been particularly good, or when she and Rex have found saying good-bye harder than usual. Sometimes I drive through town when I need to think, knowing that Alice’s nose will remain pressed against the glass as the car crawls from suburb to inner city to suburb again, that the questions she asks will be about what that man is selling or what that building is, rather than another discussion about why Daddy has to live so far away.
But this afternoon’s detour isn’t at Alice’s request. As we creep along Holloway Road, her favorite part of the journey, her focus is inside the car. She does not seem to mind her demotion from the front seat to the back. She ignores the Caribbean barbershop she loves to wave at and the metallic, space-age university building we saw being built, panel by shiny blue panel. We even pass the grimy cell phone store that holds such a strange fascination for her without the usual argument about when she will be old enough for her own telephone. We stop at a red light and with a click and a giggle she slides out of her seatbelt and squeezes between the driver and passenger seats. Her twiggy fingers weave in and out of Rex’s hair, tugging it, massaging his scalp, shampooing it and revealing silver threads around his ears and temples. She shoots out rapid-fire questions one after the other without waiting for answers.
“Will you take me to school when I go back next week? Will you drive Mum’s car or are we going to have two? Lara’s mum and dad have a car each but she still walks to school. Don’t you think—oh my God, you can come swimming now! What’s your best stroke? Mine’s front crawl. Will you take me swimming?”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” says Rex, and Alice kisses the top of his head. Her knees fold forward and nudge the gearshift while an elbow knocks against my head as I try to negotiate the Archway traffic circle. I shout at her when I had sworn I wouldn’t, not today. She shrugs off my scolding. The car swings to the left as I take the exit for the Great North Road. Rex crosses his legs, folds his arms, and shifts in his seat. He knows where I’m going. Perhaps he was expecting it. Perhaps, like me, he needs this one last visit to the past before we can build our future.
Archway Road is unusually clear, and the three of us cruise underneath the bridge in the long, low autumn dazzle. The neighborhood has been gentrified in the decade since we lived here. We pass a designer baby boutique where a thrift store used to be. The liquor store that would sell us two bottles of nasty wine for five pounds, even at three in the morning, has now been upgraded to a wine merchant, and even the old pubs and restaurants look cleaner and brighter than I remember them: more plate glass, fewer metal shutters. But Archway still has some way to go, I think, as I swerve to avoid chunks of glass exploded from a bus stop window and scattered across the street like ice cubes.
Neither of us has been here for over a decade but I can still drive this street, anticipate those lights, make these gear changes, on autopilot. I could do it with my eyes shut. For a reckless second, I’m tempted to try, to close my eyes and lock the wheel on a right curve. But I make the double turn into Queenswood Lane wide-eyed and unblinking. The noise of the city falls away as we enter the secret sliver of wildwood, where the ancient trees muffle the sirens and the screeches of the street and the half-hidden houses occupy a dark green private universe, cushioned by money as much as by trunk and bough and leaf. I drive carefully between the expensive cars, their side-view mirrors tucked into their bodies in case someone unfamiliar with the road drives too quickly and knocks into one. But I am more familiar with this lane than any other road, including the one I grew up on and the one I live on now. It’s the setting for most of my memories and all of my nightmares. I know every old brick wall, every bump in the road, every lamppost. The 1860s apartment block with its Italianate walled garden still sits alongside that glass-and-concrete bubble, someone’s vision of the future from the 1960s that would never make it past the conservation society today. Stern Victorian town houses tower over a pastel-colored fairy-tale mansion. Their windows glower down at us.
I deliberately don’t look toward the last house, the place where everything happened, before the street surrenders to the trees. I focus on the road as the leafy tunnel swallows this car for the first time and park with the house behind me, telling Alice that Mummy and Daddy need to stretch their legs. She tumbles out of the car and skips into the trees, her tracksuit a flash of pink through half-undressed branches. The little red lights in the heels of her sneakers wink at us like tiny eyes.
“Don’t go too far!” I call. We watch as she drags her feet through the fallen leaves, tracing letters with her toes, staining the hem of her trousers with flakes of wet bark and leaf mold. She doesn’t know it, but she’s playing yards away from the spot where she was conceived. Rex speaks first.
“It’s got to be done, I suppose.” He circles the car to open my door. I get out and point the key at the car, and it locks with a pow-pow noise. Rex raises an eyebrow. “Very swish,” he says, taking the key from me and examining it as though it contains an entire album of high-energy dance tracks. I close my eyes to make the turn, and when I open them, there it is. Exactly where we left it, I think—although where could it have gone? The four-story town house surrounded not by cars and concrete but by lime and plane and birch and oak; half stucco, half gray brick, it really belongs on the end of a terrace in Islington or Hackney. Its incongruity is one of the things that always made its presence on the edge of the forest so magical. It has changed, of course. It looks naked, cleaner and more metropolitan than ever now that someone has pulled down the dark green ivy that covered all of the side wall and half the front one and found its way in through the windows in the summertime. The creamy stucco gleams, not a single peel or crack in the paint. It looks innocent. But then, so do I.
The flaked black paint on the front door has been replaced by flawless turquoise gloss, and the golden lion door knocker gleams. The steep front steps—formerly a death trap of long-dead herbs tufting out of broken terra-cotta pots, lone roller skates, empty wine bottles, and never-to-be-read free local newspapers—have also been restored, and instead the door is flanked by two perfectly symmetrical bay trees with twisted stems in aluminum pots. Six recycling boxes are stacked neatly and discreetly behind a magnolia tree in the front garden. Instead of the nonworking bell pull which no one ever bothered with, there are six buzzers. The first time I ever came here, I spent ten minutes looking for just such a row of doorbells bearing different names. It didn’t occur to me that people my age could live in the whole of this building rather than occupy an apartment within it. I don’t need to get any closer to know how the place has changed on the inside. Without peering through the white-shuttered windows, I know exactly how the interiors of these apartments will look: coir or sisal carpeting, because the battered floorboards were beyond restoration even for the most dedicated property developer. The black and white hall will have been renovated, an original feature that will have added value to the house price. It was in terrible condition when we lived there, and afterward, there was that terrible stain.
There will be magnolia walls with flat-screen television sets flush against them, stainless steel kitchens, each boxy white bedroom with its own frosted-glass bathroom. It had been sold, but not until a long time after the police and the press had gone. The redevelopment had begun as soon as the yellow incident tape had been taken down and the cameras and reporters had moved on. Only then did the real estate agents begin to throng the house. I had often imagined the swarm of suits trampling polystyrene and paper coffee cups discarded by reporters, looking beyond the building’s grisly history, seeing only the rare opportunity to sell a sensitively converted character property in a highly desirable location, situated seconds from the Tube and on the edge of the historic Queen’s Wood.
The violent physical reaction I was half-expecting—a swoon, or a full faint, or even vomiting—doesn’t come. Rex too is calm, indecipherable, and it’s he who has the most, and the most gruesome, memories of this place. It was his home for twenty-four years and mine for only one summer. Alice breaks the reverie, dropping five feet from a tree I hadn’t noticed her climb, bored now, asking Rex for a can of Coke because she knows I’ll say no. I shrug and let him decide. Tonight, we’ll sit down and establish some ground rules for dealing with Alice before she becomes hopelessly, irretrievably spoiled. But today, I’ll let Rex play the indulgent father. One day won’t hurt.
She gets her drink, but not from the newsstand near Highgate Tube; I bet it’s still owned by the same family. They might not recognize me, but of course they would remember Rex. They would have sold enough newspapers with him on the front page. Instead, we drive up Muswell Hill Road and I let Rex and Alice jump out and into a more anonymous convenience store. Did I ever go there? The fruits and vegetables piled up in front of the shop, their dull skins patiently absorbing the fumes from my exhaust, do nothing to jog my memory. Rex and Alice are in there for a while, and it’s not until she emerges, red-faced and holding out her hand, that I realize I haven’t given him any money.
Before we’ve even reached the North Circular Road that links Rex’s old part of London to his new home, Alice has slipped out of her seatbelt again and is lying across the seat, kicking at the air, singing to herself and spilling sticky cola all over her clothes and the car seat. Ten years fall away and I remember another journey on this road. It was the day Rex’s credit card arrived, and we celebrated by driving to the supermarket to stock up on all the food and drink we could cram into my little Fiat. Rex sat beside me losing a wrestling match with the sunroof, while Biba took up the whole of the backseat, so Guy can’t have been with us. She dangled a cigarette out of the left-hand window, her feet poking out of the right-hand one in a desperate attempt to cool down. I can feel the gummy heat of that summer now. I remember the prickle of my heat rash and the way the sweat from my body made my cheap purple T-shirt bleed dye onto my skin like an all-over bruise. I remember the way perspiration gave Rex a permanent kiss-curl in the middle of his forehead, like Superman. I can still see the crisscross sunburn lines on Biba’s back. A pink leg comes between me and the rearview mirror.
“Put your seatbelt on, Alice,” I say. She walks her feet up onto the ceiling, printing a thin layer of leaf mold in the shape of her shoes across the pale gray ceiling. She’s testing me and I fail. “I said, put your fucking seatbelt on, Alice!” Or did I say something else? Rex looks at me in horror while Alice, more interested in the unfolding drama than offended by my swearing, is suddenly silent and upright.
“What did you call her?” he says in a whisper, and at the same time Alice asks, “Who’s Biba?”
Product details
- Publisher : Pamela Dorman Books; First Edition (January 6, 2011)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 336 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0670022403
- ISBN-13 : 978-0670022403
- Item Weight : 1.2 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.25 x 1.25 x 9.5 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,405,986 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #79,340 in Suspense Thrillers
- #1,013,423 in Literature & Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Some stories take longer to 'cook' than others. It's no exaggeration to say that my latest novel, The Skeleton Key, about a family of artists, and a treasure hunt that takes on a life of its own, was a lifetime in the making. As a child, my favourite picture book was the 1979 treasure hunt phenomenon Masquerade, by artist Kit Williams. On every page, riddles were posed and intricate, dreamlike paintings depicted Jack Hare in his quest to deliver a jewel from the moon to the sun. Each picture was bordered by letters that held a clue to the location of a tiny hare, wrought in gold, studded with precious stone, and buried somewhere in England. My favourite page was a double-page spread of a little girl sitting in a field of dog roses while Jack Hare galloped past. I envied her so much: she was in the story, as I longed to be. I thought that if I looked at the picture for long enough, I might fall into it: and in a way, I did. Masquerade became part of me, and forty years later, it has found its way out again in the form of The Skeleton Key.
Aside from The Skeleton Key, I'm known for He Said/She Said, about a young couple who witness a rape and, after the trial, begin to wonder if they believed the right person. It was number one in the kindle charts for six glorious weeks, and spent three months in the Sunday Times Bestseller charts.
My first novel, The Poison Tree, was a Richard and Judy bestseller and a major ITV drama starring Myanna Buring, Ophelia Lovibond and Matthew Goode.
I’ve written six more original psychological thrillers – Stone Mothers, Watch Her Fall, The Sick Rose, The Burning Air, The Ties That Bind.
I had read scores of psychological thrillers before I heard the term: the books that inspired me to write my own included Endless Night by Agatha Christie, The Secret History by Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier and A Fatal Inversion by Barbara Vine. My books are atmospheric thrillers, always about people trying to atone for, escape, or uncover a past crime. I’m more interested in what happens before the police arrive – if arrive they ever do - than how murder is solved.
GET IN TOUCH! I LOVE TO HEAR FROM READERS AND ALWAYS ANSWER EMAILS
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Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonCustomers say
Customers find the story interesting and mesmerizing. They praise the writing quality as engaging and skillful. Readers appreciate the well-developed characters and pacing that keeps them hooked until the end. However, opinions differ on the description and pace - some find it insightful and worthwhile, while others feel there is too much description and rambling narration.
AI-generated from the text of customer reviews
Customers find the plot interesting and engaging. They appreciate the high standard of plotline, pace, and characters. The story is relatively simple but skillfully ratchets up the suspense until the unforgettable conclusion. Readers appreciate the time-shifting narrative that teases out the plot and the setting description that offers often-startling insights into the attractions and dangers of London's bohemian area.
"...her eye for dialogue and character, Kelly stylishly and skillfully ratchets up the suspense until the unforgettable conclusion...." Read more
"...development, lush setting description, and offers often-startling insights into the attractions and dangers of London's bohemian lifestyle...." Read more
"...; the elegance in decay of the setting; and the time shifting narrative that teased out the plot...." Read more
"...This is a physiological thriller as are all of Erin Kelly's books...." Read more
Customers find the writing style engaging and the story moving at a brisk pace. They say the author is skilled in keeping the reader absorbed and interested for a good length of time. The book is enjoyable and a quick read with well-developed characters and twists and turns.
"...Rachael, Roger and Jules, and the simple-yet-loyal Arouna, are vivid, distinct, frequently complex, and unique...." Read more
"...You won't find bodies hidden here and there but you will read a well written book, that gives the reader an insight into a totally different world..." Read more
"Erin Kelly has written a real page-turner, a psychological thriller with great character development...." Read more
"...This was very well written though at times it was a bit overly descriptive...." Read more
Customers enjoy the well-developed characters and intriguing plot. The story progresses with the characters becoming clearer.
"...Kelly does a beautiful job of character development, lush setting description, and offers often-startling insights into the attractions and dangers..." Read more
"...I enjoyed the youthful decadence of the characters with their overindulgence in drugs, sex, and alcohol; the creepy brother-sister relationship;..." Read more
"Like many fans of Erin Kelly, I love the way she builds her characters. This is a physiological thriller as are all of Erin Kelly's books...." Read more
"...I could not identify with the main character, mostly because she was so intelligent, but continually made bad life choices...." Read more
Customers find the book's pacing engaging. They say it keeps them hooked until the end, with an interesting story and characters that keep them turning pages. The setting is described as eclectic, unique, and diverse.
"...Rachael, Roger and Jules, and the simple-yet-loyal Arouna, are vivid, distinct, frequently complex, and unique...." Read more
"...She makes you care about her characters and she keeps you turning the page." Read more
"...Damaged characters and an eclectic setting all wound together into a great story...." Read more
"...I loved this book for the way it makes you concentrate and really think about the story line. I now have another Author to follow...." Read more
Customers have different views on the book. Some find it interesting and an introduction to a different world, with family dynamics and an interesting presentation of times and society. However, others feel there is too much description and little dialogue, and the narration is rather rambling. They also mention that the transition from past to present is confusing at times, and they had difficulty understanding Karen's decisions and feelings.
"...This was very well written though at times it was a bit overly descriptive...." Read more
"...you will read a well written book, that gives the reader an insight into a totally different world and characters that are so well defined you can..." Read more
"...I had trouble at times understanding the decisions and feelings Karen was having, so that also left me discontented with the story...." Read more
"...That is my opinion, I know. However, it was confusing to go from past to present. I lost interest at times, but it was better towards the end...." Read more
Customers have different views on the book's pace. Some find it fast-paced with surprising twists, while others consider it slow and confusing at first. The plot weaves smoothly between the past and present day.
"...Paced exceptionally well, the plot weaves fluidly between the past and present day (1997)...." Read more
"Bit slow and confusing at first but well worth sticking to it, really started to enjoy it after the first quarter, and it didn't slow down at all..." Read more
"...The writing style is engaging and keeps the story moving at a brisk pace...." Read more
"It seemed to take an awfully long time to get to the point of the story. I got restless before I got to the good stuff" Read more
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Poisonhouse
Top reviews from the United States
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- Reviewed in the United States on August 4, 2011"...so I blocked it from my mind. I could do that with things I didn't want to think about, like snapping shut a book." So says one of the two main characters, Karen (naively and mistakenly), in the early part of Erin Kelly's suspense tour de force "The Poison Tree". If only it were that easy for readers of this haunting novel that stays in the mind long past its conclusion.
When reading the Poison Tree, I deliberately slowed down while reading it, taking three days when I could've finished it must faster - all the better to absorb and appreciate it as it unfolded.
Using her eye for dialogue and character, Kelly stylishly and skillfully ratchets up the suspense until the unforgettable conclusion. Beyond the two main characters - the young women Karen and her frenemy Biba - even Kelly's second- and third-tier characters, like Biba's perpetually-and-comically stoned boyfriend Guy, Biba's opportunistic actress colleague Rachael, Roger and Jules, and the simple-yet-loyal Arouna, are vivid, distinct, frequently complex, and unique. Many embody the axiom that every sinner has a future and every saint a past.
Throughout "The Poison Tree", Kelly skillfully uses ironic dialogue to foreshadow twists that develop later: An elderly woman on a neighbor's arrest: "It just goes to show...you could be living next door to anyone" (Lady, you have no idea) mirrors Biba's later declaration "But it just goes to show, you can't...trust anyone." (Not in "The Poison Tree", you can't).
And "Well done," said Biba [to Guy]..."Aren't you clever?" mirrors Karen's rhetorically asking "Isn't she clever?" about a baby's attempts to feed. Throughout the stylish "The Poison Tree", cleverness abounds.
Chris B.
- Reviewed in the United States on March 30, 2011When I have to put down a really good book and take care of the rest of my life - weekend play dates, glamorous laundry duty, homework management - I often find myself thinking about the story I have left behind. Particularly, I wonder about the characters - their mistakes, motivations, and dreams. And I always snatch the first few moments I can to zoom through the next dozen pages. (Yes, that's me in the carpool line with my Kindle!)
The Poison Tree is that type of novel, UK author Erin Kelly's debut. Paced exceptionally well, the plot weaves fluidly between the past and present day (1997). Kelly does a beautiful job of character development, lush setting description, and offers often-startling insights into the attractions and dangers of London's bohemian lifestyle.
Readers are introduced to Karen Clarke, a brilliant, straight-A college student with an uncanny knack for learning languages. Her father encourages her to take the summer off and enjoy herself before entering the real world of work and deadlines. By chance, Karen soon meets an eccentric and glamorous drama student named Biba who seems to intoxicate everyone she meets with her free spirit and grand ideas. From the moment Karen enters the once-grand mansion where Biba and her brother, Rex, reside, she becomes willingly ensnared in a whirlwind lifestyle of drugs, alcohol, and sex.
Karen initially believes Biba and Rex are orphans, but later learns that Biba and Rex were, in reality, abandoned by their wealthy father soon after their mother died. Their father has married again, started a new family, and attempted to erase almost everything about his old life, including his two adult children. When Biba decides to confront him on the steps of his home, she is roughly dismissed and dragged away by Rex and Karen.
Biba drinks away her sorrows and enters into a toxic, abusive relationship, while Rex falls hopelessly in love with Karen. After a stormy encounter with her boyfriend ends with Biba in the hospital, she vows to stay away from him. However, it isn't long until Biba breaks her promise and tragedy strikes. Two people are dead, Rex is taken into custody by the police, and Biba urges Karen to flee for safety.
The storyline continues to twist and turn, revealing many dark secrets and hidden truths. Erin Kelly does an admirable job keeping suspense high, tensions tight, and the plotline moving until the very last sentence. The Poison Tree is a must-read for anyone who loves a good psychological thriller!
The Poison Tree title is taken from a William Blake poem. The novel, published by Pamela Dorman Books/Viking, was released on January 6, 2011.
- Reviewed in the United States on August 4, 2011I liked this book, but not quite as much as many of the reviewers. I enjoyed the youthful decadence of the characters with their overindulgence in drugs, sex, and alcohol; the creepy brother-sister relationship; the elegance in decay of the setting; and the time shifting narrative that teased out the plot. However, I found the use of what seemed like six to ten metaphors per page to be an annoying affection of the part of the author, but since this is a debut novel, I overlooked that. However, unlike people who found the ending perfect, I found the ending absolutely preposterous. Even though The Poison Tree is fun read, I don't know if I'd recommend it.
- Reviewed in the United States on October 21, 2017Like many fans of Erin Kelly, I love the way she builds her characters. This is a physiological thriller as are all of Erin Kelly's books. You won't find bodies hidden here and there but you will read a well written book, that gives the reader an insight into a totally different world and characters that are so well defined you can actually visualize them. Of course there is a story but i you are looking for dead bodies in every chapter, then for sure you will be disappointed. I have read most of her books and to date, this is my favourite. Her stories are all totally different as are the endings, some end tragically and others they get their just deserts.
Top reviews from other countries
- JenMedBookLoverReviewed in the United Kingdom on February 24, 2024
5.0 out of 5 stars Tense, obsessive relationships and totally compulsive reading
What a read. I was totally absorbed in this one from the moment I started reading. It was almost like car crash television to a degree. I knew, from the moment Karen met Biba, it was going to spell trouble, but the relationship between the two of them, three if you include Biba's brother, Rex, was so compelling, the sense of danger so ever present that I found I couldn't stop reading. The book disappeared in a flash and I only wish I had read it sooner. There is something to be said for reading it immediately before it's sequel (and reviewing it that way too as it turns out), but I';ve certainly been missing out on a cracker of a book.
I am trying to decide what this story reminded me of. I suppose, in terms of the triste between brother/sister duo Rex and Biba and perhaps somewhat sheltered language student, Karen, it reminded me a little of Dangerous Liaisons. Not that Biba was necessarily manipulative in that way, but there was something about her that drew in those around her like a moths to a flame, a kind of charismatic and addictive personality that they find irresistible. Unlike her French counterpart, I don't particularly think that Biba set out with any plan to hurt those around her, it is an unintended consequence of the life she leads. And what a life that is.
To a degree. I can understand completely where Rex, Karen and all of those around Biba were drawn to her. Erin Kelly has created such an enigmatic and yet troubled soul that despite some of her very suspect actions, that any sensible friend, or sibling, would have called her out on, I couldn't not like Biba. The more we journey into her story, the more I could understand her personality and the way in which she led her life. There are part of hers and Rex's background which would make even the hardest heart leach some semblance of sympathy, but it is carefully fed into the story in a way in which maintains the suspense and that ever present feeling of hurtling towards a less than pleasant destination. I see why Rex was so protective. Why Karen found their kind of bohemian lifestyle so attractive, especially as it was so far removed from her own, rather vanilla upbringing and college career so far.
There is a great deal of mystery and uncertainty that the author has built into this book. It is a dual timeline tale which allows us a glimpse into the present day, that certainty that something catastrophic has occurred, but denying us the full what and why of it all, meaning that when the revelation comes in the recounting of the trio's past, it is all the more shocking. And there are many secrets to be uncovered as the story belts along, some of them perhaps more obvious than others, and some which completely blindsided me, leaving me quite shocked by what came to pass. It was a heady mix, but one that kept me totally glued to the page. I wasn't putting this book down until I was done - end of.
With brilliant characters, so full of life and vibrancy, and a narrative that is wonderfully descriptive and transports you right to the heart of Biba, Rex and Karen's all too dangerous life, this is a must read for fans of psychological fiction. It's laded with tension, uncertainty and, on occasion, a sense of paranoia. It is a story of obsession, rejection, loss and the need to feel loved - no matter the cost. It is a story of people will to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect the ones that they loved, and I absolutely loved it. Top stuff.
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DianameReviewed in Spain on August 19, 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars Super book
An amazing piece of work. A rather slow start but soon the drama hots up and the ending is quite unexpected and frightening!
- Amazon CustomerReviewed in India on May 26, 2016
5.0 out of 5 stars Amazing story....dull paper quality
Well written. The characters are well described...their opinions...their excuses all are well placed in the act. The paper quality is Hodder classic...the dull paper. This is my second Hodder book and by the paper quality it seems like it is a very old book.
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LéanneReviewed in France on May 5, 2019
4.0 out of 5 stars Subtil et prenant
Karen, étudiante sérieuse à la vie terne et rangée, fait la connaissance de Biba et de son frère Max. Ils sont tout son contraire : bohèmes, fantasques et immatures. Ils vivent de petits larcins entre fainéantise, drogue et alcool dans une grande maison délabrée. A leur contact, Karen croit avoir découvert la vrai vie et la liberté. Fascinée par Biba, amoureuse de Max, elle ne voit pas dans quel piège mortel elle a mis le doigt.
Le roman est long et sinueux et il décevra peut-être les amateurs d'action mouvementée. La psychologie des personnages se dévoile lentement et la situation évolue par petites touches . Tous est basé sur des retours en arrière qui, petit à petit, expliquent comment on est arrivé à un dénouement tragique, alors que l'héroïne décrit ses états d'âme, ses pensées, ses erreurs de jugement, la façon dont elle s'est laissée engluer dans une situation délétère. Le roman semble commencer par la fin, mais ce n'est qu'une illusion, car rien n'est encore joué et le dénouement est surprenant.
Un thriller psychologique, bien construit, bien écrit, et prenant jusqu'au bout.
- daman sahniReviewed in India on August 29, 2018
2.0 out of 5 stars damaged.
For the first time I received a book that was damaged. The spine is cracked and the edges are frayed. Seems like it's a book that's been read before.