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Strange Sally Diamond


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About The Book


“One of the best books I’ve read in a long, long time.” —Lucy Foley, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Apartment
“I loved every damn second of it!” —Lisa Jewell, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Family Remains
“Dark, compelling, and deeply moving.” —Ruth Ware, New York Times bestselling author of Zero Days and The It Girl

The internationally bestselling author of the “dark, captivating psychological thriller” (People) Lying in Wait returns with a wickedly dark, twisted, and brilliantly observed new novel about an enigmatic woman confronting her unknown past.

For Sally Diamond, people are confusing, unpredictable, and hard to read. She has always preferred routines to spontaneity, silence to noise, and forthright communication to small talk. Adopted at the age of seven by a psychiatrist, she cannot remember any details of her childhood before that age. Now, at forty-three years old, the truth comes into sharp focus when Sally’s past becomes headline news: she endured something unthinkable as a child, and now, the entire world knows exactly who she is…and was.

Suddenly, Sally finds herself in the spotlight. People everywhere are digging into her past, ravenous for details, and Sally herself is learning things about herself and her family that she never knew before. Soon, a stranger from New Zealand sends her a familiar teddy bear in the mail, but why does he insist on addressing her as Mary? And why is her new neighbor so obsessed with her?

Told from the alternating perspectives of Sally in the present-day and a boy named Peter in the past, this is a novel that confronts the trauma of family secrets and explores one woman’s brave decision to define herself and her future.


Chapter 1 1
“Put me out with the trash,” he said regularly. “When I die, put me out with the trash. I’ll be dead, so I won’t know any different. You’ll be crying your eyes out,” and he would laugh and I’d laugh too because we both knew that I wouldn’t be crying my eyes out. I never cry.

When the time came, on Wednesday, 29th November 2017, I followed his instructions. He was small and frail and eighty-two years old by then, so it was easy to get him into one large garden garbage bag.

It was a month since he’d been up and about. “No doctors,” he said. “I know what they’re like.” And he did, because he was a doctor, of psychiatry. He was still able to write prescriptions though and would send me to Roscommon to get those filled out.

I didn’t kill him; it wasn’t like that. I brought him in tea that morning and he was cold in his bed. Eyes closed, thank God. I hate it on those TV dramas when corpses stare up at the detective inspector. Maybe you only have your eyes open if you’ve been murdered?

“Dad?” I said, though I knew he was gone.

I sat on the end of the bed, took the lid off his plastic spouted cup, and drank the tea, missing the sugar I put in mine. I checked his pulse first, but I could tell by the waxiness of his skin. Only, waxy isn’t the right word. It was more like… his skin didn’t belong to him anymore, or he didn’t belong to it.

Dragging the garbage bag across the yard to the barn was hard. The ground was frosted, so I had to heave the bag up onto my shoulder every few minutes so that it wouldn’t rip. Once a month, when he was well, Dad would empty the garbage into the incinerator. He refused to pay the garbage bill and we lived in such a secluded spot that the council didn’t chase us about it.

I knew that corpses decomposed and began to rot and smell, so I carefully placed the bag into the incinerator barrel. I splashed some petrol over the top and set it going. I didn’t stay to hear it burn. He was no longer he; it was a body, an “it,” in a domestic incinerator beside a barn in a field beside a house at the end of a lane, off a minor road.

Sometimes, when describing where we lived over the phone, Dad would say, “I’m off the middle of nowhere. If you go to the middle of nowhere and then take a left, a right, another left until you come to a roundabout, take the second exit.”

He didn’t like visitors. Apart from our doctor, Angela, we had callers maybe once every two years since Mum died. The last few fixed the car or installed a computer, and then a few years later, another man came and gave Dad the internet and a newer computer, and the last one came to improve our broadband. I stayed in my room on those occasions.

He never offered to teach me how to use the computer, but explained all the things it could do. I watched enough television to know what computers could do. They could bomb countries. They could spy on people. They could do brain surgery. They could reunite old friends and enemies and solve crimes. But I didn’t want to do any of those things. Television was what I liked, documentaries, nature and history programs, and I loved dramas, fantasy ones set in the future or Victorian ones set in great houses and with beautiful dresses, and even the modern ones. I liked watching people with their exciting lives, their passionate love affairs, their unhappy families, and their dark secrets. It’s ironic, I suppose, because I didn’t like people in real life. Most people.

I preferred to stay at home. Dad understood that. School had been horrendous. I went to all the classes, tried to avoid other girls, and went straight home afterward. They said I was autistic, even though my psychiatrist dad had told me I definitely wasn’t. I joined no clubs or societies, despite Mum’s pleading. When I did my final exams, I got two As and two Bs and two Cs in honors subjects and a pass in maths and Irish. That was twenty-five years ago, after which we moved again, to a bungalow at the end of a tiny lane, a mile outside the village of Carricksheedy.

Weekly shopping trips were always an ordeal. I sometimes pretended to be deaf to avoid conversation, but I could hear the schoolchildren’s comments. “Here she comes, Strange Sally Diamond, the weirdo.” Dad said there was no malice in it. Children are mean. Most of them. I was glad I was no longer a child. I was a forty-two-year-old woman.

I would collect Dad’s pension and my long-term-illness benefit from the post office. Years ago, the post office wanted us to set up direct debits to our bank accounts for our benefits and pension, but Dad said we should at least try to maintain some relationships with the villagers, so we ignored the advice. The bank was all the way over in Roscommon, eleven miles away. There was no ATM in Carricksheedy, though with most businesses, you could pay with your bank card and get cash back.

I also collected Dad’s mail because Dad said he didn’t want a postman poking his nose into our business. Mrs. Sullivan, the postmistress, would shout, “How is your dad, Sally?” Maybe she thought I could lip-read. I nodded and smiled, and she would put her head to one side in sympathy as if a tragedy had occurred, and then I would go to the large Texaco garage. I would buy what we needed for the week and get home again, nerves abating as I turned into the lane. The round trip never took longer than an hour.

When he was well, Dad would help unpack the shopping. We ate three meals every day. We cooked for each other. So, I prepared two meals and he prepared one, but the division of labor was even between us. We swapped duties as age took its toll on him. I did the vacuuming and he unloaded the dishwasher. I did the ironing and took out the trash and he cleaned the shower.

And then he stopped coming out of his room, and he wrote his prescriptions with a shakier hand, and he only picked at food. Toward the end, it was ice cream. I fed it to him sometimes when his hands shook too much, and I changed his bed linen on the days when he could no longer control himself and didn’t make it to the chamber pot under his bed, which I emptied every morning and rinsed out with bleach. He had a bell beside his bed, but I couldn’t hear it from the back kitchen, and in the last days, he was too feeble to lift it.

“You’re a good girl,” he said weakly.

“You’re the best dad,” I’d say, though I knew that wasn’t exactly true. But it made him smile when I said it. Mum had taught me to say that. The best dad was the dad on Little House on the Prairie. And he was handsome.

My mum used to ask me to play this game in my head. To imagine what other people were thinking. It was a curious thing. Isn’t it easier to ask them what they think? And is it any of my business? I know what I think. And I can use my imagination to pretend things that I could do, like the people on television, solving crimes and having passionate love affairs. But sometimes I try to think what the villagers see when they look at me. According to a magazine I read one time in Angela’s waiting room, I am half a stone overweight for my height, five foot eight inches. Angela laughed when I showed her the magazine, but she did encourage me to eat more fruit and vegetables and fewer carbs. My hair is long and auburn, but I keep it in a loose bun, slightly below the crown of my head. I wash it once a week in the bath. The rest of the week, I wear a shower cap and have a quick shower.

I wear one of my four skirts. I have two for winter and two for summer. I have seven blouses, three sweaters, and a cardigan, and I still have a lot of Mum’s old clothes, dresses and jackets, all good quality, even though they are old. Mum liked to go shopping with her sister, Aunt Christine, in Dublin two or three times a year “for the sales.” Dad didn’t approve but she said she would spend her money how she liked.

I don’t wear bras. They are uncomfortable and I don’t understand why so many women insist on them. When the clothes wore out, Dad bought me secondhand ones on the internet, except for the underwear. That was always new. “You hate shopping and there’s no point in wasting money,” he would say.

My skin is clear and clean. I have some lines on my forehead and around my eyes. I don’t wear makeup. Dad bought me some once and suggested that I should try it out. My old friend television and the advertisements meant that I knew what to do with it, but I didn’t look like me, with blackened eyes and pink lipstick. Dad agreed. He offered to get different types, but he sensed my lack of enthusiasm and we didn’t mention it again.

I think the villagers see a forty-two-year-old “deaf” woman walking in and out of the village and occasionally driving an ancient Fiat. They must assume I can’t work because of the deafness and that’s why I get benefits. I get benefits because Dad said I am socially deficient.

About The Author

Photograph by Beta Bajgartova

Liz Nugent has worked in Irish film, theater, and television for most of her adult life. She is an award-winning writer of radio and television drama and has written critically acclaimed short stories both for children and adults, as well as the bestselling novels Unraveling OliverLying in Wait, and Little Cruelties. She lives in Dublin and has won four Irish Book Awards, as well as the James Joyce Medal for Literature. Visit her at or follow her on Twitter at @LizzieNugent.

Product Details

  • Publisher: Simon & Schuster (July 18, 2023)
  • Length: 320 pages
  • ISBN13: 9781501191336

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Raves and Reviews

“Jaw-droppingly clever. I’m completely in awe of Liz Nugent’s writing, and this is my favourite yet. One of the best books I’ve read in a long, long time. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
LUCY FOLEY, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Paris Apartment

“The best book of 2023. An incredible reading experience, it shook me to the core. I loved every damn second of it!”
LISA JEWELL, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Family Remains

"Strange indeed . . . and smart, too! Shocking, disturbing, and utterly original, Strange Sally Diamond will grip you from first page to last."
PAULA HAWKINS, internationally bestselling author of Slow Fire Burning and The Girl on the Train

“One of the year’s boldest and most original offerings, Nugent’s off-kilter latest grabs hold and won’t let go.”
Publishers Weekly

“Dark, compelling, and deeply moving.”
RUTH WARE, New York Times bestselling author of The It Girl

“Terrific! Think Room meets The Collector, with a dazzlingly unique main character.”
SIR IAN RANKIN, #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Heart Full of Headstones

“A magnificent novel by a major talent. Liz Nugent is a treasure.”
SHARI LAPENA, New York Times bestselling author of Not a Happy Family

“Nugent’s fifth novel is her best yet: evil perpetuates evil in a heartbreaking but humane tale of people damaged beyond repair.”
The Guardian

“What a brave, funny, disquieting, riveting book. By the end, I felt I knew Sally Diamond’s mind better than I did my own.”
LOUISE CANDLISH, internationally bestselling author of The Only Suspect and The Heights

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