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Charley died in the waves last summer. Almost. Now she’s in a coma, neither dead nor alive.

On returning to the beach, her younger brother Hal finds it hard to shake off her presence. Thoughts of Charley begin crowding his mind, revealing strange places and violent emotions. Thoughts that Hal comes to realise are not entirely his own. As Hal digs deeper into the mystery of her accident, he discovers the truth of what happened.

Veined with thrilling mystery and tinged with the super-sensory, a compelling coming-of-age story about first love and tragic loss.

Reviews:

'An engrossing first novel from a thrilling new talent.' NICHOLAS TUCKER, INDEPENDENT

'One of the most genuinely bittersweet novels of adolescence to have come my way in some time.' ROBERT DUNBAR, IRISH TIMES

'Sharon Dogar is a writer to watch.' MEG ROSOFF

'Waves is a remarkable novel by a talented story teller, suffused by an atmosphere both sensuous and sinister.' PHILIP PULLMAN

‘But it’s no one’s fault, it just happened. It was an accident.’ Mum repeats the words so slowly, as though she is holding them to herself, like a light in the dark, holding on tight, because she would be lost and blind without them.

‘No, Mum, it wasn’t!’ I hear myself shout.

‘No! There’s a reason!’ And Charley’s voice is strong and sure within me. I am right. ‘Remember, Hal!’ I have to know what happened to her.

Exactly what happened.

And suddenly, I’ve got it, and this is the surest thing in the world to me. It wasn’t an accident.

‘It’s hard to believe, Hal,’ Mum’s still talking, ‘but the world’s a cruel, cruel place sometimes, and Charley being … in a coma, it feels so cruel and wicked, but it’s just a terrible accident.’

She stops for a bit, and then goes on as though she’s talking to herself. ‘And cruel things, well, I suppose—’ she looks straight at Dad, and his eyes hold her up, as though they’re willing her on, ‘I suppose they ask cruel questions of us sometimes.’

‘Help me, Hal!’

I stare at them both, but they don’t notice, and the shiver inside me becomes fixed and cold, hard and frozen - I want to howl with laughter at the weird friggin’ irony of it. Why now, why are they thinking about this now? Just when she’s coming alive again for me? Why now, just when I’m beginning to remember? Perhaps that’s why – because I’m beginning to remember something? And Charley’s voice comes back, stronger than ever.

‘Remember.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say to them, in a panic, because I want answers, and I suddenly feel as though they might be about to take that away from me somehow.

‘If Charley’s body’s lying in that hospital, but she’s not dead, where is she?’ I hear myself ask. ‘And what was she doing out on the waves that night, why was she there?’

And suddenly, all the hidden-away questions are just giving themselves right up, tumbling right out of me, not caring whether or not they have a place to go.