Moons

A modern gothic novel, as powerful as an autumn Mediterranean storm…

When Evelyn and Richard arrive on a remote Greek island for their honeymoon at the end of the season, they are still reeling from the surprising turn of events at their own wedding. The stifling atmosphere is made all the more tense by the strange behaviour of the hotel owner, Isabella, who only has eyes for Richard, yet refuses to grant Evelyn even the simplest of requests. What’s more, everyone keeps talking about the “sleepwalkers”, a married couple who drowned on the island during a great autumn storm almost exactly a year ago.

What was meant to be a sun-drenched honeymoon for Evelyn and Richard is slowly creeping into a nightmare. And now the great storm is approaching again, and a host of dark secrets will come to light in a single night. The fates of the tourists and the locals become irrevocably intertwined, and both the readers and the characters in the story must repeatedly ask themselves the unsettling question: What really happened?

A grim, strange, and yet highly entertaining novel that tackles urgent questions about relationships, sexuality, and humanity's darkest secrets.

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Thomas has woven a complex tapestry of dark and mysterious pleasure. If you step back and look at the book, you'll see it's a perfectly crafted gem, but as you read, all you want to do is turn the pages, eagerly devouring each one that follows.
— The Bookseller

Fantastically thrilling… this fiction is running at full throttle.
— The Guardian

The slick showman sat in a dark corner at the back of the shop on a bar stool, twisting a piece of wire with sharp pliers. On the counter in front of him stood a half-finished birdcage, the kind we had seen in every shop and restaurant here—the ones they keep goldfinches in. Behind him was a shelf with stacks of documents tied with string. They looked like ancient archive files or collections of love letters. The exact same kind Isabella had at Villa Rosa, on the secretary desk in the entrance hall and in the other rooms, the ones with the four-poster beds.

But now I noticed the showman flinch, just ever so slightly, as Isabella brushed against him, squeezing past far too close, it seemed to me. The little man snapped shut the brass buckle of an antique briefcase and hurried across the courtyard to his scooter. Isabella stopped for a moment at the secretary desk, but I couldn't see what she was doing. The scooter sped away.

Isabella came out of the house.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile meant for you. As if we hadn't just spoken to her up on the terrace a moment ago, as if we hadn't seen each other at all today.
— excerpt from the book