دانلود رمان انگلیسی “دوشنبه‌ها قتل عام هستند”

I grip the faded blue material of the seat as the bus barrels around another corner, my stomach lurching. I’d forgotten that all the drivers in the Longrove area act like they’ve got a death wish. Or maybe I blocked it from my mind; there’s a whole box of memories in my head called Longrove crap that I don’t touch – the daredevil bus drivers are the tip of the iceberg. None of the old people on the bus react as we jolt over a particularly bumpy bit of road – one has some knitting out, the needles clicking together in a rhythmic pattern as leaves start scraping at the windows. We’re being driven into a hedge. The journey from the train station into the town centre is supposed to take fifty minutes, because there are a thousand stops and the route goes through winding country roads – but it looks like we’ll be doing it in thirty at the speed we’re going. Racing towards Longrove, the town I grew up in. The town my parents moved us out of a year ago because Mum couldn’t stand to stay. And now I’m back, dumped on my Uncle Dara for a week while my parents go on a cruise around France to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary – without me. I wouldn’t have got in their way; I even said I’d stay in my cabin and just hang out at the pool. Mum snorted at that.