Audiobook read in British English.
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
British (England - Cockney, Estuary, East End) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark hadn about the book, a murder mystery novel like No other. The detective is Christopher Boone. Christopher is 15 and has a spur GIS syndrome. He knows a great deal about maths and very little about human beings. He loves the lists, patterns and the truth. He hates the colours, yellow and brown and being touched. He has never gone further than the end of his own road. But when he finds a neighbor's dog murdered, he begins terrifying journey, which will turn his whole world upside down. The curious incident of the dog in the nighttime it was seven minutes after midnight. The dog was lying on the grass in the middle of the lawn in front of Mrs Shears house. Its eyes were closed. It looked as if it was running on its side, the way dogs run when they think they are chasing a cat in a dream. But the dog was not running or asleep. The dog was dead. There was a garden fox sticking out of the dog. The points of the fork must have gone all the way through the dog and into the ground because the folk had not fallen over. I decided that the dog was probably killed with the fork because I could not see any other wounds in the dog. And I did not think you could stick a garden fork into a dog artery, had died for some other reason, like cancer, for example, or a road accident. But I could not be certain about this. I went through Mrs Shears Gate, closing it behind me. I walked onto her lawn and knelt beside the dog. I put my hand on the muzzle of the dog. It was still warm. The dog was called Wellington. It belonged to Mrs Shears, who is our friend. She lived on the opposite side of the road to houses to the left. Wellington was a poodle, not one of the small poodles that have hairstyles, but a big poodle. They had curly black for, But when you got close, you can see that the skin underneath was very pale yellow, like chicken. I stroked Wellington and wondered who had killed him and why. My name is Christopher John Francis Boone. I know all the countries of the world and their capital cities and every prime number up to 7507. Eight years ago, when I first met shaven, she showed me this picture. It's an emoji with a sad face, and I knew that it meant sad, which is what I felt when I found a dead dog. Then she showed me this picture. This is an emoji with a happy face, and I knew that it meant happy, like when I'm reading about the Apollo space machines or when I am still awake at three or four in the morning and I can walk up and down the street and pretend that I am the only person in the whole world. Then she drew some other pictures. These other emoji pictures are somewhat confusing. I was unable to say what these men I got seven to draw lots of these faces and then right down next to them exactly what they meant. I kept a piece of paper in my pocket and took it out when I didn't understand what somebody was saying. But it was very difficult to decide which of the diagrams was most like the face they were making because people's faces moved so quickly. When I told Shavon that I was doing this, she got out of a pencil and another piece of paper and said It probably made me feel very confused. And then she laughed. So I tore the original piece of paper up and threw it away and she even apologised. And now if I don't know what someone is saying, I asked them what they mean or I walk away. I pulled the fork out of the dog and lifted him into my arms and hugged him. He was leaking blood from the foxholes. I like dogs. You always know what a dog is thinking. It has four moods. Happy, sad cross and concentrating. Also, dogs are faithful and they do not tell lies because they cannot talk. I had been hugging the dog for four minutes When I heard screaming, I looked up and I saw Mrs Shears running towards me from the patio. She was wearing pyjamas and a house coat. Her toenails were painted bright pink and she had no shoes on. She was shouting, What in ***** name have you done to my dog? I do not like people shouting at me. It makes me scared that they're going to hit me or touch me, and I do not know what's going to happen. Let go of the dog, she shouted. Let go of the ******* dog, for Christ's sake! I put the dog down on the loan and move took back two metres. She bent down. I thought she was going to pick the dog up herself, but she didn't. Perhaps she noticed how much blood there was and didn't want to get dirty. Instead, she started screaming again. I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and rolled forward till I was hunched up with my forehead pressed onto the wet grass. The grass was comfortably wet and cold. It was nice. This is a murder mystery novel. She even said that I should write something I would want to read myself. Mostly, I read books about science and maths. I did not like proper novels, improper novels. People say things like, I am veined with iron, with silver and with streaks of common mud. I cannot contract into the firm fist, which those clench who do not depend on stimulus. What does that mean? I do not know nor his father, nor Do Shaven or Mr Stevens, I've asked them. She even has long blonde hair and wears glasses, which are made of green plastic, and Mr Givens smells of soap and wears brown shoes that are approximately 60 tiny circular holes in each of them. But I do like murder mystery novels, so I'm writing a murder mystery novel in a murder mystery novel. Someone has to work out who the murderer is and then catch them. It is a puzzle. If it is a good puzzle, you can sometimes work out the answer before the end of the book, she even said that the book should begin with something to grab people's attention. That is why I started with the dog. I also started with the dog because it happened to me, and I find it hard to imagine things which do not happen to me. She even read the first page and said it was different. She put this word in inverted commerce by making the wiggly quotation sign with her 1st and 2nd fingers. She said that it was unusually people who were killed in murder mystery novels. I said that two dogs were killed in the pound of the Baskervilles, the hound itself and James Mortimer's spaniel. But she Vaughn said they weren't victims of the murder. Sir Charles Baskerville was, she said, that this was because readers cared more about people than dogs. So if a person was killed in the book, readers will want to carry on reading. I said I wanted to write about something real, and I knew people had died, and I did not know any people who had been killed except Edward's father from school, Mr Paulson. And that was a gliding accident, not murder, and I didn't really know him. I also said that I cared about dogs because they were faithful and honest, and some dogs were cleverer and more interesting than some people. Steve, for example, who comes to score on Thursdays, needs help to eat his food and could not even fetch a stick. She even asked me not to say this to Stephen, madam. Then the police arrived. I like the police. They have uniforms and numbers, and you know what they are meant to be doing. There was a policewoman and a policeman. The policewoman had a little hole in her tights on her left ankle and a red scratch in the middle of the whole. The policeman had a big orange leaf stuck to the bottom of his shoe, which was poking out from one side. The policewoman put her arms around Mrs Shears and let her back towards the house. I lifted my head off the grass. The policeman squatted down beside me and said, Would you like to tell me what's going on here? Young man, I sat up and said, The dog is dead. I got that far, he said. I said, I think someone killed the dog. How old are you? He asked. I replied. I am 15 years and three months and two days. And what precisely were you doing in the garden? He asked. I was holding the dog, I replied. And why were you holding the dog? He asked. This was a difficult question. It was something I wanted to do. I like dogs. It made me sad to see that the dog was dead. I like please to, and I wanted to answer the question properly. But the policeman didn't give me enough time to work out the correct answer. Why were you holding the dog? He asked again. I like dogs. Did you kill the dog? He asked. I said I did not kill the dog. Is this your fork? He asked. I said No. You seem very upset about this, he says. He was asking too many questions and he was asking them to quickly. They were stacking up in my head like clothes in the factory where Uncle Terry works. The factory is a bakery, and he operates the slicing machines, and sometimes the slicer is not working fast enough. But the bread keeps coming and there is a blockage. I sometimes think of my mind as a machine, but not always as a bread slicing machine. It makes it easier to explain to other people what is going on inside it, the policeman said. I am going to ask you. Once again, I roll back onto the loan and pressed my forehead to the ground and made the noise that father cause groaning. I made this noise when there was too much information coming into my head from outside world. It is like when you're upset and you hold the radio against your ear and tune in halfway between two stations so that all you get is white noise. And then you turn the volume right up so that this is all you can hear. And then you know you're safe because you cannot hear anything else. The policeman took hold of my arm and lifted me onto my feet. I did not like him touching me like this. And this is when I hit him.