A Desperate Solution for your Kindle

Time for a new crime trilogy! In 2015 I'll be releasing three thrillers on Kindle, beginning with A Desperate Solution. These crime novels are all part of a new series, starring a cast of fucked-up, in-over-their-heads miscreants and ne'er-do-wells.

You can download a free sample on Amazon and buy the book for just 99p.

Devil's in a Different Dress - excerpt

After four months of sweaty, emotional toil, my latest novel, Devil's in a Different Dress, is about to hit the Kindle Store. This thriller is set in post-war Germany, following a group of soldiers who lock horns with the locals to try and solve a grisly murder. Bit different from my usual council tower efforts, but just as sweary. Here's how it starts...

Even after everything I’ve witnessed, those everlasting horrors and lifeless faces that haunt me every time my eyes squeeze shut, the scene in that kitchen was macabre enough to set me off. It was the blood, that’s what did it. I’ve probably seen a couple hundred corpses in my lifetime, maybe more (I can only imagine the kind of man who would keep count), but those bodies had either been moved from the place they fell and cleaned up as best as possible, or else they’d died right there in the dirt. And when a man dies in the dirt, all his blood ends up in the soil. It just seeps away, in some kind of symbolic ‘returning from whence we came’ gesture that would make most poets piss themselves with glee.

But when this poor bastard was bludgeoned to death in his own home, his blood had spattered over a dozen surfaces and leaked across the stone floor and basically coated half the room. There was nowhere for all that liquid to trickle away to, so it was still shining brightly when we turned up around twenty minutes later. With all that fresh claret spread around the place, it was a good few seconds before I even focused on the body, sprawled face-down alongside the cooker. By then, the familiar cold and tingly sensation had swept right through my skin from scalp to scrotum and I knew I was in trouble.

“Oh, God,” Corporal Lane said in a hushed, almost respectful tone, squeezing past into the kitchen. His face slumped into his usual contemplative grimace, his brow furrowing and making him look a lot older than his twenty one years. “What a mess. Looks like someone caved the guy’s head in.”

“Yeah,” was my forced reply. I could already feel my heart hammering my ribs, perhaps hard enough to smash right through and burst from my chest. A second later, the world seemed to fade to grey and warp horrifically, as if the walls and ceiling were bending towards me. “Back in a sec,” I whispered, pushing from the room and staggering down the hallway. I quickly found the toilet, a tiny cubby joined to the back of the house and I dove inside, slamming the door behind me. I could feel the sweat pouring down my face, soaking into my uniform. My arse hit the toilet and I slapped my palms against the walls, holding myself steady and desperately trying to keep the room from closing in on me.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” I muttered, closing my eyes and sucking down great gulps of air until my lungs were aching. Usually it worked; on some occasions, I woke up a few minutes later with my face crushed into the floor. This time, thank the Lord, the dizziness and the nausea began to fade. When I was reasonably sure that I wasn’t about to keel over, I reached inside my jacket and found the tiny plastic bottle that lived inside the lining pocket, fumbling the lid and tipping one of the tablets onto my tongue. I swallowed it down whole, then waited. Counted how many breaths I took. Listened to the mumbled voices on the other side of the door, discussing the dead guy with the broken head.

When I finally emerged, I saw Lane stood by the kitchen door, chatting with some girl with tangled, mousy hair. She couldn’t have been any older than fourteen, a scrawny, short little thing with a nose like a Jew and mud-streaked clothes. The kid kept staring into the kitchen, goggle-eyed. Lane glanced at me as I walked up and gave me a funny look.

“Feeling alright?” he asked and I rolled my eyes.

“Stomach cramps,” I replied. I patted my belly for extra emphasis, then forced myself to drink in the bloody spectacle once more. The old man, Herr Schmidt, had probably been taken by surprise and struck from behind. That much was apparent from the way he was sprawled across the ground. But even after he’d face-planted the floor, it looked like he’d maybe been bludgeoned another couple of times, given the amount of blood spattered about the place. Maybe he’d still been alive, struggling to push himself up off the floor. These old Germans were tough as hell, a whole other breed. They’d lived through too much godawful shit to be anything else. I saw that some of the blood had been smeared across the floor tiles, most likely where the murderer had stepped in the spreading puddle. A couple of partial prints led towards the door, but that told me nothing besides the obvious: the killer had been wearing shoes.

My amateur eyes roamed across the rest of the kitchen, struggling to pick out anything else that could be useful. Nothing appeared to be missing, at least not at first. There were plenty of possessions spread around that a thief could have made off with, from silver cutlery to the china plates. I gazed at the painting hanging on the walls, the same kind of artwork that seemed to be dotted around the entire house. Each picture was World War I era, mostly grandiose images of Wilheim looking majestic on horseback with the sun shining down over his shoulder. I guessed that old Schmidt must have fought in that war. Funny, in a not-actually-funny kind of way. Imagine surviving two worldwide conflicts, two bloody battles on such an epic scale, only to be pummelled to death in your own kitchen. Quite a cruel little joke.

“This is Katherine,” Lane said, and I turned to see him nod at the young girl. “She’s a witness, saw someone leaving here.” Lane smiled at the girl and jabbed a thumb towards me. “Go on, you can tell him what you told me.” Katherine chewed her bottom lip, her gaze still fixed on the gore in the next room, then she peered up at me and shrugged her waif-like shoulders.

“I saw old Herr Jurgen hurrying out of here just a little while ago,” she said, her words smothered in a thick German accent. “He was carrying a sheet on his back, like a sack. I don’t know what he had inside. But I saw there were blood spots on the sheet, and on his shirt.”

“Well,” I said, “guess that’s this one solved. Sounds like a robbery, nice and simple.”

“Do you know where this Jurgen fella lives?” Lane asked the girl and she rattled off an address that was just three streets down. With our expert detective work done, we passed the mess over to the other boys and agreed to head straight to Herr Jurgen’s house, before he had a chance to destroy any evidence.

“Might want to usher her out too,” I muttered to Lane. The girl had tiptoed her way into the kitchen and was marvelling at the sudden and violent redecoration, her worn-out shoes edging dangerously close to the pool of blood. Lane nodded.

“Katherine, come on, come with us. We’ve got a few more questions need answering.” The girl pouted but followed us out anyway, kicking her heels as she shuffled along behind us.

The date was June 22nd, 1945. Europe had allegedly been at peace for 45 days and the Allies had total control of Berlin, while our personal occupation of the southern town of Rottstein had dragged on for almost two entire months. No one wanted us here, least of all us. I could see it in the looks the locals gave us, every time we passed them in the streets or strode into one of their stores. They weren’t just apprehensive, afraid, they were probably angry. Hurt. Some of the other lads didn’t understand, but I sympathised alright. To these people, we were just the Nazis in a different uniform. We had overrun their town, imposed our own laws, fucked with their way of life. The get-up we wear might be a different colour, but we still carry guns and we all look alike. Even worse, we speak a foreign bloody language.

“Should we swing by base first,” Lane asked as we stepped outside onto the cobbled street. “See if Shaw’s turned up?” I shook my head, pulling my second-from-last cigarette from the battered old pack and slipping it between my lips. It was only 5pm but already the sky was dark thanks to the sheet of jagged clouds, which had only just started to spit down at us. I grimaced, sparking up the cigarette with a match.

“Even if he is there, he’ll be bugger all use to anyone. Probably so hungover he can’t even strap on his boots, never mind lift his gun.”

Myself, Lane and Shaw had all served in the same regiment during the war, 165^th Royal Armoured Corps. We were part of the operation that took the town by force, removing the Fuhrer’s grip on the southern border and helping to trap the bastard in his own goddamn hellhole. When our illustrious major slapped me with the dubious honour of head peacekeeper for the duration of the occupation, I chose Michael Shaw and Alex Lane as my partners. Faults and all considered, I had trusted them with my life out on the battlefield.

“How are we going to do this?” Lane asked as we strode down the street. He suddenly seemed anxious, reaching up and tugging on his ear lobe every few seconds. The guy was so mature for his age that I often forgot he was only twenty one. I’d seem him keep his cool even during outright carnage, when his superiors, myself included, were completely wigging out. It was only during these quieter moments that I saw the mask slip, and understood that he was really just a kid beneath it all.

“Let’s play it by ear,” I said, wondering how real police back home would handle a situation like this. Smash their way in, guns drawn? Better not. We had a bad enough rep around here as it was. If we started kicking down suspects’ doors, we’d be labelled tyrants for sure. “Try the polite approach, then as soon as we find the evidence, we take the bastard in.” I turned to make sure the girl was still following. Sure enough she was just a stride behind, craning in to hear what we were talking about. “Katherine, right?” She looked up and nodded, her lips parting to reveal a gap in her front teeth. “Katherine, does Herr Jurgen live alone?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He had a wife, but she was taken away by the Nazis.”

“Okay. So why do you think Herr Jurgen would want to kill…uhh, what was that old fella’s name again?”

“Herr Schmidt,” Katherine replied, her mouth twisting into a frown. “I don’t know. Herr Schmidt was nice. He never said anything bad about anyone. He used to let me take apples from his tree, when I was hungry. That’s why I was in his garden when Herr Jurgen left.”

“And Herr Jurgen, is he nice too?”

“No,” Katherine said with a sharp shake of her head. “He’s mean. He always looks at me bad, like he wants to kick me.”

“Okay.” I took a deep drag of the cigarette, which was still just about lit despite the rain. Between the glorious lungfuls of smoke and my magic pill, I was feeling almost human again. “So were those two friends?”

“Sometimes.” Katherine said, and I raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes?”

“Yes. Sometimes Herr Jurgen would go to Herr Schmidt’s house to help him…uhhh.” She crushed her eyes tight shut and pushed her fist into her brow, until finally her eyes flew open again. “Handy work,” she said with a flicker of a smile. “He helped Herr Schmidt in the garden. Herr Schmidt was too old. He gave Herr Jurgen money, to fix the garden.”

“Is that Jurgen’s job?” I asked. “Gardening?”

“Any kind of handy work,” Katherine said with a shrug. “House, garden, what you need. A lot of people in this town, they are old or….frail. They cannot work.”

“Right.” I turned to Lane. “What do you think, then?”

“Well…” He stared up at the blackened sky through narrowed eyes, the raindrops pattering across his face. “Maybe a botched robbery?”

“Yeah, could be,” I said with a nod, “but all that blood. This Jurgen guy must’ve beat the old bastard a good few times to open up his head like that. It wasn’t just a tap on the noggin, that guy really went to town.”

“You think it was some kind of personal vendetta?” Lane asked and I flicked away the dying cigarette.

“Aye, I’d say it was personal. Only one way to find out.”

When we got to Jurgen’s street, we told Katherine to wait at the end, out of sight. Of course, it was like telling a cow not to shit, for we’d only gone ten steps when she began to follow. We played statues for a little while, her freezing every time I glanced over my shoulder, until we reached number 8 (sechs…sieben…acht). Like Schmidt’s house, it was a detached cottage-style building with a compact garden between the front door and the street, but Jurgen’s little outdoor space was filled with all kinds of colourful plants and shrubs that I couldn’t even begin to name.

“Quite a feminine touch for a murderer,” I said off-hand to Lane. He smiled.

“He’s got greener fingers than my wife.”

“Okay.” I took a deep breath and scratched my chin, my other hand resting on the butt of my service pistol, which hung in its holster at my hip. “I guess we don’t want to panic him or anything, so maybe we go knock on the door and ask to come in. I’ll keep an eye on him while you search the place and try and find some bloody clothes or that sheet Katherine told us about. Make sure you check every cupboard and the back garden if he has one. Once we’ve got some evidence, we’ll take him in.”

Herr Jurgen’s curtain fluttered a few moments after we knocked and his face pressed up against the glass, all flabby and blotchy. Two pin-prick eyes peered out suspiciously through pink rolls of flesh. I made sure he got a good look at the uniform and soon after the door creaked aside. The man was nervous as hell, even I could tell that much. His gaze flickered between myself and Lane non-stop and he fumbled with his fat sausage fingers as I spoke to him, tugging each digit in turn.

“Herr Jurgen?” I began, with a straight expression. He nodded in response, the flab beneath his chin wobbling slightly, like flesh jelly. “You understand English?” Another nod. “Good. Can we come in, please?” A brief hesitation, then another shallow nod. I stepped past him into the narrow hallway and cut left into his front room, wondering if he actually had a tongue.

The place seemed rather cosy for a man of Herr Jurgen’s stature, with a low ceiling and quite a lot of gaudy furniture packed in. I positioned myself to the side, near the fireplace. Jurgen shuffled in behind me, followed closely by Lane. I smiled at the German, one hand still sat on the butt of my gun.

“What do you want,” he asked, confirming that he did indeed possess the ability to speak. His voice was even gruffer than I imagined, like an old man’s after a lifetime of cigars and whiskey.

“Were you at Herr Schmidt’s house about half an hour ago?” I asked him. Jurgen’s expression darkened.

“I visit him a lot,” he replied. “I help him tend to his plants.”

“That wasn’t what I asked. I asked if you were there half an hour ago.” As we talked, Lane slipped away to begin his search of the house. Jurgen noticed my colleague’s departure and turned to me, lips curled back in a snarl.

“Where is he going?” he asked. I sighed and tapped my fingers against the pistol’s grip.

“Never mind him. So, half an hour ago. You were at Herr Schmidt’s house.”

“Yes, I was.” The German folded his arms and glared at me. I shifted my stance and stepped a little closer, suddenly worried that he’d try and run. Not that he’d get far anyway. I figured that planting petunias was the limit of his physical exertion these days.

“Okay,” I said. “Did anything unusual happen while you were there?”

“Unusual,” he repeated.

“Right, unusual. Like, did you have an argument? A few angry words?” Jurgen paused before he answered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and when he finally replied his tone was deadly serious.

“No. Herr Schmidt was dead when I arrived.”

His answer took me completely by surprise. I should probably point out that I’d never interrogated a murder suspect before, only enemy soldiers. In that case, there’s no question of guilt or innocence. The aim of the interrogation is simply to extract information from the other man; attack plans, base locations, formations, that sort of thing. In this moment, I realised that I’d plunged deep into a foreign ocean, with no idea which direction land lay.

“Right,” I said. “You’re saying you showed up at his house and half the contents of his skull were already spread around his kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Then why come straight home? Why not report his murder?”

“To who?” he asked. “To the British military? So you can blame it on me, lock me away without trial?” He slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Found it,” Lane called out, turning the corner a moment later and striding to the centre of the room. He was carrying a flowery table cloth, bunched up like a sack. I could hear soft clinking coming from within and my eyes were drawn to the red speckles dotted across the surface of the cloth. When Lane deposited the thing on the floor, it flopped open revealing dozens of tins and boxes. Gherkins, corned beef, cereal, sardines, peas, pretty much everything you could think of. It was a big enough stash to feed a family for weeks. I turned back to Jurgen, who hadn’t budged an inch. He was still staring at me with fear in his eyes, biceps folded across his enormous chest.

“What’s this?” I asked him.

“Food,” was the begrudging reply.

“Food you stole from Schmidt?”

“He didn’t need it,” Jurgen answered, turning his head to let out a throaty cough. I offered him the thinnest of smiles.

“Tell me you didn’t murder him just for a few tins of beef.”

“A few tins?” Jurgen jabbed a finger at the pile, eyes suddenly blazing. “That might mean nothing to you, but to me it’s better than a sack of gold. Ever since the British took over, our supply routes have been cut off. We’ve been living off meal and corn for weeks!”

“But Schmidt had this big old stash,” I interrupted, taking a step towards him. “And I guess he wouldn’t share with you?”

“Like I said,” Jurgen said, his arm dropping back to his side. “He was dead when I arrived. I saw the food, I took it.”

“How did you get inside if he was already dead?” Lane asked, brow furrowed. I kicked myself for not asking the same already, but Jurgen didn’t miss a beat.

“The door was open,” he said, aiming his withering glare towards Lane. “He may have been out in the garden and forgot to shut it.”

“Well, another question, then,” Lane said, his voice wavering slightly. “Where’s your hammer?” This seemed to throw the German off-balance, a ripple of emotion dancing across his face. Lane glanced at me and added, “I checked his tool box out in the kitchen. No hammer inside.”

“It broke,” Jurgen said with a hefty dose of vitriol, but I could see the despairing look in his eyes and I knew that we had the bastard.

“You’ll have to come with us,” I told him, my fingers curling around the pistol’s grip. His shoulders slumped a little, his hefty frame rocking back and forth like a flower caught in a breeze. I was worried that he might keel over right in front of us, so I stepped towards him with the intention of taking him by the arm and turning him around, before gently escorting him out.

Somehow, I don’t know how, I must’ve let my guard down. I didn’t see his elbow come up until that solid chunk of bone was driving hard into my nose. All I remember was a blinding flash of pain that shot through my entire skull, literally blinding me as my vision blacked out for a split second. I felt myself stumble backwards, then my calf caught on something hard and I collapsed against the fireplace, the rough stone scraping my back up through my uniform. By the time my brain stopped vibrating and my sight faded in again, I was sprawled at the base of the fireplace, in a half-sitting, half-squatting position.

The pain was horrendous, but swiftly forgotten when I saw what was happening in front of me. The German was fighting against Lane, the two men locked together and desperately trying to get the upper hand. Lane’s hand came up and grabbed Jurgen’s throat, but the move left him off-balance. Jurgen responded by twisting his body and forcing Lane away with his meaty shoulder. I saw my partner stagger away, but not before Jurgen reached down and snatched his service revolver right out of its holster...

Devil's in a Different Dress hits the Amazon Kindle store late November...

The Bitch Is Back, and now she's rather miffed...

The Bitch Is Back Part Four just hit the Amazon Kindle store, for the measly sum of 77 pence/99 cents.

Part four continues my new crime serial in typically sweary and violent fashion, as Ella Brownstone heads to Turkey to sort out the family's supply issues. Back home, her sister Lisa discovers the truth about her new boyfriend, while an old enemy rises from the ashes with vengeance in mind...

Haven't read the first three parts of The Bitch Is Back yet? No worries, you can check out the start of this thrilling British crime serial in one great-value Kindle trilogy compilation - nice!

The Bitch Is Back: Trilogy Collection out on Kindle!

My new, gritty crime serial The Bitch Is Back has just hit its third volume, and to celebrate I've decided to release all three parts in a trilogy collection, available now on Kindle for just £1.69...

The series has already sold well over 5,000 copies and is going strong, and a huge thank you to everyone who's read and enjoyed The Bitch Is Back so far! The third volume was a tense and climactic entry that tied up many of the series' loose ends, but the story of Ella Brownstone and her recovery from a traumatic car crash is far from over. Expect part four in the early summer...

Grab The Bitch Is Back Collection One on Kindle now from my Amazon store, or you can check out part one of The Bitch Is Back for just 77p

The Bitch Is Back, and she's out on Kindle

After two years of writing the best-selling Twin Towers Estate thrillers, I've finally moved on to a brand new crime serial. The Bitch Is Back follows Ella Brownstone, a twenty-something girl who wakes up in bad shape in a hospital bed with no idea of how she got there. Her memories are scattered after the crash, but a visit from a shady detective confirms that her family has a dark past. As she discovers the truth behind the Brownstones' business, she's pulled into a world of horrific violence and betrayal...

Book One of The Bitch Is Back can be nabbed on Kindle, and Book Two will be following in a couple of months. You can also grab my other crime books over on my Amazon Kindle Store. Cheers guys!

Second (and final?) Twin Towers Estate thrillers trilogy out!

My sixth and final Twin Towers Estate book, Versus, has just hit Kindle, and as you might expect if you've read the previous books, it's a tense and bloody finale. To celebrate, you can now grab Hero, Villain and Versus - the full Gang Wars trilogy - on my Amazon store in one great-value Kindle trilogy, for just £1.99.

The story began in Hero, where beleagured ex-cop Nathan Pang was faced with a difficult choice: do you intervene when an innocent person is assaulted by a gang of thugs, or do you look away? Pretend nothing’s happening?

For Pang, the decision sends devastating shockwaves through his family’s lives. And when his son is targeted for revenge, he finds himself drawn back to the Twin Towers Estate, where two gangs are on the brink of all-out warfare.

Villain introduced eleven-year-old Poppy, an estate dweller who wears the trousers in her home, following her father's downward spiral into depression. But when the criminal gang who reign over Gladstone Tower threaten to destroy her family, Poppy's decision to fight back leads to violence and terrible tragedy.

Their stories come together in Versus, the thrilling and bloody climax, and now you can read the entire tale, with extra bonus chapters and content, in the complete Gang Wars Trilogy.

'Amnesia: A Machine For Pigs' PC game review

Amnesia: A Machine For Pigs is the horrific, blood-soaked sequel to last year's best psychological horror game, The Dark Descent - a game which its developer, Frictional Games, claims that most players never had the guts to finish. As traumatised survivors, we can personally vouch that we almost threw in the towel ourselves, despite being horror connoisseurs. Frankly, that game was a sledgehammer to your naughty bits that still resonates today.

Hence it was with great trepidation that we ventured into Amnesia: A Machine For Pigs’ gruesome world, a world which has haunted our nightmares for the past five days...

Check out my full 'Amnesia: A Machine For Pigs' Game Debate review

Twin Towers Estate Book Five: Villain

Twin Towers Estate Book Five, 'Villain', is out now on Amazon's Kindle store! Following on from book four, 'Hero', it tells the story of a young girl called Poppy who is forced to look after her manically depressed father after he turns to drugs to battle depression. But when she gets involved with the local gang, led by the unhinged and sadistic Banksy, it kicks off a host of violent encounters that leaves Poppy and her father fighting for their lives.

Villain is just 99p for Kindle eReaders, and don't forget to check out the rest of the thrilling Twin Towers Estate crime books!

Say hi to Hero, the newest Twin Towers Estate thriller...

My latest book, Hero (Twin Towers Estate Book Four) is out now!

With the Riot Trilogy (Crack, Kitty and Smack) wrapped up, I've begun a new trilogy set in the infamous Twin Towers Estate, known as the Gang Wars Trilogy. It's four years since Nathan Pang was pushed out of the police force, following the violent riots that rocked the city. He's freshly divorced and scraping some cash with a security guard stint, when a tense confrontation on the top deck of a bus throws his life into chaos once more. This time his family's in danger, and Pang finds himself pulled back into the very estate that almost killed him...

Hero is the fourth book in the Twin Towers Estate crime series, and will be followed by the rest of the trilogy in 2013. You can buy Hero now on Amazon's Kindle store for just 99p! And don't forget to grab the Riot Trilogy in the new great-value Kindle collection!

Theatre review: Luke Jermay, Sixth Sense

Mindreader Luke Jermay says he'll 'fuck you up' in his show Sixth Sense, currently at London's Leicester Square Theatre, even if you're a sceptic when you take your seats. Well, after spending an hour with him, we spiralled through a huge range of emotions, from hysterical laughter to jaw-dropping incredulity. Check out my full Luke Jermay: Sixth Sense theatre review over on The Void...

Twin Towers Estate 3: Smack - out today!

Finishing off the Twin Towers Estate 'Riot Trilogy' is book three in the series, 'Smack' - out today on Amazon! Whereas Kitty took us back in time, to a few months before the riots kicked off, Smack is set a few months after the violent conflicts. Old characters from Crack and Kitty return, their lives twisted in entirely different directions by the riots, and the estate is even more volatile and dangerous as the desperate inhabitants clash with the police...

After moving into the notorious Twin Towers Estate with his older brother Waif, eleven-year-old Adam soon starts hanging around with the wrong crowd. But when he’s knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, a chance at revenge turns into a life-or-death struggle with the very worst the estate has to offer.

I've been writing Smack since Christmas and have to admit to being a little excited about finishing off the story of the riots. I'm already writing the fourth Twin Towers Estate book, set several years after this trilogy - but it focuses on one of the main characters again, still a little fucked up from their adventures in the first set of books :) More news soon!

Pick up Smack on Amazon for just 99p! Also available on Amazon.com, .ca, and most European sites.

3 [Thrillers] #3: Demon

My fifth book, 3 [Thrillers], a collection of three crime/mystery thrillers, has just hit the Kindle Store - but a heads up for you guys, as a thank you for following my blog: I'm running a special promotion from Sunday 14th April where you can download the book for free for a very limited time. Check back for more info this weekend.

I've shared an excerpt of part one (The Borstal) and part two (Fulfilment) already, so here's chapter one of the final part, 'Demon'...

Part One: Kerisan

I

He was on point when the warning came, two sharp whistles from behind. Kerisan twisted, sending ripples across the surface of the ocean, and peered over his shoulder. The others had stopped dead, around fifty yards from the shore. Richos extended his hand, his index finger dipped to the water that lapped gently against his torso. The sun’s glare made a fiery blanket of the sea, and Kerisan had to squint to keep his eyes from being scorched. He nodded, then sucked in a breath and lowered himself fully into the warm water.

Immediately he saw it. Their footsteps had disturbed a seven-foot blood-red panther eel, which had shrugged out from beneath the sand and was suspended behind the fisher’s legs. The thing looked like an enormous bulging arm, with a bony, swollen head in place of a fist. Its scales, tough enough to effortlessly brush away their spears, shone in the flickering ocean light. Richos held still as trained, but the creature stroked the man’s toned muscles with its tail, as if daring him to move. Kerisan saw the fisher’s toes curl and spark up a miniature cloud of sand. The eel curled up and twitched its jaws and cruel poison-tipped teeth emerged, black and serrated.

How did I miss it?

“Panther eel,” Kerisan gasped as he broke the surface, spitting the salt from his lips. Pon and Fenn were stood either side of Richos, mere yards away. They braced themselves and turned towards the eel, but Kerisan waved them back. If the beast knew it was surrounded, desperation and survival instinct would kick in. He had to draw the creature away from the group.

He stood on one leg and kicked the other through the ocean, slapping his palms against the frothy surface. His disturbance had an instant effect. When he sunk back under, a crimson bulk filled his vision as the eel streaked towards him. Kerisan bent his elbows and dragged one foot back, his toes buried in the sand.

One chance.

The thing was a blur, slicing at incredible speed through the water, but it closed the gap in a predictable line. The beast’s mouth gaped, those deadly teeth framing a gaping black gullet. Kerisan tensed and spread his fingers, and when the eel was almost on him he slammed his palms together and felt the beast’s solid scales pressed beneath his fingers.

His entire body jerked and his legs thrashed through swirling froth as the eel drove him backwards. Muscular jaws snapped before him through the white sheet of foam. His arms whipped from side to side as the monster writhed, but his feet found the bed again and he dug his heels into the sand. Bubbles burst from between his lips, his chest taut and full of fire. His biceps ached, wrenched by the endless thrashing of the eel. The current threw him one way as the beast dragged him another, and that gaping maw edged closer. His knife was cold at his hip.

End it, quick!

With a silent roar, Kerisan squeezed his arms together until his muscles were ripe to burst. The thrashing intensified and he timed his move perfectly, whipping the bulging head to the side and wrapping his forearm across the creature’s throat and crushing it to his chest. He could feel its heartbeat against his flesh, fierce and frantic. The tail whipped past his leg, scales scouring his skin. When he was sure his arm had the beast, he slipped his other hand to the hilt of his knife and pulled it free, and the slate blade sliced through the froth and found the eel’s eye. He pushed against the frenzied thrashing as bright spots burst across his vision. The creature bucked once, twice, then finally fell limp in his grasp.

He burst from the sea and glorious air crashed into his lungs. Immediately the pain was gone. Someone prised the dead beast from his hands, while another patted him on the back. Voices surrounded him, but all he could hear was the ocean’s roar and his own blood as it pulsed through his ears.

Too close…far too close…

Back on land, the scrouts crouched in a circle around the dead eel and took it in turns to prod it with a stick. Each time they did, they would turn and run, screaming, as if the thing had sprung back to life and was ready to sink its jaws into them. Kerisan watched them while his strength returned. The sand was hot against his legs and back, coating his body like a second skin, but he was numb to the heat as he ran his fingers through the fine grains.

Someone was headed this way, a blur at the edge of his vision. He could already tell it was Eva before her shadow crossed his bare chest.

“Are you hurt?” Her hand gripped his shoulder and he smothered it with his own, his neck twisted so he could focus on her bronzed face.

“Panther eel caught us by surprise. It was my fault, I missed the damned thing as we headed out.” Her skin was smooth. He traced his thumb over her palm and she squeezed it tight.

“I heard you wrestled that thing. It has to be three feet bigger than you!”

“We were lucky no one got hurt. I just don’t know how it happened.” He sighed and stared out to the horizon, the distant clouds skimming over the sea as if they were dancing on its surface. “We need to make our way out again, I’ve cost us too much time already.”

“Sure you’re up for it?”

“Course. Just needed to breathe, that’s all.” He rolled onto his side and heaved himself up, then took her in his arms. Her deep green eyes sparkled beneath long black lashes.

“I can still come out with you tomorrow, right? This hasn’t changed anything?”

“I don’t know,” Kerisan said, his head suddenly heavy. A hazy image came to him. Eva waist-deep in the water, the bloodstained eel wrapped around her leg, its teeth bared and ready to delve into her firm belly.

“But you know I’m ready,” Eva said, her face drooping. Her fingers worked their way over his chest, then latched on to his shoulders. “I’ve trained for as long as Richos or any of the others.”

“I know, but what happened today…”

“Was a freak occurrence, and I wouldn’t feel safer with anyone else out there on point.” She smiled and slapped his cheek, just sharp enough to sting. He recoiled as if she’d punched him and staggered backwards.

“Ooh, ahh, my jaw! You knocked it out of joint!” He dropped to his knees and masked his grin with his hands. Eva strode over and pulled his head into her belly.

“Poor baby, let me nurse you better.” Instead, she dug an elbow into his shoulder and kneed him back onto the sand. Kerisan stared up at her, a glorious shape drowned out by the sun, and for a moment the eel slipped from his thoughts.

“If something happened to you, I’d have to kill myself,” he said. “I’d take my own knife and bury it in my heart, or throw myself into the sea and swim until my body gave out and I sank to the bottom.”

“Oh, don’t be so depressing. You know you wouldn’t do either. But you’d better be upset, or I’d make you regret it. I’d come back as a demon and make your life a nightmare.” She bent down and pressed her lips to his, washing the salt taste away. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her back, until she pulled away and dark shadows filled his vision. He was surrounded by the three fishers, their eyes cast down at him.

“Gonna lie around all afternoon?” Fenn asked, his shaggy hair tossed back over his shoulders. “Fights with one little fish and he’s done for the day.” Pon, the eldest fisher, ground her knuckle into Fenn’s side and pushed him back.

“Time to rise.” She offered Kerisan a hand and hauled him to his feet. “Do you want me to take point this time?”

“I’ll manage,” Kerisan said, his voice firm. Pon raised an eyebrow.

“Manage isn’t what we need. Can you do it?”

“I can do it.” He met their gaze, one by one, and wished he could read their thoughts. But then, how could he ever fish with them if he knew that they doubted him?

“Aye,” Richos said, “but try not to miss one of those bastards again. I almost filled my trunks when it popped out the sand.”

Fenn chuckled and slapped his arm and even Pon found a rare smile, but Kerisan saw an uncertain hesitation in Richos’ rich brown eyes, just for a moment. Then the boy’s gaze flickered over Kerisan’s shoulder. He turned to catch a form tearing across the beach towards them, and he pressed his palm to his brow to block out the sun. The figure was Wax, one of the gatherers. The young boy’s fists pumped awkwardly at his sides as he jerked his way over the sand.

“Quick, come,” Wax yelled when he was close enough, his voice hoarse as if he’d run the entire length of the land. The fishers gathered in a line.

“What is it?” Kerisan asked as the boy struggled to a halt, his silver hair whipping across the fisher’s navel. “Hohh, careful, what’s got you in a rush?”

“Sammus. Got to come help.” Wax doubled over and grabbed his knees, his chest trembling. “Sammus climbed up the cliff by the waterfall…see if he could make it. He made it to the top…but then he disappeared. We waited for him to come back, but then we heard him screaming! He was calling our names, he sounded scared, really scared! We came straight back for help, I swear!” Wax straightened, his hand pressed to his gut, his terrified face half hidden behind a mess of hair. Kerisan frowned and nodded to the others.

“Grab your knives and meet me at the trail.” They murmured acknowledgement and ran to their homes, a row of wooden huts that filled the space between the dunes and the trees.

“Do you need some help?” Eva asked, her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger which poked free of her shawl. Kerisan shook his head.

“Four of us is plenty. Boy probably came up against some pigs. I reckon we’ll find him hiding up a tree.”

Yet as he took the beach in powerful strides, something in his gut told him he was wrong...

3 [Thrillers] #2: Fulfilment

3 [Thrillers] is my fifth book, consisting of three thrilling novellas about humans pushed to their limits, willing to do the unthinkable to get what they want. On Sunday I shared an excerpt of part one, 'The Borstal'. Now here's an excerpt from part two, 'Fulfilment', about a stranger who happens across a man who's suspiciously similar to himself...

The needle hung over him, aimed at a spot right between his eyes. Adam stared at it, not daring to blink, as if shifting his gaze would cause it to plunge down and bury itself inside his skull. A drop of sweat ran down his temple and itched the skin.

“Hello?” he said, his voice distorted by the foam plugs lodged in his ears. He tensed his jaw and balled his hands into blotchy fists. Someone walked past, a bright white apron flicking across his peripheral vision, but his eyes remained on the needle. “Actually, I’m having second thoughts. This is a really, really bad idea.”

Another voice murmured at his side. The flash of white reappeared and this time he glanced over, staring into the black goggles that hid most of Apron Man’s face. He imagined the stiff, discomforting gaze that lingered beneath. The kind of look that could silence a screaming child, or empty the bowels of a hardened sports hooligan. Adam opened his mouth to speak again, but too late. The prick in his bicep was just a scratch as promised. When his words finally came, they were slurred and stupid.

“Leave me...ughhhhlone....”

The goggles melted across Apron Man’s pale, muscular cheeks and then darkness fell.

One

London, 21/12/2024

Four days before Christmas. Duncan’s morning had been the usual mash-up of monotony and grief until precisely 10.34am. Rise with the alarm, feed the cat, eat cereal, shower, brush teeth, kiss the wife goodbye as she slumbers, walk to the tube station, crushed into a boiling hot carriage with hundreds of other silent commuters, stroll into the RBS offices, greet receptionist with twenty seconds of banal conversation, sit at desk, read emails, yawn, check BBC News, hunt for missing biro, give up, accuse colleague of stealing pen, put on coat in a rage and head to local cafe for a strong coffee and a serious think about life.

At 10.33am he stepped into the greasy spoon, a tiny square room with a glass counter and just three double-seater tables crammed in tight. A colour TV draped in tinsel hung in the corner, showing an excitable weatherman bleating on about the latest cold front. The grill behind the counter was covered with bacon, eggs and sausages, which sizzled as the owner stabbed at them with a semi-melted spatula. Heavy oil vapours filled the room and Duncan felt a layer of grease solidify across his face the moment he walked in, his arrival announced by a tinny and pointless bell that dangled above the door.

He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, then shuffled up to the counter and nodded at the owner, a slender man with a white beard and an apron.

“What can I getcha?” the owner asked.

“Just a latte, please. Extra large shot.” He turned and leaned against the glass surface, ignoring the cold meats and pastries that sat inside. The rest of the cafe was empty, the tables unused. He gazed at the TV and saw it was halfway through a familiar advert, one that had been playing for months now. A woman was sat alone on her sofa, shovelling massive spoonfuls of ice cream into her face as she sobbed hysterically. Then it cut to her entering some shiny lobby made of glass and marble. Another cut, her talking to an impossibly neat-looking scientist with blonde hair, blue eyes and a chiselled jaw, and a lab coat with pens arranged in size order in his breast pocket. The camera skipped to a curved doorway which pumped out a dense yellow fog, as if the room behind was some kind of out-of-control disco. The same woman from earlier emerged from the smoke, but now she was strangely more attractive. Her face had changed in subtle ways, her cheeks more defined and her nose slightly narrower, but so had the rest of her body. Her hips were wider and her legs seemed to have stretched out. The final shot was back in the lobby as she strode out into the sunset with an enormous cheesy grin, followed by a superimposed slogan: ‘Fulfilment – Eternal Happiness at an Affordable Price’.

Duncan watched half of the next advert, which featured a dancing koala bear drinking some kind of pink smoothie, until the cafe’s pointless bell tinkled again and the door swung wide open.

The clock behind the counter ticked onto 10.34am.

He turned and stared at the suited man who pushed his way inside. It started as just a cursory glance, a reaction to the sound of the bell, but his eyes locked on the other man and he exhaled sharply. In turn, the other man froze partway to the counter.

“Jesus,” Duncan said, an inadvertent chuckle gurgling out from his throat. The person stood just three feet away was identical to him in almost every way. Same shade of skin colour, same thick wiry hair, same cleft chin. Aside from the suit (this man’s garments were navy blue rather than off-grey), he could have been staring at himself in a mirror. The other man took a step towards him and squinted.

“Hi there.”

“Hi there,” Duncan replied. “This is...kind of weird.”

“Yeah. Weird.” They stood a foot apart and studied each other, eyebrows raised. Duncan struggled for something to say. Eventually, he settled for the obvious.

“You look just like me.”

“Yeah. Right. Sorry, I’m just kind of stunned here.” The other man shook his head and offered his hand. “I’m David.”

The pair of them paid for coffee and, without either suggesting it, sat together at one of the tables. Duncan wrapped his hands around the ceramic mug and felt the warmth flow into his palms.

“So,” he said, “out of curiosity, is your surname Henderson?” David shook his head again.

“Richardson.” He smirked and blew away the steam rising from his coffee. “So I guess we’re not long lost twins, then.”

“Unless one of us was adopted, I guess?”

“Adopted?”

“Yeah, think about it.” Duncan leaned forwards and rested his chin on his fist. “Maybe our parents had us, but didn’t want twins. They just wanted one kid. So they gave one up for adoption to another couple, maybe a couple who couldn’t have kids of their own or something, to raise as their own. How old are you?”

“34.”

“Shit, same here. You got any siblings?”

“Nope,” David said, frowning. “Only child.”

“Same,” Duncan said, his heart pounding. “Are your parents around?”

“They died a few years back. How about yours?”

“Shit. Mine passed too, accident five years ago.” He exhaled, then stretched back in his chair and rubbed his neck. “Guess that means we’ll never find out.”

“Well, where did you grow up?” David asked.

“America, small town in Massachusetts. I moved here a couple of years back.”

“You don’t sound American.”

“Nah,” Duncan said. He took a sip of his coffee, the hot liquid burning his lips. “I lost my accent pretty quick, I guess. How about you?”

“My parents were British but emigrated to Southern Spain before I was born. I moved back here after they died, wanted to try a different life.”

“Ha, incredible.” Duncan grinned. “So, we were born the same year to British parents but grew up in another country, the only children in the family. Our parents died and we moved to the homeland to start a new life.” He drummed his fingers against his cup and sucked on his inner cheek. “What do you do for a living?”

“Uhh, I’m a business analyst. I make predictions about stocks and write reports, stuff like that.”

“Close enough,” Duncan said. “I work for a bank doing risk assessment.” He nodded at David’s hand, spread out on the table. “And looks like you got married.”

“Yep, last summer. You?” Duncan raised his arm and wiggled his ring finger.

“Exactly the same. You starting to get a cold chill down your spine?”

“I’m about to shit my pants in terror.” David rested his elbows on the table and squeezed his head in his hands, until his face turned bright red. “This is, like, Outer Limits, Twilight Zone, X-Files, all rolled up and covered in a massive pile of crack.”

“It’s got to be real, right? We’ve got to be twins. You hear about this all the time, twins separated at birth who go on to lead pretty much identical lives, completely independent of each other. I bet even our wives are similar, same hair colour and everything.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it with a couple of taps and sat it on the table, pushing it through a sticky coffee stain towards David. “This is mine. Karen. She’s a natural brunette but she has highlights done, so her hair’s a little lighter than normal.” The other man stared down at the phone and his lips parted, but he stayed silent. A moment later he looked up at Duncan, his face frozen. Duncan blinked. “What? Does she look like yours?”

David’s hand trembled slightly as he pulled out his own phone and swiped the screen with a fingertip. He found what he was looking for, then he repeated Duncan’s motion, resting the mobile on the table and pushing it over. Duncan peered down at the photo. It was a summery shot taken in some park. A woman reclined on a blanket beside a giant hamper. She was wearing a low-cut top and shorts, and her narrow face was split by an enormous smile. Duncan’s stomach churned and his hand curled into a fist on the table top.

“That’s Karen,” he whispered, meeting David’s gaze. “That’s my bloody wife.”

An excerpt from part three is coming in a couple of days.

3 [Thrillers] will be available on the Kindle Store this weekend...