Book one, Write to Kill, follows the misadventures of a debt ridden, budding author, who gets involved with London underground boss, Mad Dog Maddox. The author commits a heinous crime for money and then starts to write a book based on his experience.
MORON
EYEING the blurry headlights in the rear-view mirror, I caught my eye and glanced at the person staring back.
I didn’t recognise myself.
Or what I imagined I was about to become.
As I drove on the M40, a shade after eleven on a miserable, wet Saturday evening in November, a number of cars, one straight up my backside, creating spray from the saturated tarmac, were flashing me to get out of their way, even though my right foot was pressed hard, flat out on the metal, hitting seventy. Which is an accomplishment for my ageing car, believe me.
The downpour that had been rhythmically drumming on my windscreen most of the journey, temporarily making driving treacherous, due to only one functioning windscreen wiper, had finally stopped lashing it down. Some moron, probably pissed after a night out a few days ago had completely ripped off the passenger side wiper when my car was parked close to the building where I live but luckily, if you can call it that, had left the driver’s in place, otherwise I'd have been well and truly fucked and unable to go to my ‘so called’ business meeting tonight.
You may be thinking why on earth am I going to a meeting on a Saturday night, especially having left a warm bed with an exceptionally beautiful girl under the duvet, but this was not like any other meeting, I can assure you of that. There was no office, no board room, or even colleagues. It was going to be just the two of us, in a dilapidated warehouse, in a deserted place, in the middle of nowhere, on a day and at a time that suited him.
BLACK T-SHIRT
TAKING a long final pull of a cigarette until there was no more to smoke, I flicked the butt through the small gap I’d left open at the top of the window, out into the chill wet darkness. But as quick as the remaining ash hit the outside world, it flew back in and over my black T-shirt. Dusting the ash into my top rather than off it, I shifted from third to fourth gear.
The thought of what I'd agreed to do accelerated in my mind as I veered from the inside lane, over the other two and exited at junction two. Taking a narrow lane, a mile down the road, I lit another cigarette, the last of the pack, and threw the empty packet onto the passenger side floor, to join the many others that had made their home there.
This was my fifth in the hour since I’d left my flat, with an attractive brunette asleep in my bed. I really must give up these damn things. No, not the brunette, I'm not that stupid. Or am I? The fags. I’ve been saying that for months though, maybe a year, I just can’t kill the habit, even though I know that one day, they could eventually kill me.
I was nervous. Very nervous. Why? Because in a few minutes, in the building that I was approaching, in this isolated area in Buckinghamshire, I would be meeting him.
DARKER SIDE
TURNING off the country lane in total darkness, with just my headlights as a guide, I took a right, then a left, which led into an uneven forecourt, full of potholes and puddles, and pulled up outside the deserted derelict building. How I managed to find this place from the directions I’d been given was a miracle, especially with only a half moon for light, and the fact that I don’t have a sat nav as my car is it’s an antique. It even has a cassette player, that’s how ancient it is. But it does have electric windows and, my pride and joy, pop-up lights. Also, being stuck out in the countryside, I had no signal on my phone to get Google maps or any other map app. It was dark, with not a light in sight and as I checked the time on my mobile it beeped as I did so, indicating that I had only eight percent of juice left.
Why didn’t I charge it before I left home?
Arriving ten minutes early, which is a feat for me, as people have said that I'll be late for my own funeral, hopefully this won’t be it, I lit another cigarette, with the remains of the cigarette I was smoking. Keeping my headlights on full beam, I followed the stream of light that captured the deepening evening mist and hesitantly made my way inside the shell of the warehouse.
As I stepped in, with the luminosity of the moon my only light, I disturbed a kit of pigeons that were pecking at the soggy floor. They cocked their heads in my direction, their beady eyes staring at me, then flew off in different directions to the highest point of the roof, leaving their white and brown excrement all over the grey coloured concrete.
I trod carefully so as not to step into the mass of bird crap as I observed the vast vacant, fragmented construction, made of corrugated metal, with gaps in the roof giving the pigeons the freedom to fly in and out at their leisure. I checked my phone, now with just seven percent juice left and only five minutes to our meeting. Five minutes until he arrives. That’s if he’s punctual. Again, I began to wonder what the hell was I doing? Why was I doing this? Why am I here? I whispered those questions, out loud, to no one, but me, as I waited patiently but nervously in this tin hub of a desperate building.
These were the same questions that had been going over and over in my head since I’d left my flat, after making passionate love to that girl, Lisa, the petite, grass green-eyed brunette beneath the duvet, over an hour earlier.
That’s why I didn’t charge my phone.
The same girl who I'd been seeing for the past few months, which is the longest relationship I’ve been in for three years. All the others within that time, and there have been quite a few, only lasted the night. Lisa and I met at a friend of a friend's party in Clerkenwell. She's a nurse, seven years younger than me, lives in North West London, not far from me, a couple of miles or so, where she shares a flat with four friends, all colleagues at The Royal Free in Hampstead. She stays over at mine at the weekends and sometimes during the week. I assume so she can get away from talking shop twenty-four seven. We hit it off straight away, it was like fate really, unlike what I'm about to do, but she knows nothing of what I am getting myself into. She knows nothing of this darker side of me. Come to think of it, I knew nothing of this darker side of me. All she knows, is that I’m a struggling first-time author, and I mean struggling, not with writer’s block, well maybe, but financially.
My bank account was way, way over its overdraft, in fact, it was on the brink of being frozen. The rent on my flat was four months late, and trust me, it isn’t cheap. I hadn’t paid a single utility bill for months or my council tax, and to top it all off, along with the bailiffs on my case, I had menacing loan sharks circling and banging on my door every other day, wanting to break my legs, unless I paid them what I owed, with huge interest. You see, my mountain of debt began when I lost my job as office manager for an estate agency six months ago, a month after I moved into this flat. They closed the branch without any warning at all and since then I’ve struggled to find another job. Believe me, I’ve tried. So, while I’ve been looking, I’ve been trying to fulfil a lifelong dream, which is to write a book and become a bestselling author. I’ve written a few short stories before but I’ve always wanted to write a novel.
But I was a long way off becoming a bestselling author and signing copies at Waterstones. Turns out that writing a bestselling novel is much harder than you might think. I'd written nothing, maybe a thousand words of nothing, that’s all, then not another word, not even a letter. I have what author’s call writer’s block, like I said. I was way behind where I wanted to be with my first draft. My editor, well, I say my editor. My mate who has lived in London for a number of years, had some time ago emailed his mum, who lives in New York, a short story of mine. His mum, a semi-retired editor, who used to edit many books for a number of top USA Today bestselling authors, was so impressed with my writing and one of my short stories, that she encouraged me to write that first novel. I couldn’t turn down this opportunity and thankfully last month, she agreed to be my editor, on the understanding that firstly, the book will be written within three months, as she has another project scheduled for the beginning of next year, no pressure there then, and secondly, I will pay her a fee once the book is published, and the royalties start to roll in.
Whenever that will be. If it ever happens.
She is very sweet, reminds me of my mum. God bless her.
So, every couple of days my editor sends me an email asking when the first couple of chapters will be available for editing. Every reply I return says the same thing. In a few days. But will I ever get this book finished or even properly started? Of course, it’s my dream like I’ve said, but with my plummeting financial situation, not only did I need money to pay thousands to get people off my back, I needed money just to live day to day, and having none and pretending I had to Lisa, completely threw me from my writing.
My money worries played on my mind but I still don't know why I’d agreed to do what I’m about to do. Well I do. The dough. But I couldn’t back out now, even if I wanted to, and believe me, I did. I’d given my word and he’s not the kind of man you back down to. No way. Once you’ve given your word, you keep to your word. Or you’ll face the consequences. And I didn't want to face mine.
You see, with him, once you’ve shaken hands, you’ve shaken hands.
Otherwise you won't have a hand to shake.
Get my drift.
Buy Your Copy Of
Book two, Write to Survive, finds the aspiring author, and his girlfriend Lisa, struggling to cope with the fallout from his actions. As Mad Dog Maddox lives up to his name, the couple must work as a team to survive his death threats.
Chapter titles in
Write To Survive
Sherlock Holmes
Succession
#KensingtonMurder
Molly’s Game
Staying Alive
Headshot
Bailiffs
Harry Kane
A & E
Blue Door
Tea
Ashtray
Sweetheart
Monster
Bobby Charlton
X-Ray
Courthouse Hotel
James Bond
Pretty Woman
Sergeant
Miss Moneypenny
Dempsey and Makepeace
NHS
Bloomsbury
Talk Sport
Reunited
Pot of Gold
Google
Dressed to Kill
DNA
Dom Perignon
Confessions
Ocean Eyes
Sweet Dreams
Bottom Dollar
Wheelchair
Twins
Escape
Sex Scene
Fish and Chips
Alibi
Muppet
Motley Crew
Read the first chapter of
Write To Survive
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE train was motionless.
Unlike my state of mind.
Lisa and I were on the Jubilee line, underground, between St John’s Wood and Baker Street, the former home of the fictional Sherlock Holmes. I sincerely hoped a similarly astute detective wasn’t on my case. We’d been stalled and waiting, in a carriage dotted with disparate commuters, for a couple of minutes. It was eleven-fifteen. Forty-five minutes until the arranged meeting at noon with Jennifer, at her favourite spot, the Tower of London.
Earlier, before we’d even stepped out of the flat, I’d already received three messages from Mad Dog Maddox, threatening to call the police and to kill Lisa if I didn’t own up to his stepdaughter that I’d murdered his son-in-law. Her husband.
Being underground, with no signal, gave me some respite from him.
Lisa, sat to my left, in tight faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket, had been up all night, chain smoking whilst pacing the flat. Understandably she was ever so slightly on edge since I’d informed her that her life was on the line.
As the train started to move, an attractive young woman, blonde, mid-twenties, wearing a smart navy blue trouser suit, stood up and made her way over to the doors, leaving a Metro newspaper on her seat, which was directly opposite mine. I thought about picking up the paper to see if the story of my crime was still newsworthy. I decided against it. The morning news on the radio before we’d left the flat hadn’t mentioned the murder either, it seemed it was old news now, with no fresh developments such as an imminent arrest, much to my relief.
Had the investigation died down?
With no one immediately around us in the carriage now, I ventured conversation.
“You okay baby?” I asked Lisa.
“Am I okay? Really! Am I okay? What do you think?” The sarcasm was cutting. She leaned in to me to speak under her breath, right into my ear.
“Well, I’m just peachy! I mean, I used a murder weapon for making my lunch the other day, I slept with a dead man’s finger in the bedside table next to me, my boyfriend is a murderer, and now I’m on my way to meet the wife of the guy he murdered. And to top it all off, her stepfather wants to kill me. I’ve never been fucking better!”
“Babe, please keep your voice down, you don’t know who’s on the train.”
“Oh sorry, too loud for you?”
“You could say that.”
“They’ll be knocking on the door for you any day anyway. It’s going to be either the police taking you away in handcuffs, Mad Dog with a gun to my head or the loan sharks who want to put you in a wheelchair.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me, I know that, but you don’t have to shout about it. Oh, and thanks by the way.”
“Thanks for what?”
“For telling them yesterday that I’d moved away.”
“I don’t think they believed me. I did have other things on my mind.”
“Well, it did the job.”
“Why don’t you just pay them and get them off your back, you’ve got the money now after what you did.”
“I know what I did and I may need the money.”
“For what, running away?”
“Come on baby, I thought you were with me?”
“I am, but I did a lot of thinking last night.”
“And?”
“I can’t believe you’re so blasé about what you’ve done, about this, and, and writing a book about it, I mean come on.”
“Believe you me, I’m not blasé. I’m scared. Scared shitless. Terrified in fact. It’s not the bailiffs, the loan sharks or even Mad Dog Maddox, it’s being caught by the police. I can’t go to jail; I’m not cut out for it. And with the book, it’s a bit of an escape for me.”
“Escape? How can that be, you’re reliving every moment by writing about what you did.”
“What I mean is… fuck, I don’t know what I mean. It just helps me forget; I mean forget what I did for a moment okay, it’s about being an author, you know very well that is my dream.”
“Yes, I get that, but your dream of becoming an author has become a true living nightmare,” Lisa spelt out.
“I know that, but, you’ve got to admit, it makes an awesome read.”
“There you go again, being fucking blasé.”
“I’m not, I’m just….”
“I just don’t get it, why did you do it?”
“I’ve told you, the money, but if I could turn back time, I would. I just got caught up with a bad crowd and then it escalated to such an extent, it was too late to take a step back.”
“You could’ve told him that you didn’t want to do it,” Lisa continued.
“Like I’ve said, there was no chance. He’s not the type to accept that, anyway he would’ve cut my hands off.”
“But look, look at you now. Look at me. Look at us, for God’s sake.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
We sat in silence while I pondered the potential response to my next thought.
“There’s something else.”
“Jesus, what now?”
“CCTV.”
“What do you mean CCTV?”
“Well, I was thinking in bed last night, as I couldn’t sleep.”
“Yeah, no sleep, tell me about it.”
“I know, I know, but it’s the CCTV. Cameras. I’m not sure, I’m just not sure if there were any on the road or surrounding areas that could have captured the moment.”
“The moment?”
“Yes, you know, the moment that I killed him.”
“Oh, my God, didn’t you look?” Lisa gasped.
“Keep your voice down. No, of course not. I’ve not done this before. I just….”
“I know what we’ve got to do, we, I mean you, you have to go back and check.”
“What, back to the murder scene?”
“Yes.”
“No way, no fucking way.”
“You have to,” Lisa raised her voice.
“Keep your voice down, people will hear.”
“Then what?”
“Let me think.”
“Huh! If only you had done a bit of thinking in the first place, before you got yourself into this bloody mess, and dragged me right in it.”
The train came to a halt again and when I looked up I saw we were at Westminster station where we had to change for the Circle line. I grabbed Lisa’s hand.
“We need to change here.”
Lisa snatched her hand away from mine as we alighted the train and walked in stony silence through the station towards the platform for the eastbound Circle line train.
Eight stops to Tower Hill.
As we stood on the crowded platform the sound of the approaching train would have drowned out any conversation had we actually been talking to one another at that point. Just then I felt the rush of air ahead of the train as it arrived.
“Come on, let’s get on,” I suggested, as I placed my hand behind Lisa, letting her get on first. I may be a murderer, but I was still a gentleman.
The train was unusually busy for this time of day, with every seat occupied. Standing behind a guy, who’s rucksack was slamming into me with every jolt of the train, I stared into the darkness of the tunnel. Even though it was November, I began to perspire, especially cooped up like sardines in a tin. I felt a drop of sweat fall from the back of my neck against the inside of my jacket collar.
And just then, I wondered if or when my collar would be felt by the Old Bill.
Once again our train was stalled, this time between Mansion House and Cannon Street. Fucking trains. I looked at Lisa. She looked at me. Her eyes were melancholic with shadows of exhaustion beneath. The guilt ran through me as the train began to move once again through the tunnel. The guy with the rucksack alighted at Monument.
Next stop, Tower Hill.
Actors As Suggested By Readers
Book three, Write to Live, set in New York, the final instalment, is currently being written.
![Break [DVD]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/717gBsunKqL._AC_SY445_.jpg)
