Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
The beach, and a body
…
I had expected to find the rocks we were slowly and carefully chambering over to be smooth, worn down by the constant washing over by the waves.
They were, to a certain extent, but there were places where the jagged edges were as sharp as a knife, and I had more than one cut on my hand.
Even with the stiff breeze coming in off the water, it was still hot, laborious work and it took over an hour to reach the first part of Sandy Beach, a thin strip below the rock line, and soaring behind it, a rocky cliff face that would required rock climb training to scale, and then notwithstanding a lot of safety gear.
It didn’t surprise me that Nadia was an expert rock climber. She was built like a finely tuned cat, as lithe and graceful moving across the hazards.
At times she held my hand, keeping me from falling off, or worse, into danger, and certain injury. At times, I didn’t want to let go.
Then on the windswept beach, she looked every bit the conqueror, hair blowing in the breeze, completely ignoring the conditions. She belonged here, I didn’t.
The beach stretched for 200 yards or so and was, at times, up to 50 feet wide. Nothing had walked on this beach since the last tide, but more than likely, not for a long time because it was inaccessible from the shoreline unless you were a rock climber
But it was private land, and a fading sign, with Ormistons fading name at the bottom, told anyone who came ashore that trespassers would be prosecuted.
And, I thought. If they survived the reefs, at this tide semi-exposed and covered the whole of the distance. No boat could get through.
That also meant it was highly unlikely that the pirate had landed here, but we did a sweep with the metal detectors. I had my hopes built up where my detector started making a lot of noise, but it was only a cupboard door with a metal hinge that had set it off, a bit of flotsam washed ashore.
We were both disappointed, then lamenting our luck or lack of it, we started heading towards the neck stretch of sand, barely discernable in the distance, but not before another hazardous trek across the rocks.
It took half an hour carefully picking our across the rocks before it was good to be on the sand again. I helped her down from the rock perch and took a moment to rest.
“Did you see something further up the beach, just before you jumped?”
I had, but I thought it was the carcass of a beached fish. Perhaps a dolphin that had been savaged by sharks. Or just a lump of kelp, of which some was scattered along the Highgate line.
“It might be just kelp. Or more flotsam. I’m sure we’ll soon find out.”
We also had to keep an eye on the tide, having started out just ashore or so before low tide, giving ourselves sufficient time to search and get back.
This part of the shoreline was longer, and closer to the edge of the property line, accessible only by climbing the rocks that jutted out into the sea, not exactly the easiest of tasks. In fact, it served as a deterrent, and as far as Nadia was aware, no one had ever scaled that cliff face.
The object on the ground was no closer to being identified from a distance, but now, closer, it looked to me like it might be a body, my first thought, another of the Cossatino’s hit jobs, the shore being so remote it would never be discovered.
“That’s a body,” I heard the panic in her tone, right behind me.
We both dropped the detectors and ran, discovering as we came up to it, that we were both right.
It was covered from head to toe in black, including a balaclava covering the face. It was impossible to tell what sex it was, lying front down with the head tilted to one side as if the ocean had washed it ashore.
The fact there were no tears in the clothing told me, I’d there were reefs out there, the body had not been washed ashore. Just how did it get there.
These were all momentary thoughts because there was a more urgent thing to be done
“Help me roll it over,” I said.
She took the bottom half and I the top and gently lifted it just enough to turn it over onto the back, then I slowly pulled the balaclava off.
As soon as I saw the face, bruised and swollen, I knew who it was.
Nadia shrieked, then said, “What the hell is he doing here?”
The missing Boggs.
I could tell by the look on her face she was assuming her family had something to do with him being here.
But, all that aside, I tried not to panic, or let my surprise or shock take over, letting the medical training I’d received during a stint with the local fire station take over, first checking to see if he had a pulse.
It was faint, but there. That meant we needed medical help. And fast. I pulled my phone out and checked for a signal. Then, with maps, got our location. There was something familiar about the numbers, but their significance eluded me. There were bigger problems to worry about.
Then I dialed 911, and when they answered, described the situation, gave them the location, and with a few other instructions to me from the dispatcher, I went back to Boggs.
By this time Nadia was beside him, wiping his face gently with tissues she must have had in her pocket. I tried not to give her the impression I blamed her family for his situation, simply because that might not be the case.
The last time I saw him he had a rope and his mother had said he was an experienced climber. And with his proximity to the cliff face, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.
I checked his pulse again and listened closely to his breathing, shallow with a slight rattle. I unzipped his jacket and lifted his shirt, and could see the discoloration from bruising. It was possible he slipped, or lost his footing, and crashed against an outcrop, knocking himself out, or falling to the ground with the same effect. A closer inspection showed the bare minimum of climbing equipment set up, and now, looking closer at the cliff face, I could see the rope dangling, but stopping short by about 20 feet.
Nadia didn’t speak, but I could see she was scared.
I touched her on the shoulder and she jumped.
“It’s not your fault,” I said.
“But it could be…”
“I don’t think so. He looks like he tried coming down the side of the cliff and slipped or fell. I think he may have collapsed here, but the tide has removed any foot or drag marks so it’s hard to tell what happened.”
“Why not go the way we did?”
“He might not know about it or considered it too far. Or the climbing fanatic in him took over. I have to say, I never knew he was a climber, in fact, there’s probably a lot I don’t know. Maybe if I’d spent more time with him this mightn’t have happened.”
While waiting I called Boggs mother and relayed what had happened, where he’d been taken and the prognosis, which was good. He was in no danger of dying, though had he not been found, that would have been a different story. Then I called the sheriff’s office to let them know, but he had already had the news passed on, and I said I would drip in and answer any questions they might have. I guess Boggs might have to explain why he was trespassing.
Not long after that, I turned to look back towards the way we’d just come in response to the sound of a helicopter. If it was, that was a remarkably quick response time. When it came closer I could see it was one of the Coast Guards’ distinctive red Sikorski’s, which was surprising.
The helicopter veered inland and the sound of the approach was somewhat muffled. I had thought they might come on on a sea approach, but then it occurred to me it might be an opportunity to fly over the Cossatino kingdom, having a legitimate excuse to do so. Then it crossed the cliff line with a roar, and hovered while the pilot assessed a landing spot.
I could see several people at the side door making preparations as the pilot brought it down, gently landing on the sand. As soon as it touched down two men jumped out, one, I assumed, a medic.
“You were quick.”
It had been less than a half-hour since I called.
“We just wrapped up at another accident. What do we have here?”
I went through all the things I’d done and ended by showing him the chest bruising.
His was a more thorough check and confirmed what I’d discovered, no broken bones, possible cracked ribs, or sprains to both ankles, indicating he had fallen a short distance.
A stretcher was brought over, and they carefully put Boggs on it, then took him to the helicopter, the whole operation taking no more than ten minutes. I declined the offer of going back with him, there being space only for one other passenger. He gave me the name of the hospital they would be taking him to, and I watched the helicopter leave.
The whole time Nadia had kept her distance, and, I’d noticed, glanced up the cliff. Did she think the arrival of a helicopter on their beach would summon a posse of Cossatinos? That thought had also occurred to me, especially where there were signs, now somewhat faded, that said trespassers would be shot on sight.
This word, where I live, has taken on a new meaning. We have telephone scammers who ask your name when you answer the phone, and when you say yes, they hang up.
It doesn’t take much imagination to consider how they can use that recording.
So, I now answer the phone with ‘maybe’, which confuses the real callers who want to know if it is you.
Of course, ‘maybe’ is one of those words that can have so many meanings, but the best one is to use it while you have time to think of a proper answer.
For example, did you get the potatoes? You haven’t been out, it slipped your mind, or you just plain forgot, but run with a ‘maybe’ so you can judge the reaction.
Angry face, you know, no matter what, you’re in trouble.
Genial face, you know that it didn’t really matter, and all is forgiven.
Then there’s the person who doesn’t know you and comes up to you in a crowded room. Are you [put name here]?
Maybe. We want to know if we’re in trouble, or if it’s for something good, or if it is the husband or wife of the person you’ve just spent the last twenty minutes in animated conversation with.
Using ‘maybe’ in writing probably isn’t the best word for us, but I like defying the experts. You can always find a ‘maybe’ or two in any of my books.
The Sacred Space: Do You Really Need a Writing Room? And What Are the Bare Bones Requirements?
The romantic image of a writer often conjures up a cozy study, perhaps with a crackling fireplace, shelves overflowing with books, and a perfectly placed vintage desk. But for many of us, the reality is a bit more… chaotic. Squeezed into a corner of the living room, hunched over the kitchen table, or even balancing a laptop on the bed.
So, the burning question arises: Do I really need a writing room?
The short answer? It depends. For some, a dedicated space is the holy grail, the key to unlocking consistent creativity and productivity. For others, the freedom of writing anywhere can be liberating. However, if you’re finding your words are constantly interrupted, your focus is fractured, and your writing sessions feel more like a battle than a flow, the answer might lean towards a resounding “Yes, you probably do!”
Think of it like this: you wouldn’t expect a surgeon to perform a delicate operation in a busy marketplace, would you? While you might be able to grab a few scribbled notes amidst the hustle, sustained deep work often requires a controlled environment.
But before you start picturing an elaborate home renovation, let’s break down the basic requirements of a functional writing space. You don’t need a palace; you need a sanctuary.
The Bare Bones: What Your Writing Space Absolutely Needs
Forget the antique globe and the plush Persian rug for now. Let’s focus on the essentials that will actually help you get words on the page:
A Designated Spot (However Small): This is the cornerstone. It doesn’t have to be a separate room. It could be a corner of your bedroom, a specific chair at the dining table that’s only for writing, or even a visually distinct area in your living room. The key is that when you occupy this space, your brain knows: “It’s writing time.”
A Comfortable and Ergonomic Work Surface: This is where you’ll spend your time. Whether it’s a sturdy desk, a well-positioned table, or even a comfortable lap desk, it needs to allow you to sit or stand in a way that doesn’t cause strain. Think about the height of your chair and table, and the position of your screen. Your body will thank you in the long run.
Adequate Lighting: Straining your eyes in dim light is a recipe for headaches and fatigue. Natural light is ideal, but if that’s not possible, invest in a good desk lamp that provides sufficient, focused light without glare. You should be able to see your work clearly without any discomfort.
Minimal Distractions (Within Reason): This is where the “room” aspect often comes into play, but it’s about managing distractions more than eliminating them entirely.
Visual Clutter: While your dedicated spot might be small, try to keep the immediate area around it as clear as possible. A cluttered space can lead to a cluttered mind.
Auditory Clutter: If you live with others or in a noisy environment, consider noise-canceling headphones or a white noise machine. The goal isn’t absolute silence, but rather to control the auditory landscape so it doesn’t hijack your focus.
Digital Clutter: This is a big one. Turn off unnecessary notifications on your phone and computer. Close irrelevant tabs. Create a digital environment that supports your writing, not hinders it.
Your Essential Tools: What do you need to write?
For Digital Writers: Your laptop or computer, a reliable power source, and perhaps an external keyboard or mouse if that improves your comfort.
For Analog Writers: Pens, paper, notebooks, a dictionary, a thesaurus – whatever your preferred analog tools are.
Beyond the Bare Bones: Making it Your Writing Room
Once you have the essentials covered, you can start to personalize your space. This is where the magic happens and it truly becomes your sanctuary.
Inspiration: Add a few things that spark your creativity – a favorite quote, a piece of art, a plant.
Comfort: A comfortable chair is a huge plus.
Organization: Shelves or drawers to keep your research, notebooks, and other writing-related materials tidy.
Sensory Elements: Perhaps a calming scent or a favorite mug for your tea or coffee.
Ultimately, the most important requirement for a writing room is that it facilitates your ability to write. It’s a space where you can enter a flow state, where distractions melt away, and where your imagination can take flight.
So, do you need a writing room? If you’re struggling to find your focus and consistency, the answer is likely a resounding yes. Start with the bare bones, and then build your personal haven, one word at a time.
What are your must-have elements in a writing space? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
Guilty Pleasures & Best-Sellers: Why “Trashy” Novels Sell (Even When They Make No Sense)
Let’s be honest: we’ve all done it. We’ve stood in an airport bookstore, eyes scanning the spinning racks, and pulled out a paperback with a neon-hued cover, an impossibly sculpted torso, or a plot synopsis that sounds like a fever dream.
We roll our eyes. We scoff at the clunky dialogue. We lambast the predictable tropes and inherently “bad” writing qualities. And then… we buy it. We devour it in a single sitting, hidden behind a polite book cover or glowing dimly on our phone screens at 2:00 AM.
The phenomenon of the “trashy” novel is undeniable. But it goes deeper than mere guilty pleasures. History—and modern publishing data—shows that even when authors intentionally write disjointed, hastily stitched-together, multiple-author novels that make absolutely no sense, they still sell far better than anyone could possibly imagine.
Why? What is the dark magic behind the poorly written page-turner? As a copywriter and consumer psychologist, let’s dissect the anatomy of the trashy novel and uncover why we keep feeding the beast.
1. The Psychology of Cognitive Relief
High-brow literature demands work. When you pick up a Booker Prize winner, you are signing up for an intellectual workout: dense metaphors, unreliable narrators, deeply nuanced character arcs, and social commentary that leaves you pondering the human condition.
Sometimes, we are too tired for that.
Trashy novels offer cognitive offloading. Because the stakes are immediately clear, the villains are cartoonish, and the prose requires zero decoding, the brain can finally switch off. It’s the literary equivalent of eating a bowl of sugary cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons. There is no guilt in low-stakes entertainment—only pure, unadulterated escapism.
2. Emotional Fast Food (The Dopamine Loop)
Good literature builds tension slowly, like a masterclass in suspense. Trashy novels, however, operate like a slot machine. They hit you with constant, cheap dopamine spikes.
A shocking betrayal on page 3? Ding!
An implausible romance trope introduced by page 10? Ding!
A cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter? Jackpot.
Even when a book is disjointed or nonsensical—especially when multiple authors contribute in a chaotic, Frankenstein-esque fashion—the pacing rarely slows down. If plot logic gets in the way of a sensational scene, trashy fiction simply discards the logic and moves straight to the next explosion, bedroom scene, or plot twist. Our brains are wired to chase that next hit of resolution, even if the overall story is falling apart at the seams.
3. The Power of Subverted Expectations and Camp Value
Sometimes, a book doesn’t sell in spite of making no sense; it sells because it makes no sense.
We live in an era that deeply appreciates camp. Think of the runaway success of The Room in film or the viral TikTok reviews of wildly unhinged self-published romance novels. When a book is so convoluted, absurd, and disconnected from reality that it crosses the threshold of “bad” and enters the realm of the surreal, it becomes an event.
Readers love to be in on the joke. Sharing the most ridiculous excerpts on social media creates a viral marketing loop. A nonsensical, multi-author disasterpiece becomes a badge of honour to read, talk about, and mock lovingly with friends.
4. The Illusion of Speed and Instant Gratification
Modern attention spans are fractured. We scroll through TikTok feeds featuring thirty-second clips of entirely unrelated content, jumping seamlessly from a recipe to a comedy sketch to a DIY project.
In many ways, the disjointed, multi-author, wildly chaotic “trashy” novel mirrors the modern digital feed. Because it lacks a rigid, slow-burning traditional structure, it reads like a rapid-fire sequence of viral moments. For readers accustomed to fast-paced digital consumption, traditional pacing can feel agonisingly slow. Trashy novels keep the velocity high, ensuring you never get bored—even if you have no idea who the secondary antagonist is anymore.
5. Zero Pretentiousness, Total Accessibility
Literary snobbery can be exhausting. The moment a book feels like it’s trying to teach you a lesson or prove how smart the author is, a wall goes up for many readers.
Trashy novels have zero pretension. They make no promises other than to entertain you for a few hours. This radical accessibility makes them universally appealing. You don’t need a degree in English literature to enjoy a book about billionaire shadow-beasts fighting rogue cyborg assassins. You just need a pulse and a willingness to suspend your disbelief—way, way up in the stratosphere.
The Verdict: Long Live the Trashy Read
We may continue to mock them in polite literary circles, but the trashy, nonsensical, hastily assembled page-turner isn’t going anywhere. It fulfils a primal human need for stories that thrill, shock, and entertain without demanding too much in return.
So, the next time you find yourself sliding a trashy paperback onto the checkout counter, don’t blush. You aren’t falling victim to bad taste—you’re simply participating in a time-tested tradition of joyful, unapologetic escapism.
What is the most delightfully ridiculous “trashy” novel you’ve ever secretly loved? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
Guilty Pleasures & Best-Sellers: Why “Trashy” Novels Sell (Even When They Make No Sense)
Let’s be honest: we’ve all done it. We’ve stood in an airport bookstore, eyes scanning the spinning racks, and pulled out a paperback with a neon-hued cover, an impossibly sculpted torso, or a plot synopsis that sounds like a fever dream.
We roll our eyes. We scoff at the clunky dialogue. We lambast the predictable tropes and inherently “bad” writing qualities. And then… we buy it. We devour it in a single sitting, hidden behind a polite book cover or glowing dimly on our phone screens at 2:00 AM.
The phenomenon of the “trashy” novel is undeniable. But it goes deeper than mere guilty pleasures. History—and modern publishing data—shows that even when authors intentionally write disjointed, hastily stitched-together, multiple-author novels that make absolutely no sense, they still sell far better than anyone could possibly imagine.
Why? What is the dark magic behind the poorly written page-turner? As a copywriter and consumer psychologist, let’s dissect the anatomy of the trashy novel and uncover why we keep feeding the beast.
1. The Psychology of Cognitive Relief
High-brow literature demands work. When you pick up a Booker Prize winner, you are signing up for an intellectual workout: dense metaphors, unreliable narrators, deeply nuanced character arcs, and social commentary that leaves you pondering the human condition.
Sometimes, we are too tired for that.
Trashy novels offer cognitive offloading. Because the stakes are immediately clear, the villains are cartoonish, and the prose requires zero decoding, the brain can finally switch off. It’s the literary equivalent of eating a bowl of sugary cereal while watching Saturday morning cartoons. There is no guilt in low-stakes entertainment—only pure, unadulterated escapism.
2. Emotional Fast Food (The Dopamine Loop)
Good literature builds tension slowly, like a masterclass in suspense. Trashy novels, however, operate like a slot machine. They hit you with constant, cheap dopamine spikes.
A shocking betrayal on page 3? Ding!
An implausible romance trope introduced by page 10? Ding!
A cliffhanger at the end of every single chapter? Jackpot.
Even when a book is disjointed or nonsensical—especially when multiple authors contribute in a chaotic, Frankenstein-esque fashion—the pacing rarely slows down. If plot logic gets in the way of a sensational scene, trashy fiction simply discards the logic and moves straight to the next explosion, bedroom scene, or plot twist. Our brains are wired to chase that next hit of resolution, even if the overall story is falling apart at the seams.
3. The Power of Subverted Expectations and Camp Value
Sometimes, a book doesn’t sell in spite of making no sense; it sells because it makes no sense.
We live in an era that deeply appreciates camp. Think of the runaway success of The Room in film or the viral TikTok reviews of wildly unhinged self-published romance novels. When a book is so convoluted, absurd, and disconnected from reality that it crosses the threshold of “bad” and enters the realm of the surreal, it becomes an event.
Readers love to be in on the joke. Sharing the most ridiculous excerpts on social media creates a viral marketing loop. A nonsensical, multi-author disasterpiece becomes a badge of honour to read, talk about, and mock lovingly with friends.
4. The Illusion of Speed and Instant Gratification
Modern attention spans are fractured. We scroll through TikTok feeds featuring thirty-second clips of entirely unrelated content, jumping seamlessly from a recipe to a comedy sketch to a DIY project.
In many ways, the disjointed, multi-author, wildly chaotic “trashy” novel mirrors the modern digital feed. Because it lacks a rigid, slow-burning traditional structure, it reads like a rapid-fire sequence of viral moments. For readers accustomed to fast-paced digital consumption, traditional pacing can feel agonisingly slow. Trashy novels keep the velocity high, ensuring you never get bored—even if you have no idea who the secondary antagonist is anymore.
5. Zero Pretentiousness, Total Accessibility
Literary snobbery can be exhausting. The moment a book feels like it’s trying to teach you a lesson or prove how smart the author is, a wall goes up for many readers.
Trashy novels have zero pretension. They make no promises other than to entertain you for a few hours. This radical accessibility makes them universally appealing. You don’t need a degree in English literature to enjoy a book about billionaire shadow-beasts fighting rogue cyborg assassins. You just need a pulse and a willingness to suspend your disbelief—way, way up in the stratosphere.
The Verdict: Long Live the Trashy Read
We may continue to mock them in polite literary circles, but the trashy, nonsensical, hastily assembled page-turner isn’t going anywhere. It fulfils a primal human need for stories that thrill, shock, and entertain without demanding too much in return.
So, the next time you find yourself sliding a trashy paperback onto the checkout counter, don’t blush. You aren’t falling victim to bad taste—you’re simply participating in a time-tested tradition of joyful, unapologetic escapism.
What is the most delightfully ridiculous “trashy” novel you’ve ever secretly loved? Let’s talk about it in the comments below!
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Am I working for anyone now?
So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.
I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.
And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.
I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.
Nobbin.
“Get in Mr Jackson. We have more to talk about.”
I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.
“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” He sounded reassuring.
A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car. I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.
“Sir,” he said.
He opened the door. Nobbin had moved to the other side.
I shrugged, then got in. A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”
It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers. Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.
The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.
“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary. I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”
“Just who are you? And, for that matter, those people back in that building? Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”
“Good questions, all. At least now I can speak freely. As you can, Mr Jackson.”
“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter. This is not what I signed up for.”
“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it. It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named
William O’Connor, and kill him. And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”
“By Severin and Maury? If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”
“That is a mystery to all of us.”
“And those people back in the room. Who the hell were they?”
“Operations. Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected. That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”
“Simple, it seems.”
“Very. And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”
“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”
“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you. It only did a third the job. It didn’t go off at the critical moment. No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”
“The policeman?”
“Critical but stable. He’ll survive.”
“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”
“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away. Seems they trained you better than we expected. Did O’Connor say anything to you?”
“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”
“Anything at all?”
“He knew who I was.”
“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”
“He killed two of them.”
“In self-defence. They were not only surveillance but also assassins. Different training before they joined your group.”
I had thought there was something odd about them.
“Anything else,” he asked again.
“Yes. He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is… And that’s when he was shot. He didn’t tell me where it was.”
“He didn’t have to. We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those. Here’s my card.”
He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number. The name was not Nobbin.
“If this Severin contacts you again, call me. I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future. The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”
“And those others back at the office?”
“You won’t hear from them again.”
The car stopped outside an underground staircase.
“This is your stop, Mr Jackson. Thank you for your co-operation.”
Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters. I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 