'Byker Books have mustered a cabal of writers who write like people possessed about people possessed. Tales from the Inner Cities wades into the British underclass with tight clenched fists and eyes wide open.
Pick up if you’re hard enough – put it down if you can.'
Matt Nesbitt, Oxfordshire Press
Radgepacket 1 has SOLD OUT! There may be a few knocking round various shops but basically you had your chance to own a future classic that would have secured your great grandchildrens inheritance and you blew it.
Mind you...you can still get the Kndle version for less than a quid...bargain!
Exclusive extract from Radgepacket One
Blagger
I’m on top of the wall breathing softly. The glint of the cars that are parked in this quiet street remind me that it’s a full moon and I don’t hang about. A little hop and I’m on the other side, crouched in the bushes. The building rises up in front of me like some kind of gothic vampire haunt. It looks very different in the dark, I can picture Ozzy Osbourne running out in his pyjamas chasing that fucking dog and shouting 'Shhhaarrronnn.' A rabbit is playing on the lawn between me and the building, it scampers forward a couple of yards and immediately the whole garden is bathed in bright, white light so I crouch further into the bushes looking for a way past. The rabbit’s brothers and sisters provide this by skipping round the perimeter to the side of the building and showing me where the light sensor doesn’t reach. Making a mental note never to eat rabbit stew I follow them.
The side door is a piece of piss, one fucking Yale lock – are they for real? A quick fumble with my trusty multi tool knife and I’m in. Padding up the stairs to where I want to be I see a shadow cross the windowed door at the top and crouch back against the wall, I’m not keen on advertising my presence just yet. Once I’m certain it’s gone I jog up the rest of the stairs silently and very carefully push open the door and look up and down the corridor – there she is. About twenty yards ahead of me is the stout woman I’ve come to see, she looks fat from the back, big calves poking out of the bottom of her A line skirt and fleshy arms protruding from her potato shaped body, obviously plays a lot of bingo. Controlling my breathing so it’s barely audible I creep up behind her, I’ve got something for this particular bird and no one else can know I’m here.
She starts to turn so I clamp my hand round her mouth and drag her backwards into a storeroom. She’s gasping and panicking, struggling to free herself until I spin her round and she looks into my eyes, relaxing instantly. Smiling at her I remove my hand.
'Sorry about that Mrs Jessup but I knew you’d scream.'
She smiles back, unworried now, no thoughts of rape and murder in her mind. She knows what’s coming when I visit.
'No problem Mr. Turnbull.' Holding out her hand, 'Have you got anything for me then?'
All business this old stick she never changes at all, I hand her the holdall with the cash in and nod towards the corridor again. She smiles, adjusts her dishevelled blouse and heads for the door with me tucked in behind.
'Incidentally,' I whisper, 'you need to put another lock on the side door.'
It takes about thirty seconds to get to room fifteen, the warm, carpeted floor masking our footsteps and the dim night-lights shading our progress. The residents of this particularly exclusive nursing home like their comfort, that’s why I chose it for my mam. It wasn’t easy finding somewhere good enough for her, somewhere I could trust that she wouldn’t be abused but when I did, well it was easy. There’s not a nursing home manager in the world that makes any kind of decent money so when I targeted the lonely and unloved Mrs Jessup I knew It would be a piece of piss.
From her poky flat to her shitty old Morris car I knew she’d jump at the cash and from then on in it was just a case of how much. Two and a half grand a month in cash buys my mam the cosiest, safest room in the cosiest and safest home in the North East, for her part Mrs Jessup now drives a newish Focus and is buying a nice big house; everyone’s a winner.
(c) Andy Rivers 2008