From my new novel, a crime/psychological thriller set in the north of England, just like the other one. In this section, central character Wayne (12) is reflecting after uncovering information. Note the narrative change part of the way through.
Everything’s going to be okay, I promise myself. Zipper’s right: Gorton’s miles away. None of this can touch me or Mum or Nan or Grandpa. It’s all stupid stuff.
In the distance, a police helicopter scours the sky. The noise begins like a group of buzzing bees, getting louder as the helicopter moves closer and closer. The buzz merges with my thoughts and I fall asleep while the helicopter is still orbiting, waking just once in the night when I think I hear Mum, Lizzie and a man talking in the kitchen.
The other house wasn’t a house at all, but a flat similar to a maisonette. Everywhere there were long lines of two-storey buildings, grey-white buildings, some with satellite dishes and net curtains. There were no gardens nearby, just patches of faded green in front of the flats where girls played hopscotch. The older kids used to kick a ball around in the middle of the street, but no one drove cars, apart from the bad boys who had lots of money and guns. The grownups went everywhere by bus with buggies, pushing and sweating and swearing in the heat. They would stop off for tea and chocolates biscuits in a café owned by a woman named Maria, and there the little ones would drink cartons of Ribena through straws.
The buildings further on looked different to the lines of flats. They were brown and damp-looking, and all squashed together. Many of the shops had boarded up windows and rude words sprayed on the walls.
In the flat, the buggy stood in the hallway, next to the front door, and all the toys were kept neatly in a large plastic container by the cot, with a sticky red label on the lid.
Meanwhile, my debut novel (Secrets by Lawrence Estrey) has attracted mostly positive feedback, and is available as a paperback on Amazon (Kindle form too) and Barnes and Nobel.