Write To Kill - Book To Movie Project On Indiegogo....

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The cast and crew on IMDb and Slated 

BRAND NEW EDITION of Write To Kill is available as ONE BOOK of 15oK words and OVER 550 pages on Amazon  

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Write To Kill

Write To Survive 

Write To Live 

On Amazon In The UK

Apologies To Richard Osman 

Maurice Vaughan

 

Book Reviews

YOU CAN READ THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF 

"Write To Kill"

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.

Illustration by Abi Tucker of the Author MC and Mad Dog in 

the opening scene in a dilapidated warehouse in 

"Write To Kill" 

Another Illustration by Abi Tucker of the Author MC kneeling beside his victim on a London street in 

"Write To Kill"

Currently writing book FOUR in the series!