Like writing like this...?
Chloe pays me £500 in crisp twenty pound notes. I add it to the wedge, about a grand. It's burning a hole in my pocket and I'm itching like a dog with particularly vicious fleas.
Don't spend it all at once, she says and blows me an air kiss, walks towards her house. At that precise moment, I am filled with a feeling that's something like grief.
It's like she's gone and she's never coming back.
It's like she's dead. The moment is fleeting but it shakes me like a tiny tree in a cyclone.
When I took the proposition, there was no information on the side effects. No small print. This...thing inside. No one told me this was going to happen. There's no-one to sue. I'm responsible. I could have said no. The girl's bewitched me and I'm simultaneously on the cusp of heaven and on the precipice of hell.
There's nothing for it. I go inside and change into my jeans and Hamburgs. I drop a midget gem and catch the bus into Carlton and head for the Horse. In there, I slam down four double whiskies - not the decent stuff, but that Korean copy they serve to tramps and losers for a couple of quid a double, the stuff that's like shit-coloured methylated spirits. Each one I follow with an ice cold Thor's Hammer.
Suitably steadied and refreshed, I head to Joe's Bookies in a precinct that's like an outtake from King of New York.
I feel like betting.
I feel like gambling.
Apart from a couple of Africans watching Derby on the big screen, there's just me and two young girls behind the counter talking about their upcoming holiday to Tenerife. It's Towcester dogs and Aqueduct and the action is thick and fast.
I'm buzzing. On fire. Not thinking about her any more and that makes everything alright. Blind, I write out a slip for the white jacket in the first at Towcester. A ton. The girl behind the counter sees the size of the bet and stops talking about sun tan lotion. She takes the bet. Rings it through the till. No going back.
On one of the screens, I watch the handlers put the dogs into the boxes. In the distance, a police siren wails as it races past the Tesco. I feel a momentary pang of regret and then I hear the bell.
The hare's running...
In my world, the hare is always running.
Later, after midnight, eight hundred lighter, I dance naked around my flat singing along to the Beatles. Paperback Writer. My neighbour bangs on the ceiling. I call him what I call him and eventually, half way through Let It Be, that same ceiling spins and I collapse.
Chloe's face is the last thing
(Don't spend it all at once...)
I see in my mind's eye before
...then you might like City of Criminals.
Are you a Reviewer? Blogger? Or simply a reader? (love you, readers!)
On Thursday, I'll have 25 paperbacks to giveaway FREE.
Leave your name in a comment or contact me privately on Twitter or FB and I'll send you a copy gratis in exchange for an Amazon review OF ANY STAR.
Nine people have asked so far.
The e-book is already out on the following links. Getting excellent reviews from top judges who don't pull punches.
Incidentally, the hand model on the cover is an alternative model called Freyaa Ray and you can find her on Facebook. She is professional to the max and I highly recommend her.
The photograph was taken by Chris Bradley, a Derbyshire based photographer, who also did the business. Well worth a call.
And, of course, thanks are due to the fantastic Dark Dawn Creations, the Green Wizard Cover Designer since the beginning.
Loads more info available on the last two blog posts.
Have a look. Cheers, Mark