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‘I was dangerous because I had nothing to lose.’ Martin is a man disillusioned with life, and with good reason. Coming from a broken home where violence was the norm, he lives alone in a squalid flat, working as a brickie when he can. The monotony of his existence is dramatically altered when he meets the beautiful Ginger, who is desperately trying to escape from Mick, her obsessive boyfriend and brutal tormentor. Keeping Ginger out of harm’s way means putting his life on the line as Martin becomes sucked into an underworld of drugs and violence, where arguments are settled with a fist or a bullet. Gripping, honest, brutal and raw, Geoff Thompson pulls no punches in this explosive first novel. About the author: Geoff Thompson claims that his biological birthdate is 1960, though his hair-line goes right back to the First World War. He has worked as a floor sweeper, chemical worker, pizza maker, road digger, hod-carrier, martial arts instructor, bricklayer, picture seller, delivery driver and nightclub bouncer before giving up ‘proper work’ in 1992 to write full time. He is now a bestselling author, BAFTA-winning screenwriter, magazine columnist, playwright and novelist. He lives in Coventry with his wife Sharon.
He’s a mysterious fucker is God. Mysterious. He moves in mysterious ways. And what he gives he can take away. I should know, the Fucker (capital ‘F’ just in case) has been giving and taking from me all my life. For instance: one minute he gives me the girl of my dreams and the possibility of a blissful life, the next I’m stuck in a police cell facing life in prison on the back of a murder charge. Eighteen years behind bars. Can you imagine that? That’s nine if I keep a clean nose, seven after spending eighteen months on remand awaiting trial. Nine Christmases, nine birthdays, a tenth of my life (if I live to be anywhere near a hundred). From the outside looking in, it might not sound like much, but when you’re living in a grey brick cage locked behind a steel door with nothing for company but your own thoughts (and your right fist) it’s a fucking eternity. They couldn’t punish you more if they strapped you naked to a post and gave you a hundred lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Life? You’d come out a different man. Parts of you broken beyond repair. Your woman, if she isn’t already shacked up with someone else, will have plenty of broken bits too. When you finally do get out, leashed to a curfew tag, you’ll be a veritable stranger to her. You’ll have to start all over again, with a backpack of old regrets that will get heavier the longer you carry them. I couldn’t believe I was facing an eighteen. And all because I let myself get dragged into a domestic in some greasy spoon café…
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