Read the first two chapters of my forthcoming novel here.

Friday Night 18:07
Chapter 1
From the depths of his coat pocket Ben Randal’s phone gave another muffled chirp, another message.
With his left-hand hovering over the small screen to protect it from the rain, ran his thumb across the message icon. The image that appeared instantly demanded his full attention.
Tugging at the hood of his yellow hi-vis jacket to keep the rain off his face, he continued along the dimly lit passageway, his gaze now fixed on the small screen.
It was a message that would cost him his life. So engrossed in its contents, Ben Randal never felt a thing.
From the shadows of the alleyway the short length of scaffold pipe struck him full in the face. The cartilage of his nose bursting, sending fragments of bone to slice through the microscopic veins of the grey matter inside the shattered skull. In fact, Ben’s assailant had delivered the blow with such force his head snapped so far back it had separated the two small bones at the base of his skull protecting his spinal cord.
In that same instant, his heart stopped. Communication between the brain and body ceased, vital organs failed, knees buckled, and his body crashed to the ground. The mobile phone that had so easily held his attention moments before slipped from a lifeless hand into the undergrowth. An expert would later confirm that Ben Randal would have been dead before he hit the floor.
The steel tube that had already taken Ben Randal’s life now came crashing down repeatedly onto his head, again, and again, crushing flesh and bone into pulp. The driving force of his assailant a combination of venomous hatred and raw anger.
As the rain continued to fall onto the phone’s small screen, the image faded, dissolving into a million digital fragments inside the phone’s memory.
Confident in his work, Ben Randal’s killer wiped the length of pipe clean before throwing it over one of the low walls bordering the alley. It would now become lost in decades of industrial detritus.
A once healthy young man had become nothing more than a blood-soaked carcass, discarded on the rough ground of an industrial estate rat-run.
Forty yards away, a sleek black Mercedes saloon slowly crept across the passage exit and stopped. The driver was a fat, olive-skinned man with a mouth full of teeth in various states of decay, wearing an ill-fitting suit. He was now holding the rear door open for the man who had just killed Ben Randal, letting him slide easily across the plush leather seats; the man shouted angrily at the driver as the door slammed shut.
Moments later, the car pulled away, becoming just another luxury Mercedes with blacked-out windows disappearing into the Friday night rain.

Chapter 2

Since the industrial estate opened in the early 1980s, the glass and brick gatehouse had stood at the entrance watching the endless flow of people and vehicles that came and went. Its furniture consisted of six mismatched donated or borrowed chairs, two of which were on swivels, three filing cabinets and two large desks faced the sliding window. On the wall behind displaying shift patterns and patrol timetables two large whiteboards. There was a picture of a steam train on a month-to-view calendar hung crookedly beside an open key locker, next to the white boards, its hooks crowded with keys labelled with plastic tags. Beneath the sheet of glass that covered the main desk was a growing collection of notes and printed information, arranged according to use and importance.
Tonight was the same as every other Friday night with the guards going through well-established shift-change rituals. The incoming team, having already resigned themselves to the next twenty-four hours of patrols, were about to start checking doors and windows in the rain.
However, for Ben Randal it marked the end of his shift. He ambled towards the half-glazed door and leaning against its wooden frame, his tired eyes, stared through the rain-spattered glass across the tarmac and off into the distance. Behind him, four fluorescent tubes had just flickered into life washing the gatehouse in their harsh white light, from behind opaque plastic shields that were home to a thousand dead flies.
“It’s still fucking raining,” he muttered to no one in particular.
The man sat nearby in the blue pullover with supervisor in gold on his epaulets, was busy finishing a hand-rolled cigarette. Running his tongue along the gummed edge of the paper. He admired his latest creation, then glanced over from the comfort of a fake leather swivel chair.
“Indeed, Ben,” he said dryly.
“Your ability to state the bleeding obvious is something we can always depend on.”
Ben ignored him, resting his forehead against the cold glass of the door while the rain continued its relentless tap-tap-tap on the glass.
From the small kitchen area, an electric kettle whistled for attention while two of the guards debated the merits of the DVDs they would watch later that evening. The likely schedule would involve something with guns and a car chase, followed by a German porno featuring surgically enhanced female sexual athletes.
However, what made this Friday different was Ben himself. The shift supervisor had noticed it earlier the previous evening. Ben, normally sociable and quick to join in any conversation, had barely spoken since starting his shift.
Recently discharged from the army after six years of military life, he had settled quickly into his unfamiliar civilian life. Resolute, always eager for overtime, and always willing to help. But the birth of his son Jake two weeks earlier was draining his savings faster than he cared to admit. The other guards, most of them parents themselves, assumed his mood change was simply money worries, lack of sleep, or both. Whatever they may have thought, Ben wasn’t interested. His shift was over. He was tired, hungry, and glad to be going home. Easing the strap of his backpack over one shoulder.
“See you all Monday morning.” he said, again to no one in particular.
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled up the collar of his hi-vis jacket and pushed his right hand deep into a pocket. With his free hand, he twisted the aluminium handle and nudged the door open with his shoulder.
Outside, the rain bit gently on his face. A single cold droplet managed to find its way behind his collar, trickling down his back making him shiver. He didn’t care. Because, if the bus were on time, he could be home within the hour. This would be his first full weekend alone with his wife, Sigrid, and Jake.
Until now, all he had done was watch Jake sleeping in his cot, while Sigrid had endured endless amounts of advice from his well-meaning parents, aunts, uncles, and extended family, all offering their own little nuggets of parental wisdom.
But, as much as he wanted to enjoy quality time with his wife and son, this weekend would also give him a chance to think some more about what he had seen the previous day. It bothered him so much that he had that morning phoned the office, wanting to speak with Danny, the managing director.
Danny, the managing director, had been a warrant officer with the Parachute regiment, he would know what to do. Unfortunately, however, he was away on business. Sandra, Danny’s wife, had told Ben that Danny would be making a site visit on Monday, so hopefully, they could talk then.
Ben also tried calling Captain Bowers, his old company commander, but he too was away, on a battalion exercise in Wales, and not due back until late Saturday evening.
Mates, still serving, got phone messages asking them to call him back. Though after a week in the field, Ben doubted he would hear from any of them soon.
Frustrated and confused, Ben simply wanted to talk to someone who would understand what he had seen, without making a prick of himself. But for now, he just wanted to go home.
Ducking beneath the red-and-white barrier at the estate entrance he headed towards the alleyway that cut between the factory units, which led to his bus stop. He was just looking forward to a weekend of proper dad time.
Using his left hand to shield the phone screen from the rain, he checked his phone. The display lit up with a photograph of Sigrid; she was holding Jake in an oversized blue baby grow Ben had bought the day Jake was born. A purchase influenced by alcohol after celebrating with his mates. A slow, silly grin crept across his mouth at the memory of Sigrid telling him that shopping straight from the pub was never a good idea.
The bold white numbers on the screen read five minutes after six. He had twelve minutes before the bus arrived.
He turned left into the unlit alley bordered by a low red-brick walls, taking wide steps over the larger puddles, of which there were many. He would make the bus stop with time to spare, he thought as he casually flicked through some of the photographs on his phone, before returning it to his pocket. It was pictures of Jake and Sigrid that occupied most of his phone’s memory, and in only two weeks, Jake had changed so much. Ben quickened his pace, he had only nine minutes before the bus arrived. Then his phone chirped.
A new message.
He automatically ran his thumb across the icon to open the message his wife had just sent.