We’re excited to say Bunch of Psychos by Mark Burrow is out this weekend and we thought we’d give you a chance to get a feel for this coming-of-age novel by publishing the first chapter, Ghost Spider.
Glass warmed by the sun is nasty to touch. On a thick brown bottle too. Some alkie must’ve left it half empty on the wall of broken bricks. I pour out the beer. It smells gross… like Tracey Clarke’s knickers. Not that I’ve sniffed her knickers, or want to. She’s always makin fun of me with her loser mates when they spot me on the estate.
I throw the bottle an hear the pop an tinkle of glass smashin. It’s my favourite sound. Second only to Tracey Clarke’s laugh, or a cat meowin. I dunno. Maybe cat second. Bottle third. A door opens from one of the flats an some grandad starts to grumble.
I’m already runnin.
In their dreams they’re catchin me.
Others get well jel at how fast I run. They think I’m so poor that I can’t be good at anything. Tracey Clarke teases me about my clothes an my trainers. They all think I’m dumb too, like bein smart is to do with cash-money an rah-rah accents. It’s not like they’re posh billionaires either. Neither. All people do round here is hate. It don’t make no sense.
I keep runnin an it’s pure sweetness, feelin my muscles an lungs do their thing. No one can ever catch me. I guess you’ve either got to be good at runnin or fightin. My bro, Mike, is the fighter. Me, I’m the runner. Faster than fast. They might think they’re gettin close to me but I’m only messin with their brain juice.
Once my turbo boosters flare, they’ll eat my dust.
That’s me. Five. Four. See ya. Three. Two. Adios.
One.
Wouldn’t wanna be… ya.
When they see how I zoom at school it twists their melons, seein me finish first when they think there’s this random law of fools that ses Jason Smiths should be last.
Nah nah.
Jay don’t worry about what school wankers think. He skips lessons most days. Hangin out by himself on the estate.
Part spider, part ghost.
Stealth mode—on.
I stand under the tower block. If I look up long enough the sky starts movin an my feet feel loose an my head goes dizzy an my body is all papery an I can feel myself fallin over.
I dunno why the tower an sky slide like they do when I stand at the bottom an stare upwards.
It’s vertigo in reverse.
Planes be flyin. Little crucifixes in the clouds.
I scan through the security door of the tower an press the button for the lift. I ride by myself to the top floor an walk up the stairs an use the set of keys Dad had when he worked round here before he did what Mum calls his disappearin act. He ain’t Dad no more to her. Now, if she ever speaks about him, she ses, Your father. I open the massive steel door with graffiti tags on it an the dents where fools have tried to crowbar through. I lock the squeaky door behind me an trudge more stairs an I can tell only a few people have ever been this way cos it don’t stink like stairways do round here. I use a different key to open another door an the sun makes me blink an the air feels seasidey. I’m high on the roof an here, right here, this is my place, this is where only I hangout.
I go to my den which is made of a plasticky sheet tied onto some metal bars an cardboard for walls. I get my fags an light one, openin a can of Dr Pepper. A warm tin don’t feel as snide as warm glass. I begin to chillax. I don’t have to stress about name callin or some fool tryin to start something like I do on ground level. Dad used to bring me up on the roof. I think he was more chilled up here too. He’d tell me about North, East, South an West—he taught me the compass points by memorisin the sayin, Never Eat Shredded Wheat. We’d look at the buildins an he’d point to other estates an towers, places where he’d worked over the years.
I remember him lettin me have my first ever sip of beer an laughin at me cos I hated the taste an rank smell. He told me that one day I would like it an that’s when my troubles would really start.
I walk to the edge of the roof an look at the streets below, hearin traffic.
Everyone looks shrunken an tiny like Lego.
This tower watches over us like church steeples did back in olden times. I swear, when the tower sees the ambulances an the fire engines an the police cars, feelin the fools livin inside its walls fightin an stressin an hungry an losin their shit, I bet it wants to blub the fattest tears.
Bunch of Psychos is available through the Urban Pigs Press shop here
Alternatively, you can buy via Amazon as a paperback or e-book here
(The latter is slightly cheaper but we wanted to give you the choice)
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