Sybernika
My novel “Sybernika” has just been launched by Philistine Press. And the truly stonking thing about that is that it’s free! (There’s a reason they’re call Philistine.)
It can be read online or downloaded as a PDF from here -> www.sybernika.com
It’s already causing quite a buzz. Wouldn’t you like to know why?
Another great review of “Maniac”
“This wasn’t a book I could set aside and go on to something else. I had to keep turning the pages, hoping to find out who and how they had done what they were doing. The answer is almost unfathomable…”
http://lasrmystery.blogspot.co.uk/
Not the Oxford Literary Festival
I had a terrific time at Not the Oxford Literary Festival last Friday. It was held at the Albion Beatnik book shop (probably the hippest book shop in Oxford) and was attended by – amongst others – luminaries of what could be regarded as a burgeoning underground writing scene.
I had hoped to use the event to launch Sybernika but – alas – it was not to be. Philistine Press have decided to give the book its own dedicated website which means having to delay publication for a few weeks. Such are the vagaries of the publishing world.
Anyway, it was great to meet up with Dan Holloway and Banana the Poet, fellow writers with whom I’ve had an online friendship for many a year. This was the first time I’d seen them in the flesh!
Also there were a couple of my Philistine Press stablemates as well as PP’s head honcho, Frank Burton.
All in all, it was a very worthwhile trip and I’m looking forward to next year’s NOLF.
Not the Oxford Literary Festival
All being well, Friday the 30th of March should see me at the Albion Beatnik bookshop for the last night of this year’s Not the Oxford Literary Festival. I may or may not be launching Sybernika by reading extracts.
Either way, it should be great fun and I am totally looking forward to meeting some fellow writers – especially the guys from eight cuts.
Sybernika
I’m asbsolutely thrilled to announce that my novel Sybernika is to be published by Philistine Press, possibly the most relevant publishing house in the UK at the moment.
With luck, it’ll be out some time before the end of the month.
Maniac – out now!
Maniac is now available as an ebook from the lovely people at Musa Publishing.
A steal at $4.99!
http://www.musapublishing.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=7&products_id=115
Maniac- A Novel by Patrick Whittaker
There are some people you should never allow inside your head...
The seaside town of Chadham prides itself on being sleepy. Until Maniac turns it into the murder capital of Britain.
Detective Inspector Harry Nyman is the world’s most reluctant policeman. He’d much rather be playing jazz than investigating crime. Unfortunately, murder sets its own agenda.
As the body count rises, it becomes clear the murderer has an ultimate goal: to destroy Harry Nyman.
Maniac – The Opening Lines.
Just as a taster, here’s the opening of Maniac.
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Chapter One
The killer awoke. And it wasn’t pleasant.
Lie still, he reminded himself. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t draw attention. And don’t, for Pete’s sake, throw up again.
It was unsettling, going to sleep in one body and waking in another with no memory of anything in between. The discontinuity made him dizzy; it unnerved him. And on top of that came revulsion.
Here he was, in an unfamiliar body, sensing things that belonged to another person and should never be shared. The scent of mucus. The taste of saliva. The movement of food through the alimentary canal.
Not his own.
His own he could ignore. But this was somebody else’s body. Somebody else’s processes. He felt like a passing tramp had grabbed him and kissed him on the lips.
The killer moderated his breathing to disguise the fact that he was awake. His right thigh itched; he resisted the impulse to scratch. Told himself it wasn’t his thigh, wasn’t his itch. He need not respond.
Mind over matter.
The thing he had to do now was find out where he was. And then who he was and who – if anyone – was with him.
He was in a bed. The sheets were cotton, the pillows plump. His hand rested on top of a duvet. He smelt a man’s musk – his own no doubt. A hint of stale sweat. Aftershave. There was another smell: one he found alluring. It was soap and perfume with a hint of salt. The scent of a woman.
The only body heat he could feel was his own. Whoever his bedmate was – presumably a wife or lover – they were up already. From downstairs came the enticing smell of bacon and the clattering and banging of a hurried breakfast. A boy asked if he might have a slice of toast. Politely. He said please and thank you and Mummy too.
So today I’m a family man. How nice. Shall I make the mother watch while I kill her children? Or would it be more fun the other way round?
Satisfied he was alone, he opened his eyes and analyzed his surroundings. White walls, white furniture and a fitted wardrobe that was almost featureless. A modern, medium sized bedroom.
He was, he hypothesized, in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Aspirational English Middle Class. The sort who went to the gym together and took skiing holidays twice a year and busted a gut to get their kids into the right school.
Their CD collection consists mostly of Dire Straits, George Michael and Simply Red. They have an unread copy of A Brief History of Time sitting in their IKEA bookcase squeezed between cookbooks by Delia Smith and Jamie Oliver. She reads the Daily Express. He kids himself he’s a socialist and votes Conservative.
Two predictable people aspiring to mediocrity.
The killer had all the information he needed to unreservedly hate them.
Now that he knew he was alone in the room, he opened his eyes and sat up. A wave of giddiness hit him but quickly passed.
Throwing aside the duvet and unbuttoning his pajama top, he looked down at his latest body. The hairs on the chest were downy and a dark shade of brown. The belly had a slight paunch but felt tight. His legs ached a little.
Must have been to the gym, he concluded. Or maybe played squash.
His hands were the hands of a white collar worker. Apart from a callus on his right forefinger – possibly caused by gripping a squash racket – they were smooth. Nails tidily clipped. A gold wedding ring on his finger.
The killer parted the curtains of his pajama trousers and checked out his genitals.
An average sized penis nestled on its scrotum like a puppy in a basket.
Circumcised. My body is mutilated.
Only it wasn’t actually his body. He was merely borrowing it. Tomorrow he would have a different one. And another the day after.
Time to get up. Busy day ahead. Places to visit. People to murder.
A fresh white shirt, neatly ironed, was draped on the back of a chair beside the dresser. Also on the chair were briefs and a pair of socks.
He got out of bed and discarded the pajamas. Leaving them on the floor, he slipped into the briefs and opened the wardrobe. He had a choice of four suits, all of them off-the-peg.
A quick search of inside pockets garnered him a wallet. He took it out and examined its contents. Three bank cards told him his name was James Nestor while a small bundle of business cards identified him as an IT Manager at Ringwood Technology Solutions, 12 Peel Park, Chadham.
There was a small photograph of a woman and two children – a boy and a girl – standing in front of some swings.
Mrs. Nestor (assuming it was Mrs. Nestor in the photograph) was a good-looking woman. Bottle blonde. Tall. Confident-looking with a kind face and striking smile. The killer looked forward to meeting her. To getting to know her better. And to totally screwing up her life.
Before the day was done, he would show her exactly why he was called Maniac.
Maniac – the book cover.
Well, here it is folks. The cover for Maniac which I’m very pleased with.
The book is due out from Musa Publishing on the 22nd of December!
Any thoughts?
