#Excerpt - The King of Sunday Morning by @MccauleyJay ~ Reviewing in Chaos

The King of Sunday Morning
by: J B McCauley

Publication: May 2013
ISBN: 0987828009
ASIN: B00CQTQ13S
Length: 416 pages
Genre: Fiction, Thriller

Book Description :

The King of Sunday Morning is a geezer. Not in the traditional sense of the word as in old man. This geezer is a face, a wannabe, a top notch bloke. He is the greatest DJ that never was. He should have been. Could have been. Would have been. Now becoming a has-been. Tray McCarthy was born into privilege but with the genetic coding of London’s violent East End. Having broken the underworld’s sacred honour code, it is only his family’s gangland connections that save him. But in return for his life, he must deny that which he has ever known or ever will be and runs to Australia where he is forced to live an inconsequential life. But trouble never strays far from Tray McCarthy and eventually his past and present collide to put everyone he has ever loved in danger. He must now make a stand and fight against those that are set to destroy him and play their game according to his rules. Set against the subterfuge and violence of the international drugs trade, The King of Sunday Morning is the tale of what can go wrong when you make bad decisions. Tray McCarthy has made some of the worst. He must now save those he holds dear but in the process gets trapped deeper and deeper into a world where he doesn’t belong. “I want three pump-action shotguns, about twelve sticks of dynamite and a blowtorch”

THIS BOOK CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE, FREQUENT DRUG USE AND SEX SCENES - NOT RECOMMENDED FOR PEOPLE UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE

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Missing In Action

1997

Barry Flint was dying. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Killed by the cancer and chemotherapy, his body was giving up the fight. He knew his daughter was by his side. He knew he was in the prison hospital. Thank God it would be over for her.

Jo had followed him wherever he had gone. After embezzling five hundred large out of the wine store, they had needed to scarper quick like. He had thought about Spain but found The Algarve far more anonymous. From Essex to Portugal and back again. All up four years on the run and for what? To die a creeping death in a cage of fools.

She had followed him to Wandsworth Prison when Interpol had finally caught up with them. Away from the romance of her life. Away from the one man who would love her in spite of her father. He had made a deal with the people that mattered. Jo would be safe but she would never feel that blinding love that she had found on those sun-kissed shores with Tray. Barry had never forgiven himself for that and the guilt had wracked him ever since. Perhaps that was why the cancer had manifested itself. A display of the guilt he felt towards his daughter.

He surrendered to the morphine. He was so dosed up he couldn’t open his eyes but he could feel her presence.

“Dad?” His eyes flickered but remained firmly shut. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Again his eyes rolled behind the lids. Jo made way for a man that she recognized but did not know. Once, when her Mum and Dad were counting out fifty-pound notes on the lounge room floor, he had come round and taken away plastic bags full of cash. He had mentioned something about cleaning and left. She had never seen him again until this moment.

The suited, burly man bent down and spoke softly into the ear of the emaciated body. Barry recognized the smell of his aftershave first and then the deep voice of yesteryear unfurled like wisps of smoke in his ramshackle mind.

“He says ‘thank-you’ Barry”, the man gently touched Barry’s shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about. A promise is a promise. Jo will be sweet.”

Barry smiled. Jo saw it. She gasped. The darkness swirled around him as she felt for his hand. He remembered what he had done and why and suddenly he was there. Amongst those dunes.

The wind stung his face as it blew off the Atlantic. The muzzle flashed. He left the body where it lay, face down in the sand. ‘Scum’, he thought to himself. He put the gun inside his jacket and turned his back on the boiling ocean. Now his journey home could begin.

The tears started to flow. He didn’t want to stay anymore. He felt her squeeze his hand. The darkness descended, never again releasing its hold on Barry Flint. Jo Flint slowly let go her father’s hand and inevitably, her father with it.