Dear Sally

I was blown away by your photograph in L@dz magazine.

You look just the kind of girl I’d like to know better.

I’ll admit I can’t stop looking at you. That little checked bikini fills my head with thoughts, such as wishing I was there, and imagining the smile on your face is for me and not the photographer.

I want to get to know you, would you write back? I hold my hands up –the address looks bad, but let me assure you, I’m just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Love Billy

Well Billy, I mused as I sipped my tea, and studied the return address: H.M. Charterville Prison. Being behind bars might deter a nice girl, but lucky for you, I’m not a nice girl.

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I smoothed out the letter and placed it with its envelope in a clear PVC wallet, which I laid by my computer. I consigned the other correspondence to the rubbish. Then I went to my bathroom, turned on the shower and planned my reply under the hot water.

Today I received two letters from the P.O. box. One was so revoltingly smeared, I put it unopened in the bin and washed my hands. But I recognised Billy’s cramped writing on the second, so I opened it with a sense of anticipation.

Dear Sally

I am so glad you want to be pen friends. This place doesn’t do much to encourage making friends and nobody here is easy on the eye like you!

It sounds wonderful that you go swimming in the lake, I can only imagine how cool and refreshing that would be. I grew up in the city, and I’ve never had much free time for recreation.

I can tell that you take care of yourself. I admire that; even your toenails are painted.

I look at your picture often. It’s hidden inside my pillowcase, away from the nosey guy who shares my cell. Don’t want nbody here to ̸c̸o̸r̸r̸u̸p̸t̸ ̸y̸o̸u̸r̸ ̸i̸n̸n̸o̸c̸e̸n̸c̸e̸ ogle my girl. Would you send me another? It doesn’t have to be so recent.

Love Billy

Well Billy, it seems you are under my spell, I mused with a frisson of satisfaction, flicking the switch on the kettle for a pot of tea. I placed this letter alongside its envelope in a fresh plastic wallet, then took up a pen to write my reply. I shook my head at Billy’s naivety: L@dz magazine was sold in most newsagents – he couldn’t keep that picture to himself.

Dear Sally

Going to a dance sounds wonderful, I’ll bet you shone like a princess. That’s why the boys were too dazzled to ask you to dance. Guys that age mostly think about s̸e̸x̸ cars and beer.

You’re really sixteen? You look younger in your picture, maybe it’s the plaits, which I like by the way.

I got that book you mentioned from the library, but I haven’t had much chance to read it. I gaze at your picture before I go to sleep, hoping that I will dream about you. Please send me another, also with pigtails, this one is getting worn.

Love Billy

I regarded a coffee stain on the corner of Billy’s latest letter, before I smoothed it to slide it into another clear wallet.

Refer a friend

I felt rather excited as I tidied my flat, whisking around with the vac and using a fluffy brush on a stick to reach the cobwebs. Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly, I thought, while rehearsing what I should write in reply. No rush though, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Dear Sally,

Thank you for another glorious picture.

At my school there wasn’t a uniform. No kid on my estate dared wear a tie, we’d have got lynched. But look at you with a blazer and a hat. I plan to keep this one safe, in the plastic wallet you sent.

Have I told you my cell mate snores? It’s terrible, like lying under a growling bear. At least I’ll have this picture to look at when he wakes me in the night.

D̸o̸ ̸y̸o̸u̸ ̸e̸v̸e̸r̸ ̸t̸o̸u̸ch Tell me why that book is your favourite. I had to borrow a dictionary to look up some of the words, just like school. What is your best subject? I used to like learning about battles in History.

Love Billy

I experienced a frisson of pleasure reading that letter. The devil is in the details. I knew there was more he wanted to tell me, yearned to ask, his truth was leaking onto the page. All in good time Billy, I smirked, adding this letter to the others I had preserved.

Sitting at the breakfast bar, I wiggled my computer mouse and the page for H.M. Charterville Prison refreshed. It looked like a forbidding place, but I’d researched public transport connections, and it was relatively easy to get to.

Dear Sally

I agree, Biology is a useful subject, and the human body is fascinating. I always thought it strange that people say the birds and the bees when they mean sex; that the opposite of what birds and bees do.

I’m glad you feel you can ask me these questions; and yes, boys feel that way too, maybe even more than girls.

I haven’t got to that part in the book, maybe I should skip ahead.

I wish you would send me another picture, the last one got s̸p̸o̸i̸l̸e̸d̸ lost.

Love Billy

So you spoiled the picture Billy? I can guess how. I paced the floor, antsy and keyed up about writing back, because my surprise was almost ready. Easy does it. I would wait a day or two before I sent my next missive.

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Dear Sally

I received your letter and I can hardly credit it. I never dared to hope that you would want to come to see me.

Yes, I will put your name on my visitors’ list, but my worry is that you are too young. The rules state you, or someone with you, has to be aged 18.

I’d prefer you to come alone. Perhaps with some make-up and your hair styled differently (you have to know I love your plaits) you can look old enough. I hate suggesting you mess with your natural beauty, but all the same, I am gagging to meet you.

Love Billy

Oh Billy, I don’t plan to mess with my natural good looks, I want you to see me at my best.

I smirked as I stowed away his letter, as I’d done with all the others. Nothing left to do but sit back and wait for the slow wheels of bureaucracy to turn.

Two weeks later I received e-mail notification from H.M. Charterville: I was named as a visitor for Billy.

I studied their schedule of visiting days and times. Even reading the long list of rules and exceptions did nothing to burst the bubble of excitement swelling in my chest. Soon I would be talking to Billy face to face, and I could see his expression when I shared my surprise.

The day of my planned prison visit, I dressed conservatively. I knew there would be detectors and a search, and I expected to be under the hungry scrutiny of other men who were incarcerated with Billy. So I didn’t dress to call attention to myself, instead I took care to look serious, brushing aside Billy’s concerns that I might appear too young.

I rode in on a bus, together with the other visitors, who were predominantly wives and girlfriends. Some were hard-faced, others downcast, many looked tight-lipped and austere. But this was an adventure to me, and in my head the song “I’ve got the key” was playing on repeat. Gradually the atmosphere got to me, and by the time I had passed through the security checks, I was a little fidgety

We were shown into a room of tables and plastic chairs, reminding me of school. I sat down and crossed my legs at the ankle. When all the visitors were seated, a buzzer sounded and the prisoners were shown in by more guards. The inmates wore high-vis tabards over their uniform of navy sweats.

I easily guessed which one was Billy, because of the way his eyes scanned the room. His hair was thinning and grey, and his waistline sagged over his joggers. Of course we’d never met and, in the end, one of the guards had to show him to my table.

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“Hello, Billy,” I beamed my greeting.

“What’s going on?” He was guarded, snippy. “Where’s Sally?”

“That would be me.” I offered him my sweetest smile. “Salvadore Jenkins.”

He glared at me, frowns creasing his face. “But you’re a … She’s not … I thought…”

Each time Billy tried to get to grips with the facts, that the person in front of him was not who or what he’d expected, he faltered. I decided to help him out.

“I’m not female. In fact Sally is not real. I’ve received and replied to all the letters you’ve been writing – and I’m not impressed with your sleazy attempts to groom an underage girl.”

Billy blanched, as pasty as a church candle, and his mouth hung open.

“I realise it’s a lot to take in.” I simpered.

I reached into my folder, and produced photocopies of all the correspondence in my possession, and fanned them out on the table. A warder stepped closer to take a squiz at what I was sharing, but when he saw that it was just paper, he stood against the wall and resumed monitoring the room.

“But you – your picture …” Billy’s complexion was mottled, and his fists clenched and unclenched

“That picture was one of several I found in a book purchased from a charity shop,” I explained, folding my hands smugly.

“I sent it into L@dz magazine, and gave a PO box number as my return address. Plenty of people replied, all deviants, writing utter filth about what they would like to do to Sally, a girl who looked nearer to sixteen than eighteen.

“But you, Billy, wanted to become her ‘friend’. I found that both interesting and telling, and so our correspondence began.”

Billy’s knee bounced and his mouth twisted, which I put down to the duress of conflicting emotions. He might have landed a punch on me, but the warders would surely intervene. So I sat and waited.

“What – wadda’ye want from me?” He eventually ground out. His mouth was a mean line with bubbles of spit at the corners.

“What do we catfishers always want?” I smiled pleasantly. “Money.”

While Billy was lost for words, I continued.

“You’re up for parole soon, and I am sure they wouldn’t think you such an exemplary prisoner if your pedophile tendencies were brought to light. My silence has a price Billy. I will contact you with my bank details, and when you’re released you’ll deposit £25,000 in my account. I know you’re good for it, your family is rich.”

“Twenty-five grand?” Billy leaned forward to whisper-shout. “My family won’t just hand over that kind of money to me.”

“That ‘poor boy from a rough area’ story you spun in your letters didn’t fool me, you scrote,” I continued speaking in a soft voice, taking care to smile. The screws wouldn’t guess I was insulting Billy.

“Sell your shitty Z4, or put your mother on the game. I don’t care how you get the money. But if it isn’t in my account within a day of your release, I’ll take the originals of these to the police.” I tapped a finger on the photocoped letters.

As I stood to leave, I gathered the papers, then smoothed down my slacks and adjusted my cufflinks. I doubt Billy watched my firm backside as I walked away; I was male and at least ten years too old, I really wasn’t his type.

© Posy Churchgate 2026

Posy Churchgate started writing female-focused erotic fiction in 2016. On her blog, which ran til 2019, she diversified into different genres and styles. She has since written for sex positive platforms (such as Meet Rosie) and anthologies, her fiction features relatable characters and depicts women and men keen to explore their sexuality. Published in several anthologies, Posy regularly contributes stories for FrolicMe, and is her own boss on Ream and Substack. Having won a Golden Pigtail Award for Smut 3 years in a row, her next goal is to publish a book.

You can find her HERE

Coming Soon from Byker Books…

Daz was waiting past the line of security for me with a mixture of amazement, excitement and genuine happiness painted across that daft mug of his. He never thought I’d be able to sneak in with a dodgy wristband and to be honest I was feeling smug as fuck about it since he forked out twenty quid for a ticket and the Marky boy here just swaggered straight in for half the price. But fuck it, no time for gloating. There are bands to be watched, pints to be drunk and girls to be danced with. The Gyres are starting in the King Tut’s tent soon and I’ll be fucked if I’m missing it.

“Hurry up ya fuckin’ wank” Daz shouted over the noise of the rave music coming out of the burger vans and we’re off and running towards the tent, not daring to look back in case a jobsworth security guard decides to give my wristband a double check.

We had arrived at Strathclyde Park on the bus from Wishaw at around 11 o’clock in the morning, Daz and his mate from school the only ones among us with tickets, the rest planning to sneak in. Daz’s older brother Scott had told us of a guy he knew from Motherwell who was selling fake wristbands for a tenner. They had used this means of entry the previous year and assured me it was simple enough. I was shitting myself but it was my only chance of getting in after the tickets had sold out before I had managed to scrape the money together. So here I was, Mark McIntyre, sixteen years old and about to embark on an act of minor criminality.

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The first feeling of dread I felt was when we stepped off the bus in Hamilton town centre and everyone headed straight for the local Haddows to start the day’s drinking. Daz’s brother and his mates are all a year older than us but looked about ten years older. Daz and his mate Jim were both the same age as me but both already had a respectable facial growth about them compared to my blonde bumfluff. I look about fourteen at a push and was getting anxious at the thought of the embarrassment I’d feel when they were all served and I got the inevitable knock back.

When we got to the shop it was packed with people with the same idea as us and there was only one stressed out middle aged woman working behind the counter. I grabbed a four pack of Miller and waited in the queue, hands shaking and palms sweating, waiting for the knockback to come. I decided to go in front of everyone else so that when I was refused I can at least have the consolation of passing the beer to one of the older boys to buy for me. Still though, what a fucking red neck it’s going to be. When I got to the front of the queue though the poor woman was too stressed out from the shift from hell she’s having to endure that she didn’t even look up, just put my cans in a bag, took my money, put my change on the counter and moved on to the next customer. Ya fuckin’ dancer! I tried my best to hide the relieved grin on my face but Scott caught it and gave me a chuckle and a wink. He’s too sound to say anything to the rest of the boys though and I’m off and out the door, victorious with my cheap lager.

Once we were all outside with our bags of booze we started the walk down the hill towards Strathclyde Park, the scene of Scotland’s biggest music festival. The festival is now in its third year but this is the first time I’ve had the money to go, thanks to a shitty part time job in the local chemists down the road. I had one of my cans open and the other three were swinging in my other hand, gripped by the plastic ring holder. The elation of being served has made me subconsciously adopt a full-on Liam Gallagher swagger, but I know the hardest part had yet to come, actually getting into the festival.

“Did you get a burger with that shake hen?” one of Scott’s mates shouted at the prettiest one of the group of girls walking in front of us. She turned around and told him to piss off, but she’s smiling and blushing as she does it and I can tell she enjoyed the attention. Christ how I wish I could get away with giving patter like that to the ladies, if I had made that same remark I’d be face down on the pavement with my arm twisted round my back and a couple of teeth missing. Older boys with cooler clothes and better haircuts just seem to get away with this shit though.

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Alex’s guts churned. Although he certainly had no qualms about the moral aspects of murder…

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Ah mean, this is back in the sixties, there’s nae security systems an that like nooadays.
Noddy’s a bad wee bugger so he is, but he’s ma mate, so ye jist huv to get oan wi it, don’t ye?
We know there’s nae notes there, but there’s a couple o big bags o change.
They’re too big tae stick in yir pocket, so I’m shovellin handfus o coins into ma jaikit.
How much you takin, ah ask Noddy, but he’s already scarpered, never said a word.
He’s a pure wee shite so he is.
Well ah’m no sae brave there by masel so ah take aff tae.
Ah’m still shovin coins into ma trooser pockets as ah go oot the door, an then realise that yin’s got a hole in it.
Ah grab haud o it aw again but ah feel wan runnin doon ma leg, hear it clatterin ontae the pavement.
Ah watch it trundle away towards the main road, that’s Prestwick Road, then ah nearly die.
A great big black fit tramps doon oan it.
Ah know who that big fit belongs tae afore my eyes reach his face.
It’s Big Ben Burt, the polis sergeant.

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Well he jist stauns staring at me for aboot three and a half days, it seems.
An ah jist staun there tae, kinda glaikit, like a nun wi concussion.
Lost something, huv you, sonny, he asks.
Aye, naw, aye, mebbe, I say, in a pure panic.
He looks doon at this huge fit o his, in that great black bit, the size o a no bad motor.
Funny enough, maist motors back then were black, at least the wans where we lived.
Or grey, ah suppose, but nae fancy colours like ye get on the posh cars at the other side o the river.
Ah remember ma mum tellin us this wan time.
Mrs Paterson at number 11’s man goat a new car, she says.
Ah should explain somethin.
Nane o the men neighbours had names as far as ma mum wis concerned.
And the wimmin aw had a number attached.
No that it wis necessary, they aw had different names in oor street.
Oh except for the Wilsons, an they werenae really in oor wee street, they were on the corners o the big road.
She cawed them Mrs Wilson on the corner, and Mrs Wilson on the other corner.
So their men were cawed Mrs Wilson on the corner’s man, and Mrs Wilson on the other corner’s man.
These rules didnae apply to our neighbours.
She wis Flossie next door, and he wis HarryKirby, just the wan word, go figure, eh?
Elaine, who wis five years older than me and a total dreamboat, pure fantasy material, wis Flossie next door’s wee lassie, and Johnny, who wis just ma age, wis Flossie next door’s boy, that simple.
No only that, but aw unmarried wimmin were wee lassies, ah don’t know why.
Even that Agnes MacKay up the road, number 17, and there’s nothing wee aboot Agnes, ah can assure yis!
Ah mean, well, yis know whit ah mean, ah’m sure.
Anyway, back to the point.
Mrs Paterson at number 11’s man goat a new car, ma mum says.
Noo ma dad’s readin the paper, of course, like always, and no really payin much attention.
He reads it fae the back tae the front, like every man in Scotland, mebbe even the world, ah don’t know, because that’s where the fitba is.

Refer a friend

Ma mum pauses.
She’s great at pausin, ma mum is, she knows jist how long tae pause for.
She watches ma dad, sees him start to notice that she’s paused, and he’s thinkin o what to say, cause he’s no really sure what she wis bletherin on aboot, then she carries on.
It’s blue, she says, dark blue.
Oh aye, says ma dad, which is what he says mebbe ninety-nine percent o the time.
Dark blue, she says again, what do you make of that?
She is using her posh voice, speaking correctly, to show that we’re as good as Mrs Paterson at number 11 and her man even if we haven’t got a new car, dark blue or otherwise.
Whit kind is it, ma brother asks, barely lookin up fae his motorbike magazine.
I have just told you, my mother is getting more posh by the minute, it is dark blue, navy, perhaps.
Naw, says ma brother, whit…
He stops abruptly as ma dad does somethin that makes the paper snap.
Oh aye, says ma dad, wi a slightly different inflection this time.
He is nearly as good wi inflections as ma mum is wi pauses.
He has aboot fifty-seven variations o ‘oh aye’ that he uses to suit any situation that might arise.
And a wee movement that might be interpreted as a nod o the heid, sometimes.
Like now.
Ma mum purses her lips, satisfied wi the family reaction to her news.
She pulls the right side o her cairdigan across her chest, then the left side, picks up some plates and marches through to the kitchen.
So, back to Big Ben and ma money.

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Him’s always the one pulling my bedsheets off when we should be pretending to be sleepy, but it’s always me that’s shouted at for floor-thuddin…

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We’re open again for submissions to our Substack platform. Please read the entirety of the guidelines and our history below before committing anything to screen or paper though ‘cos we’re Northern and pernickety!

Also though before you do that. Are any of you on BlueSky? We had a reasonable following on Twitter but it’s just a cesspit of screaming trolls these days and we get depressed just thinking about it so were thinking about starting all over again on BS - any thoughts on that? Question number two - we’ve been experimenting with an AI podcast thing that talks about our stories and wondered whether any of you would be interested in that? We’ve posted one to the site so any feedback would be most welcome. Okay that’s it with the questions, read on.

Submission Guidelines

Before submitting we strongly recommend you read some of our previously published work if you can. We’re looking for what we call ‘Council Estate Fiction’ that means stories about the people who grow up on free school meals and hand-me-down clothes, the people who frequent the dingy pubs and cheap backstreet booze shops, the people who do the shit jobs at minimum wage who didn’t get to ‘stay at home’ during the pandemic. In short, we want stuff about Britain’s underclass.

Think Alan Sillitoe, think Irvine Welsh, think Kevin Sampson, think Ken Loach…think council estate!

We’re working class and we believe in paying writers…BUT (there’s always a but isn’t there!)…we’re also not exactly rolling in it so can only give you a fiver for your work at the present time. Going forward, as subscriptions (hopefully!) increase, we’ll reflect that in the fees we pay for work. If that’s no good to you then we absolutely understand and we’ll hopefully see you when our position changes.

If you’re still interested then read on :-

Deal Breakers

If you’re submitting the same work elsewhere then that’s fine but please let us know if it has been accepted somewhere else.

We’re only really after Fiction. Our guideline word count for stories is between 1000 and 8000 words

Submissions should be in one .doc or .docx attachment and in a normal (Calibri / TNR / Garamond etc) font, double-spaced and a minimum of size 12.

Please note that we cannot offer feedback on unsuccessful submissions.

The subject line of your email should include: Story Name _ Word Count_Your Name

Give us a 100 word bio of yourself including any site or blog of yours you wish to be linked to

By submitting you are giving us the right to publish your work on our site and an option further down the line to publish in a paperback compilation for a further fee (this will be negotiable at the time and fully dependent on how solvent we are!)

Email work to edbyker@gmail.com

Submissions that do not follow these (pretty easy) guidelines will not be read

Desirable

If you’re subscribed to our Substack site (it’s free – why wouldn’t you be…) you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you can wax lyrical to us in your email about anything we’ve previously published (meaning you bought it 😉) then you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you’re in our Facebook group (Byker Books - natch) then you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you do the above and share our posts/notes/restacks and generally support us then there is no very about it – you WILL be looked upon more favourably 😊

Finally, if you weren’t aware of us before our little hiatus then here’s a potted history from the boss:-

I started Byker Books back in 2008 with a vague notion of publishing the working-class lads and lasses who weren't taken seriously by the big publishers or agents. The people who didn't have degrees in 'creative writing' but had crap jobs that sapped their souls instead, the people who didn't have a 'journey' to bore people to death with but did have an idea for a bloody good story that other people from the estates would enjoy, the people who didn't get glowing reports at their great schools but instead had to battle their siblings for the one pen in the house to write anything down before doing their paper round in the rain. 

That's who Byker Books was for.

People like me.

It was never about the sales or the money, it was never about slavishly trying to perfect SEO on a glorified search engine named after a river in Brazil (work it out) and it was never, ever about shafting the writers for profit - Byker Books was different to the others. During it's lifespan my tiny independent press published over one hundred previously unknown authors through the 'Radgepacket' collections (some of whom went on to get book deals elsewhere) put out twelve paperbacks and published a number of others via electronic means. One of my proudest moments was, when having a pint with one of our authors he compared the BB set up to Factory Records.

At the time it was a much needed initiative for the kind of writer that I've detailed above but the advent of mass-market self-publishing of e-books pretty much negated any need for that so I stopped.

We hope that gives you a flavour of how we roll but just in case you’re still not sure then we can be summed up quite succinctly.

We do what we want because we’re Byker Books.

And we’re back!

Starting with very bad news for our main character and interspersed with flashbacks of his life growing up on a rough estate it tells the story of two men. One who could have grown up wild and one who stepped in when he was needed.

Ultimately it’s about having the courage to choose your own way in life…and in death.

This podcast lark is a trial for us so we’d be really interested in what you think of it.

• Does the fact it’s AI put you off? We’re a very small (miniscule tbh!) operation so doing this in any other way is a non-starter really

• Do you enjoy podcasts? Do you think that maybe listening to this after reading the story is a good accompaniment or would you just do one or the other?

• Assuming you enjoyed it - would you say this was the right length of time or would you prefer a more deep dive into the stories with a longer podcast?

• Any other feedback really - as we say this is a completely different direction for us and we’re learning as we go so please let us know what works and what doesn’t.

Thanks again for taking the time to listen to this and if you liked it/us then please give us a share.

Cheers

The Ed

It meant concrete that remembered everything. It meant stairwells that smelt of boiled cabbage and damp trainers, doors scarred by old arguments, and a lift that sulked more often than it worked. It meant a sky that felt lower than it ought to, like it had ducked to listen in.

I didn’t grow up there. I came f…

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“You going in or what?” asked Allie. Her breath reeked of daiquiris and concealer hid her crow’s feet. High heels clomped the jetty and bitten stub nails worried her purse-strap.

Steve shifted his weight. “Yeah, all right.” He exhaled. “Hold my shirt, will ya?” Shaking hands undid the buttons. Not shaking. Fine as a summer day. But it was not summer, anymore, was it? The cold sting on his chest reminded him. And the night hid its stars.

He steeled himself. Pulled off his shoes and stepped barefoot to the edge of the jetty. It led to a river edged by high stone walls, flowing swift and deep through town. The same town he’d grown up in. What was the rhyme they used to say? Swim it, win it. Brave one, in’ it. He glanced at Allie gnawing her bottom lip.

Then he jumped, caught the edge of her exclamation just as the waters consumed him. Yes, consumed. Dark, flowing, hungry. What else had these waters consumed over the years? Best not to think of that. Swim it, win it.

Searing cold took over his senses. He crested the water. Rubbed his face, blinking. “God, it’s cold!”

Allie was perched on the edge, legs in skin-tight trousers locked together, the lipstick from her bottom lip worn off. “Will you get it?”

“I said I’d try.” Never shoulda given her the damn bracelet. If it wasn’t too big for her wrist, she wouldn’t have knocked it off when she twirled.

“Not like it’s deep,” she said.

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Steve dove, her words echoing in his brain-chamber. Not like it’s deep, deep, deep. His outstretched hand raked the muck, feeling for something hard. Bubbles exploded from his mouth. Something brushed his leg as he kicked off from the bottom, dislodging lake sludge.

He rushed to the surface. Must’ve just been some river-reed.

There was Allie, leaning over the jetty edge, watching. “It’s deeper than I thought,” he announced.

“You’ve got to try.”

“I said I would, darlin.” He sighed as he dove again and the silt was empty, sliding through his hands. Something brushed his leg. Unmistakable, this time. He kicked out and struck something, fleshy and solid like the flank of a shark. He jerked his leg back, kicked upwards. Crested the surface, gasping.

“I swear something’s nibbling my toes.”

Allie crossed her arms in her pale blue jacket, the cotton too thin. A breeze ruffled honey-blonde hair. “Just try to find it, will ya?”

Pulling in breath, Steve dove again.

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THE NEWS

The consultant was one of those softly spoken types who probably held patients’ hands for a living. He kept glancing at the screen like it was personally upsetting him.

“I’m sorry Andy. The cancer has… spread significantly. We’re talking… weeks. A month at most.”

I let the words settle. They didn’t sting. Didn’t even land really. Instead, I just felt a wave of calm rolled through us. Weird really, like a strange kind of peace.

“Aye?” I said. “Whey I suppose we’ve all got to clock out sometime eh?”

The doctor just blinked, expecting us to cry or go mad, he was caught off guard I think. Outside, the hospital car park was bright and cold. Diesel fumes, a bus wheezing to a stop, a woman shouting at a toddler. The real world rolling on, indifferent. I felt for the tabs in me pocket and lit one with shaking fingers. I don’t fear dying, not really, but I am scared of dying their way: piss bag, grey sheets, body wasting away while nurses pretended not to mind the smell.

Nah. Fuck that.

And as I took the first drag, that old voice — gravelly, weathered even — slid into me thoughts.

Not today, boy.

And the past cracked open.

FIRST MATCH

I was a skinny little thing back then — all ribs and hopeful eyes — wearing a hand-me-down shirt two sizes too big. The older lads outside the boozer had decided they were bored enough to start pushing us about.

“Away wi’ ye, ya skinny little prick,” one of them laughed, shoving us so I bounced off a wall.

I tried to square up, but me voice shook and me bottle was nowhere to be seen.

“Leave us alone, man…”

“Oooh, he’s a hard lad now!” The biggest one flicked me ear. “The little Byker bastard. Show us some tricks ya dad learnt yer eh Supermac. Earn ya place.”

I clenched me fists, heart hammering, they knew I didn’t have a dad. Everyone fucking knew. Then the pub door slammed open.

Uncle Charlie stepped out, squinting at the daylight like it offended him. Wiry but durable looking, forearms like fucking railway sleepers.

“What the fuck’s this?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

The bullies shit theirselves. Charlie had that look about him that just screamed divvent fuck with me and round here you learned from an early age to give lads with that look a wide berth. He walked right into their space, eyes dark and breathing slow. Turned to the biggest fucker.

“Not today, boy,”

And that was that. They scattered. Fast.

Then he ruffled me hair.

“Howay daft lad. Kick off’s in ten minutes and we’re not missing it over gobshites like that. One day the whole world’s ganna know who you are and those divvies will still be sat on their mother’s settee waiting for their dole money”

Inside the ground, sat on a concrete barrier with a packet of crisps, everything felt safe.

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STINKING THINKING

Strolling back through town from the hospital towards the Tyne Bridge me face showed nothing. The thoughts were fucking pinging round me nappa like a sweatshop sewing machine on overtime though – rat tat tat!

What about the dog? Poor Otis won’t know where I’ve gone.

He’d understand though, the little fucker loves me more than life itself and he wouldn’t want to watch us deteriorate into a drugged up, befuddled skeleton. A shadow of the bloke who’d took him on adventures up the coast all them years.

Some poor bastard will have to fish us out an all…then there’s the witnesses, they’ll be fucking traumatised.

Aye but they’ll soon forget, I’ll just be a story down the pub on a Friday night won’t I? And that won’t even last long, everyone’s forgotten after two generations anyway.

And then Charlie would be right after all – everyone would finally be talking about us!

But what if it’s a kid who watches us do it? Horrible for them that and it’s hard enough being a kid innit?

It’s fucking shit having morals like, can’t even just off meself without agonising about it.

Then I saw the lads hanging round the street corner. Couple of cans and sharing a joint. Not bothering no-one, not in anyone’s way just mates cackling and laughing like the world was theirs and having a great time. What do they call it now? Living their best life? Fucking right. Have it lads, enjoy every day.

Jesus, looking at them takes us back mind.

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BYKER NIGHTS

Fifteen, pissed on cheap cider that burned the throat and made you bold. Me and the lads — Doggo, Stevey-Two-Beds, Ricky — all leaning against a shuttered shop front, laughing too loud. Shields Road glowed its usual sickly orange under the streetlights and drizzle. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Somewhere else, further down the road, there was shouting.

Then a group of older lads slid out of a side alley. Pale faces. Darting eyes. One had a knife, small but sharp enough to end ya night. I recognised them from the bottom end of the estate. We’d ran from them before.

“What you doing on our patch you pricks?” The knife-boy hissed. “You’d best empty out ya pockets sharpish or things are ganna get messy.”

Me mates backed off instantly and all I could hear was me own pulse thumping in me ears. The knife glinted as the lad stepped closer. I was fucking frozen to the spot.

Then.

Bootsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Uncle Charlie.

Hands in pockets. Chewing a toothpick. Two of his cronies behind him — Big Daz (who once bit a man’s ear off) and Nipper (so called because he’d stabbed someone with garden shears). Charlie looked the knife-boy up and down with pure contempt.

“Put that shite away, sunshine,” he said. “Yer hand’s shaking.”

The twat faltered.

Charlie leaned in, voice low.

“Not today, boy.”

The whole alley suddenly changed temperature. The knife disappeared like magic.
The threat melted. The lads scuttled off, muttering excuses.

Charlie turned to us .

“You lot stink of cider,” he said. “Get home before your mams tan your hides.”

Then he kicked us up the arse.

“It’s not court report or pubwatch where I want to be reading about you son.”

Refer a friend

SAILING

I’d sacked off the jumping off the bridge idea and headed back to Byker for a coffee in the new shiny shopping centre. The café was warm, full of pensioners and stale pastries. I sat nursing an americano that tasted burnt, thinking about me life, the universe and everything. A song played over the tinny speakers, an old tune Charlie always used to put on the jukey at The Hobby when I went to see him on a Monday. Him and his seven brothers, me other uncles, always used to sing this Rod the Mod classic when they were pissed. Listening to it I could feel a smile forming despite meself, maybe I could blow me savings on a cruise and do a Maxwell halfway round – might even make the local news.

MONDAY CLUB

By the mid-nineties I was a grown man. Heavy. Solid. Tattoos up both arms. The type of bloke people stepped aside for. I walked into The Hobby — Charlie’s local — and instantly felt tension. The air was thick enough to chew.

A massive lad — sweaty fucker, red-faced, belly straining his t-shirt — had me favourite uncle backed into a corner of the bar.

“You owe me, old man,” the big lad snarled, jabbing a sausage-finger into Charlie’s chest. “Yer time’s up.”

Charlie looked pale. Thinner. I knew he hadn’t been well but his eyes still shone like coal catching flame. As soon as he saw me walk in, his whole posture changed and he smiled. A tired smile, but real. He gave a small nod toward the big bully. Then he said it.

Quiet.

Certain.

His voice like honey drizzled over fucking gravel.

“Not today, boy.”

The big lump followed his eyes and turned, confused, and then he met the full weight of my forehead smashing through his fat, bully nose.

It was a short fight. Messy, loud, over in seconds.

Afterward, Charlie’s hands shook as he lifted his pint.

“Good lad,” he murmured.

He looked old, but proud.

“The world will talk about you one day son. I’m fucking telling yer.”

Then he gave me a wink and cadged a tenner to get the round in.

THE SHOPPING CENTRE

That was the last time I saw him and listening to the final bars of the song I could feel a bit of moisture creeping into me eyes. Draining the last of me coffee I could just imagine him laughing and calling us a fanny and it made us smile.

Then the screaming started.

A man burst into the centre’s entrance bit, all wild eyes, blade in hand, shouting gibberish, rage, nonsense. Not words. Just raw, vicious sound.

People ran. Some didn’t make it. The floor was already being streaked with red. A girl, young looking and tiny, slipped in a puddle of spilled latte and fell. The attacker saw her. Raised the machete and she screamed.

I stood up from the table. Calm. I’ve got fuck all left to lose.

I walked straight toward the girl and placed, what I hoped, was a steady hand on her shoulder. She’d wet herself and was shaking so hard it rattled her whole body.

“It’s alright, pet,” I whispered, giving her a tiny wink.

Then I stepped between her and the blade. The terrorist prick bellowed at us, hockle flying, swinging the machete in wild arcs.

I could see the armed police gathering behind the glass entrance. I only needed to stall the bastard. So I looked the evil bastard dead in his cowardly fucking eyes and smiled, slow and fearless before looking upward — to who I hoped might somehow be watching — and giving a little nod. I winked back at the terrified lass and then, turning my full attention to the arsehole with the blade I shook my head.

“Not today, boy.”

The machete slashed as I dropped the nut on him. I felt his nose and eye socket splinter even before I heard the bone crack. Pain exploded and then warmth flooded down me belly. It was agony.

But I held the fucking line.

Long enough for the police to fire. Long enough to save her.

As I collapsed the world tilted and the lass crawled to us, sobbing.

“It’s alright, pet,” I whispered again, blood bubbling at me lips.

I just felt peace.

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EPILOGUE

LOCAL MAN DIES SAVING GIRL IN SHOPPING CENTRE ATTACK
Witnesses have praised the “extraordinary bravery” of local man Andy Irving who intervened during yesterday’s violent incident in Byker Cross Shopping Centre.

In an incident being reported worldwide Mr Irving suffered a fatal wound after confronting a machete-wielding attacker who had already injured several civilians. By stepping between the attacker and a young girl, he allowed armed police the crucial seconds needed to safely neutralize the threat. Paramedics revealed that Andy had recently been diagnosed with incurable cancer and had only weeks to live. His actions in saving multiple lives have provoked such a depth of feeling across the globe that memorial services in his name have already been held in numerous countries and the Prime Minister has nominated him for the George Cross.

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© Andy Rivers 2026

Andy has been a Butlins barman, pretend chippie on a Spanish construction site, coach holiday rep, mobile sandwich salesman and outdoor traffic cone washer to name but a few of his eclectic ‘career’ choices. Originally from Byker in Newcastle he now lives on the Yorkshire coast where, as well as following Newcastle United around the country, he passes the time by indulging in his passion for `Professional Geordie-ism’ and drinking. With the royalties from his novels he plans on buying an Aston Martin and having a proper mid-life crisis...you can help by looking at them HERE

The beans arrive all the time, complete with leaves, stem…

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Scott Casey’s father was an ex-Hell’s Angel.

Scott swings the covers off his bed and grunts, yawning and coughing almost at the same time. He catches his blue eyes in the bathroom mirror for a moment and fr…

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Have a look and please let us know what you think.

Happy Reading.

The Ed

Council Estate Fiction

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The Cancer Diaries

I Get Around

Byker Books

I get around...Malaga...ish!

It's great being British. There's loads of reasons really. We've brought a lot of culture, ingenuity and general coolness to the world. But. Sitting in a Twenty-Four hour Wetherspoons at the airport (Birmingham in this case) drinking lager at five am is one of the things we're absolutely unbeatable at. Watching 'Nobby' and his 'Wolfpack' wander past i…

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10 years ago · 1 like · Byker Books

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Noah looks at his palms glittering in the streetlights. The sin is in his blood. These hands would’ve ripped Mary’s pants off her a second later. He wasn’t in control. The sin is stronger than him. Child of sin, just like moma always said. She was right all along. What a fool he had been, secretly hoping he’s different from the one who’s semen created him, breaking its way into a woman forcefully.

“Fool! Idiot!” Noah doesn’t recognise his own voice screaming, while he runs down the street. He can’t return to the house. There’s vanilla scent lingering near the stairs. There’s piss stench crawling down from moma’s room.

Noah feels sick thinking about going home. He runs, until the rain starts pouring. Goes into a mini market. Buys whiskey. Doesn’t know why. Doesn’t care why. Maybe because his father was a drunk and a rapist. Noah’s just like him.

He walks the streets drinking his guilt away. Mary smiles like an angel. Noah would’ve raped her if not for moma. He is the sin.

Noah doesn’t recognise his own voice. He hears a man crying loudly, he feels somebody tugging at his hair. He feels his knees getting wet, sitting in a puddle. He looks at the hands in front of him covered in a shining veil of glitter. He tries to wash them in the puddle but it wouldn’t come off. Nothing can wash it away. The sin runs in his veins.

“Hey, who that?” He hears a voice behind him.

“Is that Gina’s glitter man? Hey, Gina! It’s the fucking glitter man!”

Footsteps splash through the puddles toward him.

“Whoa, look at you, buddy… what’s that? Whiskey? What are you doin’ here?”

“Irene’s in the hospital…” Noah mumbles.

“Help me out, guys! Come on, let’s get him inside!”

Somebody helps Noah up. His feet wouldn’t listen. He doesn’t use alcohol at all. They drag him somewhere. It’s warm and the room is filled with fragrant smoke.

“Let’s get him outta those wet clothes,” somebody tries to undress him. Noah laughs, it tickles. The room is spinning, glittering.

“Look at him. Like a fucking Nazi poster boy; white, ripped, blue eyes, blond. A fucking Aryan.”

“Leave him alone, will you?!” a familiar woman’s voice says. “He’s just a sad boy.”

“Oh, he’s such a cute Nazi. I know a way to make him happy,” a low voice says, and all burst into laughter. Somebody’s touching his chest. Noah laughs.

“Hands off, doll!”

“Come on, Gin! I bet he’s never had a fun day in his life. Let the poor Nazi boy have fun. Look at him, fucking miserable!”

They all laugh and laugh, Noah laughs along. He’s seen some of the faces before. Especially the one with the huge grey eyes.

“Come on, glitter man. Let’s get you to bed,” she helps him up.

All the others gasp and laugh. “Have fun, you two! You want us to join? Don’t fuck him too hard!” They yell.

“Oh, fuck off, guys! He just needs to get some sleep.”

The huge grey eyes lay Noah down on a mattress. He stares at the light dancing on the ceiling. A candle burns somewhere nearby. It smells like cinnamon.

“Let’s get you out those wet pants. Fuck, you’re pretty.”

She covers Noah with a soft blanket. Lays close to him.

“You warm? What were you doing out there in the rain, all drunk and screaming?”

Noah turns his head toward her. Grey irises clash into his blue ones.

“Glitter man, why are you sad? Is your moma sick?”

Noah nods, eyes open, eyes close, he’s too slow to comprehend reality. The huge grey eyes tear up.

“I know why you’re sad. My moma never loved me either.”

Her drunk finger traces the shining dots of glitter on his face. “Your face shines. That’s so cool.” She laughs.

Noah feels like curling into a ball. His drunk smile turns into a frown. He cries quietly.

“Don’t cry, glitter man. Poor boy.” She embraces him. Noah’s drunk face takes refuge in her warm skin. It’s calm, and soothing, the air smells like cinnamon, the gentle candle light paints everything in cosy hues. It’s Christmas, Noah thinks, a minute before he falls asleep.

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He opens his eyes to darkness. Christmas is over. He’s sober enough to comprehend somebody is kissing him in the dark but still drunk enough to give into the moment. It’s Mary, he reasons, who else could it be?

“You’re so pretty. The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” she whispers. Her nude body presses onto his skin.

Noah wants Mary. He grabs the warm body lying next to him, lays on it, and pushes into it, kissing her lips hard. The one beneath him moans, Noah moves into her harder, faster, until his body releases the pressure that’s been building up every night since Mary smiled at him, or maybe since he was conceived. He could never be anything else than the child of sin.

***

Eyes closed. Heavy weight pressing on his chest. Somebody’s touching him. Whispering. He can’t comprehend the words. Noah’s afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. Afraid this nightmare will become reality as soon as he moves. He listens.

“You’re only my second man. The first guy was… it was gross. He said it’s my fault. I couldn’t loosen up. It’s easier with girls. But you’re… it was. Different. Special. Fuck. How stupid am I. You won’t fucking remember this. I know you hate me, glitter man…”

Noah can’t stand it any longer. The stillness is killing him. He pushes the warm body off him gently. Gets up. Pulls on his clothes. The cold, wet fabric hates his skin.

Noah feels her watching him. He can’t look at her. Can’t say a word. But his head is crystal clear.

It’s late Saturday morning. Noah walks out the Pit into the street. The puddles glitter in the morning sun. People watch him surprised. Small town folks see everything. It doesn’t matter. Noah knows what to do. He’ll go home. Clean up. And go straight to the police station to turn himself in for rape. She was drunk. It couldn’t have been consensual.

The twenty-three-year-old burden stares at him from the bathroom mirror. What about moma? It asks. The only answer he can give is – he can’t help her anymore. He’s out of money. It’s just a question of time before the activist reports him. Noah will end up in jail sooner or later. Child of sin has no place living among decent people. An instant wave of relief flows over his chest. No more moma’s piss stench. No more factory work. No more glitter. No more constant pressure. He’ll be safe from moma, safe from his father’s sin. Prison feels like deliverance.

Maybe it’ll be the last time you’ll see her, the face in the mirror says. Noah changes his course. First the hospital, then the police station.

***

She seems to be asleep. Body bloated more than usual. Lips pale. Breathing heavy with chest squeaking like a chorus of rotting floorboards, rising and falling slowly. The doctor said she’ll be back to normal in five days.

She opens her eyes when Noah sits on the side of her bed. Her sight is unusually clear. It might be the last time he’ll speak to her.

“Moma?” he sounds like a little boy again. No matter how she forbade him, no matter how hard she hit him, no matter what she called him, Noah always wanted to call her moma. “Why…? Why didn’t you get rid of me? You could’ve just… Even when I was born. Why didn’t you give me away?” Blue eyes full of tears, waiting. Moma keeps her silence for a long while.

“Half of you is an angel, but the other half is a demon,” she speaks the words slowly, taking them out from beneath the floorboards of her chest where she had kept them buried. “Half of you shines, the other half is full of dirt. I tried to wash the dirt of my sin. Beat it out of you.” She stops to stare at something in the distance of her memory. “I couldn’t kill the sin in me. I tried to kill it in you.”

“You didn’t. I wish you would. I’m sorry, moma! I’m sorry…”

Noah breaks down crying, burying his face in her meaty palm, the hand the slapped his face every day of his boyhood.

“My sin…child of my sin…” moma mumbles, “you look just like him. Blue eyes, sent to make me fall. So handsome,” moma looks at him lovingly. The hand that used to strike, caresses his teary cheek.

Noah stares at her, taking deep breaths. No piss stench. She’s clean and sterile now.

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‘Oh my God, that sounds positively Dickensian.’ How these words slither off her tongue – I think s…

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Eyes open. Eyes close. Lids made of lead. …

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‘Buggeration,’ said Ringo, shivering. He took the designer sweater from around his shoulders and pulled it on over his head. ‘Old Yeller, certainly wasn’t lucky in love, was he?’

His cousin Erik smirked. ‘He was pretty bloody shit at cards too,’ he said.

He yawned and stretched. He turned up the collar of his shabby overcoat and looked around The King John’s Tavern’s deserted car park. Shattered glass twinkled like stars on the tarmac. A gust of wind blew a rattling tin can in front of the car like tumbleweed.

‘You know, life’s not about getting a good hand of card for most of us, it’s about playing a bad hand of cards well,’ said Ringo. He took his car keys out of his trouser pocket.

‘Is that so,’ said Erik. He slammed the car boot shut and walked around to the passenger door.

‘It is,’ said Ringo, walking toward towards the driver’s door. ‘It’s like I was saying about the lizard brain. You know?’

‘Maybe,’ said Erik. ‘Possibly, maybe …’

They opened the car doors and got in the car.

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bitter, cold dawn gasped for life and seagulls screeched as Ringo snaked the car along Marine Drive. They were listening to a phone-in show on local radio. A former professional footballer with a high-pitched voice was whinging on about having to go into rehab and Erik wished the whining twat had bloody well stayed there. He changed stations and found a Walker Brothers song.

‘Oh, very good call, lad. This is more bloody like it,’ said Ringo. ‘That’s real music, that is.’

‘Nostalgia’s exactly what it used to be, eh?’

‘I like what I like, and I am what I am.’

‘Yes, Popeye,’ said Erik.

A lone fishing trawler that was lit up by Christmas lights cut across the stormy, metallic sea. Erik glanced up at the death black clouds that looked like bullet holes in the granite grey sky. He turned back to Ringo.

‘So, what you’re trying to tell me is that this lizard part of the brain is responsible for all of our primitive, non-rational and self-interested behaviour,’ said Erik.

‘Yes, exactly!’ said Ringo, breaking into a grin. ‘The Triune brain is an essential part of human evolution. It consists of the more primitive, reptilian part of the brain, the limbic system- that control’s our emotions- and the neocortex, that is in charge of rational, objective thoughts.’

‘Well, I’m guessing your neocortex is on holiday at the moment then?’

‘For sure. Most probably got its feet up sipping Pina Coladas on a sunny beach somewhere, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Ringo.

Erik grunted.

‘You see? Everything’s coming up roses, Erik,’ said Ringo.

Erik was going to make a comment about manure being good for roses, but he bit his tongue. They’d be in the shit soon enough anyway, he was sure.

‘Once we dump Old Yeller at the pig farm, we’ll be free and easy,’ said Ringo.

‘The world is our mackerel,’ said Erik.

‘Ere, I heard there was another terrorist attack down London last night.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Another stupid twat in a Transit van went mental. Nobody was killed, thankfully, but a few people were hurt.’

‘Well, unfortunately it’s par for the course and a sign of the bloody times, these days,’ said Erik.

‘True enough, Mind you,’ said Ringo. ‘London’s always had its terrors - Jack the Ripper, The Blitz, the IRA, Spandau Ballet, Danny Baker, jellied eels …’

‘Things change. People change.’

‘True enough. The man who sees the world in the same way at sixty as he did when he was thirty has wasted thirty years of his life.’

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‘Very profound, that is. Who said that, then?’ said Erik.

‘I did,’ said Ringo.’ Didn’t you hear me?’

Erik sighed.

‘No, you clot. Who said it originally?’

Ringo sniffed.

‘It was Mohammed Ali, would you believe?’ he said.

‘Oh, yes, it’s always wise to take advice from a bloke who gets punched in the face for a living.’

Ringo chuckled and snaked the car through the rain-soaked streets listening to Lana Del Rey sing about being ‘Young and Beautiful’.

They stopped at a zebra crossing. A chubby woman shuffled across the road pushing a double buggy that was stuffed with two chubby kids. A skinny man in a purple shell suit followed her, smoking a cigarette and jerking on the arm of a lagging, screaming toddler.

‘Look at that lot,’ said Ringo. ‘That’s life in the 21st century, that is. Shit people living shit lives and shitting out shit kids to live even shittier lives.’

Erik laughed.

‘Yeah, not everyone has made the informed life choices that we have, eh?’ he said.

The car started up with a splutter.

‘I assume that lot will all be draining the state to support their shit life choices,’ said Ringo.

‘Assume makes an arse out of both of us,’ said Erik.

‘Young and Beautiful’ ended and was followed by an Amy Winehouse tune. Erik groaned inwardly. It wasn’t so much the song. He didn’t mind it, in fact. But he knew it would set Ringo off on one of his rants. His musical knowledge was as exhausting as it was exhaustive.

‘Aye, she was one of them, eh?’ said Ringo. ‘That thing I was telling you about last night. Remember?’

‘Unfortunately, I do,’ said Erik.

Ringo shrugged.

‘Well, then. 27,’ he said. ‘Twenty bloody seven.’

‘And you’re saying you really believe all that Curse of Robert Johnstone bollocks, do you?’

‘Well, all I’m saying is that it’s a bit of a weird coincidence, isn’t it?’ said Ringo. ‘I mean, Robert Johnstone sold his soul to the devil …’

‘Allegedly ...’

‘… and he died when he reached 27. Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Ringo Jones, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse. They all snuffed it at the age of 27 and all of them were full-blown musical legends.’

Erik checked his reflection in the smudged rear-view mirror. He certainly wasn’t a 27-year-old, that was for sure.

‘What about David Bowie, then?’ he said. ‘He was as old as the hills when he croaked. And Elvis Presley was no spring chicken when he bit the dust either.’

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Ringo lit a cigar.

‘I’m just saying that it makes you think, is all,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to keep an open mind. That’s the problem with most people these days. They’re too narrow in their worldview, like. Their experience is limited by their lack of imagination and their imagination is limited by their lack experience. Know what I mean, like?’

‘Oh, yeah. Clear as crystal, that is.’

Ringo tried to start the car again. It made a whining sound but didn’t start. Then it seemed to wheeze.

‘Oh, great,’ he said. ‘That’s all we need. I reckon it’s cream crackered.’

Erik rubbed his forehead as sirens wailed in the distance.

‘We’ll have to bloody well walk then, won’t we?’ he said.

‘It certainly looks that way.’

‘I’ll have to phone Bully to come and pick the car and its contents up,’ said Ringo, tapping the car boot.

‘No dosh for us though,’ said Erik.

‘Life is loss,’ said Ringo.

He took out his phone and sent a message to Bully. Bully replied with a smiley emoji.

Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled.

‘Oh, bloody great,’ said Erik, looking up at the sky. ‘As if things couldn’t get worse.’

‘Well, a tactical pub stop it is, then,’ said Ringo. ‘Breakfast of champions and all that.’

They both looked across the road at a squat, red and black building.

‘Well, La Rues is the nearest boozer open but …’ said Erik.

‘What? Are you not comfortable in a pub with a predominantly gay clientele?’ said Ringo, smirking. ‘Well, I am surprised. I thought you’d be all up for tolerance and diversity and that.’

‘No, it’s not that. I’m as tolerant as I don’t know what, you know that. I’m all live and let live and the like. It’s just I can’t stand all that bloody techno music they play in there. It sounds like an articulated lorry backing up.’

‘It’s Tuesday morning, Erik. La Rues is not exactly going to be going full on techno time, is it? Anyway, I expect most of the pub’s usual punters will be sleeping it off.’

Erik shrugged and crossed the road. They took off their black leather gloves in unison.

‘Off we jolly well go, then,’ he said. ‘Into the valley of the dolls.’

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We’re now open for submissions to our Substack platform. Please read the entirety of the guidelines and our history below before committing anything to screen or paper though ‘cos we’re Northern and pernickety!

Submission Guidelines

Before submitting we strongly recommend you read some of our previously published work if you can. We’re looking for what we call ‘Council Estate Fiction’ that means stories about the people who grow up on free school meals and hand-me-down clothes, the people who frequent the dingy pubs and cheap backstreet booze shops, the people who do the shit jobs at minimum wage who didn’t get to ‘stay at home’ during the pandemic. In short, we want stuff about Britain’s underclass.

Think Alan Sillitoe, think Irvine Welsh, think Kevin Sampson, think Ken Loach…think council estate!

We’re working class and we believe in paying writers…BUT (there’s always a but isn’t there!)…we’re also not exactly rolling in it so can only give you a fiver for your work at the present time. Going forward, as subscriptions increase, we’ll reflect that in the fees we pay for work. If that’s no good to you then we absolutely understand and we’ll hopefully see you when our position changes.

If you’re still interested then read on :-

Deal Breakers

If you’re submitting the same work elsewhere then that’s fine but please let us know if it has been accepted somewhere else.

We’re only really after Fiction. Our guideline word count for stories is between 1000 and 8000 words

Submissions should be in one .doc or .docx attachment and in a normal (Calibri / TNR / Garamond etc) font, double-spaced and a minimum of size 12.

Please note that we cannot offer feedback on unsuccessful submissions.

The subject line of your email should include: Story Name _ Word Count_Your Name

Give us a 100 word bio of yourself including any site or blog of yours you wish to be linked to

By submitting you are giving us the right to publish your work on our site and an option further down the line to publish in a paperback compilation for a further fee (this will be negotiable at the time and fully dependent on how solvent we are!)

Email work to edbyker@gmail.com

Submissions that do not follow these (pretty easy) guidelines will not be read

Desirable

If you’re subscribed to our Substack site (it’s free – why wouldn’t you be…) you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you can wax lyrical to us in your email about anything we’ve previously published (meaning you bought it 😉) then you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you follow us on Twitter / are in our Facebook group/ both then you will very probably be looked upon more favourably

If you do the above and share our posts/tweets and generally support us then there is no very about it – you WILL be looked upon more favourably 😊

Finally, if you weren’t aware of us before our little hiatus then here’s a potted history from the boss:-

I started Byker Books back in 2008 with a vague notion of publishing the working-class lads and lasses who weren't taken seriously by the big publishers or agents. The people who didn't have degrees in 'creative writing' but had crap jobs that sapped their souls instead, the people who didn't have a 'journey' to bore people to death with but did have an idea for a bloody good story that other people from the estates would enjoy, the people who didn't get glowing reports at their great schools but instead had to battle their siblings for the one pen in the house to write anything down before doing their paper round in the rain. 

That's who Byker Books was for.

People like me.

It was never about the sales or the money, it was never about slavishly trying to perfect SEO on a glorified search engine named after a river in Brazil (work it out) and it was never, ever about shafting the writers for profit - Byker Books was different to the others. During it's lifespan my tiny independent press published over one hundred previously unknown authors through the 'Radgepacket' collections (some of whom went on to get book deals elsewhere) put out twelve paperbacks and published a number of others via electronic means. One of my proudest moments was, when having a pint with one of our authors he compared the BB set up to Factory Records.

At the time it was a much needed initiative for the kind of writer that I've detailed above but the advent of mass-market self-publishing of e-books pretty much negated any need for that so I stopped.

We hope that gives you a flavour of how we roll but just in case you’re still not sure then we can be summed up quite succinctly.

We do what we want because we’re Byker Books.

And we’re back!