A short extract from my latest novel - ’The Pointless Life of Derek Stone’
=========================================================================

(Just to set the scene, Derek is going to interview a woman who called the magazine where he works. He's not meant to because he's just a proof reader. He's trying to further his career and is shitting himself.)

I lock my bike to a nearby lampost and look up at the sky. It's like diamonds sprinkled onto black velvet. They wink at me. I take a deep breath and walk up the garden path. The block of flats at the end is large and white like some Greek villa. These obviously belong to some fairly wealthy people and they're certainly a step up from my damp shithole. The door has a large glass pane with elaborate patterns engraved on it. I look for the buzzer then suddenly realize I don't remember what flat numbers she's in. Or what her name is. Shit. I decide to guess. How old am I? 22.
BUZZ
'Hello?' someone says. The voice is female but it's hard to match it to the woman on the phone through the intercom.
'Hello, this is...' shit think of a false name, you were meant to do that before you came out. 'Mouse Mack!'
'Mouse Mack?' repeats the voice. Shit that's not a name! Who's called Mouse? Why would I say that? Think fast.
'Mack, Mack LeMous, from Metropolitan Man Magazine.' Am I French? Why am I French? What happens if she starts trying to speek to me in French?
'Why did you say Mouse Mack?' she asks. Shit. Ummm...
'I'm a bit drunk?' This wasn't well thought out. She sighs.
'I think you have the wrong number.' The woman hangs up. She sounded pissed off. That must have been the wrong one, that's a blessing really. Hmm... up or down? I try 23.
'Hello?' comes another female voice.
'It's Mack LeMous from Metropolitan Man Magazine.' A long pause.
'I'll be right down.' Few, lucky guess second time with the number. It must have been in my subconscious somewhere, amongst all the filth. I wait and try to make out a body through the distorted glass. Is that someone? No. Hmm... Before anyone arrives I suddenly have a good idea. These are rare and I like to make the most of them. I take out my phone and set it to record before slipping back in my pocket. It's fairly new and has two gigs of memory; I can get the whole conversation to transcribe it later. Or maybe to use as evidence? The door clicks open and there stands a thirty-something vixen. She's in a summery blouse that doesn't completely cover her long legs. Her hair is straight and somewhere between blonde and brown. Her lips are full and painted in bright red. She has firm features and could easily be a model. 'Follow me.' she instructs in a sultry voice. I will. Anwywhere.
She takes us up marble steps and to her appartment which has been left open. As I enter I am taken aback by the space. I wipe my shoes on the mat and look around. Everything's white, even the furniture. Classic looking statues decorate the room along with paintings. Looks like Michaelangelo, Dali... probably originals by the look of the place. There's a stair case at the far end of the room and a balcony behind some flamboyant curtains. It's so clean I'm afraid to breath incase my germs ruin the decor.
'Can I get you anything?' she asks. Her voice is like silk. 'I'm having some wine.'
'Okay that would be nice.' I answer feebly. She disappears round the corner and rustles for a moment. I don't know whether to follow her, or sit down, so I just stand at the door awkwardly. She reapears holding two glasses and gestures me to sit down. I pearch on the edge of the whiter-than-white couch and place my wine on the glass coffee table. She slides a matt under it. Damn, that was dumb. She gets out a cigerrette and tries to light it several times before her lighter finally sparks into flame. Note to self: carry a lighter so I can be swarve.
'Before I go on,' she says gently, 'I want this to remain anonymous. I cannot be a named source.' I nod. That's in the writer's code of honour - protect the source. It's perhaps the only line in the code these days. This should be interesting.
'Of course. So...' I say leaning back slightly trying to appear nonchalant. 'What's your story?' She blows out a steam of smoke from her red lips. I hope I don't get a boner.
'My husband is my story. Bill Spencer.' she breaths. I raise an eyebrow in suprise, apparently I think I'm Roger Moore now. The name is familiar. Spencer... yes he's a famous author!
'The Bill Spencer?' I ask. She sucks on her fag and blows smoke up into the air where it swirls around the ceiling. She's like a dragon. A sexy dragon. Like the female dragon in Shrek. Is it wrong that I find that sexy?
'No.' she says finally. 'A Bill Spencer, with the same name. It's just a coincidence. Only mine's a lout and a druggy. He's a good for nothing and I've had enough. He's gone to far this time and I can't stand by and watch people get hurt.' I pretend to write this down on a piece of paper. I can remember it so I don't really need to write anything yet, but if I don't look like I'm writing something I'll look rude and unproffesional. So I draw Snoopy.
'Specifically what's he doing?' I ask. That's a classy little nudge I've given her.
'Specifically drug traffiking to youths. Not just the normal stuff either.' My eyes buldge a bit but I try to hide my disbelief. This is big!
'Let me get this straight - your husband Bill Spencer is selling drugs, and it's something unusual... new?' she bites her lip and glances nervously sideways. She closes her eyes showing me her heavy eye shadow.
'Yes.' she answers. 'And it'll change the world.' I don't know what to say. She stands up and walks over to the blacony. She blows a puff of smoke into the night. She seems pretty stressed. Maybe I should be comforting her.
'I'm sorry.' I say pathetically.
'About what?' she demands, flicking the stub outside.
'You know...' Your husband being more evil than the love child of Satan & Hitler! 'Everything...' She paces around the room behind me and peers over my shoulder.
'Why are you drawing Snoopy?' she asks. Fuck. At least she knew what I was drawing. That's kind of a compliment...
'I... err... like... Snoopy...' I stutter. this is going terribly. I look up at her trying to look innocent and see her mouth curl into something resembling a smile. Few. She sits back down oposite me and crosses her legs. I decide to move the topic away from dogs and back onto drugs. 'And what exactly does this drug do?' I ask, pretending that never happened.
'It's a hallucinogenic. It's very powerful, and it's virtually undetectable. The thing that makes it so dangerous though is the form. It's liquid.' This is like something from a sci-fi film... this is way out of my league. I wouldn't even know how to go about writing this story.
'Can you offer any evidence for what you're saying?' I ask. Maybe that was a stupid question. She look at me and is about to speek when suddenly there's a gigantic roar outside.
'AAAARGH!' I yell startled. It's just a motorbike pulling up outside. Shit that was really unproffessional. To be fair though this has been rather intense. I need to backtrack. 'Arrgh! Shooting pain in my back!' she's not listening though. She's getting up, standing to attention.
'You need to go.' she says urgently. 'He's back.'
'Holy crap... I mean... but he'll be coming up the stairs won't he?' I can hear footsteps I think...
'He's not suppose to be home this early!' she's paniking now too. 'Here, this way...' she's leading me towards the balcony. She slides open the door and I step out into the cold air. The balcony is white like the rest of the place and has creapers. Like Romeo and Juliet. Mrs Spencer looks at me through the glass sliding door. 'Stay here.' she instructs. Then she shuts the door, locks it and draws the curtains. Right.

I put my ear to the glass door. It's cold. I can hear muffled shouting. The door slams shut. The shouting continues... damn, that means he's inside. Why do women do this to themselves? Here's a hot older woman and for some stupid reason she's sticking around this no-good druggy. Women want to fix men. Maybe I should be more broken? I'm pretty fucked up but obviously not in an attractive way. Note to self: being attracted to comics - not sexy. Drugs? Sexy apparently.
There's a lull in the noise. Do I dare pull the door open? Suddenly the shouting begins again. I feel sick with the knowledge that I very nearly just got myself killed. Oh no, I remember - she locked it. I have a feeling I'm going to be here a long time so I walk over to the edge. There's a brilliant city scape panning out beneath me. Offices are all closed now, but lights from flats still hang in the darkness. Cities are beautiful at night. Everyone goes on about the forests saying that ' ooh I love forests, buildings are ugly'. It's true for the most part, but at night cities are better than forests. Night forests are shit.
The wind is starting to make my cheaks go numb. I could die out here of pnumonia. I can see a faint flashing coming through the parting in the curtains. It's the TV. Holy shit, they're snuggling up to watch TV. They might even fall asleep here. I'm going to die. This is all Sarah's fault.
I get out my crappy mobile and select Mark from my contacts. It bloops twice then I hear his pathetic voice.
'Cock.' he asnwers.
'Alright?' I ask.
'Yeah, not bad. Yourself?'
'Not great to be honest.'
'What fuck up have you gotten yourself into this time?' I laugh at this.
'Um, actually a pretty big fuck up to be honest.'
'Where are you now?'
'Right now, I am locked on a balcony.'
'You locked yourself out?'
'Oh no, not my balcony. A balcony.'
'Who's?'
'I can't remember her name.'
'You dog.'
'Not really. I was interviewing her.'
'Interviewing her?? Why??'
'I intercepted her phone call at work and thought I'd pretend to be a journalist.'
'You really are a dick. Is she fit?'
'That's not the- yeah she is actually -but that's not the point! She told me her husband was selling drugs and-' suddenly I realise where I am and lower my voice '-she told me her husband is selling some new super drug... then he came home angry and she locked me on the balcony...' After I finish talking Mark is silent for a few minutes. He's barely ever speechless.
'You twat.' he says eventually. 'You complete twat. This is brilliant. This is the best thing I have heard in years.'
'Yeah it's fucking brilliant.' I say with more than a hint of sarcasm.
'Why are you such a moron?'
'I'm not a mo- okay I'm a moron.'
'So what now?'
'I don't know, I was kind of hoping you might have a solution.'
'You asked the right man.' says Mark all proud. 'March in there and tell him - look I know you're selling drugs, let me sleep with your wife.' I sigh.
'I'm so glad I rang you. Twat.'
'Alright alright... hm... you can't jump down?'
'Not without breaking every bone in my body.'
'Might be worth it. What about near you? Any other balconies?'
'Yes! Good point! That's good thinking actually!'
'What do you mean 'actually'?' he asks in mock offence.
'Oh nothing. Yep, there's a balcony next to this one on the right. There's a wall in between but I think I can climb it. Hang on.' I stuff the phone in my pocket and have a quick look around. There's a table and two small wooden chairs out here with me. I drag the table to the wall and climb up. It wobbles and clunks underneath me but I'm stable enough. I grab the wall and heave myself up, white paint and grass stanes smearing across my shirt and scratching my stomach red underneath. I swing my legs over and jump down. My knees feel it.
This balcony isn't so nicely kept. There are weeds growing around the edges. I creap over to the window and look through. No one. I bring the phone back to my ear.
'There's no one here.'
'Try the door.'
'You think?'
'Definitely. This is brilliant.' I ignore him and try as quietly as possible to slide the door back. To my suprise a light tug is enough to un-suction the door and it slides satisfyingly open. Shit...
'It's open!'
'Right. Told you.' yeah because he knew without a shadow of a doubt. 'Now get the fuck out of there.' I don't need telling twice. 'Wait -' what's he want now? 'What would you rather be: a dwarf with no legs or a human with the head of a rat?' he asks.
'I don't have time for- wait, dwarves are human you prick!' I hang up and stash the phone in my pocket. He'll moan about me hanging up later but right now I've bigger problems. I carefully shut the door behind me cutting off the horribly cold air gusting through and mince my way through the living room. This place is a complete pig stye, there are empty pizza boxes and cans of beer strewn hapharzardly across the surfaces and I'm having a hard time stepping between the clothes lying on the floor. I freeze to check out my reflection in his mirror - I really don't see why girls don't fancy me - but before I make it to the door a fat naked man appears in the hallway dripping wet.
Instinctively I dive and roll behind his sofa. I hurt my elbows a bit and land on a pile of coats and underwear. Disgusting. The fat man obviously didn't see me. That was a pretty good roll actually. I'm like Jackie Chan or something.
Suddenly the sofa buckles. Shit, he's sitting down. This has to be among the most ridiculous situations I've ever been in. Top ten for sure. What is this - bizare land?? This is weirder than a fish with arms. Shit, mustn't laugh at the jokes I tell in my head when I'm trying to hide.
Suddenly I hear the TV flicker on. Sounds like halfway through Gladiator.

And if you want to know what happens next you'll have to hope I get published!