✍️ My Writing Update
I'm back wrestling with the sequel to El Peculiar.
Trying to pin down a completion date feels like guesswork with University and life taking chunks out of the week, but I reckon the book will see the light next year.

This little preview should keep you going until then.
Honestly, your support means the world to me. It keeps the pen moving.

All the best,


Tommy




The Devil Went Down to Doha: El Peculiar Returns
Nine years on, the ghosts are back.

Sadie, Jose, and the unbreakable Hector Peculiar—thought you'd seen the last of their chaos?

El Peculiar tied it up neat, but life’s messier than that.

Welcome to the sequel: a cross-continent hunt laced with betrayal, sun-soaked regrets, and blood-hot vengeance. Buckle up. The Devil's in Doha.

This is raw noir fuel for the soul. Serialized grit from the edges. More chapters dropping soon. Hit subscribe if you dare.

Sadie and the Sunshine Trap
Motherhood’s a cage with a killer view.

Sadie’s traded Liverpool fog for Spanish sun.

But the kid’s demands and domestic drag are chipping at her survivor steel.

Balcony sangria in hand, she’s one call away from the firestorm.

Strong? Hell yes. But destiny’s a bastard that bites back.

She’s holding the line… until the phone rings.

Jose, the Hustler, and His Thai Paradise
Stolen cash buys paradise—till the bill comes calling.

Jose’s jet-setting in Bangkok, empire-building on Hector’s dime.

Ladyboy lover PUM keeps the nights wild.

But every hustler’s trail leads home. Contacts remember. Debts demand payment.

His luxury? It’s rented—and eviction’s en route.

He’s untouchable… or so he thinks.

Hector Peculiar: Wormwood’s Finest Escape Artist
Nine years pickled in rage; now he’s loose and lethal.

Hector’s rotting in Wormwood Scrubs for double murder.

But prison just sharpens the blade.

With Qatari killer Saad’s blueprint, they claw over rooftops and razor wire.

Destination: Doha. Mission: Find Jose. Make him pay.

Vengeance doesn’t wait. It hunts.

Freedom’s sweet—revenge will be sweeter.

Chapter 1: Wormwood Scrubs, 2009. London, England
The Fuse Ignites.

Nine years.

Hector Peculiar smashed the phone into the cradle. Plastic cracked against metal.

Nine years in this British shithole, and that little pussyhole Jose was still out there, laughing his arse off, spending Hector’s money.

“Where the hell is him?” Hector bellowed at Rodriguez, his Colombian minion.

Rodriguez, miles away, scratched his balls and lied.

“Yes, Boss. All my contacts are looking.”

He smacked his Thai ladyboy on the arse. She turned, two fingers up at him. The phone went dead.

Hector, fuming, walked back to his twelve-by-six cell.

Another twenty years waited, then extradition to Colombia. His life was over because of Jose. That piece of shit.

The steel door clanged shut, slicing through his quiet rage.

The bare box: a bunk, thin mattress, a sink, a toilet smelling of stale piss. Not the luxury he’d earned.

Murder charges pinned him to concrete, steel mesh over the window. He hated the bastards—the screws controlling his life.

He stripped, lay on the bunk.

I’ll be out soon.

The cell door swung open. His cellmate entered, sneer plastered across his face.

The screw clanged the door shut behind him. Hobnail boots echoed down the landing. Keys jangling. Cheap cologne drifting away.

Hector jumped up, pacing. He had to get out, fast.

Saad watched him, expression blank.

“What’s eating you, El Peculiar?”

“I can’t take it, Saad. This place kills me.”

“I know, my friend. But how do we escape Wormwood Scrubs? It’s tough.”

Hector smirked.

“They call me El Peculiar for a reason. I have tricks.”

“Tell me.”

“I have a contact outside. A master. He gets us out.”

Saad raised an eyebrow.

“How do we reach him?”

“We have access to the mail. A secret message. He’ll know what to do.”

Saad thought it over.

“How do we avoid the screws?”

“We need to be careful,” Hector shrugged.

“But we pull this off. Are you in?”

Saad hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes, El Peculiar. I’m with you.”

Days blurred into coded whispers and smuggled plans.

Then the reply:

“Be ready at midnight on the 26th. I’ll be waiting.”

Excitement tightened Hector’s chest.

“Everything is set. Champagne, tasting freedom. I give you my word. Next week. Inshallah.”

“It had better happen, amigo. I can’t take more of this.”

“Relax. Prepare for the Middle East. Warm sun. Live like a king. You won’t be disappointed.”

Hector wasn’t sure about the sandpit, but freedom mattered most.

He needed out. Needed to catch that dog turd Jose, wherever he hid.

Saad, forty, with liquid brown eyes and an almost effeminate voice, hid a dangerous nature.

He threw men off buildings or slit throats without thought. Ruthless. Charming. Six feet tall. Muscular. Sharp with smuggled steroids.

He told Hector about Doha: booming skyline, West Bay towers, diversification from oil, humid heat.

“Sounds boring,” Hector spat.

“Not as dull as this cell, where you play with yourself, eat slops, lose teeth, your dick shrivels to a pea.”

“You’re right. Sorry, amigo. I lost my mind. I look forward to sampling the delights of your beautiful country.”

Hector had tried escape plans for years: tunnels, bribery, hot air balloons. None had Saad’s brain.

He prayed it would work. That night, tossing and turning, dreaming of freedom.

Prison smelt of disinfectant, sweat, and odours that drove him mad.

Doors slammed. Keys jangled. Screws shouted. The Scrubs woke.

Saad prayed five times a day, driving Hector nuts.

Days crawled. Hector’s thin moustache twitched with suppressed action.

“We need to get out, Saad. I can’t spend another day in this shithole,” he said.

“Yes. Time to move,” Saad agreed.

“The ventilation system,” Saad suggested. “We crawl through the pipes, get out unnoticed.”

Hector’s eyes lit.

“Not bad. Open the vents from inside. Move fast.”

“Map first. Create a distraction,” Saad said.

“What sort?”

“Mohamed starts a small fire. Pulls screws away.”

“Can’t be too big,” Hector cautioned.

“You worry about damage? We’re in prison, El Peculiar. Damage is the point.”

“Fair. But we must be careful.”

Months of shadows and study forged the path.

Ventilation mapped, signals set, fire prepped.

Night of the 26th. Excitement, lighter, torch, map. Screws finished rounds. Mohamed lit the fire: cloth soaked in alcohol. Flames licked walls. Smoke billowed. Alarms screamed. Screws ran.

Hector and Saad slipped into the vents. Cramped. Uncomfortable. Chaos below. Blinding alarms. They followed the map.

Hours later, they emerged on the roof. Quick steps. Drainpipe. Shinned down. Cool night air, adrenaline. Prison wall, barbed wire. Wire cutter. Hector lookout. Wire parted. Slipped through, into darkness.

Small crack near exercise yard. Handhold. Grappling hook from coat hanger. Hook caught. Tested. Knotted sheets to Hector.

Climbed. Strength on tiny handhold. Topped wall. Saad followed, sheets for help. Scrambled over. Lowered down. Landed in bushes. Ran to field. Alarms in distance. Ran until car. Rodriguez laughed.

“Duck down. We’ll be away soon.”

Engine roared, tyres squealed onto the A40.

Risky. Brutal. They broke out of one of the country’s most secure prisons. Pulled it off.

But the hunt? That’s just beginning.

Chapter 2: Two Weeks Later, Spain
Sunset Shadows Lengthen.

Sadie, as the Liverpudlian in her still knew herself, watched her son Alberto on the beach.

Nine soon. Loved him, but quiet life bored her senseless.

Needed sharp excitement.

Sun beat down. Air thick with salt. Waves crashed. Gulls cried.

Alberto, yellow t-shirt, navy shorts, kicked a football with friends.

“Pass it! Goal!” mixed with the sea roar.

She remembered simple pleasures.

“Mummy, I’m starving. Can we get food?”

She laughed. “Come on, son. Back to the bar.”

Sunset painted sky orange. Cool breeze rolled in. Beach bar busy with locals and tourists.

Manuel, barman, tall, dark-haired, friendly moustache, mixing drinks. Hands rough, skilled. Bar smelt of paella, beer, cocktails. Decor bright, cheerful.

Rosa happy here. Boss Nigel died, leaving her secure. Manuel trustworthy, ran place. They called it The Ten-Million-Dollar View. Shared bed sometimes, like brother and sister now.

Rosa and Alberto at back. Manuel took order. Food arrived.

“Mum, when do we see Grandmother?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she tutted, softened. “Very old. We’ll wait and see.”

Finished, upstairs, read story. Alberto asleep smiling. Stroked hair. Kissed forehead. Light off.

Downstairs empty.

Sadie, thirty-nine, stunner. Blonde hair, green eyes sparkling. Fit, toned. Confidence fierce. Witty. Independent. Survivor. Past: rape, betrayal, therapy. Strong for her son.

Manuel bolted door.

“Senorita. Man came today. Looking for you.”

“Who?”

“Spoke Spanish, not from Spain. Knew you long ago.”

“Look?”

“Cowboy boots. Blue eyes. Five foot eight. Late fifties. Rude, haughty. Big shot.”

Heart skipped. Couldn’t be Hector. In prison.

“What did you tell him?”

“Said you out with son. He’ll call tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Bed.”

She ran upstairs. Googled name. All over internet. Hector broke out. Mind whirled. Memories: Jamaica house, two dead bodies, Hector tied up. She ran, moved to Spain. Realised Hector was a man of honour in his own fucked-up way.

Next morning. Sun hot. Rosa on balcony, shimmering sea. Salty breeze. Mind elsewhere. Nine years.

Cold sangria. Phone rang. Heart leapt.

“Hola, Senorita. Long time.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Never mind. I have resources.”

“Found out last night. You broke out.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m in Spain. Need your help,” Hector urgent.

Sad thrill cut her quiet life. Past back.

“What help?”

“Meet me this afternoon at hotel. I’ll tell all.”

Sigh. Pulling on old life like favourite, dangerous dress.

“Okay. I’m in,” Sadie. Heart racing faster than seagulls.

One step back in… and the door slams shut.

Chapter 3: Bangkok
Neon Veils the Knife's Edge.

Sun dipped over Bangkok. City vibrant, chaotic. Streets choked with people, air thick with food, incense, exhaust. Motorbikes whizzed. Music blared.

Rodriguez and local ladyboy Hai strolled main street. Wide-eyed. Overwhelmed. Guided through noise.

Stalls selling crafts and produce. Mango picked, sweet scent filling air. Street vendor, grilled chicken. Aroma, spices, tender meat.

Street performer played Thai instrument. Melody stopped them. Buddhist temple. Sandalwood mixed with chaos. Hai lit incense, bowed. Rodriguez relaxed.

Side street café. Two Thai teas. Warm, aromatic.

“What do you think?” Hai asked.

“Amazing. Never seen anything like it.”

“Glad. Won’t be bored.”

Drinks finished. Rodriguez grateful for sensory assault. Glad exploring with Hai. Glad rid of El Peculiar, safely in Spain. Needed a beer.

Bar. Heavy wooden door opened. Chatter, clinking glasses, smoke, low light. Floor sticky. Music hummed. Walls murals and neon signs. Bottles lined bar.

Cold condensation on glasses. Bass vibrated floor. They laughed, enjoying noise and energy.

Hours passed. Rodriguez saw him: foreigner back booth, staring at laptop, most beautiful ladyboy.

Fuck. Jose. Ripped off El Peculiar.

Jose smiled, proud Spanish accent. Skype call finished. New contract. Leaned back. Satisfaction settled.

PUM leaned over, squeezed balls, whispered. “You sexy, handsome man. I want to fuck your brains out here. Now.”

They laughed. Jose’s erection stirred.

PUM: long dark hair, heart-shaped face, brown eyes, full lips. Skin warm, golden, soft. Moved like silk. Smelt tropical: jasmine, frangipani. Voice melodic, soft music. Knew tricks.

Deep, perverted sex for hours. Cocaine. Jose loved her touch, her thrill.

Jose hustler since boy. Landed Bangkok after ripping off Hector. Homemade jewellery, t-shirts, import/export. Found niche: online marketing. Small agency, social media, SEO. Hard work. Thrived. Talented team. More money than imagined. Only laptop, Thailand. Bragged to family.

Only one block: stutter. Made him shy. Worse in English. Refused to let it stop him. Practised relentlessly. Spoke carefully. Passion melted stutter. Confidence key.

Leaning back, buzzing, inky Bangkok night sky.

Did not notice Rodriguez taking photographs.

The lens clicks… and the trap snaps.

Chapter 4: The Spanish Street
Scent of Danger in the Air.

Air thick with freshly baked bread, roasting meat, frying churros. Pavement warm. Breeze soft. Sadie brushed past people, felt fabric, scents.

Couldn’t resist churros. Warm, sweet dough melted. Perfect jolt.

Every sense awake, Sadie walked towards hotel, Hector.

Eager. Terrified. Wanted to hear what he wanted.

But wanting's a weakness—and Hector's full of them.