Sinners is a novel with two strands, one set in 1952 and the other in 2002. In 1952 the central character, Philip Hudson becomes involved in a situation which leads to the death of his classmate, Lol Wrightson. Fifty years later he has never spoken about the incident until a journalist appears and persuades him to break his long silence.

In 2002 Philip Hudson is living quietly in Devon, running a papershop and looking forward to his retirement. He was born and brought up in the north east of England but left there in his teens and has never been back. His departure was caused by an incident in which a classmate, Lol Wrightson was shot by a police marksman after waving a toy gun at him. Philip holds himself responsible for Lol’s death and has never spoken about the incident.

In the first chapter of the novel, Leila Ward, a young journalist from the north east comes looking for him. She writes the Fifty Years Ago column for her newspaper, is intrigued by the story of Lol’s death and wants to know more about it. But she has another reason for tracking Philip down. There was a girl, Tina Townsend with Philip at the time of Lol’s death and Leila believes that Tina’s brother, Ron, may be the father whom she has never met. The story traces Leila’s search for her father, and Philip’s search for his abandoned son.

This novel was shortlisted for the Hookline Novel Award in 2009 and is now available on Amazon. It is available for Kindles and other compatible software.

“Thoroughly enjoyable coming of age story. Funny and moving”

5 stars

“A good story and believable characters”

5 stars

“Thoroughly entertaining read. Bits of it reminded me of Kingsley Amis. Well executed.”

4 stars

I waited in the corridor, which had dark yellow walls covered by layers of dust accumulated over many years. The secretary, the only woman in the school, came out of the Head’s study carrying some papers and files, and said, ‘Dr Craddock will see you now.’

The Head was sitting at his desk. A naked light bulb hung above him. There were old school photographs on the wall.

‘You were riding your bicycle in the High Street last Saturday morning,’ the Head said without looking up.

I agreed with him.

He further informed me that I had been riding the afore-mentioned bicycle in a dangerous manner and that a member of the public had rebuked me. He wanted to know if I remembered what my reply had been when thus rebuked. I assured him that I did not, though the memory of it was so acute that it sent sweat trickling down my spine. And did I know who that member of the public was who had rebuked me? It was clear from the Head’s tone that it must have been a person of the greatest importance. It couldn't have been the King, because he had died recently, I reflected. Maybe Winston Churchill had had a couple of pints in The Black Horse on that particular day, or maybe it was the local landowner, Lord Londonderry who had been looking for bargains in Stockton market.

‘It was Mr Quigley, Headmaster of The Blessed Martyrs’ Junior School who rebuked you.’

Was that all? A mere headmaster. What a let down.

‘I need hardly say...’

But he did at great length.

‘... and I am absolutely appalled to hear that a pupil from my school has behaved in such an abominable way. I have spent some time trying to determine an appropriate form of punishment.’

Crucifixion? Castration? Boiling in oil?

‘You will go immediately and apologise to Mr Quigley and he has my full authority to punish you in any way he deems appropriate. After you have seen him you will report back to me. Is that clear?’

As crystal.

Paradoxically, when I walked out of the school that morning I felt a sense of freedom. I had escaped. I was walking along the high street when everyone else was in school. I could do whatever I wanted; have a coffee at Pacittos, go to the station, get on a train and never come back.But the feeling of freedom evaporated as I approached The Blessed Martyrs’ School. I had no idea who these martyrs were, but I thought I knew how they felt.

It was a school of the old school, a grim, grimy building with an odour of stale food, urine, and disinfectant which smelt worse than the urine. It had high ceilings painted custard yellow, and cabbage green walls covered in children’s paintings, stick figures, suns with faces, all dusty and curling up at the edges.

A man came towards me, a scruffy man in a shiny, baggy navy blue suit. His tie hung loosely from his collar. I assumed that he was the caretaker.

‘Can I help a young man from The Grammar School?’ he said.

‘I’m looking for Mr Quigley.’

‘Then look no more, young man. You’ve found him,’ was the hearty reply.

‘I’ve come to apologise, sir.’

‘So you’re the guilty party, are you?’ Mr Quigley said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hudson, sir.’

‘Not your surname. Your first name.’

First name? Teachers didn’t deal in first names. At school we hardly admitted to having first names. They were an embarrassment, like mothers.

‘Philip, sir. ’

I winced at the sound of my own name.

‘Well, Philip, you were a silly lad, weren’t you? Not for what you shouted at me. I’ve heard worse things than that. For riding dangerously.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He held out his hand to me.

‘Go thy way and sin no more, Philip’ he said, ‘Apology accepted. Cut along.’

Cut along? Had he been reading public school stories? Did people in the real world say, Cut along? I had been mentally preparing myself to join the blessed martyrs and now I was being told to cut along.