Hello, Book Dragons! Today I would like to welcome you all on my stop of the Blog Tour for Faceless By Vanda Symon and I would like to share an extract from the book, with all of you. Thank you very much to Anne from Random Things Tours for the invitation. Please do show some love to all the wonderful book bloggers on this blog tour by following and sharing their work. 🙂
Publisher: Orenda Books
Release date: 17 03 2022
Price*: Kindle £4.27 (GBP)/ Paperback £8.99 (GBP)
Kindle $6.15 (USD)/ Paperback $15.95 (USD)
Pages: ~ 320
You can get this book here:
Description of the book: Worn down by a job he hates, and a stressful family life, middle-aged, middle-class Bradley picks up a teenage escort and commits an unspeakable crime. Now she’s tied up in his warehouse, and he doesn’t know what to do.
Max is homeless, eating from rubbish bins, sleeping rough and barely existing – known for cadging a cigarette from anyone passing, and occasionally even the footpath. Nobody really sees Max, but he has one friend, and she’s gone missing.
In order to find her, Max is going to have to call on some people from his past, and reopen wounds that have remained unhealed for a very long time, and the clock is ticking…
Extract from Faceless:
The cigarette butt was caked in what looked like vomit, but it was a long one, so he stuck it in his pocket anyway and moved on to the dumpster. He’d timed it well, the truck hadn’t come yet, and he was early enough that no one else had beaten him to it. He’d spotted The Ferret on his way here and had ducked down the alleyway before he could be seen. This skip bin was on The Ferret’s run, but if he was clever, he could get in quick, grab a few choice bits and still leave plenty of booty so he would never know. He knew his arse would get kicked good and proper if he was found out, so he wasted no time. He reached his hand down and felt something soft, plastic wrapped. He pulled it up. Pay dirt. A perfectly good ham bun. There was a touch of what looked like mould on the top, but that didn’t matter. He could pull the ham out. Even he wasn’t desperate enough to eat bad ham that he knew would give him the shits. Another grope down and he found an apple, slightly manky but reasonable. He tossed it back – that health food could kill you. One more dive down. All the while his eyes looked up the street, his legs poised to run. He felt something soft again, loose, rough surfaced, this time not wrapped. He pulled it up. A half-eaten lamington, a chocolate one. He brushed the dirt off it and shoved it into his mouth as he limped off down the street and around the corner.
It had been a cold night and his arthritis was giving him jip. He hated getting old. He hated feeling cold. He hated being alone. He pulled the wrapper off the bun and tossed it on the ground, then carefully pulled out the piece of ham. He gave it a sniff. Nah, it was gone. He tossed it aside for one of the dogs that roamed around the place to discover. He didn’t bother picking the mould off the bun. It made it taste earthy, like truffles. He giggled at the thought. Truffles. It was a long time since he’d tasted those things. Now he thought about it, it was utterly ridiculous to shell out huge dollars for what was effectively a bit of fungus. At the time it was the height of indulgence. He shook his head and pulled the cigarette butt from his pocket. This was his indulgence now, although it lacked the sophistication. He wiped the cigarette on his trouser leg, put it in his mouth and winced. It was vomit. But hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He lit up, dragged in a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the calm. He didn’t have to wait long.
He was feeling melancholic this morning. Melancholic was a good word, descriptive, it rolled off your tongue well. It reminded him he was educated; it reminded him he was once able to afford truffles. It was better than thinking of people. People brought pain.
His mind was drifting towards pain, so instead he directed his thoughts to the girl. She hadn’t come by last night. She always called by to make sure he was alright and to let him know where she’d be, if she wasn’t dossing down there. And although she was nothing to him – well, other than company, and someone to talk to, share a fag with – he felt a proprietary pang of concern. But she could look after herself. He’d been on the street long enough to see people come and go; those that could make it, those that couldn’t. Those that drank themselves to death, or sniffed themselves stupid, and those who couldn’t figure out the rules and got themselves dealt to by the likes of The Ferret. No, she was different. She had it all figured out, she played the game, but she had heart. He started to limp his way back to his digs, just in case. In case she came back. In case she needed something. He’d go back and wait.
About the author: Vanda Symon lives in Dunedin, New Zealand. As well as being a crime writer, she has a PhD in science communication and is a researcher at the Centre for Pacific Health at the University of Otago. Overkill was shortlisted for the 2019 CWA John Creasey Debut Dagger Award and she is a three-time finalist for the Ngaio Marsh Award for Best Crime Novel for her critically acclaimed Sam Shephard series. Vanda produces and hosts ‘Write On’, a monthly radio show focusing on the world of books at Otago Access Radio. When she isn’t working or writing, Vanda can be found in the garden, or on the business end of a fencing foil.
Website: vandasymon.com / Twitter: @vandasymon
*-the price was taken from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com on the current date. The price might change at the time of your purchase. The links used in this post for book purchases are affiliates.