Never Forget - Michel Bussi

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1 Jamal Salaoui’s diary For a long time, I was unlucky. Fortune never favoured me. I came to imagine life as a huge conspiracy, with the whole world against me. And at the heart of this conspiracy was a god who behaved like a sadistic teacher, preying on the weakest kid in the class. Meanwhile the rest of the class, only too happy not to be on the receiving end, joined in. From a distance, to avoid getting caught in the crossfi re. As if bad luck was contagious. Th en, over the years, I came to understand. It’s an illusion. In life, the most vicious god you’re likely to meet is a teacher who treats you as a scapegoat. Gods, like teachers, don’t give a damn about you. You don’t exist for them. You’re on your own. If you want things to go your way, you have to keep playing the game. You have to pick yourself up and start over, again and again. Keep trying. It’s the law of probability. And perhaps, at the end of the day, of luck. My name is Jamal. Jamal Salaoui. Not the kind of name that brings good luck, apparently.

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The art of deception - Louise Mangos

Buy Here PROLOGUE The vice of his fingers tightened on my wrist, and tendons crunched as they slid over each other inside my forearm. As he twisted harder, I turned my body in the direction of his grip to try and relieve the pain. His other hand appeared from behind him and the heel of his palm hit the side of my head. As it made contact with my ear, a siren rang in my brain, blocking all other sound. I kicked out, my foot slamming into his shins. His forward momentum increased as he was caught off balance, and his upper body folded. His shoulder glanced off the picture frame on the wall and it fell to the floor with a clatter. The rebound flung him away from me. As he let go of my arm, we fell apart like a tree struck down the middle by lightning. I staggered backwards, calves ramming against the coffee table, pushing it towards the sofa. Terror now ruling my fear, I grabbed the ceramic vase toppling from the table. I swung it ineffectually at his head. I was briefly su

Whatever it Takes - Tadhg Coakley

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Jigsaw Island - Lynne McVernon

Buy Here ONE ANNIE – Harkin Croft, Kilachlan, Scotland ‘You broke his nose, Jude.’ ‘I know.’ He gives me such a wicked look of triumph I nearly let go. But I conjure myself a whiff of mindfulness and go on. ‘OK, I’m struggling to know how I can help you. Give me a heads up.’ ‘Get off my case, Mum.’ ‘Come on, you know the rules. One, talk about your issues honestly. Two, give other people the respect you expect yourself.’ ‘Yeah, right. How about three?’ ‘What’s three?’ I’m sensing an adolescent 180° slew. ‘Get off my fu –’ He’s slewed too far. My cue to be a traditional parent. ‘Hold it right there, buster. I’ll tell you what three is. Three is what you’d say if Maggie was in the room.’ His face twists, his voice is low. ‘That’s no’ fair. Using Maggie.’ Just turned thirteen, he’s learnt boys don’t cry, especially not mixed-race boys in small Scottish coastal towns. Even to their mothers. He’s also right. I am out of order. Two years on, both of us still

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