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Scrapyard Blues by Derryl Flynn
Synopsis
Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. How did one crazy night of excess end up with 25 years behind bars?
Convicted for the brutal murder of an ex girlfriend, JD Smith is back on the streets a bitter and broken man. Now in his fifties, the once good looking, carefree, former musician in a post punk R & B band is left to reflect on the bizarre events that led to his long incarceration without right to appeal, where, despite maintaining his innocence, all the evidence continues to point to his guilt.
Out on licence, Jack Smith is determined to find the real killer and bring them to justice. But before he can pursue the quest to clear his name, he first has to assuage the demons that reside inside his head and haunt his nightmares; rid himself of the darkness that continues to taunt, torment and test his sanity.
Other distractions come in the shape of a sultry female lawyer whose practice methods aren’t always entirely ethical. And a trip to India in search of an elusive butterfly, the daughter he hasn’t seen since she was two.
Mistrusting of a legal system that has already failed him, Jack decides to take the law into his own hands, but unbeknown to him, someone else is on a mission to catch a killer...
Scrapyard Blues is a pulsating story of one man’s quest for redemption and reconnection with a life lost.
Excerpt
The prison officer walks briskly down the narrow corridor with a sense of purpose, shiny boots marching out time along polished concrete. I follow a couple of paces behind, at my own speed, not quite lethargic but almost. Inside my head I instinctively apply a twelve bar rhythm in order to mellow out the kerlunk-kerlunk regular beat that leads the way. He casts the occasional backward glance just to make sure I’m still with him. I send him a little reassuring smile in return. He frowns slightly and it’s like he’s a bit puzzled as to why I don’t want to get this short journey over with as quickly as possible, only for me, this journey has been anything but short, and even now I can’t be certain that it’s at an end. After all this time, I’m in no rush.
At the end of the corridor the kerlunk-kerlunk stops abruptly, and the accompanying rhythm inside my head fades into the ether. I casually swing my bag of meagre but precious belongings over my shoulder and patiently watch the screw punch numbers into an electronic keypad on the wall. Patience is a virtue. He takes a key card, which is attached to a chain, which is, in turn, fastened to his belt, and swipes it in another machine. LED’s twitch and beep, electronics click and whirr and metal bolts slide neatly back into their hollow shafts with satisfying clunks. A green light above the door flashes. He pushes it open and ushers me through.
‘This is as far as I go, Smithy.’ He offers me a look that says he’s sad to see me leave, like we’ve been best mates for years, and like he’s about to burst into tears and give me a hug. But the guy’s a virtual stranger, hardly knows me. The walls know me better; I’ve been here longer, a hell of a lot longer. My eyes show the same sentiment as the walls: fucking none. He passes me my release papers with one hand and offers me his other. I shake it loosely. ‘You take care now, and make sure you stay out of trouble. You hear?’ He gives me a condescending slap on the back as I turn away, and for the millionth time a voice inside my head screams out in protest, because the fact is I’ve never done anything wrong in my life, not criminally wrong anyhow, but no one has cared to listen for these
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By Simon Denman, Author and Founder of Readers in the KnowSynopsis
Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. How did one crazy night of excess end up with 25 years behind bars?
Convicted for the brutal murder of an ex girlfriend, JD Smith is back on the streets a bitter and broken man. Now in his fifties, the once good looking, carefree, former musician in a post punk R & B band is left to reflect on the bizarre events that led to his long incarceration without right to appeal, where, despite maintaining his innocence, all the evidence continues to point to his guilt.
Out on licence, Jack Smith is determined to find the real killer and bring them to justice. But before he can pursue the quest to clear his name, he first has to assuage the demons that reside inside his head and haunt his nightmares; rid himself of the darkness that continues to taunt, torment and test his sanity.
Other distractions come in the shape of a sultry female lawyer whose practice methods aren’t always entirely ethical. And a trip to India in search of an elusive butterfly, the daughter he hasn’t seen since she was two.
Mistrusting of a legal system that has already failed him, Jack decides to take the law into his own hands, but unbeknown to him, someone else is on a mission to catch a killer...
Scrapyard Blues is a pulsating story of one man’s quest for redemption and reconnection with a life lost.
Excerpt
The prison officer walks briskly down the narrow corridor with a sense of purpose, shiny boots marching out time along polished concrete. I follow a couple of paces behind, at my own speed, not quite lethargic but almost. Inside my head I instinctively apply a twelve bar rhythm in order to mellow out the kerlunk-kerlunk regular beat that leads the way. He casts the occasional backward glance just to make sure I’m still with him. I send him a little reassuring smile in return. He frowns slightly and it’s like he’s a bit puzzled as to why I don’t want to get this short journey over with as quickly as possible, only for me, this journey has been anything but short, and even now I can’t be certain that it’s at an end. After all this time, I’m in no rush.
At the end of the corridor the kerlunk-kerlunk stops abruptly, and the accompanying rhythm inside my head fades into the ether. I casually swing my bag of meagre but precious belongings over my shoulder and patiently watch the screw punch numbers into an electronic keypad on the wall. Patience is a virtue. He takes a key card, which is attached to a chain, which is, in turn, fastened to his belt, and swipes it in another machine. LED’s twitch and beep, electronics click and whirr and metal bolts slide neatly back into their hollow shafts with satisfying clunks. A green light above the door flashes. He pushes it open and ushers me through.
‘This is as far as I go, Smithy.’ He offers me a look that says he’s sad to see me leave, like we’ve been best mates for years, and like he’s about to burst into tears and give me a hug. But the guy’s a virtual stranger, hardly knows me. The walls know me better; I’ve been here longer, a hell of a lot longer. My eyes show the same sentiment as the walls: fucking none. He passes me my release papers with one hand and offers me his other. I shake it loosely. ‘You take care now, and make sure you stay out of trouble. You hear?’ He gives me a condescending slap on the back as I turn away, and for the millionth time a voice inside my head screams out in protest, because the fact is I’ve never done anything wrong in my life, not criminally wrong anyhow, but no one has cared to listen for these