Monday, 10 February 2014



Powerful, honest, gripping . . . Winterwood is a tragic story whose strength lies in its strong, vivid sense of milieu and extremity of events. It is about tough but engaging characters who live a hard life amidst a rugged, fierce land. The novel brings the inner lives of these characters alive, and tinges the landscape and events with an epic quality. The reader invests in the main characters, which makes the story engaging and draws them along. Written in a taut and evocative style, it has occasionally startling and illuminating diction; but, at its best, it is clear and simple. Overall, it shows real honesty and power. The novel is gripping and compelling, and sure to give many people great joy. (First Editing: Editorial review, abridged)

When the mirror holds your reflection and the glass shatters, be wary of the tidal wave of reality that can drown you in dreams. Patrick Andrews is a writer in the masterclass of the dysfunctional. He will take your deeper than you dare to fall. Lose yourself in Patrick's imagination and there is always a part of you that will never be found. (Morry’s Book Reviews)


The Drunken Pig

The door of the clubhouse burst open.
His father reeled, almost wobbled, out of the bar, staggered down the steps, and advanced in awkward patterns towards the car with a heavy stoop of the shoulders, his head forward, and a fixed stare that made one think of a wounded bull, panting heavily with groggy eyes, wanting to charge but finding it difficult to do so. He wore an open bush-shirt with the white singlet underneath hanging out, so stained with beer it was almost yellow. He held a glass of beer in one hand, the froth leaping and spilling, and his voice was loud and deep. “Fuck off, bitch. Ain’t finished drinking yet – and you want to rule my life.”
She stopped near the car, but wouldn’t step back, her body rigid like a wall bracing itself for the inevitable impact of a giant wave. She watched him all the way, her cheeks red, inflated, and she struggled to breathe. “We’ve been waiting two hours for you!” Her voice was loud, furious, every word grating against her teeth.
“Told you not to come, didn’t I?”
“I’ve got the kid back there. You think we’re going to wait all day?”
“That’s your bloody problem. Told you not to disturb me when I’m with the boys. Told you a hundred times. And I meant it. Don’t ever do it again.”
“You’ve got a family. What about us?”
“How dare you, how fucking dare you. Piss off and let me finish my drinking. You don’t ever come here again. Next time I’ll hit you. Don’t believe me? Fucking swear I will.”
 “You monster!” The tears came, and the more tears that flowed the redder her face became.
George threw his beer on the ground and it shattered into a hundred pieces; he raised his fist, holding his breath, his eyes dark and glowing. The woman in front of him stood still, but it seemed as if there was a whirlwind around her. With his other hand, George took out the car keys and dangled them in front of Lorraine, taunting her to step forward and grab them. “Get the fuck out of here now,” he growled. “Go on – walk home, cow, or sleep in the car, but I ain’t finished drinking yet.”

The Useless Rugby Player

He watched the ball, wanted desperately to take his eyes off it, falling like a burning meteor tumbling from the sky, his foot planted inside the touchline like a good left-winger. Although it was a cold, miserable day, he felt he was in the midst of flames. They were all hugging the touchline, inches from his face: the overgrown, hairy bully from the school yard; the jock who smelled the best and probably wore perfume, who always picked Martin last in his teams; the tall, bearded English teacher, a leftover from the sixties, who drove his Harley to school and had given Martin a D for his last essay; and Michael, his older brother – all expecting the worst, all watching him with intent eyes, unblinking. And the ball plunged down. He put his hands out like a cushion, expecting it, but saw from the corner of his eye the opposition bearing down on him like rampaging bulls loose in a stampede, and the ball went clean through his fingers.
“Shame on you.”
“Just what I expected.”

The Street Fighter

The man moved fast and was upon Terry in a flash.
Terry dodged the first blow, but the man threw a second and it hit him on the head. Terry shuddered under the impact, felt dizzy, his heart thumping. He touched his head, and when he pulled his finger away it was sticky with blood. Then the man lashed out with his fists again and Terry went down. He felt the air rush out of him, a burning sensation filling his lungs. He crouched, one knee in the gutter, and took a deep breath. Tears filled his eyes; it was impossible to see anything, and he heard the cheering and hollering, the voices around him ringing in his head.
“How’s your mummy going to buy you out of this one?”
“Where’s your God, dooley boy? You’re prayers aren’t going to save you now.”
“Heh-heh, they shouldn’t have sent this one out.”
He knew he had to get up quickly or the fight would be over, and there wouldn’t be much left of him, but there was a terrible pain in his head. He felt swept away by the chanting of the gang, the stamping of their feet, felt submerged in the ground he was kneeling on.
Get up, get up. Give yourself a chance.
And in that deep dark place, under the black sky, surrounded by those terrible sounds, he got up, his breath restored.
I’m the captain, the goddamn bloody captain.
Never take a step back.

Trapped in the Frozen Chamber of Hell

He heard the keys rattle as the orderly unlocked the door and stepped in. The orderly stuck out his potbelly like a peacock, wanting to look twice his normal size, and he clutched his long-arm truncheon like it was an extended piece of his arm.
“Have a shower. You stink.”
Paul wanted to ask where he was, but he felt some weight around his throat that kept his voice muffled. The orderly told Paul to put his hands behind his back, and then handcuffed him. He nudged Paul with his baton, led him out of the cell and along the corridor where everything was white, blinding white. He struggled to keep to a straight line because the whiteness seemed to swallow him, and his head was dizzy, as if he were in a washing machine, the baton nudging him again and again, harder and harder, the cuffs digging into his wrists, and he heard the orderly giggle each time he dug the baton into his spine.
Paul had a shower while the orderly stood outside the cubicle, grinning at him and rubbing his hand up and down the baton in a grotesque, masturbatory motion, whispering: “I’ll do it to you tonight, boy, good and hard, and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you can do, nothing at all.” Paul felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as if to say ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ and sensed cold slime all over his body, which the water did little to wash away.

The Last Man on Earth

“I want to go over to Officer Brown and throw up all over him and tell him to fuck off because he says he knows who I am, but I feel I have never seen him before and I don’t know why he exists – why anything exists. God help me – what’s happening to me? I look around and I can’t understand anything. Why are all the people here? And you – why are you with me on this perfect day? And the countryside, and the plains and the hill, and the goddamn prison itself? Why?”
Paul got to his feet. With blurred vision, he stared at the verge of the hill where the four pines stood against the blue. A dirt trail ran alongside the pines, down the hill, turned towards the prison and connected to the front gate.
“Those trees,” Paul pointed to the pines on the hill, “you see them? Why are they there?” He knelt in the grass again and saw a dandelion by the base of the manuka tree. It looked as if it were on fire, so he picked it up. “What is this flower doing here? What is the meaning of it? What is the meaning of anything? I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell you how I feel. It’s like I’ve descended on another planet and all I see is darkness because nothing makes sense. The people, everything is in slow-motion, stop, start. I feel like the last man on earth. It is the worst day of my life. I’ve been scared to death before, but I hadn’t known the meaning of fear until what I feel now. God, I can understand why people would want to kill themselves.” His face was drained of colour and his fingers gripped the grass. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

House of the Dead

The grey spread out against the sky, you prepare to meet your end
Measuring your life with cigarettes and drinks of beer
Now it’s your last butt-end, the glimmer fades in the pool of rain
The winter that has no end.

Your home is a bar in George Street or Princess Street
Drowning in the smell of cigarettes and beer
Your head an empty chapel
Thinking? Thinking? Thinking of what?
The wind outside whispers your regrets.

Repressed, self hate, self blame
White walls and white coats closing in
No fire in the hallway
Flames beating in your head
You cling to fading memories
In the House of the Dead.

No comments:

Post a Comment