Read an excerpt from the #thriller The King of Sunday Morning by @MccauleyJay

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The King of Sunday Morning

Written by J B McCauley

Genre: Thriller

The King of Sunday Morning is a geezer. Not in the traditional sense of the word as in old man. This geezer is a face, a wannabe, a top notch bloke. He is the greatest DJ that never was. He should have been. Could have been. Would have been. Now becoming a has-been.

Tray McCarthy was born into privilege but with the genetic coding of London’s violent East End. Having broken the underworld’s sacred honour code, it is only his family’s gangland connections that save him. But in return for his life, he must deny that which he has ever known or ever will be and runs to Australia where he is forced to live an inconsequential life.

But trouble never strays far from Tray McCarthy and eventually his past and present collide to put everyone he has ever loved in danger. He must now make a stand and fight against those that are set to destroy him and play their game according to his rules.

Set against the subterfuge and violence of the international drugs trade, The King of Sunday Morning is the tale of what can go wrong when you make bad decisions. Tray McCarthy has made some of the worst. He must now save those he holds dear but in the process gets trapped deeper and deeper into a world where he doesn’t belong.


Excerpt from

The King of Sunday Morning


How To Make A Geezer

Geezer (noun) is a British slang term, in its simplest form meaning a man.

Derived from the differently pronounced 'guiser', a name for an actor in a mime. Possibly related to disguise.

It can refer to a man whose name you do not know. It is also used to refer to a man who is overtly manly, masculine, or heterosexual, also someone noticeably capable, reliable, plainspeaking or down-to-earth. Although essentially a masculine quality it is not synonymous with macho however, and its usage may be thought of as very similar to that of the US English word dude. Example: Joe Cole referred to Prince William as a "nice, relaxed geezer." In the British 1971 pop song by the Piglets, Johnny Reggae was described as being "a real tasty geezer".

In Australia, the term geezer is often used to refer to someone from England, due to the belief that the English say geezer a lot; however, it is not as popular as the term POMMY.

The Mile End Mambo


He held him in his arms and looked into the glassy eyes. Yellow flecks dotted the cornea. This boy was dead a long time before Roger had run him through. He knew the look. Too much top shelf and not enough down time.

The body from which life dramatically seeped away began to convulse. It would not be a Hollywood death. It would be a harsh demise for this gangster. Unexpected but unavoidable. He had stepped on the wrong toes and nobody touched Roger’s patch.

The big screen had always glamorised death but there was nothing glamorous about having a gaping 12-inch gash where your stomach had once been. Roger’s white shirt was splattered with blood and sputum. He noted to himself with an air of cold detachment that he would have to dispose of it later. The boy soldier’s back arched in agony. A gurgling noise rushed from his throat and then he was gone.

Roger put his arm underneath the boy’s knees and slowly lifted him from the red morass that had filled the doorway. He cradled him in his arms and walked slowly along the pavement. A young couple averted their gaze as he struggled with the limp body. They knew not to look. This was after all the witching hour in the East End. What you don’t see, you can’t tell. He turned the corner and moved into another shop doorway. It was a Dixon’s electrical shop exalting the latest stereos and TV’s.

Roger placed the body carefully on the ground. He took one final look at what 10 minutes ago had been the epitome of arrogance, bravery and youth, then left. He walked quickly to the edge of Walters Street, turned into Burden and darted through a now deserted car park and onto Rially. He saw a red telephone box just up from Dunston Road. He opened the door and tried to ignore the stench of piss and shit. He dialled the number and waited patiently for the connection.


His rich baritone West-Indian voice caressed the receiver.

“Yeah, he’s in Dixon’s shopfront on Walters Street.” He paused, digesting the question on the other end of the line.

“Yeah he’s dead. Dead as a door nail. See you at home.”