People visit Blackpool for various reasons: sun, sea, sand, sex, and seagulls. This dark and twisted story, set against a backdrop of the UK’s most famous seaside resort, follows a private investigator as he tries to locate a missing person believed to be amongst the homeless community. It’s an investigation that will bring him face-to-face with violence, torture, punishment, murder, and the seagulls from hell.
Seagulls from Hell was selected as BEST NOVELLA for the Saboteur Awards 2023.
From the novel:
The sign said: Welcome to Blackpool. With a lowering thundercloud on the horizon, and the first flecks of rain coming down, the view did not look particularly welcoming. The famous tower was a faraway blimp on the horizon. The curves of a gigantic rollercoaster loomed like the curls of loose threads near the hem of a threadbare grey sky. The whole scene looked even less welcoming when a hefty spatter of seagull shit slapped across the windscreen. The guano appeared like a mixture of white emulsion with a green and yellow kernel at its heart.
Overhead a seagull screamed.
“Filthy fucking creatures,” Chris grumbled. He hit the wiper and the screen wash. For a moment the entire screen was whitened by diluted bird shit. Then the car’s single blade began to clear the mess and he was looking at the approaching town of Blackpool and telling himself this weekend wouldn’t be as bad as he feared.
“Isn’t it supposed to be lucky?” Pamela asked.
Chris said nothing. The car was a Pagani Huayra Roadster, based on the classic styling of the Pagani Zonda R. It was the sort of glossy, low-riding sports car that made heads turn when he drove past. The Nero Blackstar paintwork was something he polished every week until the vehicle was back to its usual oily lustre. A spattering of corrosive seagull crap on the bonnet was going to mean he needed to T-cut the damned thing over the next weekend or maybe shell out for a professional external valet. If that was needed, he’d be looking at a bill in excess of two hundred quid just to remove the stain from a spatter of bird shit. In short: Chris didn’t feel particularly lucky.
“Bloody gulls,” he muttered.
“But isn’t it supposed to be lucky?” Pam pressed.
He tightened his facial muscles, hoping it looked like he was giving the dizzy bitch a grin whilst he nodded. A weekend with Pam promised several good things. For a start, because she’d selected Blackpool, he knew she was cheap. Also, she banged like a shithouse door in a thunderstorm. And, probably most important for his needs, she was very, very attractive. Her hair, breasts, legs and face all seemed pleasingly proportioned, youthful, and made her strikingly similar to the stars of his favourite clips on Pornhub. If only he’d been able to mute her volume in the same way he could mute a Pornhub clip when the woman had one of those fake screeching orgasms, Pam would have been the ideal partner. Maddeningly, Pam seemed to take exception to his attempts to cover her lips whilst they were having sex. And, after he’d tried it once, she was adamant he couldn’t stuff her knickers in her mouth ever again.
Another spatter of seagull shit was thrown across the windscreen. It was a torrential downpour of seagull shit, he thought miserably. “Bastard things,” he snapped.
As they’d been driving, Chris had noticed the screech of the seagulls increase the closer they got to Blackpool. At first it had been a faraway sound, slightly jarring and a little discordant, but nothing more than a reminder that they were nearing the coast. A few miles closer and he realised he wasn’t hearing the gentle seagulls that could be heard cooing over the intro of The Sleepy Lagoon when it was played on Desert Island Discs. These were gulls that were screeching for food or territory or sex. After a while he’d wondered if he was really hearing gulls, or if he was approaching some nightmare...
