Out now from Paddy’s Daddy Publishing and Rewan Tremethick

7 06 2014

Fallen on Good Times: a paranormal detective Noir novel.

Kindle eBook | Paperback book

Fallen on Good Times Front Cover 600x375Described by Paddy’s Daddy founder Mark Wilson as ‘a whirlwind debut‘ Rewan Tremethick’s first 1920s American mystery novel follows Lalso Kane, a paranormal detective, as he takes on his most dangerous case to date.

Fairy tales are warnings. Legend is history. Monsters are real.

America, 1920. The city of Pilgrim’s Wane. The people on the street can be dangerous, the ones in the shadows even more so.

Private Detective Laslo Kane is giving up. But then a brutal murder drives a terrified investor to offer Laslo a life-changing sum of money to solve the case. The fee could set Laslo up for the rest of his life, assuming he still has one when he’s finished going up against the most dangerous crime family in the city.

Watch the trailers below

Fallen on Good Times – paranormal, part comedy, all mystery. Find more information at:


Buy on Amazon as a Kindle eBook or Paperback:

Kindle UK Paperback UK
Kindle US Paperback US

Interludes and Pace

1 06 2014

Interludes and Pace.

That Difficult Fifth Novel

16 05 2014

Paddy's Daddy Publishing:

An excerpt from Mark Wilson’s upcoming fifth novel

Originally posted on Mark Wilson Books:

Having just passed the 30k mark on my work in progress, I thought I’d post an update and an excerpt. The Man Who Sold His Son is by far the most difficult book I’ve written so far. normally I sit down at my PC and just type about the movie I’m watching in my head. Aside from a little research and some plotting before hand, there’s hasn’t been a lot more to the writing process for me than that instinctive and spontaneous approach.

This book, though. It’s my difficult fifth child. The plot is more complicated and precarious than any I’ve written before, and I’m finding that for long periods I sit and take notes and make maps of plot points and events to join together and work through. getting t all straight is hard work. the actual writing comes as easily as ever, but the process of getting to…

View original 1,183 more words

Guest Post: Getting discovered at the perfect time

12 05 2014

Fallen on Good Times Front Cover 600x375At the beginning of 2013 I was on the verge of giving up writing. Not permanently. It wasn’t paying off, and I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to keep ploughing away at it. I thought I’d put it all away somewhere for a few years and do what grown-ups and real people are meant to do: get a job you hate, work for hours a day in an office or store full of idiots, and generally be miserable. My reasoning was that I could approach writing the ‘sensible’ way – on the side, after paying the bills.

I have Twitter to thank for my change in circumstances. I noticed someone I had just followed was following the account of a new independent publisher called Paddy’s Daddy Publishing. If the name doesn’t ring a bell I must have published this on the wrong blog. I followed them, thinking it would be useful to get chatting to them as it could lead to something later down the line. In a year or two’s time was the original plan.

What actually happened was that, half an hour later, Paddy’s Daddy Publishing, having read my blog sent me this tweet:

Suddenly it was the plan to put writing on indefinite hold that was put on indefinite hold. It doesn’t matter how small or new the company, for a writer to actually get a submission request from a publisher is a big thing. They spent most of their time beating authors away with sticks, drowning under a flood of submissions that they don’t want. Having a publisher actually ask you to submit something to them is like the princess who is tied to the stake ceasing to struggle and saying to the dragon, “Oh, go on then, try a leg or something.”

I wanted to strike while the iron was still hot, before they forgot about me. P.D.P were likely to be inundated with requests, just like any other publisher. I gave myself a week to get my submission in shape and sent off. In that time, I wrote the synopsis and polished the first three chapters as best I could, then sent them off on a Friday. The rest of the book needed a lot of work, but I knew how publishing operated. It usually takes a couple of months before you hear back on a submission, so I figured I had plenty of time to polish up the rest of the manuscript.

That Sunday, Mark emailed back asking to see the entire manuscript. Bollocks.

Two frantic days of non-stop editing later, I submitted Fallen on Good Times in its entirety. The rest, as they say…

This opportunity couldn’t have come at a time when a boost was more needed. I don’t know if I had lost confidence in my writing, or was just too worn down by the whole system to carry on. Maybe I just yearned for something more solid. Either way, it reminded me that I am a good writer, that I can come up with ideas that other people think are interesting, and it told me something I had hoped, but needed to know for sure.

I was worth publishing.

Fallen on Good Times – Released May 31st on Kindle and in Paperback

Fairy tales are warnings. Legend is history. Monsters are real.

America, 1920. The city of Pilgrim’s Wane. The people on the street can be dangerous, the ones in the shadows even more so.

Private Detective Laslo Kane is giving up. But then a brutal murder drives a terrified investor to offer Laslo a life-changing sum of money to solve the case. The fee could set Laslo up for the rest of his life, assuming he still has one when he’s finished going up against the most dangerous crime family in the city.

Find out more about the novel and sign up to get the first chapter free here.


About the author:

Rewan 200Rewan (not pronounced ‘Rowan’) Tremethick is a British author who was named after a saint. St Ruan was invulnerable to wolves; Rewan isn’t. His paranormal detective noir, Fallen on Good Times, is being released towards the end of May. Rewan has already had two murder mystery novellas published.

When not writing, he can be found drumming, reading, and pondering. He works as a freelance copywriter, so it’s hard to find a time where he’s not writing anything. Rewan is a fan of clever plots, strong woman who don’t have to be described using words like ‘feisty’, and epic music. He has dabbled in stand-up comedy, radio presenting, and writing sentences without trying to make a joke.

He balances his desire to write something meaningful by wearing extremely tight jeans.

Other links:





The Man Who Sold His Son – Preview

30 04 2014

Paddy's Daddy Publishing:

Mark Wilson’s new project, The Man Who Sold His Son

Originally posted on Mark Wilson Books:

The following passage is an excerpt from my upcoming 5th novel, The Man Who Sold His Son. I’d previously placed this on the back-burner after writing the first third of the book, as dEaDINBURGH: Book 1 was itching my head. At present, I’m writing this as my main project whilst working on dEaDINBURGH: Book 2

The Man Who Sold His Son is a welcome return to my native Bellshill. The following excerpt is pre-edit.


Bellshill, Lanarkshire






 Alex sped the along Bellshill Main Street on his vintage Kawasaki Ninja enjoying the freedom of being on his bike. It was past midnight and a warm July night so he had the roads to himself. Hardly anyone drove these days, most choosing to use The Tubes, and those who did invariably drove those soulless hydrogen-powered cart monstrosities. Alex couldn’t imagine being without his bike. Riding his Kawasaki…

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Le Roi Est Mort

16 03 2014

Alright? It’s that time again, where I dip your tiny minds into the ever growing vat of hate which is the world of Paul Carter, from my novel, Paul Carter is a Dead Man. This one, Le Roi Est Mort, is a flashback to 2009. It’s a slightly deeper insight into the day that Robert Lodge took over. Please, enjoy. Links of course are at the bottom, if you want to follow the story further and buy the novel. It’s my best one yet, but the others are still pretty good too, so yeah, if you like my writing, buy my writing!


Le Roi Est Mort


This is what they want. Five words which created his argument. His justification, for being there. This is what they think they want.

Where there was, was Downing Street. Number ten. His hands gripped tight around the Prime Minister’s neck. Measured breaths. Calm. Eyes closed. This is what they want.

Behind him stood his closest friend. Watching on as he squeezed the ever diminishing life from coward’s body. Behind his closest friend stood two others, guns in hand. When the Prime Minister stopped breathing and his heart gave up, one man’s eyes flickered with the slightest hint of a satisfied smile, the other showed no emotion. This is what they need.

Outside of the building there were more. Soldiers. Police. Teachers. Labourers. Call centre operatives. Window cleaners. Prostitutes. Children. The noise was cacophonous as the people cheered loudly when he and his closest friend carried the corpse of the Prime Minister from the door. This, is what they think they want.

They bundled the body into the back of the van. No ceremony here, just a job which needed to be done. No men spoke as the van made the journey from Westminster through Newington and Southwark. Around them car horns bleated. Victorious fists pumped in their direction. His closest friend nodded and blinked slow acknowledgment to all that offered them support. He himself stared straight ahead, wary of the nature of the growing support in recent days. The blanket of hate. The ignorance of the uneducated. The blinkered masses. But. This is what they think they want.


As the hatred grew, the more sporadic and without focus it became. The people. They needed a leader. They needed a voice which held more sway with important people. They needed a voice that had access to a larger vocabulary than only text-speak and coarse vulgarities. The reservoir of animosity needed a tap which could focus effort in places where it might make a difference, instead of being left as an ignored message on some ridiculous social network. A derided and misinformed opinion. He saw his opportunity to become that tap. That focus. That leader. 

In the months prior to now, he spoke out through the newspapers. He forced them to bear continued witness to the horrific images from that day, when the bomb went off. Images of royalty, decapitated. Women butchered. Children, maimed. He asked his government, his employer, what they planned to do to satiate the country’s thirst for revenge. No answers came. He questioned the sanity in the continued practise of leaving the troops overseas, in countries that wanted no help. Countries whose own populations hated the British, and the God damned Americans, who foisted help onto them like a bad Christmas sweater from a despised relative. No answers came. The support of this voice. His voice. It grew so much, and so quickly. Television broadcasters invited him to say his piece live to the country. He said it. The words he spoke with so much ferocity and resolve, they filtered into the minds of every man, woman and child and they worked into their hearts. Their desires. Their every waking need became consumed by one Robert Lodge, and the sense he seemed to speak. This, is what they think they want.

Now, is the time for change, he’d said. Now, is when we take back this once great island, and we make her great again. It is time to show the rest of this disease riddled planet that we do not need them anymore. We can survive perfectly fine on our own.

The protests in his favour steamrollered those against him. He was the man who would carry the country into a new age. The age of New Britain. Of course, the liberals and the socialists would cry that anything he proposed would breach every kind of human right that each person held. Robert Lodge simply told them that if they didn’t want to be here, then they knew exactly where the nearest airport out of there was. The support grew ever still, and it became almost bigger than Lodge himself. It became so words were useless. They demanded action. They demanded that the Prime Minister be deposed with immediate effect. The leader of Britain refused, he clung on to the slimmest shreds of hope that the situation would blow over. He’d managed to ride out the scandal of his sending pictures of his erect member to the married, and quite heterosexual Chancellor, and had somehow survived Mars Bar Arse-gate, so was sure that he would surf this latest wave of disillusion and come out of the other side unscathed. How wrong he was.

Today was March sixteenth, 2009. Robert Lodge spoke with his increasing team of recruits. Boys, this is the most important day of your lives. Of my life. Today is the day we make this country what its people want it to be. Today is the day that we make history. After today, there won’t be a Britain. After today, we will be a new Britain. His men cheered. They each updated their Facespace statuses to call every person who supported the cause to come with them and witness a new dawn. They climbed into the van, and made their way slowly through the riots to Westminster. Thousands of people greeted them, and cheered as they smashed their way into the house of who would soon be the former most important man in Britain, and killed every person in there.  


“Robert, you’re going to be a fucking legend, do you know that?” asked his closest friend as the Tower Bridge appeared in the distance. Robert Lodge shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and turned to his friend with a disapproving scowl.

“Do you really need to use such coarse language, Garner? It’s most unbecoming. It’s part of what I hate about this awful country. Vulgarity has managed to squeeze every last drop of beauty from our mother language.”

“Sorry mate, I didn’t think you felt so strongly about it.”

“You can give the mate a rest too, Garner, this is my country now, and you’d do well to remember that. I think you can address me as sir, from now on, okay?”

His closest friend was visibly horrified by him. The body of the Prime Minister was still warm in the back of the van, and yet somehow Robert Lodge had convinced himself that he now owned the country. There was still a long way to go. He would do well to remember that.

“I said, okay?”

Harry Garner shook his head, and turned his attention back to the people outside, he wasn’t getting into this now. They all had much bigger fish to fry, and this was not the time to bicker. Robert Lodge venomously glared at the side of his closest friend’s head, through outrage at the cheek of the man, but also silently conceded that now was indeed not the time.


The cheer broke out once again as they exited the van. Pulling from it the heavy corpse of the Prime Minister. Cars were halted by the mob. Told to move no further. Anybody that thought to argue was dragged from their vehicle and beaten senseless, before having their unconscious bodies cast into the murky depths of the Thames. Two or three of these and car doors were locked. Engines shut off. Tears cried. Prayers muttered. This was huge. It was bigger than all of them. No amount of fight could stop it. No amount of will in the world could halt the million man mob, with their unofficial and glorious leader, Mr Robert Lodge.

“People of New Britain,” he shouted down from the upper levels of the bridge to yet another cacophonous cheer, “this is what will happen to all who get in the way of making this country great again!”

He and his closest friend strapped the legs of the former Prime Minister together, and lifted the corpse above their heads. Robert Lodge turned to Harry, the warmth that he may once have held behind them now gone, having made way to a cold glare. He nodded, and they launched the corpse into the air, for it to free fall from the upper level of the Tower Bridge, toward the road. Some people ducked or flinched as the ropes with which he was tied pulled taut and the body swung, like a pendulum through the air above the ravenous jackal-like members of the New British public, all yelling in delight, throwing bricks and wood, and ripped-off wing mirrors at the oblivious corpse of an Eton educated sycophant who had a distinct, and retrospectively fatal lack of empathy for the working classes, and what they wanted. The man that stood above the corpse, the bringer of death to those who didn’t truly understand what Britain was about anymore, he knew them. He knew what they wanted. This, was what they wanted. Action, not words. Fight, not flight. Robert Lodge was their leader now. They would follow him wherever he may go. They would accept his word, because he knew them. He would ensure that they followed the right path for a better life. For a better Britain. A New Britain. He couldn’t fail. How could he? This was what they wanted. This is what they thought they wanted. The Prime Minister was dead. Long live the Prime Minister.



The above story is a glimpse into the world created in Paul Carter is a Dead Man which you can get on paperback and for Kindle. The rest of my works can be found here.






8 02 2014


It’s that time again. The release of Paul Carter is a Dead Man has come and gone, and it has received a superb response, praise all round. I knew it was my best work yet, but it’s great to hear that people agree. It’s better than I could have ever hoped, I’m really proud of it. So anyway, enough gushing about stuff I made. I’m here to introduce the second exclusive story from my 2014 Project. It’s called JStones99 and is another warning about the kind of country we’ll probably become if social media and the mob combine to get its way. It’s a slightly different device to what I usually use, but it’s one that’s worked well for others in the past. So here it is, please enjoy, and if you’re intrigued by this, why not buy the book and see what the hell Robert Lodge has done to Britain. Links at the bottom!





Username: JStones99

Password: *********

Private & Confidential Diary Log 08.02.14 (12:02)


Dad’s gone. They took him this morning. I tried to stop them but they said they would take me too so he made me go into the kitchen with mum while they arrested him. Mum was leaning on the worktop with both of her hands, her head down, just staring at the sideboard. I was crying. She wasn’t doing anything except look down. I tried to comfort her but she pushed me away. She started muttering something, sounding really angry. She wasn’t upset, just angry. I don’t know why. Out in the hallway there were voices. All the men who came to take dad away. In the kitchen mum was still just staring and we heard the door go. Then nothing. Mum was hardly breathing, just muttering angry words under her breath. I was going to say something but she just turned round and looked at me. The look in her eyes. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It was like she wasn’t my mum anymore. Then she walked past me and out of the kitchen without saying a word.


They took him for nothing. My dad’s always been a good citizen. He always pays his taxes, I know this because he spends a day every month sitting at the table with paper and a pen. Actual paper. He counts how much he’s earned and then he writes where all of our money is going to. He’s a good citizen. He has a photo of Robert Lodge up behind where he sits in his office, so that the other people on The Network can see how much he supports the government. I hate Robert Lodge for what [AB Violation 001: Alert] country. When I was ten mum and dad were going to take me out, to Ireland, but I wouldn’t let them. My best friend Finn was staying with his mum and dad and I wanted to stay. They got us packed up to go so I ran away. I didn’t want to go. I was gone for two days before I came back, and they weren’t angry at me, just relieved. They said we would stay if I really wanted to. They said that we’d make it work. They said that we’d stay in the country for me. Their only child.


Username: JStones99

Password: *********

Private & Confidential Diary Log 08.02.14 (14:22)


Mum’s still not speaking to me. I think she’s in shock. Dad’s judgment has come up on The Network now. They said he was guilty of attacking somebody at his work. They said he just lashed out because he was stressed. I think they’re talking shit [Profanity Violation 001: Alert] seemed stressed to me. He was always a good dad, and a good citizen. He loved me and he said he loved the country. He loved his job. They’re all wrong. They said that he needed to have less than half a million votes to be free to come home. I think he’ll be okay. He’s got to be okay. I don’t know what me and mum will do without him here. He’s the only one with a job. He buys me Fruity Basher credits every Saturday so I can play out with my friends. Finn’s dad doesn’t buy him Fruity Basher credits. He spends all of his money on Finn’s sister Jenny. She’s a fucking slag [Profanity Violation 002: Alert] pants for anybody. He couldn’t buy me the credits today because they came to arrest him before he could. Now I have to play the free games that all of the tramps play. I hate the free games. You spend more time watching adverts than playing the games. You can’t even skip past them. You have to watch them for about sixty hours before you can play again. I hate them. I wish he’d bought me my credits before they took him away. I might ask mum in a bit if she can buy them for me. That’s if she’s talking to me by then. I’m hungry. Mum’s usually made the dinner by now, but I suppose it’s understandable that she hasn’t.


Dad worked at a bank before Robert Lodge took over. He was the manager and we had a lot of money. For my birthday every year we would go to Disney World. Not the Paris one, all the tramps went to that one. We went to the one in America, and I loved it. Some years I was allowed to take Finn with us, and Dad would pay for it because Finn’s mum and dad are poor compared to us, and I wanted to Finn to come with us, so Dad paid, because he loves me. That’s how I know he loved me, because he paid for everything, for me. After Robert Lodge they made Dad work in a coal mine. They said there was no use for people to manage banks anymore. They said banks would all be electrical. They said if he wanted to stay then he would have to learn new skills that would help the country. He told me once, when I was 11 or something, when he was drunk, that he didn’t want to stay, but because I wanted to, we did. That shows you how much he loves me, that. I just a little bit wish he didn’t though, because then he would have made us go, and we wouldn’t live in this stupid country anymore [AB Violation 002: Alert] and I would still be able to go to Disneyworld.


Username: JStones99

Password: *********

Private & Confidential Diary Log 08.02.14 [15:55]

I tried to ask Mum if she was going to make me something to eat but she shouted at me and I left the room before she could shout anymore, so I had a bag of salted crisps. Stupid salted crisps. I hate them. They know I prefer prawn flavour ones. I like tangy crisps. Not stupid salted ones. Only tramps eat salted ones with no real flavour. There’s no point of a crisp with no flavour. Dad was going to do the Sustenance Order today too. I wonder if Mum will sort it out or if it’s going to have to be me. I don’t know why she’s so angry. She should be upset like I am. What are we supposed to do without Dad? I looked at his Judgment counter and a lot of people think he’s guilty, but I know him better I know he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I don’t know why they’re lying about him being stressed, I don’t know what he’s got to be stressed about. I hope they don’t make him guilty. Mum wouldn’t be able to handle it, she’s the stressed one right now. She’s been in that same chair watching Dad’s judgment since it started. I don’t want to sound bad or anything, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll have a look every now and then to see how he’s doing but it will only make it worse if I keep staring at his face. I know he’ll be back. He’s a good citizen, the people will see that. I wish I could play Fruity Basher, that would keep me busy, instead of being here writing a stupid shitty [Profanity Violation 003: Action Taken] talking to nobody. I suppose it gets it out of my head and off to nowhere. I’m surprised that we’re allowed to have secret private places on The Network really, because it’s not like anything else is private. They’re watching us all the time. My friend Mark’s mum got sentenced to death for stealing her neighbour’s milk from her Sustenance Network delivery. Milk! Can’t you believe it? I can’t, I mean, what kind of tramp steals milk? Mark’s not really my friend anymore, not since that. I wouldn’t be seen dead with somebody whose mum steals milk. It was only after
that, that I noticed that Mark wears all of his brother’s old clothes. Tramps, the whole family. I can’t eat these crisps. They’re horrible. Mum really needs to think about my wellbeing and make me some dinner.


Username: JStones99

Password: *********

Private & Confidential Diary Log 08.02.14 [17:01]

This is probably the last diary entry I’ll ever make. They’re coming for me. They’re coming for Mum. I’ve locked my bedroom door and I can hear her banging on it. Shouting at me. What happened is I went to ask her about my dinner and she just snapped. She threw the computer on the floor and she attacked me. She grabbed my hair, and she pushed me to the ground, and she kept punching me in the head. It really hurts. She said it was all my fault that we’re like this. She said if it wasn’t for me that we’d be somewhere else. Somewhere safe where they treat people properly, instead of like stupid robots, or tramps. She said she wished she’d never had me. I tried to tell her it wasn’t my fault but she turned me over and started strangling me. I’ve never seen her like this. She closed her eyes and she squeezed tight. I couldn’t breathe. Weird black spots were making my eyes go funny, and then the telephone in the house rang. It never rings. She stopped. Her hands weren’t as tight on my neck and I punched her in the boob and wriggled away and ran to my bedroom and locked the door. I heard her answer the phone, and then a minute later she started screaming at me, saying I’ve broken the rules. I tried to push my bed in front of it but I wasn’t strong enough, so it’s just my locked door that’s stopping her from killing me. She’s out there, shouting that I swore on my diary. That they gave me three chances, but I couldn’t help myself. She’s shouting that they’re always watching us, that I should have known better, but it says private and confidential, they’re not allowed to look at this are they? She’s saying that Wrecking Ball are on their way. They didn’t care if I was only 14, they still had a job to do. They can come for me, but they’ll be coming for her too because I’ve just informed on her, for attacking me. They’ll see my bruises and they’ll feel the lumps on my head, and they’ll take her too, hopefully they’ll kill her. That’ll teach her for saying and doing those things to me. Her only child.

I can hear them now. Mum’s gone away to the door and she’s screaming. Telling them she hasn’t done anything. I don’t have long. They’ll be through the door, they’ll take me away. I don’t care, my Dad will sort this out. He’ll get away and he’ll make sure I’m safe. He’ll pay them to let me go. He’s a good dad. I hate this country though. I wish he made us leave. I’m sorry dad. You did the best you could. If they’re going to arrest me for swearing I might as well do some actual swearing. Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitshitshit. [PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL DIARY LOG FROZEN. PROFANITY VIOLATION. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. YOU ARE TO BE ARRESTED.]


Username: TStones79

Password: ********

Private & Confidential Diary Log 09.02.14 [20:02]

I know you’re reading this. I know that nothing is private. You took my wife and son away from me. I was judged not guilty and they perished. You took my life. I hope you’re proud of yourself Robert Lodge. My blood is on your hands. You don’t care though. I’m just another idiot that you can push around because all of the other idiots thought you were a good idea. You’re not though. You’re just a cunt. [Profanity Violation 001: Alert]



To buy Paul Carter is a Dead Man or any of my other books, please find them for UK at: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ryan-Bracha/e/B0095JOQWA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

Or for US readers, here: http://www.amazon.com/Ryan-Bracha/e/B0095JOQWA/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1391871798&sr=8-1


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