Nameless - EBOOK PRE-ORDER - available 24 JUNE, 2025

"Nameless, where bad things happen to good people and there is no such thing as karma."

 

In the outback town of Nameless, Karin Baxter returns to uncover the truth behind her father's mysterious death. Found dead on the tracks, his life and legacy shattered, Karin digs into a web of deceit, betrayal, and murder.

With the help of old friends and her loyal dog named Trouble, Karin navigates a landscape where power and money rule. As she follows the money trail and confronts those who would rather see her silenced, Karin must decide how far she's willing to go to seek vengeance for her father's death.

Will she uncover the secrets of Nameless, or will the town's powerful elite bury her along with the truth?

"Nameless" is a gripping tale of suspense, betrayal, and the relentless pursuit of justice, set against the harsh and unforgiving backdrop of the Australian outback.

 

PRE-ORDER - EBOOK AVAILABLE 24 JUNE,2025

 

THIS BOOK WILL BE DELIVERED INSTANTLY BY EMAIL by BOOKFUNNEL.

Or you can find it on all retailers  here:

https://books2read.com/u/4D7aRA

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1993 - Damascus Rose 

 

WHERE do stories begin, Rosie wonders. She has always liked stories, with her as the heroine of course. 

         She sits, her arms wrapped around her knees and stares into the night, mesmerised by the flickering lights down in the valley.

         A moth to a lamp.

         Suddenly, she stands and twirls her skirts. Freedom, she tests the word with a moue of her lips and spreads her arms wide. Accidentally, she tilts her head too far back and she stumbles a little, laughing up to the night-sky as she regains her balance.

         The kaleidoscope of stars laughs back at the woman who is crazy-mad to dance so close to the edge of the mountain with nothing but air to break her fall.

         “Dance with me.” She reaches down her hands and pulls her friends to their feet.

         Together they twirl, their skirts a rainbow of colours billowing around them. There is no wind but that's okay. They create their own as they jitterbug and do the swim and rock around the clock.

         They giggle as only new best friends can as they stumble on the rocky ground and hold out steadying hands to each other. Rosie marvels at her new friends, the coiffure-haired woman with her complicated braids and bobby pins, and the quiet woman beside her with her shell-framed glasses and neatly buttoned shirt tucked into her skirt.

         Rosie, who is tall and dark and exotic with loose hair and languid movements, twirls her glitter-crocheted shawl around her head while her new friends try to emulate her but instead tangle themselves in ungainly limbs and fall down laughing.

         She tosses the shawl into the night and watches it flutter effortless into the valley below.

         The feeling is heady.

         And so is the drug of a starlit night under an outback sky while their men are busy with their important meeting somewhere in the lights of the valley below. 

         On the mountain the women celebrate their freedom; to laugh and drink green vermouth with lemonade, and to dance and twirl and sing.

         Rosie claps her heels together, Mexican-style, as her red skirt billows around her and her hair spins free of its gold daisy-chain headband. She laughs and throws herself backwards onto the hard earth and makes a snow angel in the red dirt with her bare feet moving out and in and out and in, while her arms above her head make the same movements.

         Her new friends place their vermouths to one side and join her.

         Angels in the moonlight.

         Rosie extends her hands to them. “Let's count the stars,” she says.

         Trusting fingers entwine with hers. “I am such a bad influence, aren't I?”

         Her new friends laugh. “You are an influence, that's for sure,” the coiffured one says. “But one we need around here.”

         Rosie stills. “Is it really that bad?”

         “Look around you. Our men do deals while we cook their meals and wash their clothes and iron neat creases into the shoulders of their shirts.”

         “Well, we’re here now.” Rosie jumps to her feet. She stretches down her hands and pulls her friends up with her, and together they jump out of the angel shapes they have made.

         “Wicked,” Rosie says. “We’re angels in the dust.”

         She walks over to the edge of the outcrop and looks out. In this moment, in this place, she is heroine of a story she has been writing forever.

         She feels a tug at her skirt as the button-down one pulls her back from the edge. “More drink, please. I think I like it.” 

         Rosie smiles. She has made her new friends, who are already heady from dancing on a mountain in the dark, drunk. On green vermouth and a little something extra.

         She makes more drinks, stirs them with her finger – the white powder dissolving like it’s never been - and passes them to her friends. “Have you ever wondered if you can fly?”

         The coiffured woman snorts. “If I could fly, I'd be out of this fucking dog-hole for sure.” She seems shocked at the admission and Rosie wonders if she knows she has said the F word aloud. She wonders what it would take to get her to say that other word, the word men sling around in pubs like it is an insult, don’t waste your time on her mate she’s a tight arsed cunt, while they hope they’ll get lucky anyway.

         Rosie learned long ago a woman’s power is centred in her cunt. Hold out long enough and you hit the happily-ever- after jackpot.

         “Do you think they’re wondering what we’re up to tonight, our husbands?” The button-down one asks.

         “Not on your life.’ The coiffured one sips her drink and grimaces. “All they’re interested in is the occasional fuck and a feed on the table at night.”

         Rosie drops between her new friends and slings an arm over each of their shoulders. “So young to be so cynical. Shall we get naked?”

         The women stiffen.

         Rosie realises she has gone too far. She urges more drink, and they sip, the moment forgotten.

         “How are we going to get home?” the button-down one asks eventually. “We came to watch the sunset. And now it’s too dark to climb back down.”

         “This is our kingdom.” Rosie throws her arms up expansively. “Why would we want to leave?”

         The coiffured-haired one’s hands still on her vermouth. “Because if we’re not home in the morning our blokes will kill us. And if word gets out what we’re doing up here there’ll be hell to pay.”

         Rosie eyes her curiously. “Have you ever done anything you wanted to do, you know, just for you?”

         “For me?” The woman cocks her head. “No one has ever asked me that.”

         Rosie drops her head onto her shoulder. “You know what I want?” she says. “I want to fly off this mountain to the other side of the desert where the sea is gentle, the sand is white and a rainforest with soft ferns drips cool water onto our dusty lips.”

         She knows she is being poetic, but it is a night for poetry as the hum of her blood courses through her veins. She closes her eyes and lets the feeling carry her over the red hills and across the desert to the other side of the country where women wear pearls over Mohair twinsets and dine in a city with harbour views and an opera house.

         She is heroine on the stage – she feels the spotlight on her face. She smiles. The audience applauds and she takes a bow. 

         She hands her drink to her new friends. “Watch me.”

         She rises from the dirt between them. And stands, listening to the silence. The crowd erupts as she holds out her skirts and takes a curtsy, deep and low. She hears the cheers as they begin to throw bunches of flowers - Damascus Roses – at her feet.

            She gathers them in her arms and makes kissing shapes with her mouth and flings the kisses to her audience with dramatic hands.

“Thank you, thank you.”

         The spotlight is starting to overheat, and she feels her make-up drip, but still she stands and still the crowd cheers.

         After the applause, she drops the roses into her friends open laps and walks towards her audience.

         They cheer as she launches herself into their waiting arms.

         She falls slowly forward, heroine to her own story.