I started writing The Trashman more than ten years ago. But the world and other work kept getting in the way, and so the novel waited.

The world didn’t wait with it. When I began, The Trashman’s world—its stars, its performatively cruel politics, its weaponised beauty and image, its reality as curated content—felt on the edge of satire.

It sure doesn’t feel like satire anymore.

The Trashman curates victims like a fashion collection. Lethally elegant. Each one more high-profile than the last.

Did that seem, when I conceived it, like a metaphor?

Now it reads more like a diagnosis.

The Trashman follows Zoe, a fashion designer who finds herself at the centre of something she can’t quite name. A spirituality that looks like consumer heaven. Jez, a reality-celebrity-podcaster chasing his viral moment. And investigators on two continents, the LASD in LA, Europol in The Hague, trying to understand what kind of world produces this kind of crime.

It’s a thriller. It’s a luxury noir love story, set among the stars and icons.

And somewhere underneath both, there’s a question:

In a throwaway world, how disposable are you?

Published by Mad Bear Books. Available here now.