Published books

The Bench: The Blindspot

The sound of the red jersey hitting the bottom of the bin was a soft, synthetic \*thud\*. It was 1984. The boy, then known as Rodrigo, stood in the changing room, the smell of damp concrete and disappointment clinging to his skin. He had been cut. Too slow, they said. Not the right fit. He didn’t hate the Redcoats—not yet. He just wanted to play. When the Bluecoats recruiter approached him an hour later, the invitation felt like a lifeline. “We don’t care about the stats,” the man had said, his voice dripping with a camaraderie that felt like a warm blanket. Rodrigo didn’t ask about the team’s “in-game politics.” He didn’t ask why their practice sessions involved more shouting than ball-handling. He pulled on the blue jersey, the fabric scratchy and stiff, and felt, for the first time, like he belonged. Twelve years later, the veneer had peeled away. The expulsion from Sixth Form had been the final, jagged fracture in his academic life. He had shed the name “Rodrigo” like a moulted skin, adopting a identity that felt harder, less permeable. He had stumbled into ownership of Jenkins Motors—a wreck of a business that mirrored his own sense of inherited resentment. \*\*1996.\*\* Todd, pushing thirty and anchored to the workbench of his garage, stared at the engine block of a car he hadn’t touched in years. It was a phantom project—a rusted-out shell that served as an excuse to hide from the house. Two small boys were playing on the lawn just outside the open garage door. Their laughter was high, melodic, and entirely unfiltered. To anyone else, it was the sound of a normal Saturday. To Todd, it was an invasive noise that set his teeth on edge. He took a long, slow pull from a lukewarm beer, the glass sweating in his grip. He winced, his left eye twitching rhythmically, as he listened to them scramble in the dirt. He wasn’t working on the engine; he was just listening to the neighbourhood exist without his permission.

The Bench: Rising Voices

Roseville, 2007\*\* The garage in Pine Wood smelled of oil, sawdust, and possibility. It had once been just another forgotten corner of the Blindspot — the kind of place where broken things went to die. Rusted tools. Abandoned projects. Dreams that never quite left the ground. But over the last few years, something had quietly changed. What began as a neighbour’s quiet act of kindness had slowly transformed the space into something alive. A Pearl Roadshow drum kit — Bought by Tim Jones, cherished — stood in the centre like a heartbeat. The cymbals caught the weak afternoon light filtering through the small window. Beside it, an adapted guitar rested on a stand, its fretboard marked with raised dots and tape so a boy who had never seen the strings could still find his way. Keyboards waited in the corner, their cables neatly coiled. Two golden retriever mixes — Sunny and Speck — lay sprawled on an old rug, ears twitching at every small sound. This was no longer just a garage. It had become the birthplace of BlindSpot. Twenty-three years earlier, in the cold spring of 1984, a boy named Rodrigo Sanchez had walked off a muddy football pitch in a blue jersey, resentment hardening in his chest like wet concrete. He had wanted the red. He had wanted to belong. Instead, he helped build something else — something angrier, something that felt like victory at the time but would cost him decades. He became Todd Jenkins. He built a business. He built a family. He watched it fracture. And somewhere along the way, the boy who once tried to tear down Tim Jones’s world became the man who couldn’t see what was growing right next door. Tim Jones had never forgotten the sting of those old Pine Wood rivalries. The teacher’s kid. The Redcoats golden boy. The one they said had everything handed to him. He remembered the  way resentment could twist good kids into something smaller. When his own son Jack — legally blind from birth — came home one afternoon and told him what Craig Jenkins had done to Pete’s first drum kit, Tim didn’t hesitate. He drove to the music shop that evening. Paid in cash. Kept the Pearl Roadshow hidden in his garage, away from Craig’s reach. Not because he wanted thanks. Because some cycles had to be broken quietly. By 2007, the children of Roseville’s old wounds were fourteen years old. Pete Jenkins — curly dark hair, lean frame, olive skin — had found his rhythm again. Jack Jones — legally blind but with ears that missed nothing — had found his voice. Gemma Morris and Harvey Strum brought their own battles: doubt, diabetes, the weight of being different in a town that still loved its old divisions. Together, in that transformed garage on the dodgy end of Roseville, they wrote a song called ‘Life Through a Smeared Lens’— a raw, honest anthem about seeing clearly when the world refuses to focus. They called themselves BlindSpot. Not as shame. As defiance. As reclamation. Far across town, in the quieter Violet Street, Tim Jones smiled when he heard the sound of drums and laughter drifting over the fence from his garage, now the central point for his son Jack and a community of equally enthusiastic teens. In the Blindspot itself, Todd Jenkins sat in his garage at Jenkins Motors, nursing a lukewarm beer, listening to rumours drift in from Roseville Central about some kids’ talent show performance. He heard the name “Pete Jenkins” and thought, \*Good for him.\* He had no idea the boy on the drums was his own son. He had no idea that the neighbour he had once resented — the boy in the Redcoats sweater — had quietly become the father figure Pete needed. And he had no idea that the next chapter of Roseville’s story was already being written in a garage he drove past every day without seeing. The bench was waiting. Old rivalries had faded into memory. Now it was time for new voices to rise.

The Bench: Rising Voices

Roseville, 2007\*\* The garage in Pine Wood smelled of oil, sawdust, and possibility. It had once been just another forgotten corner of the Blindspot — the kind of place where broken things went to die. Rusted tools. Abandoned projects. Dreams that never quite left the ground. But over the last few years, something had quietly changed. What began as a neighbour’s quiet act of kindness had slowly transformed the space into something alive. A Pearl Roadshow drum kit — Bought by Tim Jones, cherished — stood in the centre like a heartbeat. The cymbals caught the weak afternoon light filtering through the small window. Beside it, an adapted guitar rested on a stand, its fretboard marked with raised dots and tape so a boy who had never seen the strings could still find his way. Keyboards waited in the corner, their cables neatly coiled. Two golden retriever mixes — Sunny and Speck — lay sprawled on an old rug, ears twitching at every small sound. This was no longer just a garage. It had become the birthplace of BlindSpot. Twenty-three years earlier, in the cold spring of 1984, a boy named Rodrigo Sanchez had walked off a muddy football pitch in a blue jersey, resentment hardening in his chest like wet concrete. He had wanted the red. He had wanted to belong. Instead, he helped build something else — something angrier, something that felt like victory at the time but would cost him decades. He became Todd Jenkins. He built a business. He built a family. He watched it fracture. And somewhere along the way, the boy who once tried to tear down Tim Jones’s world became the man who couldn’t see what was growing right next door. Tim Jones had never forgotten the sting of those old Pine Wood rivalries. The teacher’s kid. The Redcoats golden boy. The one they said had everything handed to him. He remembered the  way resentment could twist good kids into something smaller. When his own son Jack — legally blind from birth — came home one afternoon and told him what Craig Jenkins had done to Pete’s first drum kit, Tim didn’t hesitate. He drove to the music shop that evening. Paid in cash. Kept the Pearl Roadshow hidden in his garage, away from Craig’s reach. Not because he wanted thanks. Because some cycles had to be broken quietly. By 2007, the children of Roseville’s old wounds were fourteen years old. Pete Jenkins — curly dark hair, lean frame, olive skin — had found his rhythm again. Jack Jones — legally blind but with ears that missed nothing — had found his voice. Gemma Morris and Harvey Strum brought their own battles: doubt, diabetes, the weight of being different in a town that still loved its old divisions. Together, in that transformed garage on the dodgy end of Roseville, they wrote a song called ‘Life Through a Smeared Lens’— a raw, honest anthem about seeing clearly when the world refuses to focus. They called themselves BlindSpot. Not as shame. As defiance. As reclamation. Far across town, in the quieter Violet Street, Tim Jones smiled when he heard the sound of drums and laughter drifting over the fence from his garage, now the central point for his son Jack and a community of equally enthusiastic teens. In the Blindspot itself, Todd Jenkins sat in his garage at Jenkins Motors, nursing a lukewarm beer, listening to rumours drift in from Roseville Central about some kids’ talent show performance. He heard the name “Pete Jenkins” and thought, \*Good for him.\* He had no idea the boy on the drums was his own son. He had no idea that the neighbour he had once resented — the boy in the Redcoats sweater — had quietly become the father figure Pete needed. And he had no idea that the next chapter of Roseville’s story was already being written in a garage he drove past every day without seeing. The bench was waiting. Old rivalries had faded into memory. Now it was time for new voices to rise.

The Bench: Rising Voices

\*\*Roseville, 2007\*\* The garage in Pine Wood smelled of oil, sawdust, and possibility. It had once been just another forgotten corner of the Blindspot — the kind of place where broken things went to die. Rusted tools. Abandoned projects. Dreams that never quite left the ground. But over the last few years, something had quietly changed. What began as a neighbour’s quiet act of kindness had slowly transformed the space into something alive. A Pearl Roadshow drum kit — Bought by Tim Jones, cherished — stood in the centre like a heartbeat. The cymbals caught the weak afternoon light filtering through the small window. Beside it, an adapted guitar rested on a stand, its fretboard marked with raised dots and tape so a boy who had never seen the strings could still find his way. Keyboards waited in the corner, their cables neatly coiled. Two golden retriever mixes — Sunny and Speck — lay sprawled on an old rug, ears twitching at every small sound. This was no longer just a garage. It had become the birthplace of BlindSpot. Twenty-three years earlier, in the cold spring of 1984, a boy named Rodrigo Sanchez had walked off a muddy football pitch in a blue jersey, resentment hardening in his chest like wet concrete. He had wanted the red. He had wanted to belong. Instead, he helped build something else — something angrier, something that felt like victory at the time but would cost him decades. He became Todd Jenkins. He built a business. He built a family. He watched it fracture. And somewhere along the way, the boy who once tried to tear down Tim Jones’s world became the man who couldn’t see what was growing right next door. Tim Jones had never forgotten the sting of those old Pine Wood rivalries. The teacher’s kid. The Redcoats golden boy. The one they said had everything handed to him. He remembered the  way resentment could twist good kids into something smaller. When his own son Jack — legally blind from birth — came home one afternoon and told him what Craig Jenkins had done to Pete’s first drum kit, Tim didn’t hesitate. He drove to the music shop that evening. Paid in cash. Kept the Pearl Roadshow hidden in his garage, away from Craig’s reach. Not because he wanted thanks. Because some cycles had to be broken quietly. Because music had saved him once, and it might save another boy now. By 2007, the children of Roseville’s old wounds were fourteen years old. Pete Jenkins — curly dark hair, lean frame, olive skin — had found his rhythm again. Jack Jones — legally blind but with ears that missed nothing — had found his voice. Gemma Morris and Harvey Strum brought their own battles: doubt, diabetes, the weight of being different in a town that still loved its old divisions. Together, in that transformed garage on the dodgy end of Roseville, they wrote a song called ‘Life Through a Smeared Lens’— a raw, honest anthem about seeing clearly when the world refuses to focus. They called themselves BlindSpot. Not as shame. As defiance. As reclamation. Far across town, in the quieter Violet Street, Tim Jones smiled when he heard the sound of drums and laughter drifting over the fence from his garage, now the central point for his son Jack and a community of equally enthusiastic teens. In the Blindspot itself, Todd Jenkins sat in his garage at Jenkins Motors, nursing a lukewarm beer, listening to rumours drift in from Roseville Central about some kids’ talent show performance. He heard the name “Pete Jenkins” and thought, \*Good for him.\* He had no idea the boy on the drums was his own son. And he had no idea that the next chapter of Roseville’s story was already being written in a garage he drove past every day without seeing. The bench was waiting. Old rivalries had faded into memory. Now it was time for new voices to rise.

The Bench: Bluecoats

Roseville was never the sort of town people put on postcards. It had no famous landmarks, no grand cathedral dominating the skyline, no sweeping avenues designed to impress visitors. Instead, it existed in the spaces between larger places—a working town built from freight yards, factory shifts, damp brick estates, and generations of people doing their best to make a life from whatever opportunities they could find. The town announced itself through sound and smell more than scenery. The distant rumble of lorries arriving before dawn. The steady hum of industrial cooling fans. The metallic clatter of railway sidings. The familiar scent of rain soaking into concrete that never seemed entirely dry. Most of all, Roseville was a town of boundaries. Some were visible. Others were not. Children learned them early. You were either on the field or watching from the side lines. You were either a Redcoat or a Bluecoat. You belonged to one crowd or another. And if you didn’t fit neatly into either group, you learned how to build a place for yourself from whatever scraps were left behind. For many of the young people who grew up there during the 1980s, those boundaries felt permanent. Identity became something to defend. Loyalty became something to prove. Rivalries became part of who they believed themselves to be. This is the story of what happened when those lines were drawn too early. It begins with a group of boys standing at the edge of adulthood, each carrying fears they barely understood and ambitions they struggled to express. Like many young people, they searched for certainty in a world that offered very little of it. They found comfort in teams, in friendships, in rivalries, and sometimes in enemies. What none of them understood at the time was how much of their anger was rooted not in the people around them, but in themselves. The Bench is not simply a story about football. Nor is it merely a story about the rivalry between the Redcoats and the Bluecoats. It is a story about growing up.

The Bench: Rising Tensions

Roseville had always been a town of invisible lines. Some were drawn in red and blue on football pitches. Others were etched deeper — between Cedar Way and Pine Wood, between those who built and those who burned, between the past that refused to die and the future struggling to be born. In the Jones garage, music still played. BlindSpot had grown from a group of kids turning pain into sound into something that reached beyond the Blindspot. Their songs spoke of smeared lenses, red balls, and unlimited possibility. Jack, now sixteen, had become the quiet face of a movement toward inclusion. Tim’s Teen Tactiles project expanded week by week. Dogs — Sunny, Archie, Zig-Zag, and the rest — moved freely between old rivals, caring nothing for history. But not everyone was ready to let go. In a cramped flat in Pine Wood, Craig Jenkins nursed a warm can of cider and stared at his phone. His brother Pete had chosen the red. His mother had chosen silence. And Jasmine Morris… Jasmine carried something that would bind their families together forever, whether she wanted it or not. He didn’t know yet. But he would. Across town, in the comfortable house on Violet Street, Jennifer Jenkins (now Stanbridge) sat alone at the kitchen table, looking at old photos of her three children. The weight of Craig’s choices pressed on her like a stone. She had failed to stop him. Now she could only try to protect the lives he threatened to break. In a hospital room weeks earlier, Jasmine had made her choice. She would keep the baby. And in doing so, she had tied herself — perhaps for life — to the boy who had taken so much from her without permission. The bench in Roseville’s central park had seen generations come and go. It had witnessed Redcoats and Bluecoats, victories and bitter defeats, children playing with red balls and teenagers learning to hate. Now it waited again. For new voices. For old resentments. For the slow, painful birth of something that might — or might not — be better than what came before. The lines were shifting. But some lines, once drawn in anger, refused to fade. And in the quiet spaces between them, a new generation was already learning how heavy history could be.

The Bench: Rising Above

Spring 2015 The bench in Roseville Central Park had seen everything. It had watched children become adults. Rivals become friends. Friends become strangers. It had stood through football victories, schoolyard arguments, community festivals, and the long, painful years when old grudges threatened to swallow the town whole. The wood was weathered now. The paint had faded. But it remained. Across Roseville, life was moving forward. In the Jones garage, music still drifted through open doors. BlindSpot had grown into something larger than a band. Their songs had become part of the town itself — stories of resilience, inclusion, grief, and hope. Young people who had once felt invisible now found pieces of themselves in the music. The dogs still came and went as they pleased. Archie, Zig-Zag and Smudge carried on the legacy of those who had come before them. Yet one absence lingered more heavily than the others. Sunny was gone. For many, her passing marked the end of an era. For Jack Jones, it left a space no song could completely fill. Elsewhere, new beginnings were taking shape. Sarah Morris was growing up surrounded by people determined to give her the childhood every child deserved. Jasmine was building a future that no longer revolved around fear. Jake Miller remained steady at her side, proving day after day that family was measured by love rather than blood. Not every story was so simple. In Ivytown, Lisa Barker stood at the edge of a new chapter of her own life. Marriage had brought change, opportunity, and expectations she was still learning how to carry. Some dreams were coming true. Others felt further away than ever. And in Pine Wood, old bitterness had not vanished. It had simply learned patience. Craig Jenkins was no longer the reckless teenager who lashed out at everything around him. Time, prison, and consequence had changed him in some ways. But hatred rarely disappears on its own. Sometimes it waits. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it gathers strength in the shadows while everyone else is busy celebrating the light. Roseville wanted to believe the worst was behind it. Many of its people had earned that belief. They had survived heartbreak, violence, loss, addiction, prejudice, and grief. They had buried old divisions and built new bridges. They had chosen understanding when anger would have been easier. But healing was never a straight line. Every generation inherited something from the last. Some inherited kindness. Some inherited courage. And some inherited wounds. The coming year would test friendships, families, and loyalties in ways none of them could yet imagine. New lives were about to enter the world. Old enemies were preparing new battles. And people who thought they knew exactly where they belonged would soon find themselves standing at crossroads. The bench waited. As it always had. Watching. Listening. Waiting to see whether Roseville’s next chapter would be defined by the weight of its past— Or by the people willing to rise above it.

The Bench: Bridging The Gaps

The story of Roseville had always been one of divides — between Poppy Meadows Cedar Way and Pine Wood, between the Redcoats and Bluecoats, between those who sought to build and those consumed by resentment. In \*The Bench: Dark Legacies\*, we witnessed the long shadow of bitterness that shaped generations. Craig Jenkins, driven by the inherited resentment of his father Todd toward the Jones family, became a force of destruction. His actions — the bullying, the harassment, the final desperate attempt to ruin BlindSpot’s concert — culminated in a tragic crash that took his life and left his family and the community to grapple with the consequences. Yet even in the darkest moments, light persisted. Lisa rebuilt her life with her children Howard and Leena. Jack and Gemma welcomed their son Calean, while Pete and Abigail celebrated the birth of Wilson. The next generation — Sarah, Eadie, and others — began to forge their own paths, carrying forward lessons of resilience and hope. The Jones family, with their steadfast support and inclusive spirit, continued to bridge gaps. BlindSpot’s music and community work became a beacon for healing, while the dogs — Shimmer, Smudge, Sunny Junior, and others — remained symbols of loyalty and unconditional love. \*The Bench: Bridging the Gaps\* explores the difficult work of healing. As the characters navigate grief, forgiveness, and the challenges of new beginnings, they discover that some legacies can be mended, and new bridges can be built across old divides. The bench in Central Park remains a silent witness — a place where past and future meet, where broken legacies can find redemption, and where the community continues to choose connection over division. The story moves forward, one careful step at a time.

The Bench: Dark Legacies

Late October 2024 The tension had been building for weeks. Craig’s obsession with ruining BlindSpot’s concert had consumed him. The false reports, the circling vehicles, the taunting messages — all of it was part of a larger plan to humiliate Jack and the group on their biggest night of the year. Jacob, increasingly isolated and bitter, had fully committed. His relationship with Martha had ended, his job was gone, and his access to his children was restricted. Craig’s influence had become his only remaining anchor, and he clung to it desperately. Dex, ever the loyal follower, coordinated the group’s movements, ensuring they had the means and the cover to execute the plan. The night of the concert, the rain had started early. The roads were slick, the warnings of ice ignored as Craig took the wheel of the old truck. The three men — driven by resentment, rage, and a desire for revenge — headed toward Central Park with a plan to disrupt the performance and leave a lasting mark. They had no idea how quickly their night would spiral out of control. The events leading up to the crash were a culmination of years of bitterness finally boiling over. And as the truck sped through the rain, the consequences were already in motion.

The Bench: Moving Forward

Late Autumn 2018 The bench in Central Park had seen many seasons. It had witnessed the birth of old rivalries between Redcoats and Bluecoats, the first clumsy notes of BlindSpot in the garage, the quiet grief after Sunny and Archer passed, and the tentative steps of new families trying to build something better than what came before. Now, as the last leaves of autumn drifted down and the air grew sharp with the promise of winter, the bench waited once again. Roseville was changing — slowly, unevenly, but undeniably. Craig Jenkins remained behind bars, his influence reduced to whispers and proxies, yet still capable of reaching through the cracks. Jasmine and Jake were raising Sarah and their new son William in the house on Oak Close, building a life rooted in love rather than fear. Lisa navigated the complicated waters of her marriage to Jacob while raising Howard and Leena, quietly questioning how much longer she could carry the weight alone. Jack, Gemma, Pete, and the rest of BlindSpot continued making music that spoke of both pain and hope, even as they learned to protect their peace more fiercely. New voices were rising too — Ember & Ash from Pine Wood, carrying the stories of the next generation, and the polished challenge of The Hollow Crown from Oakridge, forcing everyone to examine what “success” really meant. The pandemic had not yet arrived, but the town already felt the weight of uncertainty. People were learning to hold on tighter to what mattered while preparing for a world that might shift beneath their feet. The bench had seen monsters born from resentment. It had also seen people choose differently. Some broke the cycle. Some were still fighting not to repeat it. And some — like Lisa, Jasmine, Jack, and so many others — were simply trying to move forward, one careful step at a time, carrying both the scars and the quiet hope that tomorrow could be kinder than yesterday. The Bench: Moving Forward was not about forgetting the past. It was about learning how to walk with it — without letting it dictate every step.