Mad Mason (Carl Rogers Files Book 1)

Mad Mason

In 1965 Wollongong, fifteen-year-old Mason Tait lives in a house shaped by fear, violence, and secrets. When brutal headaches begin to distort his thoughts and trigger frightening blackouts, his mother Ava tries to protect him from a danger neither of them fully understands.

After a desperate escape and a new start under another name, Mason’s untreated condition follows them to rural Australia, where his behaviour grows more unstable and the past begins to close in. As disgraced Senior Sergeant Carl Rogers uncovers the truth behind a series of violent deaths, his search leads him to Whalers Island, where Mason’s mind is nearing its breaking point.

Dark, tense, and tragic, Mad Mason is a psychological crime thriller about family trauma, buried secrets, and the devastating consequences of a mind left untreated.

Read Mad Mason and enter a rural Australian thriller where every secret has a cost.

Excerpt from the book

Wollongong, 1965

The midday sun beat down on the back of Mason Tait’s neck. He sat on the wooden bench and stared down at his shadow on the tarmac, sweat trickling from his brow, wondering how soon he could escape from the heat-trap of the concrete playground. Around him, boys yelled and kicked footballs, or huddled in groups trying to disguise the cigarette they passed between them. Girls strolled arm in arm, whispering and giggling their secrets. But no one invited Mason to join them.

The new boy at the school, even though he was now into his third term, he had few friends. Not because he was disliked or unpopular – he knew how to fit in, after all he’d had loads of practice. Throughout his fifteen years, Mum and Dad had moved often and he’d got used to always being the new one and having to find his place. Before this, his longest stint at any school was six months, so almost seeing out the whole year was a record. He was still an outsider because once the others had learned his dad was the new greenkeeper, they’d ostracised him. Probably they thought it would be too weird to see his dad – a staff member – working in the grounds during the day, and then acting the father-figure if they went to Mason’s house. Not that he could have invited anyone home, his mum wouldn’t allow it, saying she was too tired after stacking books on library shelves all day.

He hoped his way in might be through football. His kick wasn’t all that accurate, but he could send the ball long and the coach sometimes let him practise with the others, even promising him a shot at centre or the wing next year. He was sure his talent would soon get recognised and he’d make the team stronger, maybe even challenge for the prized full forward position.

He scrubbed at the ground with the toe of his worn shoe, his head throbbing, and he pressed his hands to his temples. A boy ran past, jolting Mason’s shoulder with his backpack, and he whipped up his head.

‘Hey,’ he shouted.

The boy – acne-faced, mean-eyed – swivelled around and laughed. ‘Fuck off, mad boy.’ Mason knew the kid; last weekend he’d kicked four goals, the last one on the final siren which secured the team’s victory, and turned him into an arrogant hero.

The bell rang for the end of lunch, and a switch flicked in Mason. He jumped up, fists at the ready. He was a good foot taller than spotty boy and the lad’s eyes widened as Mason’s bulk towered over him, but then Mason reeled backwards as the searing heat and pain in his head swatted him back. He reached out for something to steady himself and stop from falling over, grabbing a passing girl who screamed, ‘Get off me, you dickhead.’

He clutched his head and stumbled, like a drunkard. Like his father. ‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—’

The bell rang again, and the acne-faced boy yelled out. ‘You made her cry, you pathetic cock head.’