Jackson King is a world-weary psychic who has traded his high-powered law career for a quieter life in the beachside town of Surfers Paradise. Or so he thought.

When a tragic bombing at a local illegal casino shatters the fragile peace of Surfers Paradise, Jackson’s uneasy quiet is torn apart. His psychic visions, long dormant and now painfully vivid, are triggered and Jackson is drawn into a web of intrigue as the case involving the casino’s mysterious explosion intertwines with the disappearance of a woman named Victoria, someone from his immediate past whose memory still haunts him. As Jackson investigates, he discovers that the bombing was no random act of violence. Instead, it’s part of a far more intricate conspiracy involving dangerous alliances, deception, and a host of characters hiding their darkest secrets. But what becomes painfully clear to Jackson is that this investigation is personal. His connection to Victoria, combined with his psychic insights, forces him to confront his own fractured identity and the unresolved emotions tied to his tumultuous past.

The deeper Jackson digs, the more his psychic visions reveal—visions of hidden truths and tragic events that seem to spiral out of control. But with each revelation, the line between what is real and what is a product of his visions blurs. The sinister forces at play in Surfers Paradise not only threaten to unravel his sense of self but also place him in direct danger. As the stakes escalate, Jackson’s own abilities, once seen as a gift, become both his greatest asset and his heaviest burden. He can see things no one else can, but with every new glimpse into the future, he risks losing himself to the overwhelming weight of what he uncovers.

The investigation leads Jackson to confront some of his greatest fears: not just the enemies hiding in plain sight, but the uncomfortable truth about his role in the case. His feelings for Victoria, the painful history of his psychic abilities, and the many betrayals that surround him all come to the forefront, forcing Jackson to decide whether to remain a passive observer or take a stand against the dark forces shaping the fate of those around him. As he navigates shifting allegiances, escalating threats, and his own unraveling mind, Jackson is pushed to the brink. He is forced to confront the full extent of his psychic powers—both the burden they impose and the vital role they play in revealing the mysteries that threaten to consume him.

With each new lead, Jackson inches closer to uncovering the truth, but the cost of that truth may be more than he is willing to pay. In a world where nothing is as it seems, Jackson’s struggle for redemption takes him to dangerous places, both physically and emotionally. Will he be able to control the visions that have tormented him for years? Or will his deepest fears—and the secrets he uncovers—become his undoing?

Dive into this gripping tale of psychic intrigue, betrayal, and the search for redemption in a world where the past never truly stays buried. Jackson King must confront his own fractured identity while grappling with the complex web of lies that surround him. Every mystery solved only leads to more questions, and Jackson knows one thing for certain: his journey is far from over. With the ghosts of his past haunting him and the chaos of the present closing in, Jackson King will have to decide if he can live with the consequences of his powers—or if he’ll be consumed by them.

Sample

I wake up to the sharp sting of sunlight cutting through the blinds, my head throbbing, and the weight of the world pressing down on me. The bombing. Victoria gone. Fizzari’s money. My mind races, but I can’t focus—can’t sit still with the mess of thoughts tangled up inside me. I need to move, to burn off the anger, the frustration. No more thinking, just action. So I pull myself out of bed, throw on my workout gear, and head to the gym. The familiar hum of the Paradise Gym is the only thing that feels like it might ground me right now.

I walk into the gym, the familiar ache of tension still gnawing at me from the bombing and Victoria’s disappearance. I need to let it out. I need to feel something other than this unbearable weight on my chest. The gym is tucked away at the corner of the Gold Coast Highway, and as soon as I step inside, I’m hit with the sharp contrast between the old and the new. The building has stood here since 1945, and the façade still has that classic 1940s charm. But inside? It’s been modernized, clean, and well-lit.

I pay the entry fee and wander in, my gaze catching the impressive 50-meter heated pool with grandstands. But it’s not the pool I’m after today. I spot the gym through the window—older blokes at the front desk, a few people working the weights, the soft sound of footsteps on the treadmill. The place is quiet—no music, just the sounds of focused breathing and the weight of my own thoughts. I eye a pair of punching bags near the back. That’s as good a start as any.

I walk past the desk where the guys give me a quick once-over, nodding their greeting without a word. No need for small talk. I’m here to work, not socialize. I head toward a freestanding 65-kilo black boxing bag with a white target where the head would be. It’s solid, movable—perfect for what I need. Time to shake some of this off.

I start with some basic joint rotations—feet, knees, hips, spine, neck. I need to loosen up. The sound of the gym is oddly soothing, a quiet hum of life that’s a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my head. Grabbing a skipping rope, I jump for five minutes, just enough to get my blood moving. I eye a set of leather mitts on the floor and pick the largest pair. They fit just right.

I step up to the bag, slowly circling it, feeding a light jab for every two steps I take. My body starts to remember the rhythm, and I add a cross punch, then a combo—jab-cross, jab-cross-hook. I take it slow at first, but the longer I work, the more I feel the anger rise. I start to push harder, faster. My body moves almost instinctively. The older guys at the front desk glance up every now and then, but they don’t say anything. It’s just me and the bag now.

As I punch, my mind drifts back. My blood starts to boil as the memories flash in—of the bullying, of the kids who made my life hell. I wasn’t always like this—fit, controlled, focused. At sixteen, I was a mess. Tall, clumsy, overweight, pimply. I had no friends, no confidence, no future. I was the awkward kid everyone picked on. Even the teachers had written me off, calling me lazy, worthless. I remember the principal telling my dad I’d never amount to anything, that I’d be stuck working some factory job forever. That day, I’d been so humiliated I’d resolved right then that school was done for me.

I snap back to the present, my hands moving faster now, pounding the bag with a fury that feels good. Left hook, right hook. Left, right. The rhythm quickens, and I push my body harder with every punch. The guys at the front desk are looking up more frequently now, but I don’t care. I’m not here for their approval. I’m here to exorcise some of this anger and frustration. To remind myself that I’m not that awkward kid anymore.

I’m twenty-seven now, and I’ve built myself from the ground up. But sometimes, those old feelings—of being small, weak, insignificant—come back. Today, though, with every punch, with every lunge, I can feel myself shedding the past. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. And this bag? It’s not just a punching bag. It’s a symbol, a reminder that I can fight back. I can still fight back.

And then, I’m back to the bag, delivering blows with a speed and intensity that burns, that feels like a release. I don’t stop until my hands are raw, my body drenched in sweat.

The ghosts of the past are still there, lingering. But for now, in this moment, they can’t touch me.

But the bullies were there too; six of them.  Their leader, Ray Jamison, was captain of the school cricket and basketball teams; all the girls were in love with him and all the boys in awe of him.

My dad picked me up from school that day. “Brought the cavalry, did you?” Jamison challenged. “Time for your punishment mate; you’ve been a bad boy today!”

The girls giggled and egged him on, and Jamison moved closer to us, with his henchmen close behind. “Ya need your daddy to protect you, do ya?” he laughed. “Come here, you prick. It’s time to get your just deserts.” My father placed a protective arm around me and began to lead me away, when a rock was thrown that hit me on the back of my head. Dad turned around and was about to say something just as Jamison and his mates jumped the both of us. There was no escape, but to cut a long story short an ambulance came and both me and my dad were treated for cuts and contusions. I had to have stitches to my head and my father was treated for a mild heart attack, a broken arm and a fractured jaw.

I stop punching for a moment and those now staring at me in the gym weren’t certain if it was sweat or tears streaming from my eyes. I closed my eyes and exploded, smashing the target on the punching bag with a ferocity never before seen at the Paradise Gym; I detonate hundreds of blistering jabs over the next fifteen minutes. Now, the Paradise Gym received some very interesting characters indeed; aside from the gamblers, pimps and many other shifty fellas, there are footballers, kick boxers, bouncers, and many other hard men from the Gold Coast who go there on a regular basis. But never before has anyone seen anything like me pounding that punching bag that day; and quite likely never will anyone see the likes again. 

Just before the ambulance arrived Jamison casually strolled up to my father, whose body was convulsing uncontrollably, and said, “When you least expect it, old man, I am going to come around to your place in the middle of the night and smash you dead with my cricket bat.” He then turned to me, pursed his mouth like a fish, took a deep breath and spat the biggest lime-green loogie onto my face, a good portion of it entering my mouth. Two days later the police paid my dad a visit and charged him with assault of a minor; I was only fifteen at the time. Eventually my dad was given a suspended sentence and put on a twelve month good behaviour bond, but I don’t believe he ever really recovered from the shock of being attacked.  My father was a young lawyer at the time and a very gentle man.

And then the slugfest with the punching bag intensified with an incredible barrage of non-stop go-for-broke punches, and the bag is weaving and groaning and rocking and tilting so violently, the men at the front counter swore it was going to fly off its hinges.

After my father was issued with the summons to appear in court, I went out and bought myself a couple of books on body building and kick boxing, locked myself in the garage and spent the following summer working out, sometimes eight hours a day. I changed my diet to include mostly natural food, and at night I ran at least ten kilometres each session. By the end of that summer I was in fantastic condition and beginning to look and feel like a body builder.

I punch faster and harder until I have everyone’s undivided attention. And they are obviously becoming more and more impressed as I slam another left, then another right, then another left-right combination. 

The time gaps between punches become less and less until the sound of one continuous punch echoes around the entire complex; every punch is deliberate and hit its target with exact precision. Like some sort of superhuman robot, I keep the momentum going for over half an hour until my arms feel like they’re ready to snap away from my shoulders. I’m not tired; I feel exhilarated. In fact the men at the front counter, totally transfixed by the exhibition, look more exhausted by just watching me.

Now, I never did return to that school, but at four pm after the first day of school the following year, Ray Jamison was found semi-conscious slumped under a tree near his home, his nose squashed into his face, his cheek bones broken in a number of places, and most of his front teeth lying beside him. When questioned by the police, he swore black and blue that he had no idea who did it, and I’m sure that to this day he trembles in terror at the mere thought of that afternoon.  And after that summer, I felt much better about myself; I got into another school, my grades improved and I later entered university as a law student.

I stopped punching, dropped to my knees and felt the pool of sweat beneath me.  There’s a deathly silence in the gym.  Everyone keeps their distance from me, but there’s at least fifty people milling around; all speechless. I open my eyes and become aware of the silence and see the people gathered around me. I stand, look at the punching bag and notice the gash where the target used to be; in fact the bag looked like it had been run over by a ten ton truck.  I turn and notice Mack is now part of the group of older men staring at me in disbelief from behind the reception desk; I calmly walk up to the manager of the gym, give him back the leather gloves and ask meekly, “What do I owe you for the punching bag?”