Why Morecambe Was the Only Place This Story Could Live
I set Not Safe Here in Morecambe because it is the town I know best.
I live here.
I walk these streets every day.
I see the beauty and the damage side by side.
That mattered to me when writing a domestic thriller rooted in fear, credibility, and survival.
Morecambe is not a postcard version of a seaside town.
It is not nostalgia without consequence.
It is a place where people live real lives under real pressure.
Morecambe has some of the biggest skies I have ever known.
The light across the bay changes constantly.
On a clear day, you can see the Lake District fells sitting low on the horizon.
The sea gives the town space to breathe.
It gives perspective.
It also gives a sense of exposure.
There is nowhere to hide from the weather here.
That openness felt important for a story about being watched.
At the same time, there is another Morecambe that sits just behind the seafront.
Boarded-up shops.
Shuttered arcades.
Empty units that never quite get filled.
You only have to step one street back to see deprivation up close.
Much of the town’s visible investment hugs the promenade.
The seafront looks cared for.
It photographs well.
But once you move away from it, the cracks show quickly.
Housing deteriorates faster than it gets fixed.
Services stretch thin.
People make do.
That imbalance shaped the world of Not Safe Here.
Jenny’s life exists just out of view of the version of Morecambe people like to sell.
Her flat above a chip shop is not symbolic.
It is realistic.
It is where people actually live.
Domestic thrillers often centre on large houses and comfortable lives.
That has never felt natural to me.
I am more drawn to stories where money is tight and options are limited.
Where fear is magnified because there is no safety net.
Where asking for help comes with judgement attached.
In Not Safe Here, Jenny is not disbelieved by accident.
She is disbelieved because of where she lives.
Because of how she speaks.
Because of what is already written about her.
That kind of pressure feels more honest to me.
I have always felt closer to domestic thrillers that show hardship without apology.
Stories that acknowledge how northern towns actually function.
That is why authors like Daniel Hurst resonate with me.
There is no gloss.
No distance from the reality of financial strain or social judgement.
Those stories feel lived in.
They feel earned.
They feel closer to the truth.
I grew up on a council estate in Wolverhampton.
I spent over a decade living in a back-to-back terrace in Leeds.
Those places taught me how quickly people judge from the outside.
They also taught me how strong people have to be just to get through the week.
That background shapes what I write whether I intend it to or not.
When I write fear, it is grounded in losing stability.
When I writfe threat, it is tied to systems that already doubt you.
That perspective followed me to Morecambe.
Not Safe Here is about stalking and gaslighting.
It is also about credibility.
It is about who gets believed and who does not.
It is about how easily a mother can be framed as unstable when she does not fit a preferred narrative.
Setting the story in Morecambe made those themes sharper.
It stripped away any sense of comfort or insulation.
It forced the story to sit in discomfort.
I know not every reader wants this kind of setting.
That is fine.
But I hope readers who recognise towns like Morecambe feel seen by this book.
I hope it resonates with anyone who has lived just outside the tidy version of a place.
I hope it speaks to readers who know what it is like to be judged before they speak.
These are the stories I connect with most strongly.
They feel closer to my life.
They feel closer to the truth as I understand it.
That is why Not Safe Here could only ever be set in Morecambe.
