Kudos to Lord Matt who has provided a very robust and comprehensive answer. Firstly I'll continue to chip away at the 'everybody's equal' education theory. Twisted plots are born of a twisted mind - some people aren't built for this style of story-telling. It's very hard to teach.

BETA READERS

If the twist is the major feature don't burn beta readers. You can only use them once. On third viewing "Sixth Sense" isn't a very good film. Watching it for the first time you are in shock at the final revelation. On second viewing you are amazed how obvious the outcome was - and you missed it! Watch it again and you'll realise - without the twist it ain't all that.

SETTING UP

Setting up for a good twist or twists requires superior intelligence, confidence, arrogance, and an inherent cruel streak. I measure my best twists by how many times I can show what's going on knowing you'll never get it because you're just too stupid.

EMERGING TWISTS (The case against outlining).

I wrote a novel about a gangster and the cop who was trying to put him away. A mild twist was the gangster was too smart for cop. The cop became the villain and the gangster became the hero when the cop started venturing further over the line to catch the gangster. To add a little spice to the story and ramp up the conflict I had the cop's daughter ( a state prosecutor) fall in love with, and marry, the gangster.

As this story drew to a close I took a read through. The gangster who was, deep down, a good guy had ensured that his wife was well out of the way. If the shit hit the fan she had an alibi and could never be convicted.

After reading my own novel it occurred to me . . . he wasn't giving her alibis she was creating her own. Throughout the entire saga this secondary character had been the puppet-master all along.

FOR WHO THE PENNY DROPS (This is going to be long)

When writing a novel full of dark twists and turns you must be aware of different qualities of reader. e.g. The opening of "Little Miss Lightning" is blatant misdirection. I know what I'm writing but I know what the reader thinks I'm saying.

Berlin, Germany

The group of young girls stood in the rain, stripped, ready, in a huddle.

Cold blue eyes made a cursory inspection of each individual. "Behind the line," he grunted, motioning with one hand. His gun, in the other, pointed downwards. Droplets of rain fell from the muzzle onto the ochre-stained ground. "You will be eliminated. Step back, behind the line." He pushed one of the girls. "Schnell! Schnell!"

The girl edged back, shaking, fighting back tears. Her bare thighs blue with cold.

Carlene looked over to the frightened girl; for a brief moment pity for the other momentarily threatened to weaken her resolve. She turned away. Now was not the time to be pitying others. It was every girl for herself.

The man strode back to his position, swinging his pistol as he walked.

Carlene watched, eyes filled with hatred, fixed on the gun. Her thoughts travelled to her grandfather and brother at home in England, and how she missed them since she’d been taken from her school three weeks earlier. She’d been held with the others at that awful camp for the first two weeks until she was transferred here.

Another voice instilled silence, "Fertig."

Carlene didn’t understand. She trembled, watching as he raised and pointed the gun. In the silence, she closed her eyes for a long second. The long second lingered, she peeked, just in time to see his finger squeezing the trigger. The moment she heard the shot, her mind told her to run. All around she could hear screaming, shouting, and mayhem. When her throat began to burn and her lungs felt as if to explode, fear told her not to stop - just keep running, as fast as she could.

I know what you think that was. The heading "Berlin, Germany" put the blinkers on you, and after that you got played like a cheap fiddle. However, the start of the next scene catches up the smarter readers.

Three years later

"As they round the top bend and come on to the home straight, Salter is powering away. There is daylight between him and the German athlete . . . Oh my word!" The commentator’s voice buzzed with excitement. "A scintillating performance. That – is an amazing time. We knew he was in the form of his life but the clock’s stopped at 44.05 seconds, a new Commonwealth record, and the fastest time in the world this year. And that's maximum points for Great Britain."
An athlete clad in the UK strip of sky blue Lycra bent over, hands on knees, breathing heavily, head raised, watching a replay of his own performance on the big screen.

From this point on I'm writing for two sets of readers. Set(A) have worked out that the opening scene was the start of a race in a track and field meeting. Set(B) remain adamant that my character escaped from a Nazi concentration camp. I must continue the story whilst appeasing both audiences.

At some point I have catch everybody up. I go eight chapters before our rising track and field star appears on a cookery show and explains chapter 1.

The presenter read from a card. "Question number one from Helen in Essex. Why did you decide to become an athlete?"

Carlene leaned back as she thought. "I don’t know that I chose athletics. Although as a child I can always remember I seemed to be running. Originally, I wanted to play football, I suppose. One day I took the boys’ ball away because they wouldn’t let me play. They chased me all over the park but none of them could catch me. After that, my granddad would drop me off at Crystal Palace Athletics Club whenever the boys were playing. He says it did it to keep the peace and to give me a creative outlet for my excessive energy. It was all good clean fun until I turned seventeen. They thought I was good enough to go to the European Schools Championships in Berlin. I thought ‘great’, a free holiday and I’d get out of doing revision for my exams." She rolled her eyes theatrically. "Wrong on both counts! Holiday? The Third Reich never did close down those concentration camps – trust me on that. It was the first time I’d been away from home on my own, and it scared the . . . life out of me."

"And I bet you still had to revise."

"Didn’t we just, in solitary confinement, locked up inside the training camp. Because we were all still at school they had tutors and supervisors out there. But they were guards really – we all knew it."

"How’d you get on out there?"

"I won the title. I was so scared I did a bit of a Forrest Gump. The moment the gun went off, my one and only thought was ‘run, Carlene, run!’" She pumped her arms. "I was running as fast as I could waiting for the crowd to hold up a banner saying. "Stop, Carlene, stop."

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