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The kitchen of the Harrison house smelled of fried bread and burnt toast by seven the next morning. Jim Harrison was already on his second mug of strong tea, the Liverpool Echo spread out on the table before him. His eyes were bloodshot from the late-night emergency meetings, but his face hardened as Billy shuffled into the room, his eyes fixed firmly on his boots.
"You were late back from the sorting office last night, Billy," Jim said, his voice flat, not looking up from the paper. "Vaughan called the house. Said you had a breakdown near Penny Lane but didn't check back into the depot until gone eight."
Billy froze by the kettle, his hand hovering over the tea caddy. His canvas holdall, still stuffed with the three hundred pounds of student ticket cash, was shoved right to the back of his wardrobe upstairs, hidden beneath an old pile of football programmes. "I was helping George with the flatbed, Dad. The traffic down the dock road was a nightmare."
Jim slowly lowered the newspaper, his sharp eyes locking onto his son. "Tommy Higgins came by the regional office late last night, Billy. He didn't say much. Tommy’s a loyal lad. But he told me you were down at the old south basin with those girls from number four. He said Mikey Gallagher’s mixed up with some proper bad eggs from town." Jim leaned forward, the table creaking under his weight. "Tell me you haven't got your fingers in whatever pie Mikey’s trying to eat, son. Because if the Post Office finds out you're doing anything dodgy on the clock, I won't be able to save your job. The union can't protect a thief."
"I'm not a thief, Dad!" Billy snapped, his voice cracking with a mix of guilt and anger. "You think everyone's out to break the rules. Some of us are just trying to get by. You can't see past your own pickets!"
Before Jim could launch across the table, the front door bell rang, a sharp, aggressive buzz that cut through the family row. Billy used the distraction to bolt down the hallway, pulling the door open just to escape his dad's glare.
Standing on the step was Danny McCarthy, his window-cleaning bucket slung over his arm, looking unusually serious.
"Alright, Billy," Danny muttered, stepping into the porch out of the drizzle. "Look, Ste’s been talking down at the depot. He's bricking it, lad. He told me about the rave tickets and the cash you’ve got hidden. Word’s getting around that Kevin’s crew are still looking for that three hundred quid, and they don't care if it comes from Mikey or you."
Billy pushed Danny further into the hallway, throwing an anxious look back toward the kitchen. "Keep your voice down, soft lad! My old man’s right through there."
"I’m trying to help you, Billy," Danny whispered urgently. "I’m DJing down at the club on Mathew Street tonight. The promoter... he’s a decent fella. He can take the tickets back and square the cash with Kevin’s people before anyone gets hurt. But you’ve got to give me the bag now."
Across the crescent, the morning light was doing nothing to soften the mood at number four.
Sandra and Chrissie were sitting on their sofa, fully dressed, staring at the front door. The 9:00 AM eviction deadline was ticking closer, and the street outside was starting to wake up. Danny’s ladder was clattering against the glass next door, and the sound of Tommy’s Transit van rumbling to life down the road echoed through the thin walls.
A sharp, official knock rattled the frosted glass of their door.
Sandra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Chrissie stood up, her jaw set in defiance, though her fingers were trembling as she reached for the brass handle. She pulled it open, bracing herself for the council bailiffs and a police escort.
Instead, a young man in a smart civilian suit stood there, holding a manila envelope. He didn't look like a bailiff; he looked like a junior clerk.
"Chrissie Marsden?" the man asked, his voice lacking any of the venom they had expected. "I’m from the municipal housing director’s office. I’ve been instructed by Mr Harrison’s regional representative to deliver this amended tenancy review."
Chrissie took the envelope, her heart hammering. As she pulled out the document, her eyes scanned the official stamp at the top. The eviction notice hadn't been enforced; it had been deferred for a thirty-day independent tribunal review. Jim Harrison had used his final bit of political leverage with the local council to buy them time.
Chrissie looked up, tears of pure relief finally spilling over her lashes, but the clerk was already walking away into the Liverpool mist. They had won the morning, but as she looked across the street and saw Billy Harrison frantically arguing with Danny on the pavement, she knew the price of their safety was being paid by someone else.
