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The pungent smell of bruised cardboard and industrial floor polish filled the back warehouse of the Kwik Save on Great George Street. Greg shoved a heavy wooden pallet of baked bean cans into place with a metallic groan, his massive biceps straining against his tight green supermarket overall. At twenty-four, Greg was built like a brick outhouse, a necessity for a lad who spent his days stacking shelves for basic wage and his Friday nights bouncing the door at the sticky-floored clubs on Mathew Street.
The heavy fire doors at the rear of the loading bay clicked open, letting in a swirl of freezing river air and two very nervous-looking posties.
"Danny," Greg grunted, wiping a streak of dust from his forehead as he spotted Danny McCarthy and Billy Harrison. "What are you two doing here? The manager’s a proper tight-arse today. If he catches you on the loading bay, he’ll have the security on you."
"We need you, Greg," Danny whispered urgently, checking over his shoulder toward the main shop floor where the tannoy was blaring a cheap pop tune. "It’s about Mikey Gallagher. And Kevin's crew. Billy’s got the three hundred quid to square the debt, but we need it passed up the chain before Kevin's lads come looking for blood on Dockside."
Greg’s face hardened instantly. He stopped what he was doing, his large hands dropping to his sides. "Kevin? You're playing with fire, lads. That lot don't just take the cash and say thank you. If you're handing over three hundred quid, they’ll want to know where a postie got that kind of wedge. They aren't stupid."
Billy stepped forward, his knuckles white around the straps of his canvas holdall. "Just take it, Greg. Please. My old man is closing the strike ballot down at the depot right now, and if he finds out I’m mixed up in this, I’m dead anyway. Just get it to them."
Before Greg could reach for the bag, the warehouse doors swung open with a violent bang. It wasn't the supermarket manager. Standing in the doorway, his heavy donkey jacket zipped to his chin and his face etched with pure fury, was Jim Harrison.
A few miles away, near the grand stone gates of the cathedral, Sue was walking briskly toward the school gates, her mind racing. On her bus journey through the city centre, she had spotted Billy and Danny ducking down the side alley of the Kwik Save, looking like two lads about to rob a bank. Concerned for Jim, she had made a quick phone call from the public box on Lime Street straight to the union office. She knew the pressure Jim was under with the strike, and the last thing the Harrison family needed was Billy getting dragged into the gutter.
Back on Dockside crescent, Mike the milkman was finishing his morning round, his electric float humming as he pulled up outside number twelve. Old Mrs Gallagher was standing on her step, her cardigan wrapped tight against the chill as she watched Sandra and Chrissie walking down the road together, holding heads high despite the lingering whispers from the neighbors.
"They’re good girls, Mike," Mrs Gallagher said softly as the milkman handed her a fresh pint of gold-top. "They saved my Mikey last night. I don't care what the papers or the council say about them. They’ve got heart."
"That they have, Mrs G," Mike agreed, slamming an empty crate onto his float with a loud clink. "But this city’s changing fast. The old rules are going out the window, and I think a few people on this estate are about to find out exactly what happens when the money runs out."
Down at the Kwik Save warehouse, the silence was terrifying. Jim Harrison walked slowly toward his son, his boots clicking heavily against the concrete floor. His eyes darted from Billy’s pale face to the canvas holdall, and then to Greg, who was wisely taking a step back.
"Open the bag, Billy," Jim said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "Open it now, or so help me God, I’ll open it myself."
