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The neon sign for the Mathew Street club hummed a low, buzzing note that vibrated through the wet brick walls of the alleyway. It was barely three in the afternoon, but down here, away from the main thoroughfare of the city centre, the shadows were already thick and cold. Jim Harrison pushed open the heavy iron fire exit, his boots echoing off the concrete stairs. Billy followed a step behind, his chest tight, his hands crammed so deep into his pockets his knuckles ached.
Inside, the club smelled of stale lager, disinfectant, and the lingering damp of a hundred weekend crowds. A single spotlight cut through the gloom, illuminating a roadie testing the bass bins on the stage. The low, thudding vibration hit Billy right in the stomach, matching the frantic rhythm of his heart.
"Jim. Didn't expect to see the union aristocracy down in the trenches."
Kevin stepped out from the darkness of the manager's office, his leather trench coat unbuttoned, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He looked at Jim, then his eyes slid to Billy, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face.
Jim didn't say a word. He reached into his donkey jacket, pulled out Billy’s canvas holdall, and slammed it onto the sticky surface of the bar. The metal zip scraped loudly against the wood. "Three hundred quid," Jim said, his voice flat and hard. "The debt Mikey Gallagher owed your people. It’s all there."
Kevin walked over, his leather gloves clicking against the bar as he unzipped the bag. He glanced at the stacks of twenty-pound notes and the neon-pink State of Mind flyers. He chuckled, blowing a stream of grey smoke toward the ceiling. "Your lad’s been busy, Jim. Selling tickets to the university crowd. There's a lot of money in those grand houses by Sefton Park. More than a postie makes, eh?"
"The money's there, Kevin," Jim repeated, leaning forward until his face was inches from Kevin's. "The debt is cleared. If I see you, or any of your lads, near Dockside crescent again—if you so much as look at Mikey Gallagher or my son—I won't call the bobbies. I’ll bring fifty dockers down to this alley, and we’ll turn this place into a car park. Do we understand each other?"
Kevin’s smile vanished. He looked at Jim’s massive, calloused hands, then at the hard line of his jaw. He knew Jim wasn't bluffing. The trade unions in 1986 still held the numbers, and a dispute with the waterfront lads could shut down a city centre business overnight. "We're square, Jim," Kevin muttered, pulling the bag toward him. "Tell the lad to stick to delivering letters."
Outside, the freezing air hit Billy like a bucket of cold water. He looked at his dad, expecting the shouting to start again, but Jim just walked briskly toward his Austin Cambridge, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
"Dad, I’m sorry," Billy mumbled as they reached the car.
Jim stopped, his hand on the door handle. He looked older than his fifty-four years, the grey in his sideburns looking stark against his dark skin. "Don't apologize to me, Billy. You didn't do this to me. You did it to your mother. And you did it to every lad on that picket line who thinks the Harrison name means something." He climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door before Billy could answer.
Back on Dockside crescent, the afternoon school bell had just rung, and Sue was walking up the path to her front door at number eight, her arms full of marking books. She stopped when she saw Sandra and Chrissie standing by their low brick wall, talking quietly to Mike the milkman, who was collecting his final crates.
"Sue love!" Mike called out, waving a hand. "Hear anything more about that bother down at the Kwik Save? The corner shop's buzzing. Saying Jim Harrison had a proper blow-up with his lad."
Sue sighed, setting her briefcase down on the wall. "I don't know the details, Mike, but I think Billy's mixed up in something heavy. I just hope Jim can sort it before the union ballot closes tomorrow."
Sandra looked at Chrissie, a sudden, horrible realization hitting her. Jim had spent his morning fighting the housing department for their tenancy, cashing in his final bits of political credit. If his own family was falling apart down at the depot, they had structural damage right on their doorstep.
"We need to go down to the Harrisons', Chrissie," Sandra said, her voice rising above the whistling wind. "If Jim's in trouble because he was helping us..."
"He wasn't helping us with the money, San," Chrissie said, her eyes fixed on the end of the crescent where Jim’s Austin Cambridge was just turning the corner. "But if this estate is starting to fracture, we need to know who's standing with us—and who's about to push us out."
