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The atmospheric hum of the Copperas Hill sorting office was drowned out by a thick, heavy roar of voices the following morning. Two massive wooden tables had been pushed together near the main loading bay, draped in a red union banner that read Unity is Strength. Atop the banner sat the metal ballot boxes, their narrow slots waiting for the final votes that would decide whether Liverpool’s postal network went into complete paralysis.
Jim Harrison stood at the head of the tables, his face carrying the exhaustion of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His regional trade union convenor badge was pinned proudly to his donkey jacket. Beside him, Mr. Vaughan, the assistant supervisor, watched the proceedings like a hawk, a clipboard clutched to his ribs, looking for any technicality to declare the ballot void.
Billy Harrison walked into the bay, his leather mail bag slung over his shoulder. The weight of it felt different today—honest but grueling. He caught his father’s eye across the crowded floor. Jim’s gaze didn't soften; it was a cold, hard reminder of the holiday savings currently sitting in Kevin’s safe down on Mathew Street.
"Harrison!" Vaughan barked as Billy approached the desk. "Vote and move on. We’ve got an afternoon backlog from the south docks that needs clearing before the shift ends."
Billy took his paper slip, his hand trembling slightly. He looked at his dad, then at the box. He knew that voting yes meant months of hardship for his mum, but voting no felt like a betrayal of everything his father had built. He slid the paper into the slot and moved quickly toward the exit, unable to face the old man's silent judgment any longer.
Outside, the rain had cleared, leaving a pale, watery sun to heat the tarmac of the city centre.
Danny McCarthy was waiting by his blue Ford Transit van down the hill, frantically polishing a set of ladders he’d already cleaned twice. When he saw Billy walk out, he dropped his scrim cloth. "Is your dad still inside? Did he say anything about Greg?"
"He hasn't spoken to me at all, Danny," Billy said, his voice raw as he threw his bag into the passenger seat. "What about Greg? Have you seen him since he got the push from the Kwik Save?"
"He’s down at the Mathew Street club right now," Danny said, his Scouse accent thick with anxiety. "The promoter's let him stay on the door for the weekend, but he's skint, Billy. He wants the rest of the ticket money from the university crowd to cover his rent. If we don't get those remaining tickets sold to Sue’s students up at Mount Pleasant by Friday night, Greg’s going to come looking for both of us."
While the boys scrambled for survival in the city centre, the pressure on Dockside crescent was reaching a boiling point.
Sue stood by her garden gate at number eight, her briefcase slung over her shoulder, watching Sandra and Chrissie walking back from the corner shop. Mrs. Green from number fourteen was on her front porch again, deliberately sweeping dirt off her step and glaring at the two women as they passed.
"Morning, Sue," Sandra said, her voice tight, trying to ignore the heavy glances from the older neighbors.
"Morning, Sandra. Chrissie," Sue said, stepping out onto the pavement to join them, her teacher’s instinct for conflict resolution kicking in. "Look, I heard about the shouting yesterday. Don't let Mrs. Green get under your skin. She's just frightened. Everyone on this road is frightened because the city’s running out of money."
"It’s not just shouting, Sue," Chrissie said, holding up a small, hand-written note that had been pushed through their letterbox that morning. It didn't have a name on it, just five words in angry, black ink: We don't want your sort.
Sandra looked away, her eyes fixing on the distant spires of the cathedral. "We saved Mikey Gallagher from those fellas, Sue. We stood in the headlights for this estate. And this is what we get back?"
Sue looked at the paper, a deep sense of anger tightening in her chest. The solidarity her generation had fought for was curdling into something insular and cruel as the economic walls closed in. "You don't leave, Chrissie. You stay put. I'll speak to Jim when he gets back from the depot. We aren't letting people be driven off this crescent because the world outside is changing."
