This post includes content drafted by AI and edited for quality.
The Copperas Hill sorting office was at its most chaotic during the late afternoon shift change. Billy Harrison walked through the rear doors, trying to move naturally despite the large, crinkling lump of cash and flyers stuffed down the front of his Post Office jacket. Every step felt loud, the plastic scraping against his uniform like a beacon for attention.
"Harrison! In here! Now!"
The voice belonged to Mr. Vaughan, the assistant supervisor, a man whose permanent scowl was fueled by ulcers and a hatred for union interventions. He was standing at the door of his glass-fronted office, holding a clipboard like a weapon.
Billy swallowed hard, adjusting his stance to look less bulky as he stepped into the small, smoky office. "The van just gave up on Penny Lane, Mr. Vaughan. George said the bulkhead..."
"I don't care about the bulkhead, Harrison," Vaughan cut him off, slamming the clipboard onto his desk. "I care about the two pouches of mail that should have been through the doors of the south docks business units an hour ago. You’re lucky your old man is who he is, or I’d have you on suspension for negligence before you could take your boots off."
Billy kept his arms crossed tight over his chest, terrified that a twenty-pound note might slip out from his zip. "It wasn't my fault, sir. The vehicle—"
"Just get back to your frame and finish sorting the night mail," Vaughan snapped, waving a hand in dismissal. "And if I see you slacking off with that mate of yours, Ste, you’ll both be facing a disciplinary tribunal. Get out."
Billy practically backed out of the office, his shirt soaked with sweat. He hurried down the corridor toward the locker room, desperate to hide the cash before his dad came looking for him. The money felt like a ticking bomb, and the countdown was getting dangerously close to zero.
Down at the south docks, the darkness had swallowed the river completely, leaving only the amber glow of the distant oil terminals reflecting on the black water. Mikey Gallagher’s knees were knocking together from a mixture of sub-zero temperatures and pure terror.
The low, rumbling growl of a car engine crept into the derelict courtyard.
Mikey pressed his face against the cold, rusted steel of the skip. He peeked around the edge, his breath catching in his throat. A black Ford Capri with tinted windows crawled through the broken gates, its headlights cutting through the grey mist like twin searchlights. The car stopped twenty yards away, the engine idling with a menacing, deep purr.
The passenger door swung open. A man in a heavy leather trench coat stepped out, his leather gloves making a sharp snapping sound as he pulled them tight.
"Mikey!" the man called out, his voice smooth, local, and utterly devoid of mercy. "We know you’re down here, lad. Ste told us you’d come this way. You’ve got something that belongs to us, and we don't like waiting for our dividends."
Mikey squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the small silver cross around his neck. Ste had grassed him up to save his own skin. He had no money, no transport, and nobody left to call except his nan—and she was currently sitting on Dockside crescent praying over her rosary beads, completely unaware that her grandson was about to pay a very heavy price for a bad bet.
Back at number four, the kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Sandra was sitting at the table, staring at a cold cup of tea, while Chrissie stood by the window, her fingers twitching against the curtain fabric.
A loud, aggressive knock rattled the front door, making both of them jump.
Chrissie moved first, her face hardened by a day of fighting bureaucratic walls. She pulled the door open, expecting another council worker or a hostile neighbour. Instead, she found old Mrs. Gallagher standing on the step, her eyes wide with panic, her hands trembling as she held a damp tissue.
"Chrissie, lasses," the old woman gasped, her voice breaking. "It’s Mikey. A lad just came by the house... said some fellas from town took him down toward the old warehouses by the south basin. They’re going to hurt him, Chrissie. My Billy’s not home, and Jim’s at a meeting. Please, you’ve got to help me find him."
Chrissie looked back at Sandra, the eviction notice forgotten as a real, immediate danger arrived on their doorstep.
