“Martin, what the bollocks are you talking about?” I was becoming as frustrated with him as Jen was.
“Back to the future! Come on … Marty knows when lightning strikes. The exact moment that stops the clock on the Town Hall … well, we know when lightning strikes!”
“No, I don’t. I’ve no idea when lightning strikes. Anyway, the Town Hall clock worked the last time I looked at it back in 2019.”
“Not lightning … a bomb!” Martin rocked forward on his chair. “We know when there’s a bomb!” He jumped up from his chair, causing it to clatter to the floor as he thrust out his arms as if willing me to know what the hell he was talking about.
“Martin, are you playing bloody charades? For Christ’s sake, what are you on about?”
“Oh, Jesus, man. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Yes!”
“19th January 1977, the Fairfield-Four! At eight-fifteen, a bomb rips through the Bell Pub in town … sixteen people killed and many injured. Bloody hell, man, you must remember all the stories when the four men were released from prison in the late ’90s? Their conviction was quashed because of some technicality, and there was uproar in the town about it.”
I passed Beth back to Jenny and slid down onto the nearest chair. “Christ, yes of course, but I’m astonished you know the date. I know all about it, but I would never have been able to guess the exact date. You weren’t even born, and neither was I for that matter … how the hell do you know when it was?”
“Mum was at the Festival House on St. Stephens Street. She was into amateur dramatics when she was a teenager. That night she was there completing rehearsals as she played Eliza Doolittle in the play, My Fair lady, and The Bell Pub is opposite. Mum kept all the newspaper clippings in a scrapbook. Apparently, my grandparents were in a right state until they found out she was okay.”
“Jason … Jason, he said the 19th January!” Jenny said, the colour draining from her as she pointed at Martin. “What’s the time now?”
I turned and looked at Jenny, then glanced at Martin. “Oh, bollocks!”
“What?” he said.
“Martin, today is the 19th January.” I looked at my watch. “It’s five past eight … that bomb goes off in ten minutes!”
“Well, that will prove it then!” He grinned, generally looking pretty delighted with himself.
“Martin, in ten minutes, sixteen people are going to be blown to smithereens!”
His jaw dropped, realising the enormity of the situation.
“Have we got the Yellow Pages in here,” blurted Jenny.
“Fuck, no.” I bolted out of my chair and ran through the open back door to Don’s. I raced in, grabbed his Yellow Pages and ran back. Don shouted after me, but I didn’t have time to explain, just calling over my shoulder that I’d be back in a moment. Slamming the heavy yellow book on the kitchen table, I thumbed through it as I ripped over the pages.
“Shouldn’t we be calling 999?” shouted Martin, as Jenny and I pored over the book with my finger chasing down the page.
“No time,” I yelled back.
“What you looking for?”
“Shut up!” Jenny and I yelled in unison. Jenny grabbed a pen from the kitchen worktop. Whilst juggling Beth, she made a fist of her hand and hovered next to me with the pen at the ready.
“21748,” I yelled.
“217 … what was the last bit?”
Martin was peering at the place where my finger had stopped, the telephone number and address for the Bell Pub. “Err … that’s not enough numbers, you’re missing one. All numbers have six digits.”
“Shut up!” We both shouted.
“48 – 21748.”
“Got it.” Jenny and I ran into the hall. I grabbed the receiver and dialled whilst Jenny held out her fist where she’d scribbled the number.
It started to ring. Jenny and I were staring at each other, our eyes locked together, praying we had enough time. I placed my hand over the receiver as I waited for an answer. “Shit, they’ll be able to trace the call. I can’t do this.”
“You’ve got to. We’ve no choice! If you’re right, people are about to die!”
I grabbed Beth’s shawl off of Jen’s shoulder and wrapped it around the phone’s mouthpiece. The ringing just continued. I looked at my watch, eight-eleven. “Jesus, this thing goes off in four minutes. Come on, come on, pick up the damn phone.”
After what felt like a lifetime, the call was answered.
“Bell Inn. Hang on, please.”
“Hey, hello, hello,” but all I could hear was the receiver had been placed down and the man who’d answered it shout, “1:85, please.” The background noise was full of chat and laughter of what I suspected would be a busy pub.
A thunderous whoomph powered through to my ear, causing me to yank the receiver away from my head. Then there was nothing – no noise – no dialling tone – just some crackles of a disconnected line.
18
20th January 1977
The Deadwood Stage
Alex stopped and consulted his order book at the door of flat 120. Although he always knew what every one of his customers ordered each day, it was prudent to check new ones. Smiling to himself that it was correct; well, he always was as he prided himself on knowing his round. Placing the two milk bottles on the doorstep, one gold top and one silver top, Alex called out as he did at every door, ‘Watch out, watch out, there’s a Humphrey about’.
He pushed his Unigate peaked cap back on his head – just like Reg Varney wore his. He swung his wire bottle holder and whistled ‘The Deadwood Stage’ as he strode along the landing. He loved Doris Day. It was proper music, not that disco rubbish which was continually clogging up the wireless airwaves.
Jess woke as she heard the bottles clatter down on the doorstep and the whistling the milkman always seemed to be doing, the same tune every day. Her eyes felt heavy and sore. For a brief second, she wondered why, but it came rushing back into her head like a tsunami of terror washing away all other thoughts. Pulling her coat tightly around her, as the flat was cold, she didn’t think she could get up to turn the fire on. It was too much effort and she was desperate to sleep and never wake up. Fighting her thoughts, her stinging eyes released their tears, and she sobbed into the sofa cushions until exhaustion dragged her back to a fitful sleep.
~
Paul eased himself up in bed and reached behind to yank the pillow up behind his head. He grabbed his radio and cigarettes from the bedside cabinet, knocking the stack of Men-Only magazines that slid sideways and tumbled to the floor. Their glossy covers of glamorous naked models sprawling out, with this month’s centrefold, Cassy, smiling back at him as she squashed her breasts together, her lips pouting.
“One day, gorgeous, it might be your lucky day.” He felt a stirring below as he gazed at her picture and lit his cigarette. Still leching over the glossy photo of Cassy, he poked his tongue out and wiggled it at her as he yanked up the radio aerial, extending it to its full height. Paul thumbed the dial around to the pre-set medium-wave station of Radio 1.
Noel Edmonds was yakking on about his School Report slot and then that knobby jingle 247 radio 1. “The Drifters for Debbie in Lancashire, and You’re more than a number in my little red book,” announced Noel.
Paul blew the smoke to the ceiling and then leaned down to grab the magazine to get a closer look at Cassy. He turned the magazine to study the centrefold who, with her long blonde hair, reminded him of Patrick’s bird. His outstretched arms caused a long blob of ash to drop to his chest, which Paul rubbed into the white cotton, resulting in a long black streak staining the top of his vest. He chuckled to himself; perhaps a trip up to see how that bitch was today. Now Patrick was doing time, and even though she’d told him to piss off in court on Monday, it was the brotherly thing to do.
~
Jess opened her eyes as the daylight eased its way into the room through the yellowed-smoke-stained net curtains. Now shivering, although she wa
s unsure if that was because of the cold or the horrific event last night – perhaps both. With so little sleep and fighting the feeling of exhaustion that tried to pin her to the sofa, she struggled up and lit the gas fire.
There was no way she could report what happened. The police would never believe her, and anyway, they would take the attitude that she was a slag from the estate and probably deserved it. So, what was the point? She didn’t know who’d attacked her, so reporting some big geezer wearing a balaclava with breath that stank of stale cigarettes, wouldn’t be taken seriously. Anyway, that description could describe half the blokes living on the Broxworth Estate. No, she’d have to put it behind her and tell no one. Why had she gone through the alley at night? She knew two women were raped last year, so she berated herself for not being more careful.
~
After enjoying a few moments with the picture of Cassy, Paul threw on his clothes that were liberally scattered across the bedroom floor. He planned to attend to business first, a meet with Cal Gower to hand over a package, then some pleasure. Paul hated playing second-fiddle to the Gowers, but that was the order of things. He knew to maintain his position and keep the Colney business thriving, bending to Cal Gower was a necessary evil. No one worried Paul, apart from Cal and his family. He knew his place and the unthinkable consequences of trying to upset the order.
He closed the flat door behind him but stood still as he scanned the view down in the square below. The Filth were everywhere, uniform and plain-clothes crisscrossing the square near the community centre. He spotted numerous police vehicles, Pandas and at least one Jam Butty. This wasn’t good – this meant heavy shit was going down – he knew he’d have to act fast.
Glancing across to the flats of Shannon House, Paul could see Cal staring at him. He held the stare as Cal shook his head and drew his finger across his throat. Paul had been in the drug distribution scene long enough to know his place, and the contents of his jacket pocket was enough to give him a stretch longer than Patrick was going to get. Cal’s actions were clear – if he fucked up now, he was a dead man.
“Fuck.” Was this a raid?
Stepping back into the flat, he needed a moment to think. Ma had gone to the shops; pity he needed her help now. The Old-Bill would love nothing better than to get him holding this lot. Paul held the brick-shaped package in his hand as his mind whirred around, weighing up his options. Patrick’s bitch – that was it – if he could get across to Belfast House, he could stash it in her flat. If this was a raid, they couldn’t pin it on him, and that silly bitch would go down. However, if they found the package, Cal would kill him. With no other choices in front of him and the need to act fast, Paul left the flat again. All he needed was a few minutes without being seen, and he would be in her flat.
Paul scooted around to the back of the flats, keeping close to the tree line and out of view. He stopped for a moment at the rear of Belfast House, looking at the very spot where his brother, David, had fallen to his death. It had destroyed Ma as David was her favourite of the four boys. For the last few months, he and Patrick had tried to find out what happened that day in September. No way David had just fallen off the roof, and they knew there was way more to it than what that pompous stuck-up coroner had said.
Refocusing, he moved on to head up to Jess’s flat. So far, he’d encountered no one, and The Filth, fortunately, seemed to be focused on Shannon House. Perhaps finally, they had the balls to deal with the Gowers, which would be a result, and he could then climb up the food chain with them removed. Paul Colney, head of the firm in Fairfield – he liked the sound of that.
~
Jess's heart leapt as her front door took a fist hammering. She peered around the kitchen door and stared at the obscured glass – the thumping continued.
“Open the fucking door, you bitch, or I’ll kick it in.”
Paul Colney, why was he at the door? She didn’t want that evil bastard in her flat, especially today, but she knew he’d persist. She gingerly moved down the hall, still hugging her coat tightly around herself. “Piss off, Paul. Just piss off,” she shouted through the door. Her voice was shaky and high pitched, as her usual confidence had been left in that alley last night.
“Open this fucking door, bitch. I will, I’ll kick it in,” he repeated.
Knowing he would, Jess stepped forward and turned the Yale lock. The door flung open, causing the handle to bounce into the wall and nestle into the wall’s pre-formed dent before Paul grabbed the frame and slammed it shut.
“What d’you want? I don’t want you here,” shouted Jess, as she stepped back a couple of paces to maintain the gap between them.
“Shut up, bitch. Make me a coffee and get out of the fucking way.” He pushed past her, stepped into the bathroom, then closed the door and slid the bolt across. Scanning the room, the only hiding places were in the toilet cistern or behind the bath panel. He knelt, took out his pen-knife and attacked the rusted screws along the bottom edge of the stained wooden board. The thin blade bent in the screw head. “Fucking hell, come on.” Folding the blade away, he flipped out the longer blade, but that was too fat to fit into the screw head. “Bastard.”
“What are you doing in there?”
“Shut up bitch.” He slammed the knife into the lino, stood and repeatedly kicked the panel in fury until it splintered and cracked.
“What's going on!”
Ignoring her, he stood on the toilet seat, lifted the cistern top and gently placed the package on top of the ballcock. It would have to do until The Filth moved on. Paul yanked open the door and faced Jess, who was still standing where she was a few moments ago.
“Where’s my coffee, bitch?” he spat at her.
“Get out, get out! What have you done in there?” Jess bellowed at him, her usual confidence now returning.
Paul grinned and stepped towards her. With his face inches from hers, he placed his hands on the sides of her head. “Look, girlie, there’s no Patrick now to hide behind, so you're going to have to be a good girl for me now.” He roughly grabbed her chin, “You keep that pretty mouth shut, and you talk to no one about me. I ain't been ’ere today. You’re going to keep something for me for a few hours, okay? Now get your bony arse in that kitchen and make my coffee.”
Jess would normally stand her ground with Paul. Although he was a psycho, he never overstepped the mark as Patrick would have killed him – but he was right, now she had no protection. Her only option now was to make his coffee, then get him out of her flat as soon as possible.
Paul loomed over her shoulder, her hands trembling as she spooned the coffee in a chipped mug. His breath stank of stale cigarettes as it wafted past her neck, and he rubbed his hand across her bottom. Immediately, with the mug in her hand, she swung around and whacked it into his face. Paul jolted back as he swatted the mug away, which flew across the kitchen and landed on the cooker, cracking as it bounced to the floor.
“Piss off!” she screamed.
Paul stepped closer to her and grabbed her forearms, grinning with his mouth inches from her face.
Jess shuddered – the scene from the alley resurfaced – although it had never really sunk in her mind.
“Watch it, girlie.” He pinned her arms to her side, stuck out his tongue and licked her lips – she wanted to throw up.
“Nothing you can do about it, and don’t think you can go running to Patrick. He can’t help you even if he believed you.”
Jess shoved him away, “Piss off!”
Paul stepped back and laughed at her. “Now get another cup and make that coffee.” He rubbed the front of his jeans. “Then, as a thank you, you can have some of this.”
“Piss off, I wouldn’t touch you! You should be in jail, not Patrick. Even better … dead like your pervert brother!”
Paul leapt at her, spinning her around and pinning her arms behind her back as he leant into her ear. “Don’t you fucking talk about David, bitch.”
“You should have been thrown off the fl
ats with him!” She leant forward to get away from the stench of his breath. “Those blokes deserve a medal for ridding the world of that scum brother of yours, and you should be dead with him!”
Paul spun her around again so that she faced him. “What fucking blokes? What d’you know?”
“Nothing!” Jess stared at his wild eyes, realising she’d blurted out in anger and to the worst person possible.
“Yeah, you do, you bitch. Who told you? What they know?”
“I said nothing! I don’t know anything! Let go. You’re hurting me!”
Paul let go of her arms but grabbed her chin and squeezed, causing her lips to pucker. “I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t start talking.”
Jess shook as a wave of fear struck. She thought of the baby inside her and what would happen if Paul became really violent. Jess knew this bastard was feeding off her fear, but her uncontrollable shaking wouldn’t stop. “Get off me ... I’m pregnant. Get off me,” she managed to squeeze out of her squashed-up lips.
Paul showed no reaction to what she’d said and didn’t seem surprised as if he already knew – but he couldn’t know – she’d only told her mother and Jason.
“You won't be pregnant for long if you don’t start talking.” He tightened his grip on her chin and placed his left hand around her throat. Jess knew this psycho would kill her without batting an eyelid. She had to get rid of him for the baby’s sake.
“I saw it happen … I saw it! Please let go of me … please.” Jess could feel her airways closing as he squeezed her neck. His eyes black and cold – devil eyes – he was going to crush the life out of her. She didn’t have the strength to fight as tears rolled and now accepted the inevitable would happen.
“What—did—you—see?”
Jess felt her head go light as the lack of air scrambled her brain. He let go of her neck as she gasped for air. Before she could compose herself, he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked it hard.
“I killed the last slag that lived in this shit hole. Start talking. Otherwise, you’re joining that bitch.”
Ahead of his Time Page 13