Certain details in this book, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
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First published by HarperElement 2018
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© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2018
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Source ISBN: 9780008228484
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008228521
Version: 2018-04-03
This book is simply dedicated to our Alan Taylor. Rest in peace, Alan – you fought with every last breath to stay as long as you could with my lovely little cousin, Sue, AKA our Nipper, and your girls, Penny, Lou and Lindsay. They all did you proud, Alan, and always will do. You were everything a man should be and you’ll be sadly missed. x
‘Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother did conceive me.’
Psalm 51:5
Contents
Bradford, June 1997
Mo took a slow look around him and sniffed the air. Nothing had changed, he realised. The Sun Inn still delivered: its familiar cocktail of stale beer, cheap perfume and sweat. Did it feel good to be back? He wasn’t sure yet.
On balance, though, yes. Because he knew he still had it. Knew from the ripples of reaction that seemed to flow out when he moved. The odd stare. The covert nudge. The inevitable whispered conversations. Conversations that he knew were taking place in his wake. So on balance, yes. Yes, the weather was shit, obviously, but for the most part it felt good to be home.
He swayed – he couldn’t help it – to the rhythm of the music. A young band. Loud and fast. A little raw, but pretty good, currently banging out Blondie’s ‘Picture This’. He leaned in towards Irish Pete – well, as close as his nose allowed, anyway. ‘These are good, man,’ he shouted at his friend above the noise. ‘What they called?’
‘Parallel Lines,’ Pete said. ‘Blondie tribute band.’
‘I think I got that much.’
‘And that blonde tart’s a dead ringer for Debbie Harry, is she not? I know what I’d fucking like to do to her, too!’ Pete grabbed at his crotch and thrust his hips forward. ‘She wouldn’t have to picture this, eh? She’d get the whole ten fucking inches!’
Mo eyed his old friend with distaste. One thing he’d forgotten during his long years on the oh-so-much more civilised (well, at least in that sense) Spanish Costas was that the Petes of this world never changed. Dirty-tongued, always. And dirty-mouthed, too. The recipient of some very expensive dental work recently, Mo was the proud owner of a gleaming new set of teeth, which only served to highlight what a sewer Pete’s own mouth had become since he’d gone away. It stank like one every time he opened it, however sweet the words that issued forth, the rank-smelling interior fenced in by uneven rows of yellowy-brown, misshapen teeth.
‘In your dreams, Pete,’ he said, turning sideways to avoid the stench. ‘Ten fucking inches, my arse.’ He nodded back to the stage. ‘Seriously, you know anything about them? I’m on the lookout for some