Shop Front E-Book

Samuel Best

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Out of university and out of luck, Ben Hamilton moves back in with his parents to stack shelves at the local supermarket. There he meets a group of friends and quickly finds himself dragged into secrecy, heavy drinking, and a violent feud. Trouble flares as the boys test the limits of their own behaviour, small-town mentalities and childhood dreams, before a startling climax as some innocent flirting leads to something much darker. Shop Front is more than the story of an unlucky graduate struggling to find his way: it is a story of violence, working life, friendship and A&E

Leseprobe

Shop Front

Samuel Best

© Samuel Best 2014

The author asserts the moral right to be identified

as the author of the work in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of

Fledgling Press Ltd,

7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

Published by Fledgling Press 2014

www.fledglingpress.co.uk

Cover design: Michael O’Shea

www.michaeloshea.co.uk

Print ISBN 9781905916726

eBook ISBN 9781905916733 

To Charlene, always.

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

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14

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24

1

The doors clunk shut behind me. I look around the train for a seat but there are none free. People sit squashed up against each other, trying to read books or text. I stand in the middle of the carriage, hand firmly grasping the back of someone’s seat. The information bar flickers into life and scrolls place names in quick succession. The announcement repeats the locations but they’re distorted and difficult to hear. I check my phone.

5:45p.m. 1 New Message. Mum.

Hi Ben hope you are ok. are you on the train now?

I text back: Yeah, I’m fine. Just leaving now. Back in half an hour x

‘The end of an era,’ Dad had said, when I told him I was thinking of moving back home. ‘We’d love to have you back, son. Your mum will be thrilled!’

I knew she would be.

‘It’ll be like you’re seventeen again!’ she said when she heard, her laughter bouncing down the phone line. ‘Like going back in time.’

Like the past 4 years of writing essays, reading books and lectures lectures lectures hadn’t happened. I’m the same person; just older, poorer, and with BA (Hons) at the end of my name. Then I felt guilty for resenting the move home. I’m an English graduate; I should be happy to have a roof over my head.

The careers adviser had talked to me in first year. He told me an English degree was a good choice for Higher Education and that I would have many options available to me.

‘Advertising, teaching, library work, journalism, creative writing, publishing, T.V. and radio work. The list goes on, Ben.’

I’d left his office with a grin on my face and a swagger in my step. Now, after graduation, it felt like a grimace and a limp. I’d searched the job websites, handed CVs into shops with signs in the windows, handed CVs into shops without signs in the windows, signed on, got told I had to ‘widen my search to include non-graduate jobs’, signed off; the lot. And still nothing. ‘Nothingness is the yet-to-be-born god of the world,’ said Büchner. He was talking about the Scottish job market, I was pretty sure.

Until one day, my mum phoned me, chattering about a new development in Linlithgow.

‘It’s awful. As if we need another supermarket! And to think they’ll ruin that nice green field on the way into town. What will the tourists think, coming to visit the Royal Burgh and the first thing they see is a bloody Asda?’

I looked it up online. The rumours were true. Asda was wading into town, challenging Tesco and Sainsbury’s to the championship. It’d be a royal rumble, only I knew which side I’d be on. After much internal debate –Is this giving up? No, it’s tiding myself over– I handed in my CV with the best covering letter anyone’s ever seen. The phone rang one evening and I just knew.

‘Hello?’ I answered.

‘Ben Hamilton?’

They called me in for a ‘quick chat’ and in five minutes my life changed. Gone were the days of boredom and poverty; here was a chance for boredom and breadline existence. Dad was overjoyed. No more arguments.

‘Well, Ben, you’re the one who did an English degree in a recession. I told you to try for something more secure, but you insisted.’

‘There are jobs for English graduates, Dad, but I’m not going to find one stacking fucking shelves for £5 an hour.’

‘I am not having you turn out like some waster who stumbles about pissed out of his head at 2pm on a Saturday because you have nothing better to do. You need a job. End of.’

It’s my first day tomorrow and I reckon I know exactly what to expect. The manager will be a nightmare. Either a graduate, like me, who’s been forced to give up looking for jobs in the area they’ve trained in; or a grunt who’s worked their way up. They’ll give me lists of tasks that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things and expect me to pour my heart and soul into scrubbing shelves or rotating stock. I know it’s snobby to look down on jobs like that now I have a degree, but there’s a little part of me that’s terrified this is both the start and end of the rest of my life. What if I’m one of those overqualified statistics the government use to slag universities off? This has to be temporary, I repeat to myself. Temporary.

The train judders and I grip the seat hard, saving myself from falling. A woman behind me loses her balance and crashes full force into my back. She steadies herself, mumbles an apology, and stuffs her rhubarb face back into her book. We stop. I look out the window and try to work out where we are. Some no man’s land in-between Glasgow and Falkirk. Other people on the train look around, questions in their eyes. A loud ping from the PA system and the distorted voice crackles to life again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of ScotRail, we are sorry for the delay. There has been an incident ahead of us and I will keep you informed of any further developments. Once again, ScotRail apologises for any inconvenience this delay may cause.’

The speech ends with a pop and the carriage erupts into conversation. I look at my phone again.

1 New Message. Mum.

Let us know when your at the station and ill put dinner on.

An old man in a suit standing next to me leans over. ‘Any idea what’s going on?’

I look at him, blank faced. ‘How would I know what’s happening?’

‘Eh, I dunno. That thing of yours not get updates?’ He points at my phone.

‘This thing barely gets text messages,’ I say, waving the old brick at him.

He shrugs and turns around, asking someone else if they know anything. I wonder about the possibilities. Terrorists storming trains, taking hostages, robbing and murdering people. Or someone sitting quietly with a rucksack of wires and a ticking clock. I wait for the lights to cut out, for people to scream, for gruff voices to order us onto the ground. But nothing happens. Then ping.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, ScotRail would like to apologise for the delay. We are still awaiting news of the disruption and I will update you as soon as we know anything. Uh, once again, ScotRail apologises for any inconvenience this may cause.’

There’s a crackle but the PA is still on. ‘No idea, mate. Wish control would fucking tell us something instead of making us sit around and wait. Dickheads.’

Everyone laughs. I imagine the newspapers tomorrow, probably The Sun or Daily Mail. TRAIN TANNOY SWEARING SHAME. The article would be light, bashed out in under five minutes, but the comments would be outraged that ‘there were kids on board and thats not acceptible’ and probably go on to blame the entire public sector.

People on phones tell girlfriends, wives, husbands, babysitters, that they’re going to be late and they’re sorry. Some coo I love yous and kisses, others mutter ‘Well it’s not my bloody fault is it?’ I look at my phone again. 6:20pm. I should be in Linlithgow by now. The screen flashes.

1 New Message. Mum.

Are you okay? not heard from you.

I text her back a quick explanation. Train’s delayed. Will let you know when we’re moving again.

The train judders and jolts into motion, slowly. Everyone’s looking around, grateful that we’re not stranded in the middle of nowhere anymore. As the conversation subsides and people turn back to their laptops, phones or books, there’s another ping.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you will see we are on the move again. ScotRail would like to again apologise for the delay. This was caused by an accident at Linlithgow station, which remains closed. As such, this train will now terminate at Polmont station and a replacement bus service will take over the remainder of your journey.’

The train is silent for a moment and then bursts back into life. Gesturing, shouting, kicking anger fills the carriage. ‘Polmont? POLMONT? They’re dumping us in fucking Polmont?!’

I text Mum again. Train terminating at Polmont. Come get me?

Over the commotion, the PA announces Falkirk High and the doors hiss open. The carriage clears a little and I find a seat. After watching housing estates fly past for a minute, I flick through my phonebook, just for something to do.

Adam

Alistair

Amy

Ashley

Last I’d heard, Adam did admin for a computer games company; Alistair was still studying to become an accountant; Amy had started her own business and Ashley was doing filing in a lawyer’s office. Tomorrow I’m officially a sales assistant. What decision was it that led to this? Why was it me who ended up in an irrelevant job, not one of them? At what point did things for me change? Maybe it was studying English, like Dad said. Maybe it was my choice of uni. Maybe having a degree didn’t really matter after all. My eyes flick back into focus and I look at the information bar. The next stop is Polmont.

I look outside and see that it’s raining. Mum hasn’t texted back and my jacket doesn’t have a hood. The train slows and eventually stops. Doors judder open, letting the weather spill into the carriage. I get up and step out, holding a Metro over my head. I run to the shelter but it’s locked and the windows have been boarded up. Bloody vandals, Dad would say.

I squint left and right, looking for Mum or the car’s headlights, but the station is empty and dark. A crisp packet blows up in the wind and hurtles past me onto the tracks as I watch a crow try to fly against the wind. I keep checking my phone, starting to worry that the rain might seep through the gaps and break it. As I go to put it away, the screen lights up and I press Read.

In the car park now.

I run over, my face burning with the cold and the rain, and see the car waiting. Mum starts the engine and the headlights flash on. In the downpour they look like they are crying or melting. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

‘Hiya!’ Mum coos. ‘How are you? Soaking?’

‘Yeah, pure drenched,’ I say, fastening my seatbelt.

‘Pure, eh? Won’t find much of that West Coast talk back in Linlithgow, I’m afraid. You’ll have to settle into the Central accent now.’ She looks outside and pulls a face, tucking her brown waves behind her ears. ‘God, what a night.’

We sit in silence for a bit as she pulls back onto the main road. I adjust the heating.

‘Take it you heard about the station?’ she asks.

‘I heard there was an accident but that’s it.’

‘Suicide,’ she says, the word hanging in the air. ‘The whole station’s cordoned off but I stopped and asked a policeman. Some poor guy jumped in front of a train, apparently. They’ve been finding bits of him all over the car park.’

I stare out of the window and watch as the sky gets darker.

‘Not the first time that’s happened either,’ she says.

We sit quietly for a little while longer and then she changes the subject.

‘So, are you excited about moving back?’

‘About as excited as I can be, yeah.’

‘Get to see all your old friends and everything,’ she smiles, trying to make this seem better.

‘All my old friends moved away, Mum. Uni, jobs, families.’

She shrugs slightly, eyes fixed on the road. We don’t talk much for the rest of the journey.

Pulling up, I thank Mum for the lift. She collects her handbag from the back seat as I step out, my jacket over my head since the Metro got soaked through. I glance up at the house. My parents’ house. My home now. Again. On a sunny day it would look picturesque but everything looks depressing in the rain. We both run into the house, our footsteps splashing on the path.

Inside, Dad’s had the heating on, and I can hear the TV in the sitting room. An audience applauding. It feels almost like a welcome party. I hang my jacket to dry and take off my shoes as Mum motions me through. I step into the living room and Dad mutes his show. He stands up and shakes my hand, smiling. He’s getting a bit of a stomach and his hair’s beginning to thin, but his beard is as full as ever.

‘Ben! How are you? Not too wet, I hope.’

‘I’m alright, Dad, thanks. Just a spot of bother with the trains.’

‘Yes, your mother mentioned. What was it this time? Broken down again?’

‘Suicide,’ I say. The air seems to chill with that word.

‘Ah,’ Dad looks down, frowning. ‘Bit inconsiderate, don’t you think? Causing all that disruption...’

I look at him for a moment, his face solid and straight, and then he cracks into a laugh.

‘I’m joking! Of course, it’s horrible. Come on, sit down, have a drink. Welcome home.’

Mum brings through three glasses and a bottle and pours the red until the glasses are ‘filled properly’, as she would say. To the brim is what most people would call it.

‘Wine is bottled poetry,’ Dad says, taking his glass from Mum. ‘You know who said that?’

I pause for a moment, thinking hard. ‘Stevenson?’ I try.

‘Ah well done – a true English student!’ he laughs. ‘So, tell me about this Asda job.’

2

‘So you’re the new lad, eh?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ I laugh.

‘Something funny about that?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Aw, I’m only jokin’. Dinnae worry yourself. I’m Paul an’ I’m your manager. So you’re on replen’ an’ service. That means you’ll be putting the stock oot an’ helping folk who dinnae have a clue, right?’

Paul laughs to himself as we walk up and down the aisles. He’s probably in his early 30s. Old enough to be a team leader, but young enough that everyone isn’t scared of him.

‘Have ye done anythin’ like this before?’

‘Once, when I was about 15, yeah. In a pet shop for work experience with school.’

‘Great stuff. So ye’ll ken all aboot the importance of customer service an’ aw that.’

‘Yeah, ‘the customer is always right’.’

‘Aye ... except they’re no’ always right.’

‘How do you mean?’

He sighs. ‘See, ye’ll get folk in here who think they ken their rights, but they don’t. Customers always think they’re right but mostly they dinnae huv a leg tae stand on.’

‘Right.’

‘No’ always! Ha ha!’

Paul’s a funny guy.

‘I mean, see this?’ He picks up a jar of freeze-dried coffee. ‘It says £2.64, but see if some auld man brings it tae the till an’ I say, ‘Here, that’s £4 now’, that means he hus tae pay that. None ae this ‘It says on the shelf so that’s what ye huv tae charge’ pish. It’s in the law.’

I have no idea if this is true but Paul’s so sure of himself I don’t dare doubt him.

‘If ye ever git any bother off somewan like that, jist gie me a shout.’

‘Will do.’

We keep walking and eventually come to a big set of green plastic sheets. The kind I always wanted to look behind when I was little, but was too scared. The kind that lead ‘intae the back’ where staff go and pretend to look for your stuff. Paul motions me through. Past them is the warehouse. Cold and grey, I imagine all warehouses must look the same.

‘It’s empty jist now ‘cause fuck aw came in the day, but it’s usually packed. Delivery comes in aboot midday, if it’s on time. Normally aboot 20 pallets, plus trolleys. It’ll be your job tae haul that oot an’ put it on the shelves. Neatly, mind. Standards huv tae be kept up. Ye’ll do that at the end ae the night. It’s murder but somewan hus tae do it. Jist go round makin sure everythin’s in the right place, aw neat an’ lined up, an’ that the floor’s no’ filthy.’

‘Right.’

‘Any questions so far?’

‘No, I think I’m okay.’

‘That’s wit I like tae hear. So I suppose I’d better take ye tae meet the rest ae the team. You’ll already ken Linda, the wan who interviewed ye. She’s in the night too, on the desk, an’ the rest are oot on the shop floor probably skiving like usual. Here...’

He holds the plastic open for me again and we walk back onto the shop floor. The music is a bit louder here. Pop songs, slightly out-of-date, played quietly enough that you wouldn’t notice it unless you stopped and listened. Reminds me of living in halls; listening through the walls to flatmates playing ‘retro’ CDs from the early 2000s.

Paul walks ahead of me, still talking. I adjust the badges on my chest. One says BEN and the other says TRAINEE.

‘... You listening tae me?’ Paul turns round as he walks.

‘Sorry, my badge ... What was it you said?’

‘I wis saying I hope ye stay longer than the last boy we hud daein’ your job. Fucked off tae uni in the autumn without daein’ his notice, cheeky git.’

‘Oh right. No worries there: I’m fresh out of uni.’

‘Wit did ye do there?’

‘English Lit. Bit of a waste of time, if I’m honest.’

‘Aye, it sounds it.’ He laughs again, that laugh. ‘Right, jist roond this corner here.’

We turn a corner and see three boys leaning against a crate full of boxes. They all quickly put mobile phones back in their pockets and say ‘Alright Paul?’

‘I saw that, boys, but I’ll pretend I didnae. This is Ben,’ he motions to me. ‘He’ll be joining you wi’ replen’ an’ service. Yous can show him the ropes; how tae face the stock, where it all goes, ken? Ben, this is Pete, Jake and Niall.’ He points at each of the boys in turn. ‘Pete an’ Niall are on replen’ the night, an’ Jake’s daein’ service but he’ll be chippin’ in whenever it’s quiet. I’ll be aboot. I’ve git some paperwork tae do in the office but I’ll come check on yous later, see how ye’re gettin’ on. I don’t huv a proper safety knife for ye, Ben, but this’ll dae for now,’ Paul hands me a small red box cutter, pats me on the arm and walks off, whistling along to the music.

I look at the team. Niall’s back on his phone, texting quickly. He’s about six foot, slim with short, gelled brown hair. Footballer-looking. Pete’s taller still, and more filled out. He looks a couple of years older than the others – a mini Paul in the making, perhaps. He and Jake are laughing at something I didn’t hear. Jake looks to me and grins, adjusting a leather cuff on his wrist before smoothing out his long, black fringe. The smallest of the three, I reckon he’s probably the youngest too.

‘So, Ben, what do you do?’ he asks.

‘Uhm, well I’ve just finished wasting my time with uni and now I’m just trying to earn a bit of cash. Make a bit of a living, y’know?’

‘You’re probably in the wrong job for that then. Pay’s fuck all here and no one ever gets promoted.’

Pete nods his head, scratches his stubbly beard, grabs a box and cuts it open. The knife glides through the tape. He makes it look effortless, second nature.

‘Wit d’you hink ae Paul, then?’ Niall asks, smiling.

‘Yeah, he seems pretty sound. He’s been alright with me, anyway. What about you?’

‘Aw, Paul’s awright. He can be harsh if ye git on his bad side but he’s usually no’ bad. Jist do yer work an’ he willnae complain.’

‘He’s a good guy to get a drink with too,’ Pete chips in, throwing boxes of Crunchy Nut to Jake; who catches three but drops the last one. ‘Usually up for buying you a pint when you’re out.’

‘Ha, mind that time we all went out and that guy started on you, Pete?’ Jake laughs.

‘Aye, wit started aw that again?’ Niall stops cutting the box he’s holding and looks at Pete.

Pete sighs and turns to me. ‘We were all out, the four of us, just getting a quiet drink, like. A few pints, maybe some shots. And this guy comes up to me. This huge guy comes up to me at the bar.’

‘Swaggering like a dick,’ says Jake.

‘Yeah, swaggering, like, totally acting the big man. Polo shirt, Diesel jeans, pint in his hand. Going like, ‘Here, ah ken you. You’re that wee dick who jumped ma cousin last week.’ But I’ve got no idea what he’s on about. I mean, I know I’m a big guy myself, but I’m not the kinda guy who goes out jumping folk for no reason. So I’m like ‘Nah, mate, that wisnae me, sorry.’’

‘Shitein’ yerself,’ laughs Niall.

‘Fuck off.’ Pete says. There’s a sharp look on his face for a second but then he goes back to his story. ‘So I say, ‘Nah, pal, you’ve got the wrong guy’, and this big lad’s like, ‘Nah, ah ken it wis you. You battered ma cousin last week, ah ken that. So how’s it funny now, when you’re the wan gonnae get battered?’ And then this dick’ – he points at Niall – ‘comes over, ‘cause he was still sitting back at the table. He comes over, squares up to the guy and just goes, ‘Here, mate, gonnae fuck off?’’

‘An’ the guy disnae ken wit tae do!’ Niall’s laughing loudly now, leaning on the pallet truck. ‘He’s like, ‘Wit did you say, pal? Wit ... did ... you ... say ... tae ... me?’ Flexin’ his muscles, fist clenched an’ that, an’ they’re aw watchin’, goin’ like ‘Fuckin’ hell, man’, an’ Pete’s still pissin’ his jeans, all feart.’

‘Was I fuck. So we’re all watching Niall square up to this big guy, and the lad knows he’s outnumbered ‘cause he’s just out with this girl, right. And she’s hiding away, staying right out. Barely even saw her face, she’s so tucked away. So this lad knows he’s outnumbered but he’s still acting like the hard man, and he goes, ‘I’ll knock you out, son. You an’ yer team.’ Drains his glass and sits it on the bar. And Niall just looks at him, pulls out this wee red thing, opens it up and goes, ‘If you touch wan ae us I will cut you down tae yer fuckin’ gizzards, right?’’

Jake points at my hand.

‘It was one of them. A wee box cutter. Niall just had it from work, he doesn’t carry one all the time – I hope – but he pulls it on the guy, this bare razor in his hand.’

‘An’ the guy jist fuckin’ legs it!’ Niall laughs. ‘Left his girl an’ aw. We hud tae leave pretty sharp, like, after that. Cannae go back either, but it wis worth it.’ Niall’s acting it out, pulling his own safety knife from his pocket and holding it up at Jake. ‘Made me hink I should carry wan ae these wee men aw the time.’

‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘When was that?’

‘‘Bout two weeks ago. Usually oot every Friday down The Arms ‘til that. Now we’re lookin’ at The Auld Hole by the Cross. You should come themorra,’ Niall says as Pete shoots Jake a look and picks up another box. He looks at the label, pulls a face, and then throws it back in the pile.

‘Uhm, yeah, why not?’ I say. ‘If that’s alright, I mean.’

‘Aye, we’ll put you through yer paces, make sure yer gid enough tae join the team.’ Niall winks. ‘Cannae work here an’ no’ be able tae handle yer drink, ken?’

The other boys laugh and continue to push boxes onto the shelves, packing them in tightly. I join in and we work in silence for a few minutes. The only sound is the music playing from the ceiling.

‘Seen that Boy George has announced tour dates?’ says Jake, ‘South America. Playing in Brazil.’

‘You an’ your fuckin’ 80s music,’ Niall says, ‘S’aw we ever git fae you. Drives me mad. Standin there wi’ your fuckin’ Duran Duran haircut, talkin’ aboot Boy George. Boy. Fuckin’. George. He’s a wee criminal wi’ wan gid song. I was fine wi’ him doin aw the drugs an’ that. That’s awright if ye can handle it. But lockin’ that boy up wis a step too far. That an’ they tattoos on his heid. Too far, man.’

‘I wouldn’t go see him, to be honest. He sounds like a nutter, if you ask me,’ Pete says, manoeuvring the pallet on to the truck. ‘Got that Karma song though. That’s alright.’

‘Adam Ant. That’s what I’m excited about. New album out soon,’ Jake continues, undeterred. ‘It’s been too long. I’d see him wherever he plays.’

‘Aye, Adam Ant. Him an’ aw,’ Niall vents. ‘Mind that time you turned up tae that night oot aw dressed up? Looked like something outae Bon Jovi crossed wi’ Prince Charming. Wit wis it you were wearin again? Some shite...’

‘Aw, was that the time he wore white boots?’ asks Pete, his tone stretched.

‘Aye! That’s the wan,’ Niall laughs as Jake turns away, red-faced. ‘Fuckin’ white cowboy boots, man. Wit were you thinkin’? Looked like ye were aboot tae round up the rest ae the Village People.’

‘Yeah, well, they were nice boots. They really were, Ben.’ Jake turns to me. ‘White leather, with this really nice stitching all around them. They just didn’t get what I was going for.’ He nods at the other two.

‘Aye, an’ wit wis it you were goin’ fur, exactly?’ asks Niall. ‘A beatin’ fae some workie in the toilets?’

‘It was a look inspired by Adam Ant and Bret Michaels from Poison, actually. Proper glitzy old rock an’ roll,’ Jake glares, speaking through clenched teeth.

‘Bret Michaels? Even Bret Michaels wouldnae huv been seen deid in they boots!’ Niall laughs. ‘Him an’ Adam Ant. They’d huv been like ‘Naw, that’s too far. They look fuckin’ daft, man.’ ‘Aye, Adam, ridicule is sumhin tae be scared of!’’

‘Aye, thanks. Well I’ll not be wearing them again, anyway. Seventy pounds down the fucking drain. Just sitting in my wardrobe now.’

‘Seventy quid?’ Pete stops the truck. ‘Christ, Jake, what were you thinking?!’

‘I dunno. I thought they were nice.’ Jake scuffs his shoe off the kick-plate at the side of the aisle and corrects a display of double chocolate cookies. ‘And anyway Niall, what about that time you turned up to work with that knock-off jacket, eh? Le Cock Sportif printed on the front? You looked a right tool.’

‘Aye, but I’d rather waste fifteen pound on a shitey jacket than seventy on fuckin’ space boots. An’ anyrate, at least I ken that of aw the decades no’ tae try an’ copy, it’s the fuckin’ 80s.’

‘Here! Enough jabberin’!’ Paul’s voice shouts down the aisle. ‘Yous don’t git paid tae chat. Fuckin’ move it!’

We all mumble sorry and walk towards the warehouse, Pete still towing the empty pallet. Jake’s next to me and I see him glance in my direction. ‘Still think they boots are magic.’

We push through the plastic sheets and into the warehouse, all scuffing our shoes along the ground as we walk.

‘So you’re coming tomorrow then?’ asks Pete, parking the pallet truck.

‘Yeah, that’d be great. Cheers for the invite,’ I say, catching him throwing a look at Jake again.

‘Jist remember tae bring yer fightin’ boots, son,’ Niall says as he walks over, knife in hand.

He winks and I laugh.