A Walk to Revenge Chapter One

  CHAPTER ONE

 

   JUNE 1977, MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

The car eased through the automatic gears as it proceeded into the drizzly Manchester night. No different from the hundreds of times the driver had done this before; a night on the town, a few more drinks than normal, the mood throughout was free and easy. It began at seven in the evening with a few drinks shared with four friends, which increased to eight by ten-thirty. It seemed the usual crowd had the same idea on that warm, sultry night, until the yellow, closing sun gave way to the first dark clouds, and then the rain. The city centre was quietening down as the midnight news on the radio was followed by the dulcet tones of Bryan Ferry singing the Dobie Gray classic, ‘The In Crowd’. It all seemed to match the mood of the night.

  A taxi ride of only a few miles seemed pointless compared to the disruption of returning on public transport in the morning, only to drive back home in the Saturday hustle and bustle of the shopping fraternity.

  As the car floated around the corner of Portland Street into Peter Street, an unwelcome vision appeared in the rear view mirror. The police patrol car was looking for any disruption in the city streets.

  In a moment of panic, the police car woke up the street with flashing blue lights and unfriendly sirens.

  Here we go, the driver thought. However, as quickly as the thought came into his mind, the orange and white car flashed past the BMW, racing towards a more pressing problem elsewhere. It must be my lucky night. The feeling of invincibility cast, the driver relaxed into the seat and the radio button slid to the off position.

  Within a minute, a body hit the car with a dull, sickening thud, followed by a head hitting the windscreen! The pedestrian was instantly recognised. Paul Jennings! They knew each other, they sometimes drank together, always chatted and shared a laugh when they met. This was different. Paul Jennings had been struck by the car and, as if in slow motion, Jennings rolled up the bonnet and onto the windscreen. Their eyes met and, in what must have been a split second but felt like five minutes, they instantly recognised each other, before the strength of bone outmatched the strength of glass and the crack in the windscreen appeared like a sheet of ice forming on a freezing pond.

The body lay, contorted, on the wet kerb, nobody was around, the rain must have kept people off the streets. What decision must be made? Was he dead?

The car drove out of the city with a bruised bonnet, a cracked windscreen, a driver high on alcohol, whilst a stiff, motionless body lay strewn in the street.

The morning began in the same way as any for Paul Jennings, although this day was different in that the sun was up, which was a rarity throughout this summer. A hot day with showers was forecast later, bringing back some normality. His plans for the day were to go to the factory where he worked as an engineer. He honed the skills required to bore crankshafts and camshafts in diesel engines in a factory that produced engines for the bus and shipping industries. He did well to get into such a highly skilled area of work. That was to be followed by a night out with his friend, Billy Jones. Billy worked in the Royal Ordinance Factory about half a mile away as a draughtsman. The ROF did work for the Government of the day, usually ammunitions and sometimes very confidential work, which, meant employees were required to sign the official secrets act.

Paul was popular with his workmates, always a joker and always willing to help where he could. His passion was football, and Manchester United in particular, which would often set off some heated discussions with Billy, who supported arch-rivals Manchester City. Arguments would often centre around who were the better team, both past, and present – Paul arguing the Best, Law and Charlton teams, and Billy debating the merits of Bell, Summerbee, and Lee. Like the painting of the Severn Bridge, it would always be an ongoing task for each to convince the other.

The bell rang at four-thirty to indicate the end of another working week. Paul and Billy shared the journey home in Paul’s car, it was his turn to drive in the alternating car share they had in place. The traffic, as usual, was busy and the three-mile drive from Eccles to Worsley took forty minutes, the same as it usually did on a Friday night, as the cars snaked up Worsley Road. The hot, sultry day made Paul feel sticky throughout; he wore his overalls off at the top, with the arms tied around his waist. This, in turn, had attracted a layer of dust on the old, Slazenger t-shirt he wore. The sweat made him wipe his forehead throughout the day, resulting in a blackened face that made him look like he’d just exited a coalmine rather than a factory. He felt tired, but he knew the energy would return after a bath, an evening meal and a change of clothes.

Paul and Billy arranged to go into the city for an eagerly awaited drinks evening. They had not been out together since Paul and Susan’s wedding day three months earlier. Paul and Susan were together about a year before she broke the news that she was expecting their child. This hastened the inevitable wedding, which took place when Susan was only four months pregnant and just showed a small sign of the infant that was working away at the importance of growing.

Paul was a good-looking man without standing out in a crowd. His blonde hair was beginning to recede and, up until the news of the baby, it was his biggest problem in life. Bill, on the other hand, with his six-foot frame and muscular build, helped by the regular gym work, was always the centre of attention and everybody loved him. He was one of those rare people who attracted both men and women. Men, because they wanted to be near him in case any trouble started with drunken gangs looking for top-dog status for the night, and women because of his chiselled good looks encompassing his mix of English and Italian bloodlines.

By ten in the evening, they met up with a few friends and the pints turned quickly to Jack Daniels and coke to ease the pressure on the already bursting stomachs swilled with pints of Boddington’s and Holts’ bitter, the local Manchester ales.

As usual, Billy was popular with the girls he was showing a particular interest in a bubbly blonde doing a bad rendition of Candi Staton’s ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ on the pub karaoke. However, the short skirt and big smile seemed to make up for that.

“I think I’m going on to a club with young Candi,” joked Billy after another pint or two.

“No problem,” replied Paul. “I should be getting home. I promised Sue I wouldn’t be too late,” He looked at his watch. “Catch up on Monday. Keep me posted about the date with Candi, sharing her one and only life,” he added, making a quip about a line in the song.

They laughed and shook hands. Paul left the bar and walked out into the city night. A swift look at his watch told Paul it was just approaching midnight. A jog to Piccadilly Gardens and the all-night bus was within his grasp. He turned his fast walk into a steady jog, which soon turned back to a fast walk as the consumption groaned against his brain and made him feel sick. He strode at the fastest pace he could muster, if not entirely straight, onto Peter Street and headed towards the town hall.

Although he had not drank excessively, he was not used to drinking these days, as he and Sue tended to stay in more and watch TV on what was a tight budget. Added to the fact that he felt drained after a day’s work in the heat, the alcohol seemed to be attacking his system easier and quicker than normal. He felt a little vague and the feeling of numbness in the head was a feeling he knew from a hundred nights out before. Overall, his senses were working, he knew where he needed to be, and what time his bus was due.

The road was clear as he began to cross. Suddenly, heading from the direction of Oxford Road was a black BMW. He became transfixed on the car. It was hurtling towards him at around forty miles per hour. He froze. Normal life slowed down. He tried to turn back to the safety of the kerb, but he slipped slightly, probably due to a mixture of drink and a wet road surface. His left leg went down when the car hit him. He saw the driver as he rolled over the bonnet of the car. He recognised the face in the split second, a clear reflection of life passing, as it always does before life ends. Then… darkness.