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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Luke Delaney 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014 Cover photographs © Henry Steadman
Luke Delaney asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the authorâs imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007486144
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780007486137
Version 2016-10-31
To my Mum â Mary.
I grew up in quite a large family, my siblings and I being close in age and none of us angels. We were a nightmare at times and just feeding, clothing and keeping us clean must have been exhausting and stressful, enough to push a mere mortal over the edge. But to this day I canât remember Mum ever being angry with me or even telling me off much. All I remember is feeling safe and loved when she was there. I could have done with a kick up the backside from time to time, but I think Mum felt weâd take enough hits and knocks as we grew older, and saw her role as being the one to give us sanctuary when we needed it â and we did.
It would be wrong of me to give the impression she was soft though. Sheâs intelligent and tough, and razor sharp â a legacy of being the only sister with three older brothers growing up in the industrial northeast. She used her toughness to protect us when we were younger: she was the buffer between us and the big bad world â mine in particular, I think. Sheâd occasionally bunk me off school on a Friday, and weâd head into the city centre where Iâd watch patiently while she bought yet more cushions, my reward being a slap-up lunch in a café. They were the best Fridays ever!
As my childhood gave way to the teenage years she remained the brick I anchored myself to, dispensing words of wisdom in a never-ending supply, picking me up when I was down, encouraging me when I was ready to quit, slipping me (and my pals) a few quid when she could so we could buy some smokes and the occasional pint, feeding me (and my pals) at the drop of a hat, advising me (and my pals) of how to fix our broken hearts when girlfriends left us for boys with cars.
One day, as I was miserably nursing an aforementioned broken heart, she said something that has stuck with me ever since: Being miserable is a conscious decision and a waste of life. Every minute you sit there being miserable is a minute of your life youâll never get back. In a blink of an eye youâll be as old as I am now and youâll regret wasting these minutes like you wonât believe. Wise words indeed.
Sadly Mary lost the one and only love of her life a few years ago â my dad, Mike. Sheâs struggled since then, understandably. They were together for nearly fifty years â loyal and loving to the last. Not easy losing the love of your life, but she remains a beautiful and formidable lady.
For everything sheâs done for me, my siblings and my dad, Mike, Iâd like to dedicate this book to her.
For Mum. For Mary.
God bless.
The street was quiet, empty of the noise of living people, with only the sound of a million leaves hissing in the strong breeze that intensified as it blew in over Hampstead Heath in north-west London. Smart Georgian houses lined either side of the deserted Courthope Road, all gently washed in the pale yellow of the street lights, their warming appearance giving lie to the increasingly bitter cold that late autumn brought with it. Some of the shallow porches added their own light to the yellow, left on by security-conscious occupiers and those too exhausted to remember to switch them off before heading for bed. But these were the homes of Londonâs affluent, who had little to fear from the streets outside â the hugely inflated house prices ensuring the entire area was a sanctuary for the rich and privileged. Higher than normal police patrols, private security firms and state-of-the-art burglar alarms meant the people within slept soundly and contentedly