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(A short story of 3959 words)

Never Said A Word

Crime and Thrillers Literary

by Ian Cassidy

Daisy unwittingly stumbles on the preparations for a terrorist attack and this leads to her finding out far more than she needs to about the relationship between her mom and the leader of the bombers.

It all came back to me years later when the wrong men were appealing for the third time. I’d missed the first two trials, working hard on the bar exams, and besides, I’d had my TV knocked off in a break-in one Christmas. But now an ITV reconstruction brought me back to 1974, the gingery men with their wavy, shoulder-length, slightly dirty hair, long leather coats and platform shoes being dragged off to the cells. Seventies footballers or pub bombers, they all dressed pretty much the same. It’s a measure of just how wrong the wrong men were, that the six main characters didn’t remind me of anyone, just three old men, older than my dad anyway, and three thick set Irish hard cases. No it was the actors playing the police officers and the journalists who brought back the memories and made me think of the gangs of blokes who sat around our kitchen table drinking over-sugared tea made with sterilized milk while they waited for my father to open his wallet. Scruffy, paint-spattered men who distracted me from my homework and made my mind wander to the Bay City Rollers, Gordon Hill and the pristine copy of Tammy waiting on my bedside table.

As I watched the handsome young men playing the police officers I was reminded of the sun bronzed labourers who had visited us in the autumn of 1974 and as I looked at Martin Shaw’s bright blue eyes, I saw Michael leaning down to talk to me in the garage, and I just knew it had been them. I’d never took much notice of Martin Shaw before, I thought the Professionals was slightly dubious and besides when it comes to Seventies cop shows I’ll always be a John Thaw/Dennis Waterman kind of girl. But here was Martin Shaw playing a serious role and I had to take him seriously, particularly those eyes; Michael’s eyes.

At eight years old I loved the Rollers and the Villa (Gordon Hill was the exception to my Villa players only rule), and each week I read every word of Tammy, and Jackie if I could get hold of it from my older cousin, but never till I’d finished my schoolwork. But when these tea-drinking, long-haired, foundry-smelling crew with impenetrable accents distracted me, I’d end up showing off my new Bay City Rollers game or my shiny plastic Aston Villa baseball cap or even performing an Osmonds number on the recorder for them. Most of the Irishmen were off the minute they got a sub from my dad; they didn’t even stay to finish their tea…

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