“Thank you, I will.” I closed the door.

From behind the door, “And don’t forget to talk to Jack.”

One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:

The Press Club, in the sights of the two stone lions, Leeds City Centre.

The Press Club, gone eleven, Christmas busy from here on in.

The Press Club, members only.

Edward Dunford, member, down the stairs and through the door. Kathryn at the bar, an unknown drunk at her ear, her eyes on me.

The drunk slurs, “And one lion says to other, rucking quiet isn’t it?”

I looked to the real stage and a woman in a feather dress belting out We’ve Only Just Begun. Two steps this way, two steps that way, the world’s smallest stage.

Excitement shrinking my stomach, swelling my chest, a Scotch and water in my hand beneath the tinsel and the fairy lights, a pocketful of notes, thinking THIS IS IT.

From out of the reds and the black, Barry Cannon raised a fag hand. Taking my drink and leaving Kathryn, I went over to Barry’s table.

“First Wilson gets burgled then, two days later, John fucking Stonehouse vanishes.” Barry Cannon decrees to the dumb, holding court.

“Don’t forget Lucky either,” smirked George Greaves, old hand.

“And what about bloody Watergate?” laughed Gaz from Sport, bored of Barry.

I stole a seat. Nods all round: Barry, George, Gaz and Paul Kelly. Fat Bernard and Tom from Bradford two tables down, Jack’s mates.

Barry finished his pint. “Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected.”

“Stoke City and the League fucking Championship,” laughed Gaz again, Mr Sport, lighting up another.

“Big match tomorrow, eh?” I said, part-time football fan.

Gaz, real anger in his eyes. “Be a right fucking shambles if it’s owt like last week.”

Barry stood up. “Anyone want anything from the bar?”