Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 1: Midnight, Blood Brothers, Songbird. Josephine Cox

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      Two busy hours later, they had gone through the last crucial matters, finalising the orders for the banners, brochures and other in-house publicity materials that needed to be picked up on Friday in preparation for Saturday’s grand opening.

      There was a healthy banter, and even a friendly dis agreement or two between Jack and his new assistant, but between them, the task was soon completed, to their mutual satisfaction. Susan then went away to a meeting with the press officer.

      While she was gone, Jack had a number of calls to make, including one to Head Office, to fill them in on what was happening.

      Come early afternoon, it was time to view the house which Susan had organised for Jack to rent, until he found a place to buy. She had placed two properties on standby and needed Jack to make a choice. They drove off, Susan leading the way, with Jack following. The journey was a strange experience for Jack, because he knew most of the streets and landmarks along the journey; the most familiar and poignant being The Sun, the pub where his father and his mates used to drink on a Friday night.

      The first stop was a house on Preston New Road. It was a grand, stylish house, on three levels, with a rise of steps going up to the front door. Inside, it was cavernous, with rooms of generous size, and an amazing view over to Corporation Park.

      ‘What do you think?’ Susan was eager to know.

      ‘Well, yes. It’s certainly a fine old house.’

      Having walked the length and breadth of the house, Jack appreciated her choice, but decided, ‘It’s too big, too impersonal. I just can’t see myself in it. Not even short-term.’

      When he caught a glimpse of Corporation Park, a deep nostalgia took hold of him, and he vowed to come back later. There had been many times during his boyhood in Bower Street when Jack had desperately needed a friend and confidant. After his father later died from the injuries he suffered in the factory fire, his mother worked longer and longer hours at the hotel. Most of the time she didn’t even seem to know or care that she had a son. She didn’t ask Jack if he was missing his father, or whether he needed to talk.

      Wise beyond his years, Jack understood that she was unhappy, that she needed someone. But so did he. Yet, while his mother took solace in dates with hotel guests, he was left to deal with his grief and confusion alone – as well as trying to cope with his schoolwork.

      He was lost, and the one who cared was his friend, Libby. Thomas too, had been there for him, but Libby was nearer his age and understood. She too had lost a father – albeit a long time ago.

      For as long as he lived, he would never forget that caring, wonderful girl. But, like everything else, good or bad in these past years, she was lost to him now. Like Molly. Like the house he had bought with such high hopes once he had moved to Bedfordshire.

      Wasn’t it strange – and unsettling, he thought – how life just ticks on, like a great timeless clock, going ever forward. Never backwards.

      He thought about his nightmares; the fear of which had brought him back to Lancashire. Twelve long years ago, life and circumstances had taken him away; now they carried him back.

      Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Never-ending. Never knowing in which direction life might take you.

      But what of the nightmares? Had they too, come full circle, like the psychiatrist said? Was he now meant to find out what had triggered them?

      He shuddered. Night or day, the images were never far away. Sometimes, if he just closed his eyes for a moment, he was back there, in that dark place of midnight, with the full moon overhead shedding a ghostly light over everything below. He could feel the chilling cold. And see those eyes . . . staring at him, drawing him down and down.

      Jack forced the images to the back of his mind.

      As he got back into his car, he was thinking of Bower Street, where he grew up. He could be there within twenty minutes, he thought. He knew he wasn’t ready yet, but one day soon, he would make his way there. Above all else, that was inevitable.

      He wondered if Libby and Eileen were still living in Bower Street. Then there was Thomas Farraday, who by now must be in his late sixties, possibly edging seventy. Would he still be living in that same house, or had he moved away? Or even worse, perhaps have passed on.

      And what about Number 20, the house where he grew up? Another family might be living there, with children. Or was it now the home of some happy young couple, just starting out, and as yet without kids.

      The idea of seeing the house again made him feel deeply uncomfortable. And yet, like a homing pigeon, Jack had a deep, natural urge to head back there.