The Great British Fake Housing Crisis, Part 2: Mickey from Manchester Series, #20

By Mike Scantlebury

Mickey is badly hurt. He was attacked by a gang of thugs on Christmas Eve and he stood no chance. If he hadn't been rescued - but he was, dragged off the pavement by a woman he hardly knew, taken into her tenth-floor apartment and looked after while he tried to recover. Six weeks passed. Mickey has never been a victim, but he was assaulted and now he can hardly walk. When Melia phones - out of the blue - announcing it's St Valentine's night and she wants to take him out, he has to refuse. Unfortunately Melia catches sight of Melia's landlady and cuts the video call, hurt and confused. She didn't recognise Romla, didn't realise that Mickey's Angel was a woman she knows, used to work with, years before. They could have talked. They had so much in common.

Unfortunately, the other thing that Mickey and Melia have in common also divides them. Mickey's Dad. He has appeared, popped out of nowhere, and wants to resume communications with his son. Not bad for a father who ran out on his family when Mickey could hardly walk. Now, when that is true again, he is as useless as ever. Mickey can't stand him and makes every possible excuse to avoid him.

Meanwhile, the Housing Crisis goes on. The feud between local building firms, which Mickey walked into, and is the direct cause of his injuries, has not gone away. The many sides try to woo Mickey, bring him back into the game. If only he could - but he needs carrying everywhere. Even when he gets called to the local hospital in Manchester, they can't help him. But maybe a miracle worker can. Mickey has been asked to play nursemaid to a young man in trouble with the Law. Fortunately or unfortunately he has a large and growing following. They believe he is some kind of prophet and Healer. He works his magic on Mickey.

Mickey is like a stallion coming out of the starting gate at a racecourse, but he can't get back onto the track. Britain is in Lock-down. A strange virus has been brought in from the East and everyone has been told to 'Stay Home', not go out, not travel. That's exactly what Mickey has been doing! Two months is too long. He does his best to stick to the Guidelines but there are Mysteries to be solved, questions to be put and answers to be sought. With Romla's continuing help, Mickey drags his damaged body around the city, turning over stones and refusing to be fobbed off.

If only people didn't continue to get murdered! And the biggest surprise of all is that the lastest victim is somone uncomfortably close to home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mickey from Manchester
• Release date: May 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393071143

Mike Scantlebury

Mike Scantlebury is my author name, which I chose once I'd decided to use my real name on the outside of books. I was born in the South West of England, but after a lot of roaming, found a new billet in the North West, across the river from Manchester (England). I've written dozens of books and you can find them on the shelves of online bookstores everywhere. They're mostly in the world of Romance and the smaller world of Crime Fiction and Mysteries. Mostly, the novels are like the great Colossus and straddle both sides of the stream. The thing that makes me interesting is that I also sing and write songs and you can find them on social media and the corners of The Web. Which is pretty good. I'm a bit old for the internet, really. Happier with an abacus

Book preview

Chapter FOURTEEN

You're a mess, Mickey, he was thinking to himself.

Mickey was looking at his battered visage, his scarred and rotten face, in the bathroom mirror. It wasn't his bathroom, but he had been living there, practically a prisoner, unable to leave because he was unable to walk. It had been the worst six weeks of his life.

So strong, he thought sarcastically. That's what everyone said about Mickey - big, strong, not scared of anything or anyone. But he had been attacked by over a dozen thugs, hurling themselves out of the night at Christmas time, smacking him to the ground - and he still didn't know why. No one had admitted responsibility, or claimed the credit for the awful deed. Crippling Mickey - why weren't they boasting?

Mickey was leaning against the sink, and he had to: he didn't have the strength to stand unaided. Six weeks in bed hadn't healed his wounds or restored his muscles. He was a shadow of his former self, a weakling, unable to defend himself. Thank God for Romla.

His phone rang.

Mickey knew, only too well, that his mobile phone had been sitting on the small cabinet next to the bed that had been his cradle for his time in confinement. It had gone off a few times, not many, but he had taken care to ignore it. I don't want to speak to anybody, he decided early on.

Something made him hesitate. There was something different about this insistent trilling. Some sixth sense was telling him -

It's Melia, the voice said at the other end, when he finally made it across the room to answer. It's Valentine's. Let's go out.

There was suddenly a hole in the pit of Mickey's stomach. He felt like he had been punched, all over again. Beaten black and blue.

Firstly, because he hadn't heard from Melia since - since for ever.

Before Christmas he had been going everywhere, looking for her. He asked everyone he knew. No one had seen her.

That wasn't a problem, they all agreed. Melia had suffered a few traumas last year, in the summer. She had been a sent on a couple of really awful assignments by her boss, Captain Gibson. In fact, it was his idea, originally, that she 'take some time off'. When she went off the radar in December, he wasn't worried. She had probably booked herself into a spa, he assured Mickey. She'd be taking therapy.

So? So why hadn't she phoned Mickey? Sent a message, a card, a letter - anything? Why hadn't she worried about HIM?

So, looking at the mobile phone in his hand, Mickey was torn with a pair of the strongest emotions. One, immense relief that she was alive and well, and seemingly happy to see him again, meet up. But Two, he was angry with her, livid in fact. Didn't she care how he was?

There was also the disorientation. It was 'Valentines', she said. Valentine's Day was mid-February. Yes, that's right, Mickey thought. Six weeks from into the New Year. That counted off the time, the endless days he had spent staring at these four walls.

There was also - the faces.

Mickey had never been good at technology. He didn't realise, when he picked up the phone and clicked a green button, that the incoming call was a video link. He saw a line flashing. It said, 'Switch Audio On', and he'd done that. There was a second button under it. It read, 'Activate Camera'. For some reason, he hadn't got round to that, which was just as well, he abruptly realised.

If his phone's camera had been live, it would have shown what a terrible state his body was in, especially since he was currently naked.

Mickey gasping at the surprise, desperately wondering what to do, stared at the screen in front of him. The sight made him gasp again.

Melia, making the call, had obviously clicked the connection and activated her phone's camera. Mickey could see her. She wasn't alone.

There was an old man on one side of her, smartly dressed, with slicked black hair and a military moustache. It was Captain Gibson, her boss.

On the other side, a younger man, bespectacled, sandy red hair, disarranged, pens in his top pocket. It was Terry, the Unit technician.

They were smiling, the two men, nodding at each other, encouraging Melia. Maybe they had persuaded her to call.

That explained one thing. Melia seemed nervous, her smile was constantly coming and going. Maybe she hadn't wanted to speak to Mickey, but her colleagues had convinced her it was a good idea, and were egging her on. She knew, obviously, that yes, she hadn't maintained contact - for whatever reason - and realised, on this day, that Mickey might be mad with her, resentful. She had no way of knowing, of course, that he was also damaged. She wouldn't know that. It was a simple fact he was hiding from the world. Only his saviour knew the whole story.

Romla.

While Mickey was struggling for words, the front door of the flat banged open and someone came bustling in.

I'm home! Romla called, and went straight into the kitchen, dumping shopping bags on the counter and table. She was humming.

Mickey was sat down on the edge of the bed, but the new arrival made him try to struggle to his feet again. He couldn't make it.

There was muttering from his phone, urgent voices, then Mickey heard Melia say, There's a woman there, and she hung up.

He stared at the screen. It was showing the logo of the app. Nothing more. The faces had gone.

Romla ducked into the room, saw Mickey and smiled hugely.

You're up and about, she observed enthusiastically. Great. Let me make you a cup of tea.

She hadn't commented about his shambling, his stumbling, or his lack of clothes. She was perpetually optimistic. She only saw good things.

Romla hummed and fussed, then went back into the kitchen and busied herself with kettle and cups.

I've got a lot to thank her for, Mickey was thinking.

That night - it was Christmas Eve - and Mickey had been at the Irwell Arts Centre on Salford Quays. The elected Mayor of the city, Sol Senate, had organised a festive party for homeless people and their families. Mickey had arrived there by accident, but was enjoying the free bar when trouble erupted, as it sometimes did in the 'Homeless' sector. People become homeless for all kinds of reasons, not often good. One cause of such problems is a link to drink and drugs. It shouldn't have been a surprise to the local politicians that offering free booze to alcoholics was a recipe for disaster. It didn't affect more than a few, but they had an endless capacity to ruin it for everyone else. Luckily, Mickey's friend Darren was working the door that night, for free, as a 'volunteer', and him and his pals had vast experience. They swept into the bar area, lifted the troublemakers literally off their feet and showed them to the door. It was a neat, professional job. Mickey followed them out, ready to help if needed, and it was when he was outside, in the cold night air, in the middle of the piazza, that a minibus came swinging round the corner and deposited a baker's dozen of mindless thugs, people who had accepted the challenge to beat Mickey up.

The strangest thing, looking back - and Mickey had plenty of time to mull over the story during his enforced incarceration - was that Darren and his gang had completely disappeared. Mickey had been willing to help THEM. Why weren't they there to help him? No, they weren’t. They had gone.

On his own, no matter how tough and battle-hardened, Mickey couldn't win. He was completely swamped.

It was then, in his darkest hour, as he lay abandoned and bleeding, watching the laughing criminals get back into their bus and depart, that Romla had happened along, like a glorious angel, swinging in from Heaven. Luckily, she lived nearby.

Mickey had met her only a couple of times, to be honest, but she had shared with him an insight into her life, like the time she had been working at Salford University and had met Melia, working