It had been a perfectly regular day, until Bill arrived back at Whitby station that evening. His face and hands were covered in soot and his clothes were dirty with soot and sweat, but none of this was unusual. Lottie would have hot water ready for him when he got home, so that he could wash before tea. No, nothing seemed out of the ordinary when he stepped out onto the platform.
 
“I’ll leave her to ye, Peter,” he told Peter Higgins, the man responsible for cleaning up and waiting until the fire was safely and properly extinguished.

The tall, sinewy man nodded and climbed into the locomotive, but turned. “I was sorry to hear about yer son, Bill.”

Bill froze in his spot. His first thought was of John. He and his wife had lived in permanent anxiety ever since he had left for India. Or had something happened to Joe? His job was a relatively safe one, but he did occasionally hear stories of people falling onto the tracks.

Peter did not keep him in suspense but continued almost immediately: “’E’s a good lad. Hard-workin’ an’ polite, ‘n’ all. Can’t see what they got to be unhappy about.”

Instant relief was followed by new concerns. “I’ve not set a foot on t’ platform since this mornin’, Peter. Fill me in.”

“Ah, sorry. Ah, ye shouldn’t ‘ave heard it from me. Yer lad was sacked. No one knows why. I hadn’t started yet, so I heard it when I came in. Apparently it was a bit of a to do. I’m sorry, Bill.”
 
Unable to get more information from Peter, Bill thanked him and made his way to where the station offices were. Probably Meekford was out already, but Bill hoped to get the story from him before he talked to his son. He knew Meekford. The man wanted things to run orderly, but he was also kind and generous. Whatever Joe had done, it had to be real bad for Meekford to sack him without a warning.
 
The windows were dark, except for one near the entrance where a single clerk sat writing at a desk. He looked up when Bill entered.

“Excuse me. Has Mr. Meekford left already?”

He could see disapproval in the man’s eyes as he sized Bill up. “He has, sir. And I wouldn’t go see him like that.”

Bill wouldn’t have gone to see his boss while covered in soot if he weren’t desperate. But he was. “My son, Joseph Blacke, was sacked today. Do ye know owt about it?”

“I do, sir. And I would recommend you leave it be, if you like your job. It was bad. Managing Director himself was here. Don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s done business, that was clear.”

That nearly sent Bill reeling. The Managing Director himself had travelled down to Whitby to deal with Joe. This was bad.
 
He walked home with big anxious strides. By the time he reached Oswy street, anxiety had turned to anger. Joe wasn’t there, and Lottie didn’t know where he was. He hadn’t come home for his tea. Bill didn’t tell his wife anything about what he had heard. He wanted to talk to Joe first. He washed, changed, had his tea, no sign of Joe. He waited. No sign of Joe. He clenched his firsts so tightly on his knees that his knuckles turned white. Suddenly he rose. “I’ll be out.” And without as much as a word of explanation to his wife, he put on his jacket and cap and left the house.
 
He didn’t know where to look for the boy and so he just walked wherever his feet led him. Past the station, across St. Anne’s Staith. No sign of him. The West Pier. No Joe. The beach. Lovers kissing in the moonlight and doing far more inappropriate things. The tide take them. But no sign of his son. The Wharfs. No Joe. Across the bridge. The pubs of Grape Lane and Church street. Still no sign of him. Down by Tate Hill Pier. There were some youths sitting on the edge of the pier talking and laughing. But no Joe. Up the steps to St. Martha’s. Some ruffians stood muttering in the shadow of the church, exchanging money and goods. They looked up when the stranger approached. Bill turned on his heel and walked back down. This was no use. For all he knew his son was home already.
 
He walked down Church street and was about to pass the corner, when someone shouted. “Mr. Blacke!” He turned. It was Reverend Greene. They didn’t attend church every Sunday, but the minister knew them and kept urging them to attend more regularly. Greene ran a little to catch up with him, and then had to catch his breath, for he was an old, corpulent man who was clearly not used to physical exertion. “I was just on my way to see you. Your Joseph was arrested.”

Bill’s heart sank. “Are you sure, reverend?”

“I saw him myself. The constable led him away in cuffs. Seemed drunk. Is everything alright, Mr. Blacke? I’ve been worried about-,”

“Thank you, reverend.” Bill cut him off and he marched away in the direction of the police station, without looking back at the minister.
 
Now he was livid.
 
And so it was that Bill entered the police station, sweaty all over again, heart beating fast.

“Pardon me, ser.” He approached the first constable he could see. “I’m looking for a Joseph Blacke who was arrested earlier tonight.”

Albert blinked, it had been a long day.

"Sorry sir, I've just gone off duty. The Sergeant at the desk will know more." Albert point in the direction of an older gentleman in blue serge with 3 bright chevrons on his sleeves. The Sergeant looked up from his work. He had a weather-beaten face, silvering hair and a slight stoop, but his uniform was spotless, his eyes still shone brightly as his whistle in his pocket. He put down his pen.

"It's alright, Bert. I'll deal with this gentleman. You push off. Now, sir what did you say his name was again?"

Bill moved to the desk. "Thank you, ser. Joseph Blacke. He's me son." And he didn't exactly say that with pride.

"Let's see." said the Sergeant opening the large leather bound charge book. His fingers ran across the pages with practiced ease.

"Here we are. Yes, Joseph Blacke is a guest of ours today." said the officer in far too upbeat a tone. It was if he ran a hotel and not a jail. "He's been charged with 3 counts: public drunkenness, breach of the peace, and insulting a police officer."

According to a note in the 'Remarks' column, young Mister Blacke had accused the arresting officer, Constable Neil, of questionable parentage: the unholy union of a whore and a haddock. The candid report from Neil on the event raised the ghost of a smirk from the veteran officer. But then he doubted Mister Blacke, the elder would see the funny side.

"You'll be wanting him back then?" The Sergeant asked.

The Sergeant was quite right to doubt that. Bill was definitely not amused. His moustache twitched.

Did he want him back?

"No, ser. I'd say let him spend a night in t' cell for my part. 'T will serve 'im right. I assure ye, I don't condone what he's done, and I'm very sorry." But he was concerned for the greater consequences. "What will 'appen to 'im though. Will he 'ave to appear before t' Magistrates?"

"Afraid so. Insulting an officer will put him up before the bench. But it's his first offense, so the judge should be considerate."

William felt his lips become dry. He felt nauseous. He took a moment before he replied. "Of course, ser. Is..." He leaned a hand on the desk, for he felt dizzy. It was his heart. He had to learn to control himself. "Is there any chance I might see him?"

"Aye, briefly. Come with me." In the course of his long service, the officer had seen that reaction countless times. He had never had children of his own, so couldn't relate, but he could at least sympathise with families affected by crime. Half this job was being sympathetic.

Joe roused slowly, coming to consciousness slowly like the raising of the catch of the day from the deep.  He felt terrible, his head and insides were pounding.  He struggled to remember where he was.  Bars on the high window, white tiles, a spartan tiled room with a heavy metal door. 

This looked like a jail, but.. oh.. no..

fragments of the past came back to him.  Meekford and Bell... the largest bottle of liquid self-pity he could afford.. the tiny dark nook where he had hidden and drank himself into oblivion to forget Carrington, to forget the shame, to forget Pearl.  Even she wouldn't want to know a man who couldn't support her.  Joe hung his head in his hands, as he became more aware of his misfortune.  Should have kept his bloody mouth shut and let her be.  

There was the jangling of keys and the metallic scraping of the heavy bolt.  The door opened to reveal the old policeman.

"Blacke, your father is here.  He wants a word."