Billy span once, twice, three times keeping his eyes fixed on the stain on the kitchen wall. He finished with a flourish and felt a smile inch across his face as the electricity pulsed its last vibes through his system.

“What the fock?!” his father’s voice interrupted from behind him. Billy turned with a start, eyes wide.

“Da-Dad?” he stammered. “’Ow long you been there?”

“No boy o’ mine’s gonna be wastin’ ’is time on ballay,” his father yelled, grabbing Billy’s collar with both hands. “Go ’ome.”

Billy stared at his father in hate. “Bastard,” he whispered before turning his heels and walking out of the village hall.

Once his son had gone, Mr Elliot closed his eyes. It was too much to handle. With this miner’s strike still ongoing he barely had enough to keep the mortgage payments, but damn him if he was gonna let bloody Thatcher make his boy unhappy.

He looked into the December night sky and wondered whether his son was worth the loss of his friends.