Young Red, christened Ronnie Patterson, a big youth of fifteen with ginger hair, woke as usual at fifteen minutes to six. It had been raining when he went to bed and a glance through the curtains told him nothing had changed.
"s**t!" he muttered under his breath. Rain always made his work more difficult.
Ten minutes later, in donkey jacket and jeans, he wheeled his Carlton racer from the backs into Victoria Road, an empty newspaper bag slung over his shoulder. He was half way down the street when Nancy, his mother, a still-attractive though careworn brunette, rushed from the front door of the big 1890s" semi with a raincoat across her arm.
"Ronnie – your mac!"
Red ignored her, cycling steadily away through the rain.
At 7.15 a.m., by St Margaret"s church clock on the hill above the tow
