Short Story page 1

Liverpool can be a lonely place on a Saturday night, and no one knows that better than 

Dick Parkin. Dick is a sad looking scouse man from south Liverpool, England. And although he wouldn’t openly admit to being an alcoholic, he’s definitely on his way to the local pub right now. Drinking is the only enjoyable activity Dick has discovered in England since his birth 20 years ago. He couldn’t stand the horrible weather of the UK. The sun only poked out from behind the clouds three times a year and more often than not he was too sick to enjoy it. He was always sick, ever since he was a child he was bedridden fifty percent of the time. His illnesses caused a lot of difficulties in his life including his dropping out of school at age fourteen. It also affected him physically. It stunted his growth to mere five feet and eight inches and also made him very weak and feeble. Those long days at home away from school while his mum was away was when he got into beer and whisky. Alcohol became his best friend early on in his life, it was the friend you’d go to when you wanted to forget all of your stresses. And right now, Dick could really use some stress relief. 

He’s not the best mechanic’s assistant and he doesn’t make that much money doing it 

either, so when his mum kicked him out of the house a while back he was always short on 

money. That was until he joined the Quarrymen. Dick wouldn’t consider the Quarrymen to be a gang, although that’s what people label them as, but rather a social club for deprived young men. A social club that nearly owns all of Southern Liverpool and is in constant trouble with the police. 

Lately, however, the Quarrymen haven’t been making the profit they usually do. Maybe 

they stopped conning as often as they used to or maybe people haven’t paid them their debts but whatever it is it’s making Dick late on his rent. That’s what is making Dick stress, and that’s why he’s heading to a pub on a saturday night when he should be at home asleep. 

Dick approached the pub rattling the few coins he had in his pocket. It wasn’t enough 

for what he wanted, but the owner knew him so he hoped for a discount. He approached the 

building and made a sharp turn through the doors. He made his way past the other saturday 

night drinkers and found his way to a bar stool in the corner where a small group of young men 

sat. 

“Hullo lads!” The boys turned around to greet the deep voice that called onto them. 

“Hey Dick!” The men hollered, grabbing the poor man and squishing him in the middle of 

the group. They all said their hellos and updated him on the current events of their lives. Once they had settled down and all gotten their drinks, one of them got all of their attention. 

“Excuse me lads!” Spoke a young man named James. He waved his hand a little and 

the men silenced and turned towards him. It was a wonder how one person could attract the 

attention of a group of rowdy boys with such ease, but the task seemed like second nature to 

him, and with good reason too. James was the leader of the Quarrymen, although he did not 

create the gang. That title was for Juan Garcín, a spaniard who moved to England a few years back, although he’s content with letting someone else do the dirty work for him. James on the other hand was from london and had a better education then the rest of the boys. 

“I know we came here to have fun and enjoy ourselves-” James was cut off by the 

clamorous groaning that came from the group. “Let me finish now! This is important. It has come to my attention that we have been losing profits.” The others agreed and nodded their heads. “I think I know why. See I’ve been noticing the cops have been moving north lately. So I decided to go check out what’s goin’ on down there. Turns out there’s some bloody gits down there that think they own the place. Call themselves the Prophets!” 

“Yer kidding me!” The lads screeched and scattered looks about each other. 

“This‘s rubbish, Liverpool is our city and those gits carn’t come in here and take over 

like that!” Harry, the youngest of the boys declared rising to his feet and slamming his fist to 

the table. “We ought ta do sumthing!” His accent was thick and almost sounded scottish. His 

face appeared older than he was. His cheekbones were sharp and his eyes were sharper. His eyebrows were bushy and at a permanent angle to where a scowl was always on his face. 

James placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “That’s why I called this get together here. 

See I have a plan!” The other boys leaned in close to James to hear.