The last time Tommy Kirby hit his wife, he’d picked up a kitchen bench and slammed it against the back of her head. Sharon had immediately reacted by slashing at Tommy with a knife she’d been using to gut the fish that he’d brought back from the docks. She must have hit an artery, it seems, because blood spurted out like a geyser. So much so, that Tommy panicked and ran a quarter of a mile to the General Hospital, they said, just in time.
When Tommy got back home two days later, Sharon was gone, along with their five-year-old son Nick. This time he didn’t go looking for them.
As the years trundled on, Tommy Kirby, alone in his two bedroom Housing Association flat, like so many other lost souls, turned to Mecca. Come rain or come shine, come hell or high water, every Monday and Friday aft
