What a bloody mess. Furniture toppled, papers all over the floor. Didn’t take a goddamn thing. Just trashed the place. Ray watched the uniformed PC approach, her face partly hidden behind a phone case with a peeling Greater Manchester Police emblem. Her thumbs attacked the screen. Did she even look up once at the scene?
“Hooligans, sir. No respect,“ she muttered.
“Hooligans?” Ray asked.
“Teenagers… the TikTokkers. Wheelieing around on bicycles. Probably for the socials. You know… nothing taken. The usual story.”
Ray nodded reluctantly. He supposed the PC should know, she looked like a teenager herself. He shifted his weight on his cane, watching her type.
“Smartphones, huh?” He asked.
“Yes, sir. Police issued. Different to your days.”
“My days?”
“You were a detective, yeah? Said so in that interview. Pretty cool. Especially Ricky Riot being your dad and all.
Ray nodded, regretting the damn thing. He hadn’t much good to say. No clue why anyone watched.
“I saw on YouTube. My dad was Starting Fires mad. Got me a bit into them, too. He was a proper punk back then. You know… Shame what happened,” the PC rattled off.
“They got what they asked for,” Ray cut her off cold.
The PC choked on half a word.
“Ah, alright, sir.”
Resembling a kicked dog as she watched the last few officers carrying equipment out the door. She seemed relieved.
“Looks like we’re done. Will keep you updated.”
Ray nodded. The PC subtly glanced at Ray’s cane, his wrinkled face and his thin grey hair.
“Anyone who can help?” she asked.
He knew exactly what she implied. Her politeness didn’t hide it.
“I’ll manage.”
His tone hinted at no debate. The PC nodded. Ray tried to close the door behind her, but it creaked open. He examined where the lock was broken from the frame. Crowbar damage, he thought, feeling the splintered wood with his finger. He imagined hoodlums on bicycles in a quiet neighbourhood carrying one. Plausible, he thought, but slightly over-sophisticated. He picked up a toppled chair, wedged it under the door handle, and limped into the living room. With a grunt, he bent to pick up the broken halves of a porcelain bulldog and a metal ashtray from the carpet. He arranged them on the fireplace. Then, bracing against the armchair, he eased to his knees and rolled up the rug to access a square cut of mismatched floorboards. He worked the rotary lock and opened the metal lid. As a detective, he used it to hide case files. His wife always hated him bringing his work home. Ironically, his wedding ring ended up in the safe, tucked among other dusty, worn trinkets from his past. Unsurprisingly, everything’s still there. A handful of photographs. A few vintage cassette tapes and letters. His expired police ID. No worth in pounds, only in memory. Painful ones mostly.
Ray covered the safe before limping around the house, trying to create some order. He took in the fishy scene. In his day, a scene like this was left as a threat, or when the perps struggled to find something. But he was a poor old man who left the force over a decade ago. He had nothing to threaten or take. Still, TokTokker hooligans just rubbed wrongly against his old intuition. Perhaps boredom with life made nothing feel like something. The same boredom made him speak to Anarchy Archives about Starting Fires and goddamned Ricky Riot. He stumbled over to his desk. His laptop was precisely where he left it. A purchase made years ago because some expert on late-night telly said, “You need to keep up with the times.” It was the one thing he’d personally enjoy smashing. Somehow, teenagers resisted the urge to steal or destroy it? Did they miss it? He doubted that. It was the size of a small fridge.
Ray sank into the rolling desk chair. He opened the laptop and wiped dust off the screen and keyboard with his sleeve. He impatiently waited for it to go through its usual update nonsense. After opening the internet browser, he one-finger typed Anarchy Archives on the YouTube. The second result was Interview with Ricky Riot’s son.
He clicked it.
It was the first time he’d seen the recorded versions since last week’s interview. No one told him he had sweat stains under his armpits. The early questions were harmless. A bit of banter about police life. Then, the real question.
“When did you realise, he was your father?”
The words became a blur. His eyes lost focus, chasing something only he could see. The screen played on, but Ray was no longer watching. He felt the glossy texture of thick Polaroid photos. Smelled cheap gin and his mother’s overly sweet hairspray. The past didn’t arrive politely—it kicked open the door wearing Doc Martens.
#
On the crackling radio in his mother’s room, Freddy Mercury was midway through Bohemian Rhapsody. She was in front of the mirror, rollers clipped into her hair, a cigarette dangling from her lips. In one hand, a hairbrush, the other fumbling for the can of Elnett hairspray on the dresser. Another night out with some guy who’s not calling tomorrow.
“Mum, who is Richard Redden?” Ray asked, looking down at the handwritten letter and black-and-white photos.
His mother turned pale, even with a full face of makeup.
“Where did you find that?”
“In the attic,” Ray answered. “He’s my father?”
His mum took a gulp of gin and tonic. She gave Ray a look. One, he would one day come across interrogating cornered criminals.
“He was my high school boyfriend.” She started, taking the last drag of her cigarette and crushing it into the overflowing ashtray.
“I got pregnant.”
“Richard took off with his garage rock band before I could tell him.”
“I couldn’t be angry.”
“Music was his dream, and he was beaten half to death at home.”
Ray felt a knot twist in his gut. He’d spend his life wondering, but asking was taboo. “What, I’m not enough for you?” she’d snap.
“So why not send the letter?” Ray asked.
“I did. Postman brought it back. I never found Richard again.”
Ray became obsessed. He spoke to the Redden family. No one has heard from Richard since 1958. His being a musician was a clue, but there was no resemblance in music magazines. Not a single music shop around Manchester knew of him. For all Ray knew, Richard could now be a banker, a mechanic or dead.
Ray’s luck changed when he found Rare Records on John Dalton Street. From the outside, it wasn’t much. Just a narrow shopfront with a painted sign flaking at the edges. A faded poster of David Bowie in his Ziggy Stardust phase hung in the window, half-obscuring a stack of imported 45s not alphabetised in months. Inside, it resembled more a bunker than a business. Rows of vinyl loomed like loud library shelves. Wooden bins lined the walls, overflowing with records in every genre. Krautrock, early punk, glam, dub, soul, and the odd bootleg Rolling Stones live set wrapped in plain paper sleeves. As Ray browsed, he compared Richard’s photo to every face he could find on a cover. The music was deafening. Behind the counter, a mohawked bloke in his late 30s, with a tee from some forgotten band, dropped the needle. One moment, it was Iggy Pop booming. The next was Can or T. Rex. He never looked up, like he knew timewasters.
“Excuse me,” Ray shouted over the counter. He held out a photo. “Do you know him?”
The man took the photo with nicotine-stained fingers.
“You, Old Bill?” He asked, scrutinising Ray.
“No,” Ray said with no idea.
The man rummaged through a milk crate behind the counter, fingers flicking past Buzzcocks and The Damned.
“Here,” he grunted, holding a 7-inch record in a paper sleeve stamped with a red matchstick
Starting Fires – Riot Anthem
“They’re playing Eric’s club on Saturday,” he added, like asking the location might get Ray’s arse kicked.
The Ford Escort hummed down the M62. The headlights reflected a road sign. Liverpool – 10 miles. Ray’s fingers left clammy prints on the photos illuminated with every passing streetlight.
“My dad’s going to kill me,” Dave said.
“I know. I owe you.”
The engine’s hum took over. Nervousness stank up the interior.
“You’d do the same,” Dave said.
Ray smiled.
As they walked down Matthew Street, underground bass pulsed through their soles. Dave carried his usual big-boy swagger. His faded denim and flared jeans made him the typical Northern lad on a night out. Approaching Eric’s, it was clear they didn’t fit in. Like a dragon, a girl with clipped hair and torn fishnets blew cigarette smoke through her nostrils. A bloke with spiked green hair, safety pins piercing his cheeks, and a leather jacket hand-painted with the anarchy symbol scowled at them. Ray’s hands found comfort in his brown corduroy jacket. It was an absolute freak show of combat boots, ripped clothes, smeared makeup, and slogan-inked skin.
“Bloody hell,” Dave muttered, eyeing a skinhead arguing with a man in a dress. “Sure, this is the place?”
Ray nodded, eyes locked on the spray-painted door beneath a crumbling brick archway. The air inside Eric’s was hot and damp as the low ceilings pressed down on packed, sweaty bodies. Ray’s shoes stuck to the floor, trying to create space for a man elbowing past with a half-drunk pint and a bleeding nose, grinning like it was the best night of his life. A guitar with chainsaw-like distortion silenced the murmuring crowd. Blurring red and green stage lights synchronised through the cigarette smoke. The drums joined, and the crowd surged forward. They were on a barely two-foot-high stage, Starting Fires exploding into sound. Ricky Riot, centre stage. Shirtless, eyes wild, veins bulging. Spitting venom at the mic with a ripped Union Jack as his backdrop.
“Is that him?” Dave shouted over the noise.
Ray compared the photos. Even with long hair drenched in sweat and one boot planted on a speaker, the resemblance was uncanny. Ricky Riot was Richard Redden. His father.
From a distance, Ray and Dave watched the four band members drinking and laughing in the alley behind Eric’s. The smell of hot garbage cans and piss dominated the air. Ricky Riot leaned against the wall, cigarette between his fingers and his boots planted wide. His leather jacket was tied around his waist, and the Union Jack from earlier was slung over his shoulder. Under the flashing backdoor security light, he looked older than on stage. Lines around his eyes, tired but wide open from something stronger than nicotine. A skinhead bouncer in a Harrington jacket stood off to the side, his knuckles raw. A fan tried to squeeze past. He shoved him back without a word.
“What are you doing?” Dave shouted as Ray walked toward him.
“Not sure,” Ray called over his shoulder.
“I need to speak to Ricky,” he said, stepping up, only to be shoved hard in the chest.
“Richard, please!” Ray shouted as the bouncer grabbed his collar and cocked his fist.
The name Richard turned the band’s heads. Ray held up the photos and letter, hands trembling. Ricky gave a nod, and the bouncer shoved Ray towards the band before resuming his post.
“Can we speak privately?” Ray asked Ricky.
Ricky dropped his cigarette on the cobblestones and snuffed it with his boot. He looked at his bandmates.
“Ain’t no secrets here, mate. Spit it out. We’re all listening.”
“Fine then,” Ray said, handing Ricky his mother’s letter and the photos.
Ray’s heart thudded as Ricky read, one brow slowly rising. It clearly wasn’t bringing him joy. Just something heavy.
“I am your son,” Ray said.
The rest of the band burst out laughing. Ricky looked up, his face unreadable. He glanced at his bandmates, scanning their faces for permission to feel nothing. Then, with a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he gave a dry laugh and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” Ray asked.
“Listen, kid,” Ricky said, grabbing the vodka off the drummer and taking a swig. “Your mum ain’t the first slag to reckon I got her up the duff.”
“And she won’t be the last,” one of the bandmates chimed in, earning a round of laughs from the others.
“But, uhm,” The words stuck in Ray’s throat.
“‘But, uh—'” Ricky said, pulling a face. “Come on, sunshine. You want me to sign your shirt or somethin’?”
#
Ray clutched the covers like they were strangling him, sweat beading on his wrinkled brow. The echoes of laughter still rang in his ears. But there was something real that woke him.
The floorboards creaked.
Someone was in the house.
He snatched his cane from beside the bed and limped into the hallway.
Shadows moved in the living room.
“Where’s the tape, old man?”
Ray flinched at the voice behind him.
“What tape?” he croaked, turning slowly to face a masked figure holding a kitchen knife.
Then, sirens.
Blue lights flashed through the windows. The intruder bolted down the hallway. Ray watched them all jump out of the side window.
“Mr Aston! Your neighbours called.”
Knock, Knock, Knock.
“It’s the police, open up!”
Knock, Knock, Knock.
He limped to the front door, unwedging the chair. A flashlight hit his face.
“Everything alright, sir?”
As his eyes adjusted, he recognised her. The young PC from earlier.
“No,” he said, breathless. “They came back. They’re not bloody TokTikkers.”
“Where are they?”
“Out the window,” he said, pointing.
She spun to her radio and rattled off police code. Ray remembered enough of it. They were setting up a perimeter.
The teacup rattled against the saucer in Ray’s hands. Across from him, the PC tapped at her phone as she ran through questions.
“This tape… any chance you’ve still got old evidence lying around?”
“No,” Ray said. “I’m long retired.”
She paused, frowning like something just clicked into place.
“Wait… didn’t you mention a tape in the Anarchy Archives interview?”
Ray didn’t answer. His mouth moved, but the words never left. His gaze slipped past the PC, past the room, caught in something deeper. The ticking of the wall clock became a hum. He wasn’t there anymore. He was back in the old flat with peeling wallpaper and water damage. He heard the knock. He felt the cold doorknob in his hand.
#
The reek of cigarettes and vodka greeted him before he did. Ricky Riot stood in the drizzle outside, his eyes sunken and missing a front tooth he had during their last encounter.
“Alright, sunshine,” he rasped. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t here to nick your telly.”
He held up the familiar letter and photos, pinched between two yellowed fingers.
“Thought you might want this… or maybe your mum. Figured it meant more to you lot than to me.”
Ray reluctantly took it. It had taken a similar beating to Ricky these last four years. He didn’t know what to say. The surprise still had him.
“Brought you this too,” Ricky said, pulling a cassette from his pocket.
“It’s our next one. Gonna blow the lid off. Light a fire under every bastard in Westminster.”
As Ray took the cassette, the numbness disappeared. Replaced by the anger he had harboured.
“What the hell do you want?”
Ricky looked taken aback.
“What? You’re Old Bill now, yeah? Thought maybe you’re a good little piggy.”
“I don’t want it,” Ray dropped the tape at Ricky’s feet. “Leave, don’t come back.”
“Okay. Detective Bloody Sunshine.” He backed away a step. “But if you change your mind… we’re blowin’ the roof off The Electric Circus tonight. Dragged the place from the grave for us. One night. One song to change it all.”
Ray slammed the door. But as he stepped into the living room, he heard the soft clatter of something hitting the floor through the letterbox.
He turned and saw the cassette lying face-up on the tiles.
Ray snatched it and yanked the door open.
Just rain and silence. Ricky Riot was gone.
He held the tape. Every part of him wanted to grind it under his heel.
Something stopped him.
Ray stepped off the bus. The Electric Circus was just ahead, but something wasn’t right. Smoke coiled into the sky, thick and black. As he got closer, he saw the flames.
Crowds gathered behind police tape. Firefighters shouted. Sirens echoed through the chaos. He stopped a passing fireman.
“What happened?”
“Riot broke out,” the man panted. “Place lit up fast. We’ve barely got anyone out.”
Ray reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the cassette.
#
Ray opened the floor safe. Inside, among faded letters, photos, an old badge, and his wedding ring, was Ricky Riot’s cassette. He held it in his palm, the label half-peeled, the plastic case cracked. For all these years, he refused to listen to it. Maybe it was time someone did. He limped to the front door, where the young PC waited, and gave it to her.
“Might be worth a listen.”
She took it, nodding.
Three days later, Ray’s phone rang.
“Mr Aston? It’s PC Reeves. We analysed the tape.”
She spoke with her usual enthusiasm. Ray just listened.
“It’s… incredible. The song. It’s like a confession. It names several powerful political families. Corruption. Illegal surveillance of the punk scene. Even possible paedophilia.”
Ray stared out the window, taking it all in.
“The tape led us to a safety deposit box with evidence. And we’re reopening The Electric Circus riot case. It might not have been a riot after all. It was possibly arson and murder.”
She hesitated before continuing.
“If it helps, Ricky Riot and his bands were heroes.”
Ray took a deep breath as he watched a man walking his son to school past the window.
“Thank you,” Ray finally said. “You’d make an excellent detective.”
THE END
