RED SCAB

The Junction public house was standing room only, black-and-white shirts huddled together with their collective pints. Anticipation and dreams hung in the air as they waited for the match to start.

Tony placed his bottle of beer on top of the fruit machine. He was five quid down already. He kissed another coin for luck.

"Come on, ya old bastard. Show me the money."

A slap, the usual blur of colours. Tony had won once, and it was glorious. He needed another win desperately

The noise behind him fell silent—as it should when Alan Shearer was on the screen.

"Oi, Tone—ain’t that your lass on the telly?"

"F**king hell, you kept that quiet, mate. She’s a bonny wee lass."

"Reckon we’ve been hanging out with the wrong one, lads."

"Aye," Someone agreed. "Seems like you’re the boring bastard, Tone."

Tony couldn't believe what he was seeing on the 5K 54” surround sound

A local TV crew was covering some nightclub's grand opening.

In a short black dress, Ash was officially the first high-heeled footer.

Where was his dull, predictable Ash? The supposed-to-be-at-home-making-bath-bombs Ash? He didn't recognise the Ash who was now knocking back Jägerbombs.

The red mist of humiliation became as thick as the fog on the Tyne as the fruit machine flashed GAME OVER, sending Tony a clear message—it was time to reel in her wild behaviour.

Ash was supposed to be the safest bet he ever made.Village girls were meant to be

all quiet and unassuming, not at any point goddamn ready to re-enact the Wild Boys video.

The rumours about Ash’s chandelier swinging antics were bad enough. At least that hadn't gone live to the nation

Tony hated The Bigg Market. In his eyes, it was overcrowded, its reputation shifting with the flow of alcohol. He had yet to grasp the hypocrisy of the crowded bars and loud matches that he loved so much.

The nightclub was a mass of bodies, sweat, dry ice, and flashing lights. Music hammered against the inside of his skull.

Tony spotted her near the dance floor, drink in hand, glowing from the moment.

She turned, saw him—and smirked.

"Here he comes—the fun police. You have some nerve"

"You are leaving here—now!"

"Jesus, Tony, again with this?" She rolled her eyes. "We broke up, remember? It was right after I found out you'd been lacing me with drugs. Kind of a deal-breaker, darlin’."

"You were in a lot of pain with your back..." He huffed and puffed. "I was helping."

"I told you about my auntie and her dressing table full of pills. You knew it was the reason I never even took a bloody aspirin. But you—thanks to your brand of help, I have these dreams that... You know what? I won't give you the satisfaction. Leave me the hell alone!"

"Do you realise my boss f**king saw your little show on the news? All my friends... in fact, the whole city did."

"Go back to watching the match, Tony. Heaven forbid you miss a goal." She laughed, tipping her head back.

That was it. His voice rose.

"You were acting like you’d won a bloody Oscar!"

Someone behind her snorted. "Miserable bastard."

"Bloody buzzkill. Leave the lass alone! Go home to your pipe and slippers, Grandad!"

"Take the hint, Tony. Piss off," another voice hissed.

It all happened so fast A chav in a grey shell suit thought Ash needed saving. A few shoves later and the bouncers were moving in. And just like that—they were both thrown out

The Beehive Bar loomed behind them. Ash was debating whether she was going inside, but she needed to calm down first.

"I knew I should have gone to that bar at the bottom of the Bigg Market. They're doing a BOGOF offer, so take the hint."

"I hear the ceilings are nice to look at, so it’ll give you something to look at when you end up on your back!"

Ash’s hand slapped hard against Tony’s face.

"Well, f**king done, Tony. Bravo! You got the reaction you wanted! I hope you're happy"

"What did you think my reaction would be, huh?" Tony screamed. "You were acting like you were auditioning for Geordie Shore!"

"We broke up!" Ash yelled. "You have no right whatsoever to storm in with your Victorian values and fragile male ego. ‘Oh, everyone was laughing at me! Boo bloody hoo!’"

Tony took a step forward, voice snapping.

"Don’t you dare walk away from me! We need to sort this!"

"Oh, sorry," Ash replied, dripping in sarcasm, slipping into her best Cockney accent. "Sorry, Governor. My shift starts at the strip club in half an hour, then I gotta pick a pocket or two. You know us girls are all alike."

And with that, she was gone.

Tony wandered around in a state of shock before reaching into his pocket and pulling out some pound coins.

"Stupid girl. She'll look back one day and see what a mistake she made."

He was the steady one. The reliable one. The only one who actually knew how life worked.

Tony shoved another coin into the slot, watching the fruit machine flicker to life. One last spin. Just one. He could still catch the second half if he was lucky.

Ash cut through the rain-slick streets, her high heels slapping angrily against the pavement. The night smelled of wet stone, spilled beer, Doner Kebab and a hint of vanilla musk body spray

Instinct led her down Pudding Chare, a street hidden off the Bigg Market.

The city was quieter here with a cute dog café and an Italian restaurant that was the definition of perfection.

Ash ducked into the doorway of the old Fleet Street pub, pressing against the cold brick. The empty Evening Chronicle offices were a stark reminder of a thriving yesteryear.

Then she saw it.

A mural stretched across the wall, half-hidden in the gloom. It made her shudder.

"Impossible," she gasped. " How is that possible? This…This is my actual dream in art form!."

There had always been impressive graffiti scattered across Newcastle’s impossible corners. This, however, was something else.

A jolt shot through her lower back, and suddenly, she remembered.

Thick, feverish swirls of deep blue and ember-red. Anyone else would say it looked like chaos—just angry colors blurring into messy patterns. But she saw the bridges across the Tyne. Old stone buildings. Shipyard cranes stretching out their rusted necks.

Newcastle—but not as it was. Not as it is.

The city itself was trying to hold on, slipping through time, fighting against the slow decay.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the rain, low and firm.

"You took your time."

Ash turned fast.

A figure stood at the edge of the alley, half-lit by the flickering street lamp. Hair falling in dark waves over a sharp, familiar face. A face she hadn’t seen in years. A face no one had seen. Flint.

Ash’s pulse lurched. Flint - The rock star. The legend. That voice—so damn smooth and sexy.

There had been harsh rumors about his painkiller addiction, how it had taken its toll on both his mind and body. His last album was considered too abstract, but Ash had understood it perfectly.

"It’s really you! I honestly thought I had imagined the whole thing. You’re gorgeous." The words tripped out of her mouth. "These murals… they’re alive with history. I’ve seen them before. You’ve been busy painting these everywhere, looking for someone who sees what you see."

Finally, someone who understood.

Ash's fingers brushed against his cheek.

And then—their bodies betrayed them.

Ash’s back slammed against the mural. Flint’s hands lifted her, pressing her into history itself.

"You felt it, didn’t you?" He murmured. "Déjà vu. We’ve done this..."

"In Beamish Woods," Ash gasped.

The city was inside her now—just as much as Flint was.

Somewhere, alarms wailed. Sirens split the night.

Newcastle had been screaming for years.It needed guardians.

And it had found them—again.

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