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My name’s Hanry. I’m 30 years old. I live in Huyton, Liverpool, and I work as a mechanic down the local garage. Just a normal life, like thousands of other lads. Got a wife, two little boys, work — home. That’s it, la. But there’s one massive problem — the debts, lad. I won’t go into all the details, but because of all sorts of shit I owe the bank £24,000 on a loan for our flat. Honest to God, I’ve long forgotten what peace even feels like. My life’s turned into pure stress, brother. Bills, rent, food, kids’ stuff, petrol… 💸 And at the end of the month there’s nothing left, not even enough to make the next payment on the loan. Sometimes I feel like I talk to the bank more than I talk to me wife. The calls come nearly every day. At first they were polite. Now they sound proper threatening: “If the payments keep being late, we will be forced to repossess the property…” I’m not even that scared for myself anymore. But the thought of my family losing the home keeps me up at night. That’s my worst nightmare. And unfortunately, it’s getting closer and closer, la. But a few days ago something happened that I still can’t get my head around. Everyone in Huyton knows where Paddy hangs about. You see him round the place all the time. But to actually bump into him like that by chance — I never even dreamed it, honest. It was a normal Friday night. Finished me shift at the garage, covered in oil and grease as usual. Got home, got changed, had some scran with the wife and the kids. Once they were all asleep I thought I’d go for a walk and pop in the local pub on the corner — wet me whistle after a long week and grab a bevvy. The bar was nearly empty, season hasn’t started yet. I got a pint, sat by the window, pulled me phone out. Scrolling through job ads — I needed to find £350 quick by the end of the month to cover the late payment. Then the door swings open. In walks this massive fella. Nearly six foot seven, shoulders like a wardrobe. He goes to the bar, orders a pint, and s
