4.

Michael Riley never went to college; he never went where he was sure he would go. He was going to see the world and run a multinational business such were his late teenage year's dreams that would not come to be. There would be a piece of him wherever he may go, so the plans had been but ... but. Instead of all this Michael Riley is a simple barman at a corner bar which does not see a whole lot of business but enough to see him beyond the day by day.

He does everything a publican would do, the ordering, the books, the opening and closing. He even sees a fair share of the profits, not that there is a whole lot of profit though in title and name he still only is nothing more than that simple barman as the building itself is not quite exactly his though it is, for as long as he sees fit. A rare thing it has become for him to see places beyond a few miles outside of or away from that corner house.

A victim of timing and in a way of his own doing, being taught a lesson and a sense of duty and family has him where it is that he is. A sense of family ... huh ... what a contradiction that is in the life that is his. There may be something else in all this too. Maybe on some level there is intent being hidden for him to go find out a thing or two.

In July of 1976 mother died following a short illness leaving behind her husband and her only child. Michael, only six years old at the time, should have become close as close can be with his father but instead, Michael Senior, dove right into expanding his business.

Dad hardly acknowledged his own grief let alone acknowledging the grief of junior. Nannies, housekeepers and private teachers raised son more than father did. Any friends Michael had before mum died, he didn't see all so much of afterwards. The estate dad owned was huge, so large that even in adulthood Michael never understood why it was all necessary. It was just him and dad, as well as those here under employment, and dad was hardly ever around thus ensuring he never really was a dad, a father ... yes ... a dad ... not so much.

The house of gray brick and stone with quite the dull interior was way too big for a family of two or even three as was the land it was built upon too. The place never entertained either, not even when mum had been around. There were those indeed under dad's employ who had their own living spaces within those walls which worked out well, still the place was way too big.

There had been a shadow of sorts which always seemed to have been with him, Michael honestly couldn't say if it were around before mum died or if it had only come to him afterwards. In the months following mum's passing, when night and darkness had come and all was quiet, the ever-present shadow had six-year-old Michael wander to the house. It had him wander into rooms he had under regular circumstances been forbidden to go anywhere near.

During the day these rooms would all be locked, and some would always remain so, even house staff were forbidden to go inside and were not permitted to have the appropriate keys. The shadow, being what it is, had no such problem accessing any room within the house, not only gaining access to any room at will for itself but for the boy too.

A six-year-old could never understand the items he would see in some of these rooms nor could he understand any of the journals dad kept there. One thing he would find was a deed to a local boxing club. Dad, nor anyone else, had ever spoken within the home, or on front of Michael at least, of what it is he does other than it being business and boxing certainly was never mentioned. There were no trophies or such about the house so what, if anything, dad had to do with boxing was very much unclear.

It would only be in his teens when Michael would begin to wonder what the hell it was his father was doing when he was not home. When senior was home, he only ever offered lecturing and teachings, there was no play, no kick abouts, no trips to parks or playgrounds, no holidays to fun places.

Serious, as serious could be, dad was always so serious. 'Listen' he would say, 'you need to listen to what I am teaching you.'

'Boy, sit yourself down and listen, will you?' How often junior heard this spoken to him.

Dad's teachings began when junior was twelve and it would at least a year or so before he would question why this had become a thing. 'There are a lot of bad things in the world son, and you need to be aware of them. One day son ... one day'. If emotion ever showed itself with dad, it came with those words. 'One day son ... one day.'

The stories told to him of darkness are nothing more than that, stories or so he had believed, a need dad had to justify his existence after mum's death, a need a father had to warn a son about the world being not all so much a nice place. When news of dad's death came through early August of 1988, well that was one thing, with the wonders of what kind of trouble he had got himself into to ensure he would never be coming home again, at least alive anyhow.

It got worse still when dad's Will left eighteen-year-old Junior with nothing other than a corner pub; well it left the running of such to junior. Ownership along with everything else belonging to dad being left to the estate, whatever that meant, Junior could never get proper straight answers once dear auld dad was gone. Whatever income brought in by the public house would be juniors. At this too, only ninety percent of the profits would see its way to Michael Junior.

The other ten percent along with a grant issued on behalf of the Estate, as Michael would discover, was going to a local boxing club, the same club he found deeds to when he was just six years old.

Why he was being punished in the afters of dad's death he did not know. Was it that he didn't listen hard enough? Was it that he didn't believe all or any of what dad told him? Shouldn't he have believed though, especially with the tone dad told those stories and the shadow which was quite often so present? That shadow remained with him and had been around since he was at least six. In fact, the shadow never really went away.

Michael never considered himself crazy. The shadow was and is a part of life, a part of his life, and it was with him on that night in September of 1999, the night Greta Turner was attacked. Sure, she had seen it for herself and could never have connected it in any way with her work colleague nor could she have known that this shadow had instructed Michael to offer her a lift home if she were to wait for fifteen minutes ...

Of course, as it is known, she didn't accept his offer ...

Over the few months that would see out an end to the twentieth century Michael paid a number of visits to that local boxing club hoping to seek out answers that did not directly come to him. What would be in that club, so it would be discovered, was to be a boy named Paul Malone who soon would be turning sixteen years of age. Even at this point in his life, that boy had a number of championships under his belt. He was good, a champion in the making.

Yeah, the road ahead is a long one and it is filled with many intersections.