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It didn’t take long.

Unit Twelve sat at the far end of the estate, tucked behind the newer warehouses where it always had been. Except something had changed. Fresh orange barriers now ringed the perimeter, bright against the rust and weathered brick, while two contractors in hi-vis fixed new notices to the fencing. A digger stood idle beyond them, bucket resting in the mud. Even from the roof, Jake could make out the heavy black lettering across the white boards.

BLACKRIDGE HOLDINGS. DANGER. DEMOLITION PLANNED.

He frowned.

The newer extension still looked respectable enough, but the original building behind it had long since surrendered to time. Windows smashed or boarded. Corrugated roof sheets sagging beneath years of standing water. Brickwork blackened by decades of Yorkshire weather. It looked less like a building still in use and more like something everyone had forgotten was there.

Maybe knocking it down made sense.

Still, Jake found himself staring at it.

“Whitton!”

He glanced round.

Roman leaned over the scaffold handrail below, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “You planning on doing any fucking work today? Or was all that bullshit to my dad lip service.”

Jake ignored that and jerked his chin at the far end of the estate. “Why’s Unit Twelve coming down?”

Roman followed his gaze. “Fucked if I know.” He barely gave the building a second glance before looking back at Jake. “You coming to the King’s Arms later?”

Jake shrugged. “Dunno.”

Roman pointed the cigarette at him. “Can’t let us down.”

Then he disappeared behind the scaffold.

Jake looked back at Unit Twelve. The digger still hadn’t moved. The contractors were already walking away from the fence, leaving the new signs stark against the old building.

Demolition planned.

Jake stared for another second, trying to work out why the sight of it bothered him. Then someone below shouted for the membrane, and he turned back to work.

* * * *

As soon as the light bled out of the sky and the rain turned the roof slick enough to call it, Jake followed the crew down from the scaffold and into the King’s Arms with the rest of them.

Partly because he needed a drink. Partly because he needed something loud enough to drown out the constant churn in his head. And mostly because he needed Levenson and son to see him making the effort after yesterday. Industrial contracts travelled on reputation more than paperwork half the time, and if he kept this one sweet, there’d be more work after. Good work. Weeks of it. So he let himself get dragged into the pub, shoulders aching pleasantly beneath his hoodie.

The King’s Arms was heaving with after-shift noise. Muddy work boots grinding sawdust into old floorboards. Pool balls cracking somewhere near the back. Men talking too loudly over one another while condensation streaked thickly down the windows from the crush of bodies and heat inside. Jake ended up wedged around one of the long tables near the dartboard with half the roofing crew, a pint sweating beneath his hand while conversation rolled around him in waves.

Football first. Then wages. Then the weather.

Then women.

Always women.

“Swear to God,” Scottie snorted halfway through his third pint, “copper bird walked on site today and productivity nearly fucking flatlined.”

The table exploded with laughter.

Roman shook his head into his lager. “Like a woman in uniform, do ya?”

“Mate, I’d shag a pothole if someone drew tits on it. But I’ll bend over for a woman with handcuffs.”

More laughter followed. Loud enough to rattle the glasses.