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Episode 230

Brighton, October 1984.

A calm seaside city, glittering under streetlights and the low hum of the pier. The gulls cry over the Channel, taxis roll along the promenade, and the Grand Hotel stands proud — polished brass, white stone, and the smell of salt drifting through its doors.

Inside, the Conservative Party gathers. Politicians, reporters, and aides crowd the corridors, their voices bright with politics and champagne. The Prime Minister will speak tomorrow. It is business as usual.

But hidden within the walls, deep behind a panel and layers of plaster, time is ticking.
Patrick Magee — quiet, methodical, unseen — has already done his work. Weeks before, he planted a device with care and calculation. He has left the town, but his presence lingers in the wiring, in the silence, in the waiting.

As the clock edges toward the early hours, Brighton sleeps.
The sea whispers against the stones. A city unaware. A hotel holding its breath.

And then, in one terrible instant, the night erupts —
glass, flame, dust, and history breaking open.

This is how it began.

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