MEDLOCK MILL, 2.41AM
Once June has begun, first light is early enough to still be part of the previous day. And, by that, I mean that people are still on nights out that began on a different date. Time becomes muddled, and yesterday and today have no real value, they are simply markers to help us understand when we set out, and when we return.
As I set up my tripod in the dark moments before dawn, men and women were leaving a nearby bar, nodding effusively at listless door staff. One young woman, walking ahead of her tired partner, wished me sweet dreams, causing me to smile. The security guards from First Street, questioning my reason for being where I was, soon diluted this moment of old Manchester joy.
It was hard to make out the dark ruins of Medlock Mill. The carcass of this factory, killed by fire and neglect, isn’t lit, it exists in fragile shadow, cowering beneath the rising towers that now surround it, that will soon replace it once all trace of this industrial monument as been erased. We’ll have only our memories of the Hotspur Press sign, writ large across the brick facade, branded deeply into our Mancunian minds.
When it erupted in flames, around this time a year back, I happened to be away in Antwerp. My friend was phoning me from the tram, and hurriedly cut the call when he saw the billowing, black smoke. Soon the internet was alive with videos as, within seconds, a cynical city delivered its judgement, that it was done deliberately. Lying on this foreign bed, watching soft evening sun glow through a twitching curtain, I felt touched by love and loss for the city I’ve known for so much of my life, and felt the need to be there.
Birdsong began, and a goods train thundered over the nearby bridge, seeming endless in its passing. Slowly, the dark retreated and, in the early light, the mill seemed less charred. Posters for upcoming events lined its weary facade. Door buzzers hung uselessly by a large shutter that would never again open.
In the distance, beyond the old building, the rising sun cast a pink glow across the new glass towers. I took my pictures, feeling a little like a police photographer at a murder scene. A bus passed by, early morning workers quietly occupying the seats, oblivious to this ruin, their thoughts perhaps fixed on their own survival.
A young lad in a white t-shirt marched purposefully up the street, his phone clamped to his ear, talking in a local accent.
“I’m telling you” he said, “He shouldn’t have done it. It’s not my fault.”
And as he disappeared from view, the lights went out.
