Lois Cuckson

I need a new job; sharpish.

Working nights used to be the dog’s bollocks, it really did. Maybe you can’t imagine it, but having entire days to yourself, sleeping until noon, that juicy compensatory pay they give you for working unsociable hours - for me, this was it.

Until now. Until another bad Saturday night, wrangling arseholes - scally estate boys, fat middle-aged office wankers who haven’t had a tangle in decades but fancy one now, and that’s before you even get onto the women. Let me tell you, the only scar I ever had from bouncing was from a young bride-to-be, raking her false nails down my neck as I escorted her from the premises for poor behaviour. She’d been back since with the husband and tried to press her number into my hand. Lovely girl.

When I say I work at Paradise City, people always pull a face. A ‘just smelled a fart’ face. A ‘Ooh, it’s a bit rough up there’ face. Some would regale me with a story of being apocalyptically drunk there, which never failed to be underwhelming what with some of the reprehensible twats I’ve had to deal with. Probably been called ‘Paki’ more times than my actual name by now.

The roads were black and wet as I made my way home. Weeknights meant early closes, which meant actually getting to leave before sun-up. Small mercies. I normally like to get to the gym around now, while all the office wankers are still tucked up in bed but tonight I decide to give it a miss. I’m not officially ‘In Training’ any longer, so it’s not the end of the world but you wouldn’t have caught me saying that a couple of years back.

I was so dedicated that I had the key to my old gym - it was just me, my coach and his staff that held them. He trusted me that much, but I stopped going when I got this job. Switched to a regular Cardio place. It felt too much like defeat seeing the other lads every day, gearing up for fights both local and national. So I did what every cunt does when he’s too old to make it as a boxer. I went doorman.

I wanted something I’d have to stay relatively fit for, so all those hours on the bag and on the treadmill didn’t turn to blubber. That’s what happens to you when you take your foot off the pedal, but it wasn’t happening to me.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. Times like those, walking home alone, before nine when the club doors are open but nobody’s rocked up yet. I can’t speak to the other fella on the door with me cause he can’t spit a solitary word of English. When he saw me he chatted away excitedly, but the language was anybody’s guess and when he peeked my stony expression, he fell silent. I mainly just stand and think, between drinking and pretending to check ID’s. All the well beer at Paradise was utter dehydrated piss, but you’ll down anything if it’s cold. Amar and me (I’d read his tag), standing in a fine Northern drizzle, drinking pale like we’re big mates. Time to think is what you have at the beginning of the night, and then come the knobheads.

“Ah, go on mate - she’ll be eighteen in two days!”

“Come back in two days then.”

“Come on, I’m not even p-pissed!”

“You’ve got puke down your front.”

“That’s not from drinking - I’ve had a dicky tummy.”

“Pharmacy’s that way. You won’t find anything for that in here.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You could be Princess Di, back from the dead for all I care. I’d still send you to the back of the line.”

“Paki Bastard.”

“You know not all brown people are from Pakistan, yeah? If you’re gonna be a fucking bigot, at least be specific about it.”

“I know the manager, and I speak with him all the time.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll give you my overtime request then - I ain’t seen him in weeks.”

After they were sent packing, sometimes Amar would look at me and shake his head, disbelief and sadness in his eyes. I’d nod, not sure if we were on the same non-verbal wavelength. He could have been disapproving of anything - the clear sense of entitlement, the weather-inappropriate clothing or the drunkenness pervaded by our decadent Western culture. Who knows?

For me, it was just how young they all seemed. The boys and the girls. Young and stupid and I just had to hope that as they stumbled off home that they’d be alright. I thought of my ten-year-old, Nallini and thought that in eight years or probably less, she’d be out with her mates doing the same thing. It was inevitable, I understood that but it still didn’t sit well.

As I walked home that night, I was heading back to Nallini. She lived with her Mum in Birmingham and I saw her one weekend out of the month. It was the only concession Paradise had ever made me, and only because I threatened to leave. She was often on my mind though. When I walked, when I worked on the door, when I was at the gym. My little girl, the colour of an acorn with wild bushy hair - sprouting at least another inch in height each time I saw her. She’d be taller than her Mum, but hopefully not as big as me. That’s the last thing a young girl needs.

I wasn’t paying much attention to anything until I heard the footsteps behind me. The roads and pavements had all been deserted so far and I could tell from the quickness of the footfall, the lightness of the step that they were intentionally trying to catch up with me. I didn’t reach for the cracked Samsung in my front pocket. I didn’t quicken my own pace or duck into a doorway to let them pass. I didn’t do any of the things you’re supposed to do if you’re a regular workaday guy because for all my pondering, I’ll always be a hard bastard with something to prove so I did what we do in these types of situation.

I stopped dead and let the following pair of feet collide with me, hearing the person they belonged to grunt and clatter to the floor.

The Dead Shift

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I looked back and if I felt a sudden shock of regret, I didn’t let it show. In that moment I had to keep my wits about me, even more than usual. I looked at the red-faced, gangly geeze on the pavement and tried to ignore the look of oscillating hate in his eyes.

​

“Good Evening, Officer.”

There he was, bum on the wet floor and left hand clutching the shoulder of his bulky, bulletproof vest. Physically, he was not a threat but was dangerous in an entirely different way. One similarity between British and South Indian Police - they are volatile, especially when they feel you’ve made them look foolish. I realised too late that he was fumbling for his radio and tried not to let on how his next words made my blood run cold.

“Officer Black, CID requesting back-up from any available unit at the corner of Tyne and Millbrook. Just been assaulted by a suspect who seems primed to escape.”

Inwardly, I reel but I do not move. I’m not about to give weight to his claim and at this point, running is the worst thing I could do. Big black fella, tearing through an area he doesn’t know past midnight? I’d leave a trail of calls from concerned citizens equalling the entire length of the city.

​

This skinny twat tries and fails to right himself, clearly knowing I’m not about to bolt and not caring about the events he’s just set into motion and how I know they’re about to royally fuck up my life.