Midnight Ch. 01

Once I was in my flat at the end of the working day, I never dared go out again until the morning.

It was bad enough in the daylight to be honest. I was regularly accosted in the street by the local skinheads that roamed the place like packs of wild dogs. I knew it was only a matter of time before I got my head kicked in, or worse.

Every day was the same routine:

1. Out of the flat.

2. Down the stairs.

3. March across the carpark to the bus stop.

4. Eyes straight ahead, no eye contact with anyone, don't give them the excuse to have a go. Speak to nobody.

5. Ignore any abuse.

6. Wait quietly for the bus, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

7. Work my shift.

8. Come home with exactly the same precautions.

9. Never ever leave my flat once I got home for the evening.

I wasn't living, I was merely existing and more than just a few times, I wondered why I bothered at all. Some evenings I would cry myself to sleep and wonder how my young life had come to this and wondered if it might be easier to just follow Dad under a bus.

I'd been there about four or five months when it happened. It was early evening, I got off the bus and was making my way across the litter strewn carpark when I was surrounded by five skinheads in their typical uniform; boots, white t­shirts and bleached jeans held up with red braces.

"What do you want?" I asked. I'll admit right now, I was shitting myself.

The leader, a skinny bastard with an acne scarred face snarled, "Hand over your cash, Nigger!"

"I haven't got any money," I quavered. Which was true. I rarely carried cash if I could avoid it.

He stormed forward and punched me in the face. I cried out and fell to the floor, the others swarmed forward and I knew I was going to get a kicking. I curled up into ball, sobbing with fear and pain, and tried to protect my head with my arms. I nearly wet myself, knowing that several people had died from the beatings they had received on this estate.

It was then I heard the most beautiful sound in the universe. It was a gravelly, menacing voice that simply asked, "You cunts are doing what exactly?"

The kicking never happened, I risked opening one eye and made out the figure of a giant of a man looming... And I do mean looming over the gang. All of whom seemed to have suddenly lost their bloodlust.

"I suggest you all fuck off now. The lady's my friend, and she's OUT OF FUCKING BOUNDS!"

The gang fucked off... And they fucked off rapidly, leaving me alone with the giant. He leaned down and looked at me with an expression of concern, "Are you okay?"

He reached out a hand the size of a leg of ham and helped me to my feet. I carefully touched my cheek, it felt hot and I knew it was going to bruise, but apart from that I was unharmed.

"I'm good, thank you."

It was then that I got my first proper look at him. He was a scary looking bloke. All of 6'10" and clearly muscular, I mean body builder muscular, if the sheer bulk was anything to go by. I'd estimate somewhere in his late twenties, he had a bald head, brown eyes and a nose that had clearly been broken many times. The sides of his wide head were decorated with cauliflower ears. I noticed as well that his right hand had HCFC tattooed on the knuckles, so he was a rugby fan... This was Hull, of course he fucking was!

The man was smartly dressed in a white collared shirt, black trousers and highly polished black shoes. Over the top he wore a black greatcoat that had some sort of ID badge in a clear plastic case on his left upper arm. I'll be honest, he wasn't pretty, he had a face only a mother could love, and then only with a few drinks inside her.

"I'm Alan... And you are?"

I was surprised at how quietly he spoke. Even though he had just saved me, I was still intimidated by his physical presence. It didn't help that I was still shaken by the attack, I answered meekly, "Manni."

He grinned, showing a gap where a front tooth was missing, "Pleased to meet you," he glanced

around and then said, "Come on, I'll see you to your door."

We made our way to my front door and he swore quietly when he saw the graffiti. I noticed that a badly drawn hangman now adorned the wall above the words 'kil da wogz', but after long months of this shit, I was inured to it.

He examined the graffiti and murmured to himself, "Whose fucking stupid idea was it to put a black face in Orchard Park... Fuck sake!"

I was puzzled, "Why did you help me? You could have got hurt."

He regarded me carefully and I watched as his eyes drifted into space. A troubled look washed over his features and I knew he was accessing a memory and not a very nice one. Presently his eyes refocused back on me and he answered, "I just don't like bullies... Anyway, I wasn't in danger. Not from those wankers!"

As I opened the door, I asked him if he wanted to come in for a coffee.

He barked a laugh and there was a twinkle in his eyes, "Subtle."

I stammered, "I wasn't... I mean... I didn't..."

He laughed again, "S'okay, I'm kidding."

I grinned back weakly, "I know, it's just... Look, you're the first person that's spoken to me in months outside work and I'm..." I broke down in tears, "I'm so fucking lonely!"

He wrapped me in a crushing bear hug and said, "Hey now, less of that."

Alan steered me into my flat and kicked the door closed behind him and just held me until I calmed down again. I should have felt embarrassed at my display, but strangely I didn't. To this day, I really couldn't tell you why, but we just clicked, it's as simple as that. Not in a sexy way. Looking back, I don't think we ever saw each other as potential bed mates, we were friends.

After I made a couple of mugs of coffee, we settled down on the sofa and just chatted. I found myself relaying my life story to him and in turn, he told me about his entirely normal upbringing with two loving parents. I found out he was an amateur rugby player and with his giant stature came a natural ability at dealing with violence. I also found out about his dream of starting his own security business and the fact that he loved Shakespeare, Dickens and Wordsworth.

One thing he did mention that caught my attention, was that as I was now eighteen, I could do bar work in the evenings and the nightclub where he worked security were always looking for staff.

"And I'll tell you what Manni, you especially, could earn some good tips."

I glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, "Why'd you say that?"

He flushed slightly, "Well... Don't take this the wrong way, but you have two obvious qualifications that are always a hit with the drunk punters."

I looked down and light dawned on my marble head, "Ah. My chest mounted megapuppies with the plum coloured noses."

Alan grinned and then said, "I mean it. Wear something that shows off a bit of cleavage and trust me, it'll boost your pay no end," he gave me a serious look, "And in your current situation, every little helps."

Alan glanced at his watch and then stood up, "Sadly I've got to head off to work."

I thanked him again for his help and went on tiptoes. He brought his head down to let me plant a kiss on his cheek.

Before I closed the door, he turned round and said, "Think about it. You can definitely earn a few bob working the bar at Romeo's," he glanced around at the graffiti once again, "And don't worry, I'll pass the word that you're a mate of mine."

As I lay on my bed that night, I thought about what he had said and decided that maybe a second job for a couple of evenings a week couldn't hurt so I would definitely stop off at the nightclub tomorrow. I wasn't sure about what he meant by 'passing the word'. But for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

And that is how I met Alan Hardcastle, who is to this day my bestest buddy in all the world.

Anyway, after I finished at the cafe the following day, I made my way to the Romeo and Juliet Nightclub and rang the bell at the service entrance. A head popped out and said, "Yes?"

"Erm, hello. My name's Manni and I was wondering if there were any vacancies for bar staff going? Alan Hardcastle told me there might be."

The young woman opened the door fully and said, "Follow me."

She lead me to the manager's office where I met a middle aged bloke called George Radcliffe, the manager. He was a bit of a state if I'm honest. Mutton dressed as lamb if you know what I mean and a proper letch if ever I met one. More than once, I wanted to point to my face and say, "Oi, sunshine! Me eyes are up here!" but I didn't, I needed a job after all.

There were a few questions about serving experience and whether I knew how to work a till. My answers seemed to satisfy him so he nodded and then asked, "Okay. What nights do you want to work?"

"Thursday, Friday and Saturday please."

"Right, be here Thursday night at eight o'clock sharp and wear something to show your tits off."

I know, right? If only all interviews were that easy.

I must admit, I was more than a little bit nervous, my interview meant that I had to get a later bus back home and it was starting to get dark.

I stood at the bus stop and looked around at the car park that separated me from the safety of my flat. Unfortunately there were several small groups of youths dotted around the place, drinking and shouting. I steeled myself and made my way home, and was more than a little surprised to find that although I got some wicked stares, nobody made any move to interfere with me. I discovered that being Alan's friend had some real value to it.

So that was my work routine set for the next two years. Working four days a week in the cafe, including every other Saturday and then the busy nights behind the bar. Alan was right about the money, as well as the tips, we were also regularly told to get ourselves a drink when some punters got a round in. As we weren't allowed to drink on the job, we'd ring in a shot of vodka but annotate it on the touch screen as a staff drink, then the computer did some maths and we'd get an envelope every month with our pay packet and a cash amount to cover the 'drinks' we'd had.

I also discovered that low cut tops really did help. The more cleavage on display, the more pound coins disappeared into it. One night I found over twenty quid when I took my bra off for bed, and that extra money really helped. For one thing it meant I could start putting a little away every month for a rainy day and I could also start living again. I was far from wealthy, but I could at least now survive and also inject some much­needed fun back into my life.

At the end of every night, we'd all muck in to clean the place ready for the next day, and maybe get a portion of chips from the kitchen along with a soft drink. Then we'd sit around and chat until security had finished their sweep of the club and moved the drunks away from the front of the building.

Alan always gave me a lift back to Orchard Park in his car and we'd laugh and chat all the way there. We also enjoyed going out to one of the quieter pubs on our night off, usually once a fortnight, just to catch up and continue the giggles.

We tried a few, but settled on the Green Ginger Man. It was a quiet place and when you walked in the front door, it was like stepping back in time. A highly polished oak bar ran from one end of the bar room to the other with a few old fashioned hand pumps dotted along it. The furniture and decor seemed to be dated sometime in the 1930's, and there was a huge open fireplace set in the north wall.

Ernie and Mavis were a middle aged couple who owned and ran the place, and they too seemed to be stuck in the past. Mavis was always immaculately turned out, with a Beehive hairdo and a dress from House & Garden magazine 1963. Ernie usually wore one of those yucky, fawn coloured cardigans with chunky brown buttons.

The Green Ginger Man was always quiet, They always had music playing, but it was background music, never loud. You never needed to put your mouth next to someone's ear and shout to make yourself understood, like in most of the other pubs in the city centre. Another good thing about the place was the lack of trouble even though Ernie never had to subscribe to a security service. Most of his clientele were blokes who worked the doors around the city centre and more than a few off duty coppers. People who wanted to be able to go out, have a drink and a laugh with no drama.

Don't get me wrong, occasionally a troublemaker or two would find themselves in there, but due to the 'self policing policy' of Ernie and Mavis' customers... Well... The interruptions to the calm atmosphere were short and sweet.

I also discovered sex.

Some evenings I'd go out with one or two of the girls and paaaaarty! Get drunk... Well they did, I tended to (but not always) stick to pineapple juice, shout, dance and pick up some random hottie for a bit of casual sex, sometimes back at my flat or theirs, but sometimes in an alley over the bins. I know, classy huh?

I must admit I did actually get a reputation as a slut. I preferred to see it as having a healthy interest in sex, but to everyone else, I was a slut. Basically, I became the 'go to girl' for a blow job. Having massive tits helped when it came to being a hit with the blokes. If I had a penny for every time I've had some bloke's face between them motorboating, I'd be a millionaire!

A psychologist might say there was some deep seated reason why I went out for regular dose of strange, maybe it was daddy issues or looking for an affection surrogate. Dunno, all I know is, I liked getting fucked. Well not always, one bloke was so gifted I didn't stop eating my fish and chips all the way through his stellar performance.

Don't get me wrong though, easy I may have been, but stupid I most certainly was not! I had my golden rule, and that was, no party hat... No party. If the bloke refused to use a condom then he didn't get near me. I wouldn't even blow without one. Never had any complaints though.

The downside was that while I was getting plenty of humping, I never got invited back to meet Mother and rarely had a second 'date'. The only exception to that was Steve Metcalfe. He was a good looking bloke, a bit on the arrogant side. A bit of a Jack­the­Lad, know what I mean?

Oh we were never boyfriend/girlfriend, we just semi­regularly got together for sex... We were fuck buddies. Usually when he was between short term girlfriends. His idea of a date with me, was to go out drinking with the boys and then collect me later on, take me back to his place and fuck my brains out.

I'll be honest, I enjoyed it most of the time. I mean he had a huge cock. Massive! It was like being fucked with a steam powered Pringles tube. And he gave me good orgasms just about every time. But he was a selfish lover and when he got over excited he tended to be a bit rough.

I don't mean he intentionally hurt me, but when a cock like that is hammering into you, it hurts when it bashes up against your cervix.

Also, when I gave him a blowjob, he sometimes grabbed my head and tried to ram his meat right down my throat. And, just like all my other conquests, he never went down on me. I was expected to nosh him off, I was the 'BJ Go To Girl' after all. But it still galled me that nobody ever wanted to return the compliment.

But still, on the whole the pros outweighed the cons. Even though it was always on his terms. He would turn up when the pressure built and he needed relief. He was what you might call an Alpha Male, it was always all about him.

Anyway, that's enough about him for now.

The only real constant in my life was Alan, well that and spending my days off at the library, learning about local history and wandering the city matching up buildings and places with what I was teaching myself from the books.

Interesting stuff, history. Did you know that Hull started as a simple dock on the river Hull where it meets the River Humber in 1193? Or that we have the only public toilet that's a grade II listed building? We have the smallest street in the world as well, it's called the Land of Green Ginger.

See? Fascinating... Well I think it is, so bollocks to you!

I also started reading the classics. Normally one per fortnight, depending on time... And how difficult the book was. I mean, Moby Dick took fucking ages and is quite possibly the biggest load of shit I've ever read. Herman Melville was so far up his own pretentious arse, it's unreal. Silas Marner on the other hand... WOW! What a right riveting read!

Anyway, that was the pattern of my life for those few months; Work, Alan, party, fuck, learn.

One night, after a particularly giggly evening in the Green Ginger Man with Alan, we were heading back to the multi­storey and were just passing the Pink Poodle Parlour. That wasn't it's real name, It was actually called The Quadrant Club, but as it was the only gay bar in the city, it was known as the Pink Poodle Parlour.

What can I tell you? Northern humour is far from sophisticated.

Anyway, we were just past the Pink Poodle when we heard a slap, a scream and the sound of a body crashing into metal dustbins. We stopped and looked down the alley. In the gloom, we could see a tiny figure sprawled on the ground and six thugs stood around it. I heard one of them say, "Okay fag hag. Time you found out what real men can do."

Then a quiet, tearful woman's voice said, "Please. I haven't done anything to you."

One of the bastards took a run up and kicked her right in the guts.

It was at that point that I discovered how Alan had earned his reputation. He exploded into the alley straight towards them, I saw him glance down at the woman on the floor and shout, "You fucking cunts are in trouble now!"

Two of them raced at him, he simply reached out with his massive hands and smacked their heads together. They went down like the sacks of shit they were... Have you ever heard the sound of two heads colliding with vigour? It's unpleasant. They must have been from East Hull. Nobody in their right mind, who knew him would tangle with Alan, and everybody from Orchard Park down to the Marina knew my Alan.

It was the work of less than two minutes for Alan to deal with three more.

I know I'm making Alan sound like some kind of Ninja, destroying enemies with super speed, grace and skill. Trust me, that's not the case. What he had was a physical toughness that could soak up punishment and not let it stop him, a punch that could knock out a fucking buffalo and a ruthless kind of vicious!

His fighting style was effective, efficient and dirty... but not pretty.

That was the first time I ever saw him in action, and I'll be honest, I wasn't eager to ever see it again.

Anyway, the last one decided that he didn't want any part of the fight, so he dodged to the side and came barrelling towards me. Well not at me, but at the exit of the alley, I was just in his way.

I stepped to the side and then stuck my leg out. He tripped over it and sprawled onto the pavement, I think it winded him a bit and he was dazed when his forehead hit the flagstone, as he didn't move quickly to get up.

Big mistake!

You see, I was wearing my favourite heels that night, they had metal blakeys on the toe and heel... I love the clack clack sound when I walk in them. They're also good for hoofing bullies in the nuts. Which I did, several times and took the fight right out of him, and possibly the ability to procreate.

I don't know why I lost it like I did. Perhaps it was the fact that he thought six burly men against one tiny woman was a fair fight, or maybe I just needed an outlet for the anger that had been bottled up inside me for so long.

But I was kicking and kicking and fucking well kicking! I was calling him all kinds of a bastard as well.