The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  What the fuck, man? What the fuck? asked Wyclef, nearly hyperventilating while kneeling over my body in the street. What happened?

  I was used to hearing imaginary conversations in my head but to see it acted out in front of me was a traumatic novelty; I hadn’t experienced this in a while.

  ‘Not sure,’ I said, lifting my head off the floor like a boxer who’d been knocked upside down by a Mike Tyson punch. I felt cold, stiff but mainly achy all over, as though I’d been trampled by bulls on the run in Pamplona. Pras and Lauryn helped me get up painfully on to my elbows and knees and eventually my feet. I didn’t have enough hands to clutch all the sore parts so my ribs and crotch got dibs. I needed to get inside, away from the cold wind that was blowing through my wet clothes.

  They walked with me back to the office that was barely twenty-five metres away, but it felt a lot further. I staggered past the security guard sleeping at his desk, up the stairs and into my chair. The bright lights shone painfully in my eyes as I sat down figuring out what I should do next. Toilet. I really need to piss.

  I stood over the ceramic bowl, tilted my head upward and winced at the onset of more pain shooting from my groin. I flushed the dark orange urine and stood at the sink to wash my hands, finally seeing my face. I’d got away with it. Apart from a few scratches and some bumps, I was relatively unscathed. There would be nothing worse than bruises on my face and having to repeatedly explain what had happened. It didn’t matter, anyway, as you were either a pussy who got his head kicked in or a pub-drunk troublemaker. No one ever believes you fell off your bike or it was a footballing accident.

  Adding insult to injury was seeing a big splodge of phlegm on my cheek. I immediately washed it off.

  Wyclef was pacing around by the urinals and broke the silence. We should tell Security or call the police.

  The attacker’s long gone and there’s no security cameras beyond the gates, said Lauryn, sitting on the edge of the sink.

  Eyewitnesses? suggested Wyclef.

  At this time of night and on a side street? And pointless calling the police unless you’re dead, said Pras, leaning against the toilet door.

  I poked my ribs. The pain was real. I inspected the rest of my body: there were bruises on my legs, my front and my back.

  Suddenly Wyclef spoke and sent a chill down my spine. What if they come back?

  I’d never been jumped before and my body was starting to shake as fear ran through me, causing my heart to beat faster.

  Splash some water on your face, get a grip, said Lauryn firmly.

  I breathed in deeply, let out a sigh and repeated it several times until my heart calmed down.

  Who did this? asked Lauryn.

  As I stood looking at my reflection, Pras was first to speak.

  Damn, it could be anyone.

  Max? He wasn’t happy with you at the MOBOs, said Wyclef.

  Simon? Now that you’ve split with Sophia, maybe it was payback for the barbecue? Pras suggested.

  Or his car, his eye or how you’ve treated Sophia? said Lauryn, adding to the tally.

  Michael ‘Four Eyes’? He’s probably pissed you haven’t played his song, said Wyclef.

  Will Sturge, for rejecting his video so insultingly? said Pras.

  A jealous boyfriend of some girl you spoke to at a Beat party? said Lauryn.

  An angry work colleague? suggested Wyclef.

  OK, that’s absurd, said Lauryn.

  The Fugees went through the extensive list and started arguing over the odds of each suspect. I’d understood what had happened, figured out who could have done it and uncomfortably swallowed the whys. Whether through fault of my own or not, I’d pissed people off. Had I been a twat? Did I deserve this? The Fugees kept firing out questions, answers and theories that I was too tired to consider. The rollercoaster of emotions I’d felt this year had come full circle. I was back to square one: a loser.

  Embarrassed, and not wanting Pritz to know what had happened, I made my excuses for bailing on him. I spent the evening at the hospital checking nothing was broken, then a sleepless night in bed sifting through my thoughts and theories.

  The next morning, I got in early to speak with the Minister, who normally came in before everyone else too. He cut a lonely figure, further highlighted by the lack of personal pictures on his desk. He just kept a very sanitized collection of work things on display.

  ‘Terry, can I have a word?’ I asked tentatively, standing by his coat stand.

  ‘Be quick, I’m late for a meeting,’ he said, not bothering to lift his head from his computer.

  ‘Something happened last night that I think you should know.’

  He still didn’t flinch.

  ‘I was …’ Suddenly I lost my bottle, feeling embarrassed to say it out loud. But eventually the word fell out on its own: ‘… jumped.’

  Head still, his eyes shifted on to me and then scanned me all over. ‘What do you mean?’ he said, disbelieving.

  ‘Someone attacked me outside the office,’ I said gingerly.

  ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘About ten thirty-ish. Whoever it was knew that I worked at The Beat, so –’

  ‘Were you going on a shoot?’ he cut in. ‘Did you have a camera bag?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He looked relieved that expensive equipment wasn’t lost. ‘Were there any witnesses?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He made some notes on his pad. ‘Did you tell Security?’

  ‘No, because I was out for a while and whoever did it was gone by the time I came round.’

  ‘Did it happen on the actual premises?’ he asked.

  I could see where he was going. ‘No, it was just down the street though.’

  ‘But you look perfectly OK. There’s no obvious signs of anything,’ he said, clearly sceptical.

  ‘I must have covered my face, I don’t remember much. But I have bruising on my body.’ I offered to lift my jumper.

  ‘OK, OK, you don’t need to start undressing,’ he said, turning his head away in disgust. He paused, thought for a bit, then exhaled loudly and concluded, ‘So what exactly do you want me to do about it?’

  I looked at him, stunned. As my boss I was expecting some concern at the very least.

  ‘You want me to file a report with HR? Nothing’s going to get done. The police will come, they’ll ask you questions because they have to be seen to be doing so in front of HR. Then they’ll go back to their office and type out a report that will get lost because there’s no leads to go on.’

  But I might have leads, I thought. If you bothered to ask me.

  ‘They’ll assume, like I have, that it was a druggy from the estates who got overly exuberant trying to take your wallet from you. My advice is don’t put up a fight, just give them the damn thing.’

  But it wasn’t a druggy, the guy called me ‘Mr Beat’, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud because I could see it was pointless. His mind was made up. I’d just begun to think I was a valuable member of his team. In reality, I was just another ant worker. But I suppose the Minister was right about one thing – there were no witnesses and no evidence.

  ‘Look, all that will happen is you’ll be part of office gossip for a day. Do you really want people talking behind your back?’ he said, like he was doing me a favour.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Do you want this trouble? I sure don’t,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t want to be a problem,’ I said quickly.

  ‘I’m sure it seems worse than it was, that’s just the side-effect of shock. You can walk and talk, surely you’re all right?’

  I wanted to tell him about the constant pain in my ribs. ‘Yes, I suppose –’

  ‘Good. I won’t forget your discretion with this,’ he said, grabbing his diary and standing up. Then, back to his usual headmaster tone, ‘We
’ve got a lot on for the end-of-year shows. I need all hands on deck.’ He held open the door so I could leave, then walked off in the opposite direction.

  I stood outside his office for a moment, taking stock of the situation, then hobbled back to my hamster wheel.

  47

  Police Officer

  A week on since being jumped, and I was still out of sorts. My confidence was low and my pride dented at the hands of the anonymous attacker. If I knew who it was I could try to reconcile things mentally and get over it. The not knowing was beginning to torture me. But I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I had to keep going as I was so close to the finishing line.

  I was driving up to the last Beat party of the year in Manchester in the Mini Cooper PJ had lent me as part of the deal we had struck in Miami. I breezed up the M1 and M6 playing Green Day’s ‘Warning’. I was ridiculously late after a doctor’s appointment and I began switching through the lanes, speeding effortlessly past all the lorries and slow drivers. Moments later, though, I was being lapped by them all as I stood on the side of the hard shoulder giving my details to the boys in blue.

  ‘Will this take much longer? I have to get to Manchester to film tonight,’ I asked as one of them checked my details in the patrol car and the other loomed over me.

  ‘What are you filming?’

  ‘I’m filming a Beat party,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, really?’ he said, looking genuinely impressed.

  I described the intricate details of what lay ahead and even offered to put him on to the guest list. It was worth a shot.

  ‘Oh no, I’m way too old for that,’ he said, laughing at the thought.

  ‘You’re only as old as the woman you feel,’ I joked.

  He chuckled. ‘That’s true, but the missus is a bit of an old mare now too!’

  ‘Well, perhaps we can get you a younger upgrade?’

  We continued the banter until the radio on his chest went off and his colleague confirmed that I was insured and able to drive the car.

  I let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, officer,’ I said, heading for my car, knowing I needed to get back on the road as soon as possible.

  ‘Sorry, sir, one last thing before you go,’ he said.

  Haha, he does want the VIP tickets to the party! I thought.

  ‘I’ve just got to give you your ticket,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘You were doing ninety-eight miles per hour. That carries a ninety-pound fine and three points on your licence,’ he said.

  I begged him to let me off and tried every last trick in the book. ‘I’m truly sorry, but I was already late for the party. I have to interview Nelly in thirty minutes for The Beat.’

  ‘Nelly?’ he said.

  Name-dropping had paid off. ‘Yes,’ I confirmed as he stopped writing.

  ‘You’re interviewing an elephant?’ he said, perplexed.

  ‘No, Nelly the US rapper,’ I replied, astonished.

  He paused and then said, ‘Never heard of him,’ as he continued writing the ticket.

  So now I was ridiculously late and freezing too, having been stood on the side of the road for what felt like ages. As I slowly pulled away from the flashing blue lights, I began cursing everything from the police to the car I was in. Barely two minutes later and I was stuck in slow-moving traffic which then ground to a standstill due to an ‘overturned lorry ahead’. I called Tola to tell her I’d be late and to ask her to take over filming duties. She’d gone to Manchester by train earlier in the day with Cara and Sonya.

  I eventually arrived at eleven p.m. and there were still queues of agitated people waiting in the cold to get in. Some had tickets and some didn’t. I put my Beat crew pass on and rushed in to catch up with the others. They’d filmed as much as they could without Marcus Fieldman, a thespian and one of The Beat’s wilder presenters, who still hadn’t arrived.

  I walked around with my camera imagining I’d bump into Sophia, but she was nowhere to be seen. In fact, as I walked through the crowd in their themed beachwear outfits, there seemed to be more ‘grown-ups’ than students. The notoriety of the parties had clearly spread. I realized I’d come quite far since Middlesbrough where I was wracked with nerves and inexperience. That thought momentarily lifted my shattered confidence.

  Midnight was fast approaching and panic was slowly setting in as Nelly needed to be introduced on stage. Alison came running up to Tola and me looking flustered, which could mean only one thing.

  ‘OK, this party is turning from bad to worse,’ she said.

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ Tola asked.

  ‘Marcus definitely isn’t coming.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘He’s caught in traffic on the motorway. Why couldn’t he just get on the train like the rest of us?’ she said, annoyed.

  I quickly realized the full impact of his absence. ‘How do we film links without him?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s your department. I’ve got other things to worry about. I just caught one of the dancers having sex in one of the storage rooms with one of the punters.’

  We couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Not that funny, he didn’t go quietly – Security had to throw him out,’ she said, like the roof was caving in.

  As midnight struck, things momentarily fell into place. Nelly needed no introduction. The music stopped, he came on with his entourage and smashed it for fifteen minutes, teaching the crowd his ‘Country Grammar’.

  But straight afterwards unexpected little skirmishes began breaking out as people got increasingly drunk. It was mostly masked by the loud music and Security who were at hand to sort things out quickly. But this was now no longer a Beat party. Cara, Tola and I stood in the VIP section, overlooking the dance floor, enjoying a drink with an hour to go, when all of a sudden a loud deafening bang went off.

  The crowd below dispersed in an instant, screaming for cover and running for the exits. Security in bright yellow bibs were running in different directions. The DJ was furiously playing around with the knobs in the booth as the sound of screams took over. Panic had hit everyone.

  ‘Is Sonya back?’ Cara asked, realizing we were missing someone.

  ‘She must still be downstairs, filming,’ said Tola.

  Cara and I rushed to look for her and were swept into the wave of people scampering for the exit. We broke through the tide and found Sonya outside the cloakroom, sitting on the floor with a bruised head. She explained that she had gone to film vox-pops with kids who were leaving, saying how good the party had been, when she got knocked over and on to the floor in the mad rush. The bump on her forehead had already gone purple and she was shaking, on the verge of tears.

  With our arms around her, we walked her back upstairs to the crew room only to find worried looks on the faces of Tola, Alison’s staff, the three Beat dancers and the girls from Marketing. An inquisition was already under way.

  ‘Does anyone know where the hell Alison is?’ asked Shirley Orr, The Beat’s Head of Events, raising her voice to be heard among all the muttered conversations.

  ‘No,’ said Tamsin, who worked for Alison. ‘Her phone’s just ringing through.’

  ‘Well, where’s the manager of the club? He should know what’s happened.’

  ‘He’s downstairs talking to the police and trying to sort out people getting their coats from the cloakroom. It’s bedlam down there,’ I said.

  ‘Does anyone know what the fuck happened?’ Shirley asked the room.

  Pieces of information from witnesses were being pieced together. One of the dancers who’d been on a podium had seen everyone rushing out and a big trail of blood on the dance floor. At that moment, everyone went silent. The worst had happened.

  ‘I knew we shouldn’t have done a party in Gunchester,’ said Shirley, looking visibly upset and fidgety.

  ‘The kids were saying
this wasn’t a uni crowd. Even I thought there was a rough element in there,’ said Tola.

  ‘This was the hottest ticket in town and it clearly attracted the wrong people,’ said the dancer.

  ‘Why would people in Bermuda shorts want to start something?’ I asked.

  ‘Plus we only advertised among the university crowd,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I heard someone got beaten up and that his friends from Moss Side came looking for the guys who’d done it,’ said Tola.

  Shirley looked increasingly shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘No way,’ said Tamsin, concerned Shirley was about to have an aneurism.

  ‘I heard someone got beaten up too, and they went to their car to get a shooter,’ said the dancer.

  ‘I have to speak to my boss,’ said Shirley, ‘and I’m sure he won’t like being woken up at three a.m. to this news. We need damage limitation to the brand. And we need to know exactly what happened.’

  By now the Head of Press was involved, as the company’s name was at risk and the negative headlines would not be received well at HQ. Alison would be held accountable if security hadn’t been up to scratch. So far, though, no reporters had shown up, although it wouldn’t take long as there were now several police cars with flashing lights outside the venue.

  Half an hour after the club had shut down, Alison and DJ Rage returned to the crew room. They were both covered in blood.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Shirley, looking at the blood in shock.

  ‘I was at the hospital,’ Alison replied.

  ‘Why weren’t you picking up the phone?’ asked Shirley, firing another question at her.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, cutting straight to the point.

  Alison sat down, clearly exhausted. ‘I was in the front office talking to the manager when it kicked off. I got to the DJ booth and Rage was fiddling with the controls. One of the main speakers popped, which sounded like a gun had gone off. In the panic, a boy’s wrist got slashed by broken glass, probably from a broken bottle. He was lying on the dance floor bleeding heavily. Rage came down and helped me take him through the fire escape straight to the hospital,’ she said.