Midnight's Door

by Robert F Barker

  It was interesting but strange listening to the detective. It isn't often people hear their work being discussed in front of so many people. In fact there were a couple of occasions where he'd had to fight against the egotism that made him want to jump up and shout out, 'IT’S ME. I’M HERE.’ Its all well and good being proud of your achievements, but there is such a thing as going too far.

  He isn't sure if he has learned anything new amongst what the detective said. But he was reassured to learn that, as far as they are prepared to say in public at least, they seem no nearer to catching him than they were six months ago. Not that he considers himself lucky in this regard. Since the beginning, he has invested time and effort in avoiding the pitfalls his research shows are most often the undoing of many in his line of business - unexpected witnesses, last-minute changes to the plan, CCTV, leaving evidence through which the police may identify him, and so on. And while the DNA thing is something he has thought about a lot, even it does not worry him too much. For one thing, he has no police record, so will not show up on any database. But the precautions he takes after - moving the body, removing and getting rid of contaminated clothing, the antiseptic wipes - all help to ensure that the chances the police may connect him directly with the crime are minimised. Even if they do find a connection, the circumstances surrounding his contact with the victims means he will always have a ready 'story' that will explain things - at least as far as any court is concerned.

  Earlier, he had wondered if the police's presence might mean he ought to postpone his current plans, that it may prove too dangerous. But on reflection he thinks all will be well. Having acquainted himself, previously, with the girl's homeward journey, he sees no reason why the police should be a problem. Their focus tonight is on the club. Come three o'clock in the morning they will either be in their beds or back in their Arpley Street bolthole, drinking tea and scoffing biscuits, or whatever it is they do when the rest of the town is asleep.

  Not that he will be asleep. Far from it. By then, if all goes to plan, he will be enjoying the performance he has been looking forward to, probably more than any of the others.

  God, look at her. She is so beautiful, her movements so sublime.

  Suddenly he realises that as he has been watching, his hand has dropped, instinctively, to his crotch and he returns it, quickly, to a more appropriate place.

  He chides himself, 'Tch.'

  He knows there are times, when he watches, when he is like a prepubescent schoolboy, playing with himself while wondering why he finds the female teacher so fascinating. It is something he knows he must guard against. It is as well that the place where he spends most of his time is one where he is not likely to be observed too long or too often. Hiding in plain sight, indeed.

  Pulling himself away from what, for him, is the night's main attraction, he turns his attention elsewhere. The night is still young and there is much still to occupy him. After all, come tomorrow he will be needing a fresh target for his affections. But for the time being he is happy to let the music, the buzz and the dance, wash over him.

  He loves it here.

  CHAPTER 7

  The rest of the night was the usual mixed bag. Backing the team up when a shout goes up over the radio, though things are usually all over by the time I get there. Helping remove those so far gone they need to be shown the door. Checking that everyone who has a job to do is doing it properly. The only event of note was when a group of lads on a night out from Burnley fell out with some of the locals. It kicked off on the dance floor about one o’clock. When we arrived there were a dozen or so in a ruck, throwing kicks and punches at each other. You can always spot the leaders in such situations so Winston and I grabbed one and dragged him away. He was a big lad – Lancashire farmer’s son type - but once we got him near the door leading to the lobby and he got a good look at who had hold of him, he seemed to quieten down.

  Winston paused at the door. Looking back at the dance floor we could see Eric and Chris still pulling bodies out and reeling them away ‘You okay here, baaz?’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘Go.’

  As Winston returned to help the others I guided farmer-boy towards the main entrance. He must have realised it was now only one-on-one and thought this was his chance. Coming-to suddenly, he wrenched himself from my grasp and rounded on me, fists up and clenched. The look in his eyes told me what to expect. As he swung at me he shouted, ‘AND YOU CAN FUCK OFF AS WELL YOU- AARGH.’

  Self-defence is all about staying calm, and speed. Stay calm, read what is happening, respond fast and you can deal with most things, including knives. Apart from making people unpredictable, alcohol always acts in your favour as it slows them down. In this particular case, a drunken farmer’s lad wasn’t much of a contest. He telegraphed the punch so much I could have had a brew while thinking about which way to take it. I went for the most simple and caught his fist about a foot away from my face, then twisted it round and to his left so he had to go with it until his arm was up his back. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up and back, hence the, ‘AARGH.’ Then I took him out and put him across the threshold. As I let him go he turned on me again, but he resisted whatever impulse was driving him to make the biggest mistake he would have made in a long time and settled for giving me his hardest, if I was sober… glare. Around us, several yellow-jacketed police officers looked on.

  ‘Sorry about that, mate,’ I said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Yer what?’ He spoke with the East Lancashire drawl that always makes me think of the old ditty, ‘Burnley born, Burnley bred. Strong in brawn, soft in t’head.’ It works just as well with Blackburn, Bacup or any other Northern town beginning with ‘B’.

  ‘My name’s Danny.’ I put out my hand. ‘What’s yours?’

  By instinct, his hand came out to take mine. ‘Er, Alan.’

  ‘Okay, then Alan. You’ve had a good night so let’s leave it there. Your mates’ll be out soon so you won’t have to wait long. Got any cash?’ He fished in his trouser pockets, pulled out a twenty. ‘There you go.’ I pointed round the corner, towards the car park. ‘The hogey wagon’s round there. Go and get yourself a burger and you’ll be fine, okay?’

  ‘Uhh-’ He looked bemused but couldn’t think of a reason to argue. ‘Raaghhht.’

  As I watched him wander away, one of the police sidled up to me. ‘You should be a psychologist, Danny.’

  I smiled. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘That’s our Danny, officer,’ a voice came from behind. ‘The gift of the gab.’

  We both turned to see a man who looked like he could be grandfather to most of those inside, grinning at us like a Cheshire cat. Dressed in a blue velvet jacket over a black shirt with a flared collar, white shoestring tie, purple drain pipe trousers and blue suede shoes, the speaker was puffing on an emaciated roll-up pinched, stylistically, between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. As I recognised him and nodded an acknowledgement, he lifted it to his lips and drew on it so hard his face looked like it might implode.

  Another club regular, Elvis Presley-Kershaw - as his deed poll-changed name implies - is a throw-back to the fifties era of teddy boys and greased, DA hairstyles. I’ve never got round to checking his actual age on his membership record, but while his creased features and the way he presents himself gives the impression he could be from that era, I’m pretty sure he can’t be much beyond his mid-forties. A builder I know who is approaching his fifties once told me he remembers Elvis – which is his real first name, he only had to add the ‘Presley’ - coming up behind him in High School. However old he is, Elvis wears the title, ‘Oldest Swinger In Town,’ like it was made for him. A club regular since long before I took over, he has a reputation for liking the ladies. Certainly he never misses a chance to introduce himself to any visiting the club for the first time, drawing on a catalogue of chat-up lines that range from the arcane, ‘Not seen you here before,’ through the tired, ‘Julie? That was my mother’s name,’ to the inspired
, ‘My magic watch says you aren’t wearing knickers,’ the usual retort being, 'Well it’s wrong. I am,’ thus triggering the clincher, 'Ahh, but it's running an hour fast.’ Among regulars and staff, opinions about Elvis divide about equally between those who think he’s a creep and can’t stand him, others who regard him as ‘harmless fun’ and a surprising number who seem to find him genuinely fascinating and are happy to buy into the Grease/John Travolta fantasy he evokes. One thing’s for sure. He’s one of the best jivers I’ve ever seen. When Elvis gets into his Rock-Around-The-Clock routine, even those who say he makes them squirm stop to watch.

  ‘Hey Elvis,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Okay. A few live ones in tonight. I’m just taking a break.’

  ‘So I see.’

  As the policeman wandered off – most of them have little time for Elvis – he flicked his cigarette away and gave me what I guessed was supposed to his ‘serious’ face. ‘Bad business with these girls.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’ I turned to go back inside.

  ‘I tell you, there’re some right weird characters hang around clubs these days.’

  I glanced back, regarding the colourful figure. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  ‘Capital punishment, that’s the answer. It’s the only thing that’s good for people like that.’

  I nodded, but said nothing. It was one of the few topics my Dad could still raise himself to argue about – not that you could engage with it in any meaningful way. Dad’s capacity to take on board others' views has drained the last few years. All I do now is tut in the appropriate places, nod, and say things like, ‘Too right,’ when expected.

  ‘I bet you’d sort him out if you ever got your hands on him, Danny.’

  I stopped. ‘What makes you say that?’

  He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Well, you know. You being…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know... Someone who…’

  ‘What?’

  There was a long pause before he eventually said, ‘…Can take care of himself.’

  I gave him a long stare. ‘It’ll be golden-oldie time soon Elvis.’ Before he begins to wind things up, Mickey always throws on some classics, sometimes even sixties stuff.

  Elvis grabbed at his escape route. ‘Better get back to it then, hadn’t I? Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.’

  I stepped aside as he shuffled past, rubbing his hands together, vigorously, to get rid of the night cold. Either that or he was relishing whatever he thought he might be onto before the night was over.

  I gave it a minute, then followed.

  The rest of the night was pretty routine, the odd flare up, young women puking in the toilets, a couple of lads caught in the gents trying to do a line on the top of the toilet cistern before they realised we spray it with WD40 at the start of the night. Winston and Chris chucked them out and flushed their supply down the pan. Apart from the Agnes thing, it was more or less a normal Saturday night.

  It was closing time when things turned to rat shit.

  CHAPTER 8

  The music stops at two on a Sunday morning. By half-past everyone’s usually gone, apart from those left hanging around because they’ve lost their purse/phone/keys/wallet/boyfriend and need help. Or they’re so far gone it takes them half-an-hour to realise the music has stopped and the night is over. By three, the team have done their rounds and reported their findings to me and the cleaners are in. That particular night, Eve handed in a bag of wraps she’d found behind one of the sinks in the downstairs back toilets - evidence of a botched deal. It never ceases to amaze me just how many we find, which goes to show how much the pushers are making in a night if they can afford to abandon them. Don’t get me wrong. By most clubs’ standards Midnight’s is pretty clean. We work hard to keep it that way. But in a place this size, you can never stop it one hundred percent. I logged Eve’s find and was putting it in the safe for handing to the Drug Squad on Monday morning when they do their rounds when I got the call from Frank to come to the staff room where the lockers are. I remembered him mentioning about Tony doing locker searches. I can’t explain why, but straight away my gut knotted up.

  Frank and Tony were there. So was Winston. Soon as I walked through the door he was on me. He looked like he was about to explode.

  ‘It’s a fuckin’ set-up, Baaz. They’re fuckin’ wit me.’ He pointed to the table where a sports bag carrying the Nike logo, and which I recognised as Winston's, lay open and emptied. Set aside from the toilet bag, spare socks, boxers, gels, and the rest of his stuff, was a clear plastic pouch containing white powder.

  Shit.

  I turned to where Frank and Tony were standing looking suitably apologetic, sad even. In Frank’s case I believed it. Tony is just a two-faced twat. It was him who spoke.

  ‘Frank’s a witness Danny. And Winston was present when we searched his locker. He nodded at the pouch. ‘That was in his bag.’

  I looked across at Winston and read his mind. There was only one thing on it - strangling Tony. I could guess why.

  Winston had been with DoorSecure for over three years. It's no secret that some of his brothers have been done for drugs - one for dealing in Manchester - but I also knew Winston wasn’t into it. A keen body-builder, he’d no doubt pumped steroids in his time, but there’s no way he’d ever do C, or E, or any of the other recreational shit you come across in clubs these days. Straight away I was remembering Charnley’s visit to the locker room earlier that evening. But I knew I couldn’t stop what was going to happen.

  I turned back to Frank. ‘You know Winston as well as I do. This isn’t right.’

  He spread his hands. ‘It was in his bag.’

  About to say something I’d later regret, I clamped my mouth shut.

  Tony chipped in. ‘You know the rules, Danny.’ He paused before adding, ‘So does Winston.’

  It was too much for Winston. Luckily I was ready and stepped between them as Winston went for him shouting, ‘YO FUCKIN’ BENT BASTARD. Why yo stichin’ me up for?’

  Tony retreated to the wall as I acted as a barrier. It was all I could do to hold him. ‘WINSTON. CALM DOWN.’

  It took me several shouts to get through to him, and I was glad I was there else Carver and his team might have had another death on their hands. Eventually Winston quietened enough so it was safe to let him go, though he kept up his mutterings. For a guy who looks like a lummox, Winston’s sharp as a knife. He knew as well as I did what was going on. But right then the only evidence of anything was the sachet. I took a deep breath. I knew what Frank was waiting for. I had no choice.

  ‘Take your stuff and go home, Winston. You’re off the door.’ As I said it I kept an eye on Tony. But he knew enough not to let the slightest hint of a smirk show, which was as well.

  ‘Dis is BULLSHIT, baaz. You know it is.’

  I stood square to him. Just me and him. ‘Go home. I’ll speak to you later on this morning.’

  Winston is one of those who is big enough and good enough at what he does to never have to show anger. But right now he was, outright, unmitigated anger. I was glad I wasn't the cause of it. It made me admire even more that in three years on the door, he’s never hurt anyone, not seriously, I mean.

  He kettled for another ten seconds before letting the pressure go.

  ‘FUCK.’

  Grabbing his kit, he paused only to give Tony one last, hate-filled look, then stormed out.

  The silence lasted a while longer before Frank said, ‘I’m sorry Danny.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said. I stared across at Tony. He knew what I was thinking. So did Frank.

  ‘Tony was just doing his job,’ Frank said. ‘I don’t want any backlash from this.’

  There was nothing I could say apart from, ‘I’ll do my best to make sure there isn’t.’ Then I waited while Tony realised he needed to be elsewhere.

  ‘I’ll go and see if we’re ready to lock up,’ he said.

  After he�
��d gone, I turned to Frank. ‘This has not been a good night,’ I said. ‘Things have happened that will have consequences.’ I didn’t mean it as any sort of threat, just my assessment.

  ‘If that’s the case then it’s your job to make sure the club doesn’t suffer.’

  I almost snorted, but managed not to. Right then I couldn’t have cared if the place got petrol-bombed. ‘I guess that’s what you pay me for.’

  We let another silence draw a line under it – for tonight at least. Finally Frank said, ‘The team did a good job tonight. Thank them for me will you?’

  ‘Right.’

  I went in search of the guys.

  Eric and Golman were in the lobby. The others had already gone. I could see from their faces they knew something had happened.

  ‘What’s up with Winston?’ Eric said.

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘He just left. I’ve never seen him like that. What happened?’ I told them. No point in keeping it secret. Eric’s response was as I expected. ‘I don’t believe it.’ I nodded. He read my lack of reaction. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’ve done it. He’s off the Door.’

  Eric stared at me. ‘Fuck off.’ Eventually he realised I wasn’t kidding. ‘Jesus, Danny. This is bad. The team won’t like it.’

  ‘I know, but I had no choice. Make sure they know that when they ring you.’

  ‘How do you know they’ll ring me?’

  I gave him a look. ‘It’s time we called it a night.’

  I’m usually the last to leave with Frank, about three-thirty. Tonight was no exception. Setting the alarm, half my mind was on Winston, the other on Vicki. I hadn’t seen her since seeing her talking with Frank, not long before the thing with Winston happened. As usual, I felt a little disappointed she hadn’t sought me out to say something about the night’s events. But that’s her all over.