Disembarking at London Bridge, I’d continue against the flow. Each day had a particular feel to it. Sunday was low with the weight of the week ahead. Monday was simply dogged. Tuesday, a smidgen lighter. By Wednesday, the spirit began to change. Thursday sparkled with the weekend’s approach. Friday was carefree, careless, positively ebullient. Saturday sat deep-seatedly in the comfy fat of the weekend. Even being out of sync, the cycle was affecting, reinforced by its effect on my colleagues’ moods too; getting buffeted by the day world was unavoidable for any of us.

Leaving the station concourse, I’d pass a taxi rank, then turn off the main drag. The darkness seemed denser here than where I lived. The streetlamps were often broken, the neighboring buildings abandoned or shut until usual working hours resumed. Except for the one with the cracked glass door.

I’d go in. And up.

Up two flights of stairs to a static buzz and brazen lighting. To grubs and broken chairs and filthy keyboards. A constant supply of farts emitted by who knows who, a blocked-nose-worth of paper dust. Drinking mud-thick coffee to stay awake, I’d scan the newspapers for murder, accident, assault, crime, prisons, arson, harm, rape, death, die, died. I’d snip, glue, and type. Photocopying summary packs, I’d count the mechanical flashes of light. I did it automatically with my fingers, only keeping track of every tenth flash that passed. Between tens, I’d think of nothing. My sleep-deprived mind would blank; I’d stand.

Around two A.M., I’d eat Pot Noodles at my desk like everyone else. Bombay Bad Boy. Beef and Tomato. Hot ’n’ Spicy. Pot Mash. Pot Curry. Chow Mein. If there was a delay due to a late paper, or a problem in the print room, I’d sneak out to the petrol station kiosk. With crisps or a strawberry milkshake or an energy drink for a final boost, I’d go down to the river’s edge. Leaning over the cold, concrete barrier, I’d relish the stolen moment off.

Back at the warehouse, the night would burn on. When it finally thinned, I’d feel the end’s approach viscerally. Like a sportsperson trained to play to the exact length of a game, I squeezed out the last of my efforts. I emailed my summaries to clients and deposited my press packs in the courier’s boxes: HOME OFFICE, PRISONS, CPS, POLICE.

Slinging my denim handbag over my shoulder, I called, “See you later” to the emptying room.

Whoever was left echoed “See you later” back.

10

“Still here,” Lizard noted when I’d passed the mid-shift mark.

“One of us, now,” said Earl.

“Les Misérables,” said Lizard.

“Nah,” said Earl, “Les Stuck.”