It was a sick night, don’t get me wrong. We’d had a pretty good one, me and the boys, going spare on the jukebox in Gulliver’s. But I peaked too early and by about 2.00am I made my excuses and left. A few minutes later I emerged in Casablanca down Great Ancoats Street. To say it was my usual would be putting it delicately. I wasn’t so much a customer as their fifth Beatle. A safe pair of hands. More loyal than a dog. Even if I brought people who hadn’t been in before and had little to no kebab house etiquette, staff would offer me a “What can ya do?” smile and carry on with their business.
Casablanca had seen some howlers over the years. World champions in hullabaloo. You know how it is. Hands on the counter, bust debit cards, pointing at basic ingredients dumbfounded. Demanding they prepare food in 60 seconds. Eating inside and not having the culinary know-how to avoid carpeting the floor in doner meat. And the obvious one: fights.
The positioning of the real estate was helpful. Right on the edge of the city centre and completely out of sight of part time drinkers. The kind who only go out at Christmas or when sporting tournaments were on. Yet it’s solidified enough in the regulars’ minds that word would spread and bring in rogue customers. They’d almost always be wearing suits and their orders would be proper obscure. Something like a chicken burger inside a pitta glazed in garlic mayo. Then chopped up and served on a barbecue-based meat feast pizza with cheese crust.
“Chris lad!” bossman would say whenever I walked in, be it ginger or otherwise. And I’d go, “Yes bossman” which I thought was a lot less subservient and serious than, “Yes boss.”
His name was actually Fahad, which I would call him when I first moved to Ancoats. I got on first name terms with everyone: the Brazilian shopkeeper Miguel, my barber Ushi. But it was evident he preferred me to adress him as bossman, likely cause he found it funny to hear a white lad saying it. By week two of all this banter, we’d began shaking hands like Arnie and Carl Weathers in Predator. Hygiene wasn’t a dealbreaker. He knew I was pristine.
Bossman was about 48. I didn’t ever ask him outright but I’ve a good eye for that thing. A brief study of demeanour, articulation and marionette lines and I can guess anyone’s DOB, give or take.
His team were younger, my age. I’m saying half-relatives-half-random-hires. But under one roof , of course, they were as tight knit as any respectable family. Was I a part of that? Inshallah, but my contributions lied in rent, electricity, 5-star Yelp ratings. I visited Casablanca three-to-four times a week, and not only in the wee hours. There have been been times I’ve gone there with a film of sweat across my forehead. And I’d have the whole place to myself, as the rest of the country dare not enter takeaways that early.
Large doner, all the veggie trimmings, with garlic mayo, no chilli. For my money, the two clash. If I’m pissed I’ll get a can of Dr Pepper to stick in the fridge for when I wake up heaving the next morning. Sober, a bottle of water would compliment it fine. This night, I didn’t get either, as bossman interrupted me mid-order. He was saying he had something to ask me and that I should take a seat. He brought my kebab out to me on a tray. “Here you go chief,” he said, sitting on the opposite side of the table. “What’s up?” I asked.
“You know about upstairs? It’s a bit of an open secret.”
“Aye, the brothel?”
“That’s it. Well recently it’s been getting out of hand. I was never happy with it. But these days I have customers bumping elbows with prozzies and punters outside. And people are beginning to think I run it, which is the last thing I want. It’s non-stop now. All night there’s dodgy characters harassing me after they’ve come out or because they get rejected. They take it out on me. And online, there’s a handful of reviews calling us pimps and stuff. You know the boys, they’re working like anyone else.”
Bossman looked around the room with his arms crossed while I ate my kebab. Physically he made you think of a high-end bouncer. Veteran, privy to the hustle and all its secrets, but not a trigger happy scrote in jet black handing it out to freshers. Someone who you’d find on the door of the Ivy, for example, or at a hotel. He looked shy but didn’t sound it. There was a patient confidence to his voice. By making things easy for you, he would make them hard.
“I’ve hatched a plan,” he said resting into the table. “Me and you go up tomorrow, daylight hours, when business isn’t booming, and we fill him in. The scumbag, I mean. He’s called Franciszek. Great big Polish man. He runs a few brothels across Manchester. We’ll take two planks I’ve got out the back and give him a uh… an ultimatum. Pack your things and get out within the week or we’ll come back with nails in them. You’ll get a black card for this, brother. I swear to you, unlimited kebabs for the rest of your life.”
What an offer. Honestly. Am I dreaming?
They kebabs weren’t even that steep. A large doner would still give you change from a fiver. Yet the idea of fulfilling the British Dream and becoming a member of the fast food elite was very tempting. Usually this type of thing only happens to celebrities. I remember seeing an interview with Colin Farrell once where he said an Irish kebab house gave him a speciality card. Abra-kebabra it’s called. To me, that’s annoying. Why is it that people with all the money in the world never get charged for shite? I’ve never been one to feel deserving of rewards in my life but this was different.
I told bossman I was in. That brothel got on my tits too. My mates making jokes about cum dripping through the walls onto my food was growing stale. And the thought of cosplaying as an enforcer gave some dark recess of my soul a bit of a stonk on, I won’t lie.
When I arrived at Casablanca the shutters were down. So I went round the back and saw bossman, just oozing dignity, smoking a cigarette, which I never thought he did. He told me it was for certain circumstances only, like roughhousing a pimp in the middle of the day with no game-plan beyond the first blow.
The back alley smelt of shit and you could tell there were shy rats knocking about. I wouldn’t blame him for this though, I’d blame the city. That and the brothel. I looked up, using my four fingers as a cap, and noticed the windows blacked out. Not with curtains. Simply painted or sellotaped the worst shade of noir I’ve ever seen. And Manchester’s not stingy with dossholes.
We didn’t say anything for a while nor did we shake hands. Bossman went into the shop and got a pair of two-by-fours, handing me mine from an almost nervous distance. I thought it was a bit weird how we didn’t arm ourselves with knives from the kitchen. These things were hefty as fuck and uncomfortable to hide.
“They’ll only be in our trousers for a few seconds,” he said. “We can’t hold them or else he won’t let us in. He’s got cameras everywhere.”
I wondered if bossman had frequented it himself. I wasn’t sure if he was married, despite our friendship. If so, he was the least romantic, emotionally-stunted man I’d ever met. Then again, what about “large doner please mate” invites talk of domesticity?
Five minutes later and we were staring at the door. The two-by-fours tucked into our waistbands. I didn’t even wanna touch the handle. I can’t stress enough how bleak this building was. Thankfully bossman did the honours and allowed me to lead the way before overtaking me. I couldn’t help think, as the pram-pushers and lunch-breakers caught us going in, how this came off. A young lad and a middle aged bloke rocking up to a terraced brothel together. Nothing about this time of day necessitated a spit-roast. It was astonishing to think there were people who not only attended these ‘massage parlours’ at all, but did so while the rest of city exchanged drawl talk over water dispeners.
You got the feeling there were many paint-jobs these walls had seen in a bid to spruce up the gaff. Make it look a lot less like Hell itself, or to offer punters a chance of seeing anything in front of them. We picked the wrong season.
Living up to it’s dismal exterior promises, the interior was even darker, like vantablack. It swallowed up all manner of light. A metaphor if I’d ever seen one. At the top of the stairs there was another door with a buzzer. Again, bossman took the wheel as I gawped at it in horror. “Now remember,” he told me, “let me do the babble.” He’d started talking like he was performing a ventriloquist act. “If it gets lairy, help me out but until then-”
We got let in before he could finish his pep-talk. This room, or lobby I suppose, wasn’t as bad. It was like a waiting room at an orthodontist if that waiting room had been designed by a goth sadist. A woman in her thirties — no marionette lines but crow’s feet — welcomed us before hollering over some continental beauties that were on call behind a partition. They lined up like a girl group awaiting the public verdict on a talent show and made no effort in trying to come across as doable. It dawned on me that they must always do that, as here it was less a case of, “Who can make the most money tonight?” and more, “Which poor girl’s gonna have to rim the toothless troglodyte with garlic mayo down his shirt at gun point?”
Like most lads in a brothel, I felt a deep-seated urge to liberate the girls from it all. There I was, yearning for sad coded winks that never came. The woman asked if we’d gotten the wrong place. Bossman assured we hadn’t and asked where Franciszek was.
“Excuse me?” she said, her long eyelashes going like a bee’s wing.
Bossman surveyed the room and the door that led to the suites. “Franciszek. Where is he.”
The woman committed to playing dumb and gestured to the girls to go back from where they came which they mutely disobeyed, likely out of a desire to see their pimp get his just desserts.
“He abuses you all, doesn’t he?” bossman asked the girls. “Pays you bobbins, has you at his beck and call, walks all over you. It’s alright. That’s history. From today, he’s fucking finished.” I was becoming entranced by his monologue, a side to him I’d never witnessed. “COME ON OUT YOU FUCKING COWARD!” he yelled. “THERE’S NOWHERE TO HIDE NOW.”
One of the girls turned towards the door. “Jest tu ktoś, kto cię zobaczy!” she said. And like that, Franciszek stomped out from the back, with his darts player physique, engrossed in a phone call. He looked at me and bossman and muttered something before hanging up.
“Fahad, what can I do for you?” he said. I’m glad he didn’t call him bossman.
“Nothing,” bossman shot back. “It’s about what you’re gonna do for me. You’re gonna let these girls go, you’re gonna pack up your belongings and get the fuck out of the building. Okay? This is not a first warning. It’s not even a final warning. It’s a fucking order.”
The woman reached for something in her handbag and bossman said he wouldn’t fucking do that if he were her. I adjusted my body language so I looked harder and kept tabs on Franciszek, who in turn didn’t pay any attention to my existence. “What you gonna do?” bossman went on. “Ring the police and get them to come save your brothel? I’m sure Franciszek would love that. Wouldn’t you, Franciszek?”
Bossman took out his two-by-four and began slapping it into his palm, edging closer to Franciszek, parting the girls like Moses did the sea. He told him he had ten minutes to get his house in order and leave. Even though I didn’t get the official nod, something was telling if there was ever a right moment to brandish a weapon on a pimp it was now. It caught his attention and he laughed.
“You fucking trick, Fahad. Who are you, coming here with your little friend threatening me? I should fucking beat you up right here.”
Bossman encouraged him. Franciszek let out a few heavy exhales then asked the woman at the desk to get him a glass of water. “So, you’re a big man now? Sounds like a man who could work for me. Hey? You wanna work for me? That’s it. Fahad wants his cut.”
The woman brought his water. Franciszek crept up towards me. “But you, little man, you wanna work for me? I don’t think so. I don’t hire faggots do I?” He downed his water and smiled before grabbing the back of my head so he could launch the glass into my face. I shut my eyes and heard a great thud go off, like a book dropping from a top shelf. The girls screamed.
I looked and saw Franciszek out for the count by my feet, blood trickling down his face. Bossman had saved me at the vital second. “You fucking rat piece of shit,” he whispered to him. “You fucking fat cunt. That’s what you get.” He turned to the rest and advised them to leg it and never come back. “If you mention this to anyone I will come for you,” he warned, his hair now static from adrenaline.
Everything happened so fast. It was like I’d experienced a real life jump-cut, a projection room blunder. And like all good reluctant villains, bossman dropped the two-by-four beside the carnage, inspecting it with a curled lip. He walked off to the desk and checked the drawers for a key.
“Chris, I want you to do me a favour. OK? Go to your girlfriends, or a friends, or your parents house. Go there and don’t swing by for a week. Let this take its course. I’m sure no-one will find out but just in case, watch your step.”
I propped my own weapon up against a wall and jogged down the stairs back into normality. “Oh and Chris,” bossman said, peering his head round the corner. “Thanks.”
In the end, I told my flatmate I needed some time away from the city and went home to my mum and dads. It was a nice change having meals cooked for me, getting clean bedding and having everything not smell like shit. On nights I’d even go to the gym, now that I wasn’t around any of my mates to drink. I kept in touch with my girlfriend through FaceTime. She said how I chose my parents over her when she lived much closer came as an insult. I wanted to tell her; lay all my cards out in some dramatic flex. But what was done, as the saying goes, was done.
Going home for a bit was also a good opportunity to gather some clothes I forgot to bring with me when I went back to Manchester after Christmas. As well as some cologne. When I went back to the flat it was like I’d been on holiday. My body felt well rested for the first time in months and a bit of colour had returned to my skin. That’s what a week of kebab-rehab will do to you, I guess. They were still on my mind though, those bastards, with all their new infinitude. Mine for the keeping, forever and always, until the sun goes down.
Funnily enough I didn’t head to Casablanca straight away. Not for two days to be exact. I walked past it and saw bossman grafting behind the counter but didn’t want to rush into things. When I did go, the place seemed brighter. Like a new leaf had been turned, and the staff didn’t seem as stressed as they had been. I’m sure they were kitted out in a new uniform, too. “Yes Chris!” bossman said. “Yes bossman,” I said. Our clasp had never smacked so loud. He said I looked in better shape, “…and is that a new coat?”
“It is! I got it for Christmas.”
Bossman didn’t look too shabby himself. Happier, definitely, if not jubilant. And the way he carried himself was generally quite inspiring. “Well,” I said, clearing my throat in hesitation. “How about these unlimited kebabs?” I laughed as I said it, and so did bossman. But there was a hint of incredulity as told me I’d be better off buying something else for the foreseeable future. He said he wouldn’t feel right serving me the meat they had in at the minute as it was below-par.
I looked over his shoulder and eyed up the rotisserie grill and a great nausea came over me.
