When Charlie got his new day job, the boys at The Warehouse had teased him mercilessly, dubbing him a “bookshop cop.” His nightclub doormen buddies weren’t typically very literate, so they found his desire to wander around the multiple floors of the Charing Cross Road Book Emporium highly amusing. Their teasing was well-meant; they liked Charlie, the only black doorman on the detail, and he’d not yet detected any overt racism—which made for a pleasant change.

In truth, however, Charlie loved his new role and happily slipped into referring to himself as the “bookshop cop” rather than by his more mundane designation: security operative. He worked at the store four days per week and at the Warehouse club on Friday and Saturday nights, and between both roles, had secured enough income to feel confident about dating again. Or at least, if not right now, then soon. 

Having spent three years in prison for assault, Charlie lived with a permanent sensation of unspent shame. The condition diminished his confidence and made the very notion of becoming intimately involved with another person a worse prospect than the time he’d done in the Scrubs. He hadn’t had anything to offer a loved one, he felt, until now. With both jobs contributing to an acceptable wage, he’d rented a two-bedroom flat in Stratford, a nest into which to invite new companions, when the time was right.

Plus, he loved being among the books. Charlie had spent his time in prison keeping fit, studying English composition, and reading. He planned to write a memoir one day, a book that would explain how a poor kid from Rugeley would end up adrift in London’s underworld. Charlie had moved to the capital on a whim, had fallen into dealing drugs. His watershed moment came while defending a young runner from violent assault by a thirty-year-old solicitor with an A-grade cocaine habit and lots of important buddies. The lawyer had ended up in hospital and Charlie had been made an “example of.” The shame of the conviction and his own uncontrollable frustration and rage had left a deep scar on Charlie’s soiled soul. Hopefully his new post-Scrubs life could begin to repair the damage.

The sections Charlie most enjoyed walking through, and where he took special care, were the classics section of the fiction floor and the art books. Some of those Taschen coffee table books were worth £80, and the security tags on them didn’t always fire when someone “absent-mindedly” walked them out of the front doors in their bag or under their jacket. 

Charlie had once spotted a junkie acquaintance trying to steal such books for their resale value in some of the second-hand shops up and down Charing Cross Road. The young man, thin as a teaspoon, had flinched in recognition as Charlie strode towards him, dropping the huge Georgia O’Keefe book to the floor as if it had suddenly become red hot. Charlie had subtly walked Alfie out into the street, neglecting to inform his superior, who tended to call the police first and ask pertinent questions later.

Apart from when he was dealing with homeless people and junkies, Charlie tended to observe a strict code of conduct. He’d stop thieves at the door on their first attempt and “remind” them that they hadn’t paid for the items concealed on their person. Inevitably, the chancers would pretend to have forgotten, and would be embarrassed into buying the item. That would often prove sufficient punishment, especially for a student facing a fifty-pound charge for a book about jurisprudence. Charlie would almost feel guilty, until he reminded himself how lenient this strategy was when compared to a conviction for petty theft, and the moral quandaries disclosing a criminal record would bring these young people.

The only times Charlie had to get physical or call in the police was with the belligerent, abusive, or drunken types who would take out their frustrations on the hapless and innocent bookshop staff. Charlie’s bookshop colleagues were uniformly well-educated, middle-class, and fearful of any species of conflict, whereas Charlie knew how to employ a firm elbow-grip or thumb-pull to subtly hint at a power he’d hopefully never have to use again.  

Four months into his new job, Charlie was well-liked, and he’d received several invitations to the pub for post-work drinks. One day he might even feel capable of taking up such an invitation, especially if the pretty assistant manager Lucy was the one offering the invite. For now, he was biding his time, learning the ropes, and “keeping his head down” as his probation officer would put it.

During his lunch break, when the weather permitted, Charlie would take the latest book he’d bought with his staff discount out onto the tiny fourth floor sun terrace, where a few café tables were occasionally placed during the busiest summer months. Most of the time these were unoccupied, except during the lunchtime and early afternoon rush, when laptop wielding students and would-be novelists would congregate to hammer out a few hundred words together. Charlie would postpone his lunch break until three in the afternoon just to ensure a free table. He wanted to be alone with Kurt Vonnegut’s fragile, funny, unpredictable characters and the author’s own amusing interjections. Vonnegut felt like a bantering buddy, and it had saddened Charlie a little when he found the author had died many years before.

He wondered whether there might be future Vonneguts among the students and remote workers in the café. He fantasized about offering a pertinent suggestion over the shoulder of a young female author. The conversation would go something like this:

CHARLIE: Excuse me, couldn’t help noticing you were writing about a doorman. Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy.

AUTHOR: No, that’s no problem. I’m kind of stuck, actually. I need him to prevent a fight with a simple move, but it’s not exactly my area of expertise.

CHARLIE: I might be able to help you there. How angry are the blokes who are about to fight? I assume they’re blokes?

AUTHOR: Yes. Well, they’re shouting at one another…

CHARLIE: Fronting? Shoving and puffing up their chests?

AUTHOR: Right. Something like that.

CHARLIE: And is this inside or outside the venue?

AUTHOR: Outside. At the queue to get into the club.

CHARLIE: Doorman should put his body between the men, facing more towards the bigger or more aggressive of the two.

AUTHOR (tapping at her laptop): Yes...?

CHARLIE: And just place a hand gently on the guy’s shoulder. Gently, but with enough of a grip to show how quickly it could get nasty.

AUTHOR: I see. Subtle…

CHARLIE: Exactly. It’s about attitude and suggestion.

In this imaginary scenario, the author, immensely grateful and now free from her writer’s block, would ask for his name. In the extended version of the fantasy, there’s a coda. One year later, the author is back, launching her debut novel, in the performance space on the third floor. She nods to Charlie, standing at the back of the room as she reads the scene featuring the doorman. It’s a powerful sequence. At the end of the reading, the author comes over and hands him a signed book. When he opens the novel, entitled either Doorways or Admission, there’s a dedication: To Charlie, who provided the key.

Charlie was running the familiar fantasy through his head as the end of a busy Friday shift approached. Already tired from being on his feet most of the day, he’d have to head straight to The Warehouse for his evening doorman shift. In his fatigued state, Charlie almost missed the tell-tale sign of a theft in progress. 

Charlie frowned. The book thief wasn’t the usual junkie or impoverished student. A mixed-race kid, surely no older than eleven or twelve, wearing an oversized puffer jacket, loped towards the stairs from the Art section, his arms low at his waistband, jacket zipped fully up…in mid-August. Charlie didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but there was something about the shifty manner of the kid that alerted his sixth sense. The boy’s eyes were darting all over the place, yet avoiding his own as he ducked past Charlie and began to trot down the stairs. Charlie looked over at the tables. Damian had been past with the trolley a few minutes ago and had arranged a pristine new display of Banksy books. One of them was noticeably absent.

Charlie began to follow his charge downstairs, hanging back a little to see how he behaved on the ground floor. Would he spot the sensor barriers and rush them, or hang back and wait for a quiet moment? The kid adopted the latter approach, slowing down and feigning interest in, of all things, a display of books about knitting. Damn it, kid, if only you’d turned to the Lewis Hamilton biographies to your left.

“Found what you were looking for?” was Charlie’s opener. He found this ambiguous phrase usually inspired either telltale panic, or a noncommittal shrug. The kid attempted the latter, but one of his hands slipped from his jacket and the corner of the Banksy book protruded for a second. The kid pushed it back into place and locked eyes with Charlie. The look contained more fear than aggression.

“Dunno… What’s all this woollen shit?”

Charlie laughed, then used the “firm hand” technique he’d described to his fictional author. The kid seemed to shrink in his clothes.

“Keep the book out of sight and come with me.”

With a raised eyebrow of hope, the kid did as he’d been told while Charlie walked him between the stacks into the stockroom. Fortunately, it was unoccupied.

“Show me,” Charlie said. The kid did not protest, simply letting the book fall from under his jacket into his thin arms.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael,” the boy said, eyes on the book in his hands as Charlie took it from him. A celebration of the work of the outsider artist and graffiti legend Banksy. Apparently signed by the author; the front page contained a swirl of spray paint that still retained its plasticky tang. Charlie flipped the book over, looking at the price tag. 

“Sixty-five quid! Fucksake!” he couldn’t help exclaiming. “Why do you want this?”

Michael shuffled from foot to foot. Definitely no older than thirteen, and a malnourished thirteen at that.

“He’s my hero. I want to be like him. Drop art anywhere you like, make a buck.”

“Hmm…” Charlie responded, flicking through the pages. He wasn’t a huge Banksy fan. Too polemical for his liking. But he could admire the artistry, the daring, and the sheer ballsiness of the work gorgeously photographed within. 

“So, you thought you’d steal it?”

“Can’t exactly afford it, can I?” the boy replied, attempting attitude. It was like a puppy barking at a pit bull. The comment annoyed Charlie.

“See, this is the problem with you Gen Z-ers… or whatever you are… you want everything for no effort. Why don’t you save up your pocket money, do a paper round or something?”

The kid giggled. “Paper round? Is this the eighteenth-century? I don’t get no pocket money. Mum’s not working at the moment.”

“And dad?” 

Michael simply shrugged. That told Charlie all he needed to know. He was about to do something very stupid.

“I’m going to regret this, but come with me.”

Carrying the book under arm, Charlie walked Michael out of the stockroom. 

“Give me a minute and wait by the door, will you?”

This would be interesting. An experiment if you like. Charlie walked over to the lower floor tills, where Lucy was holding the fort. She smiled at him, then frowned a little when he dropped the book onto the counter. He’d surreptitiously ripped the back of the dust jacket.

“Must have got torn in transit. Got a shy art school kid asking if he can have a few quid off?”

Lucy drew in breath.

“Well, we’re supposed to contact the distributor if that happens, put in a refund request…”

“Come on Luce, you know it’s not worth the hassle. Maybe put it through on my staff deposit?”

Lucy was no fool. She flicked her eyes to the door, to where Michael still stood, now pretending to be fascinated in the latest Richard Osman crime bestseller. She examined the book.

“Well, we can’t sell it full price, that’s for sure. Okay then…”

A few taps at the till later, and she’d rung through the book for £30. Charlie produced some crumpled notes.

“He gave me cash—think he’s just scared of you.” 

“Okay, Charlie, drop it. What’s with the community outreach?”

As she said this, Lucy took a piece of Sellotape and painstakingly repaired the torn cover.

“There you go. Good as new. Hope he gets value from it.”

She handed the book back to Charlie. Perhaps there would be repercussions for this, although Charlie had the odd feeling there wouldn’t be. Lucy was a kindly soul, for a manager. She even winked as he walked away, striding over to Michael to deliver his prize.

“Kid, turns out we’re supposed to toss damaged books, so you get it for free.”

“But it wasn’t…” 

“Listen, when you’re onto a good thing, keep schtum,” Charlie chastened. “And you might want to hide this under the bed or something.”

Michael nodded, hugging the book to his chest. “I will.”

“And the next time I see you in here, you’re buying something. Okay?”

Charlie doubted there would be a next time. He was gambling on the kid realizing how lucky he’d been and maybe even feeling a little bit of the weight that Charlie would always carry: shame. It didn’t always have to be a bad thing.

“Thanks,” Michael muttered softly, as if he wasn’t used to using the word, maybe because he wasn’t used to experiencing the kindness that might prompt it.

Michael tucked the Banksy tome under his arm, half-skipped between pedestrians towards a beaten-up manual scooter, and began to propel himself home. Charlie smiled. Maybe he needed a new fantasy. One in which a young outsider artist from Southeast London grew to graffiti prominence and got his own retrospective—with the accompanying book dedicated, of course, to his lenient “bookshop cop.”

__________

Gavin Boyter is a Scottish writer and filmmaker living in Margate, Kent. He has published two travel memoirs about running ludicrously long distances, Downhill from Here and Running the Orient. The latter book charts his 2300 mile run from Paris to Istanbul, following the 1883 route of the Orient Express. Gavin’s stories have been published in Constellations, Blueing the Blade, DIAGRAM, Riptide, The Closed Eye Open, Bright Flash, La Piccioletta Barca, Freshwater Review and more. He is also the writer-director of the 2015 independent film Sparks and Embers.