At least there was a bit of nightlife in the city centre. OK, lowlife. Binge drinkers, blokes on the pull, birds on the pill, clubbers on whatever they could grab before hitting the pavement. Kept you on your toes. Not like being on traffic, especially in the not-particularly-mean streets of Birmingham suburbia. PC Simon Wells stifled a yawn, opened the window an inch. Selly Oak’s pubs, chippies and eating-houses had closed a couple of hours earlier. Apart from Dosser Jo kipping in the job-centre doorway, the place was dead. Truth to tell, lates didn’t do anything for Si. They were same-old-same-old: drunks, druggies, domestics. He preferred day shifts when more people were around, anything could kick off. Fact was – or fantasy – he fancied himself as a Tom Cruise, Mission Impossible kind of guy. Rescuing the blonde, saving the world, nothing too taxing. As it was, he couldn’t even have a smoke.
