The Night Shift

On Sunday evening, the tenth of January, London was frozen. The pavements in Camden were white and shiny. Daniel was cooking pasta when his phone rang.

It was Mr Patel, and Mr Patel never called on Sundays.

— Daniel! Something terrible has happened.

— Is the hotel on fire?

— No, no. Worse. Stan has broken his leg.

Stan was the Linden's night porter. He had worked at the hotel every night for nine years, from eleven at night to seven in the morning.

— He slipped on the ice, said Mr Patel. In front of the hotel, at four o'clock this afternoon. Outside my own front door! Now he's in hospital with his leg in plaster.

— Poor Stan, said Daniel. Is he OK?

— He's angry, but he's fine. Daniel, listen. I need you. Can you do the night shift? Two weeks. Eleven to seven. Starting tonight.

Daniel looked at the pasta, then at the dark window. Two weeks of nights, in January.

Priya was standing at the kitchen door, and she had heard everything. Her eyes were bright.

— Say yes, she whispered. A hotel at night! That's an episode.

— OK, said Daniel into the phone. I'll do it.

Three nights later, at two minutes to three in the morning, Daniel stood in front of an open safe, and the safe was empty. Only two people in the world knew the code, and he was one of them.

But on Sunday evening, he only said: OK.