Hater 1: Hater Read Free

there something wrong with him?' Daryl asks pointlessly.
        'Of course there was something wrong with him,' I answer. Christ, this bloke's an idiot at times. 'Do you think he'd stab an old lady with an umbrella if there wasn't anything wrong with him?'
        'But did he say anything? Was he screaming or shouting or…?'
        I wonder whether it's even worth answering his half-asked question.
        'Both,' I grunt.
        'Was he drunk or on drugs or…?'
        'I don't know,' I say, beginning to get annoyed. I stop and think for a second before speaking again. In my head I can still see the expression on the man's face. 'He looked absolutely fucking terrified,' I tell them. 'He looked like he was the one who was being attacked.'
        
        
    2
        
        There's a girl who sits on the other side of the office called Jennifer Reynolds. I don't know her very well. I don't have much to do with her from day to day. In fact I've only spoken to her a handful of times since I was transferred into the PFP. She's not here today and I hate it when she's out. When Jennifer Reynolds isn't here her duties get shared out between the rest of us, and the job I have to cover today is the worst job of all - Reception. The postal address of the PFP isn't actively broadcast but it's on some of the correspondence we send out and it's in the phone book and it doesn't take much for the general public to find out where we are. We get a lot of visitors, too many in my opinion. If someone comes here it's almost always because they've been fined or clamped. They've probably already tried to get the fine overturned or the clamp removed and by the time they reach us coming to argue their case in person is often the only option they have left. So those people who do turn up here are likely to already be seriously pissed off. Shouting, screaming and threatening behaviour isn't unusual. The first place these people reach is Reception, and the first person they get to scream at, shout at or threaten is the poor sod sat behind the desk.
        So here I am, sitting alone at the Reception desk, staring at the tatty bronzed-glass entrance door, watching anxiously for any visitors. I hate this. It's like sitting in a dentist's waiting room. I'm constantly watching the clock on the wall. It's hung just above a large notice board covered with unread and unhelpful council posters and notices. Just to the left of the notice board, equally unread and unhelpful, is a small sign which warns the public against intimidating or attacking council staff. The fact that it's there doesn't make me feel any safer. There's a personal attack alarm stuck under the desk but that doesn't make me feel any better either.
        It's four thirty-eight. Twenty-two minutes to go then I'm finished for the day.
        I'm sure Tina enjoys making me come out here. It's always me who ends up covering for Jennifer. Being out on Reception is a form of torture. You're not allowed to bring any paperwork out here with you (something about protecting confidential data) and the lack of any distractions makes the time drag painfully slowly. So far this afternoon I've only had to deal with two phone calls, and they were just personal calls for members of staff.
        Four thirty-nine.
        Come on clock, speed up.
        
        Four fifty-four.
        Almost there. I'm watching the clock all the time now, willing the hands to move round quickly so that I can get out of here. I'm already rehearsing my escape from the office in my head. I just have to shutdown my computer and grab my coat from the cloakroom then I'll sprint to the station. If I can get away quickly enough I might manage to catch the early train and that'll get me back home for…
        Damn. Bloody phone's ringing again. I hate the way it rings. It grates like an off-key alarm clock and the noise goes right through me. I pick it up and cringe at the thought of what might be