It was dark when Kurtis Langham arrived in the centre of Blyham. Though he was a stranger to the city, the navigation app on his phone had made easy work of the side streets once he came off the ring road, and he made it to the car park that had been recommended to him in good time. Eight-twenty on Friday evening and the streets were busy with crowds of young men and women out for a good time. He knew Blyham had a reputation for being a party town, drawing hordes of hen and stag parties each weekend. Tonight appeared to be no exception, and he’d had to drive carefully, as the revellers wandered carelessly into the road.

Kurtis managed to secure a spot on the ground floor of the multi-storey car park, directly beneath a security light and close to a CCTV camera. In recent years, Blyham had also earnt a reputation for anti-social behaviour, violence, homophobia and all-round hate-crime. He was only here for the night and would not take any chances. Get in, do the job and get straight back out. If the traffic was as light as it had been getting here, he could be home in Leeds by one-thirty at the latest.

Kurtis gathered his guitar and microphone from the boot. The booking agent had assured him the venue would have all the sound equipment he would need. He could plug in and play as soon as he arrived. The front entrance of the car park opened onto the city’s waterfront area. He heard the beat of competing venues before he reached the street—the dull, heavy thump of loud dance music.

Like in a lot of riverside cities, the waterfront area seemed to have gone through a redevelopment and gentrification programme in the last ten years. He spotted a load of familiar chain bars—the usual suspects that dominated town centres up and down the country, with their expansive glass fronts and self-important door staff. The queues to get inside were huge. He wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would want to waste their nights in such overcrowded, noisy venues.

Kurtis switched the function on his phone app from ‘drive’ to ‘walk’. It took a few seconds to recalculate before informing him that The Blue Pearl was approximately seven minutes away. He set off at a brisk pace. He wished he’d been able to park somewhere closer. The atmosphere was friendly enough right now, but he knew what to expect later in the night, with the stag-party bros who had been drinking heavily all day. Things could turn mean in a matter of seconds.

He hated these weekend townie gigs. There was always an edge to them that he didn’t find in the indie bars and student clubs. Many of these guys became arseholes after a few pints. He hoped his luck held out and he could make his way back to the car without incident at the end of the night.

He’d never heard of The Blue Pearl until five-thirty that afternoon. His agent, Roaul, had called as he was getting home from work.

“I’ve got you a gig tonight in Blyham, if you can get there in time,” Roaul had told him. “Their regular guy has left them in the lurch, and it sounds like your kind of thing. It’s a monthly themed night—Brit pop, all that old nineties stuff you love, and a load of covers. You could do it in your sleep.”

Within twenty minutes, Kurtis had ditched his work suit, showered, changed into jeans and a vintage Bowie T-shirt, loaded the car and got on the road. Other than a gig in Sunderland on Saturday night, he had nothing else planned for the weekend. It would have been nice to have had a couple of hours to plan a set list, but Roaul was right. This was as basic as it got, and he’d be able to program his backing tracks as he went along. It was a piece of piss.

He’d been told to ask for the manager, Zand Riley, when he arrived. They wanted someone to play three sets between nine and midnight. Given the time now, Kurtis doubted he’d be ready to start by then, but they would get good value from him tonight.

Four minutes, straight ahead, directed the navigation app.

Kurtis passed in front of a massive pub with a huge outdoor terrace. It amazed him how many people were standing around outside. It was late September, and the summer was truly over. Though not the coldest of nights, the breeze from the river was fairly biting, and he wouldn’t have chosen to spend much time outside, especially given the noise. A group of women screamed in drunken hilarity. He quickened his step.

The people he saw on the street were typical Friday-nighters. The majority of women wore tight, short dresses with lots of make-up and hair pieces. The men were overly tanned, some with muscles and others with beer bellies. Their dress shirts were straight from a packet and some still displayed the creases across the chest and shoulders.

As he kept walking, he became aware of a disturbance ahead.

“So, have you had your cock chopped off yet?” a loud, obnoxious voice hollered, followed by roars of laughter.

A young person, slightly built and wearing a black skirt and pink Converse shoes, was being harassed by four pissed-up arseholes. The boorish men were all older, and bigger, but obviously felt brave because of their number. The young person kept their head down, tried to walk away and mind their own business, but those fuckwits wouldn’t allow them past. They were intent on having their fun.

“Have you got it tucked up your arse?” another of the men asked, blocking the path. “I’ve heard that’s what they do,” he continued, playing to his audience. “They strap their cocks between their legs and shove it up there.”

Their victim made a comment Kurtis couldn’t catch before trying to step around. Like basic school-yard bullies, they circled closer, getting in their personal space.

Kurtis clenched his jaw in anger. He hated thugs like these. They were one of the main reasons he avoided city centres on weekend evenings. The innocent didn’t have to look far for trouble. It sought them out.

The altercation turned physical as one of the men put his hand on the young person’s shoulder to stop them getting away.

“Fucking pricks,” he muttered under his breath. Then he yelled, “Hey. The police are on their way.”

The four men froze, then turned in his direction. They’d obviously had a lot to drink already. Their actions were slow and fuzzy. The guy who was obviously their alpha-arsehole stepped forward, shrugging his shoulders. “What’s the matter?” he asked, a shit-eating grin on his face. “We’re not doing anything. It’s just banter, that’s all.”

The young person took advantage of the distraction and hurried away. Kurtis watched as they rushed around the corner and out of sight.

“Just thought you’d want to know,” Kurtis said, heading onwards himself. “You know what coppers are like.”

The men grumbled among each other. He heard one of them say, “Hey, the fairy’s fucked off anyway.”

Then another said, “I don’t see any cops. Where they supposed to be?”

“Back there,” Kurtis said, quickening his step. “And heading this way.”

Their leader, sensing the deception he had played on them, scowled at Kurtis. “And who the fuck are you, mate?” He had a strong Liverpudian accent, full of phlegm on the ‘k’ sounds.

It was a tight situation. If the four of them came after him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Kurtis was lean and nimble. Any other time he’d be able to outrun them without breaking a sweat, but weighed down with his equipment, he had no hope. He hastened his pace, expecting the mob to close in around him at any moment.

By some miracle, they thought better of it. When he chanced a look over his shoulder, he saw them making their way to the god-awful terraced bar.

Fuck. He exhaled slowly. It was true what he’d heard about Blyham. It was a dangerous, shitty place. It might appear fancy with its bars, restaurants and party-vibes, but there was a meanness running beneath the vibrant pulse. He’d witnessed it himself within minutes of his arrival. He knew there was a large LGBTQ village here, but from what he’d read online and seen on social media, it was no safe haven for the community. People were as likely to be attacked there as that young person had been just a few moments ago.

He hoped he wasn’t going to be playing his gig tonight to more pissed-up, intolerant bigots.

Kurtis arrived at The Blue Pearl a few minutes later. His first impression was better than any of the bars he’d passed on the way here. There was a small crowd of people outside, smoking and vaping, but they were a more varied bunch than the stag and hen party crowds he’d encountered so far. There were student types in scruffy jeans and band T-shirts, together with older couples seemingly enjoying a date night with wine and cocktails.

There was a female security officer on the door, though she lacked the surly attitude he was used to at most city centre venues.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m here to see Zand Riley. The name’s Kurtis Langham. I’m tonight’s singer.”

“He’ll be glad to see you,” she said with a welcoming smile. “I think he was starting to panic when you weren’t here by eight. Go on in and ask for Zand at the bar.”

The interior was big but full of character. In place of the usual chrome and glass surfaces he found in most town centre bars, there was a lot of wood, which softened the sounds from a large crowd. There was a good mix of customers, just like the group outside, with all ages and types represented. The atmosphere was positive and warm, with none of the edge he’d felt back there in the streets.

Maybe Blyham wasn’t all bad after all.

Kurtis was making his way to the bar when a handsome man in a red T-shirt and navy jacket stepped forward.

“Please tell me your name is Kurtis,” the man said. He was somewhere in his late thirties, with thick, black hair combed back from a beautiful face. The hair was short and faded at the back and sides with cute sideburns. He had light-brown skin, a smooth complexion and a strong nose. His boy-next-door looks were transitioning into sexy DILF. In a few more years he’d be one of the most sought-after daddies in town.

“I am,” he replied. “Zand?”

With a charming grin and a sexy curl of his upper lip, the man thrust his hand forward. His grip was dry and firm.

“That’s me. I’m so glad to see you. You’ve dug me out of a real hole.”

“Your regular guy has let you down, I understand.”

“He dropped us this afternoon for a better-paying gig in Newcastle. I didn’t think I would get a good replacement at such short notice. What sets The Blue Pearl apart from the other bars along the waterfront is live music. Take that away, and we’re just like the rest of them. The agency told me to listen to some of your online stuff, and I knew you’d fit right in.”

Zand showed him where he could set up, giving Kurtis another chance to check him out. He was around the same height as Kurtis, give or take an inch, with a lean build and smart-casual dress sense. Very professional. Kurtis wondered what he was like behind the scenes, when he wasn’t dressed up like a cool manager.

“Brit pop, indie stuff… That’s the brief?”

“That’s right. We run different themed nights across the month. Indie is one of our most popular. It’s possibly the worst night to be left in the lurch. Our customers are very passionate about their music.”

There was a decent-sized stage in the top corner of the room, with speakers already in place. “This looks good to me. It should take about ten minutes to get set up and plugged in. Anything you want me to play, or should I just go with the what the crowd reacts to?”

They agreed on the first five songs Kurtis would open with, and from there Zand gave him freedom to do what he wanted.

“Is this the kind of genre you usually play?” Zand asked.

“I’m pretty adaptable, but guitar and singing are my thing, so this type of music suits me well. I write some of my owns songs, but don’t worry. I won’t inflict them on your punters tonight.”

Zand gave him a wide smile. Most people would say it was dazzling. Kurtis found it hot as fuck. “A couple of originals will go down great. The people who come here are always open to original stuff. I’m sure you’ll get a feel for them soon enough.”

Kurtis was incredulous. He had not expected that. Most of the places he played insisted on one-hundred-percent covers. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll suss them out as I go along.”

There was something very sincere about Zand, and Kurtis didn’t think it was just because he’d saved his arse by filling in at short notice. He seemed genuinely interested when Kurtis told him about his music. He even lent a hand, getting him set up on the speakers and fetching a stand for his iPad.

“I almost ran into trouble on my way here.” Kurtis told about him about the incident he’d witnessed outside.

Zand grimaced and nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. Don’t get me wrong, I love this city, but something has gone wrong in the last few years. So many people have such little respect. Race, gender, sexuality…? There’s always somebody who’s got it in for someone else. It feels like it’s getting worse, but when I talk to my friends from Newcastle, Manchester, Birmingham, I realise it’s everywhere. It just seems particularly bad in Blyham right now. I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“It’s the kid they were harassing I feel sorry for. I hope they’re okay. At least they got away.”

Zand’s face was deadly serious. “I’ll go report it to security now. I know the bar you said those guys went into. I’ll radio the staff and tell them to look out for them.”

Zand was rising in Kurtis’ estimation by the minute. Friendly, considerate and stunningly handsome. This shitty little city seemed to have some attractions after all.