Frisked - Part 3

‘Guldip! It’s me! PC Henderson!’ Sam shouted through the letterbox of the small end-of-terrace house on Exton Street. Thudding steps on the stairs, a rattle of security chains and the door was flung open. Guldip was still in his white and blue striped pyjamas.

‘Welcome, welcome, PC Henderson! And to what do I owe the pleasure…’

‘I’ve come to ask you a favour, Guldip. We need your bolt-cutters.’

‘A favour? Are you going to get me some hole, like you promised?’

‘I didn’t. I can’t get you any hole. But that nice lady that works in the office is looking for a husband, if you’re interested…’

‘What would I be wanting with wife. I have wife already. I just want hole.’

‘No hole, Guldip. But can you get me your bolt-cutters?’

‘Come round to the workshop.’

The workshop was a small lean-to down a back alley to the side of Guldip’s house. They steered the bed through the double doors.

Guldip knew Sajid from the restaurant; if fact, they were related in some convoluted way known only to themselves. ‘Sajid, he always lot to say –yap-yap-yap-yap! Never stop,’ said Guldip, micking an opening and closing mouth with his fingers.

He combined his locksmith tool hire and hardware business with a printer’s. He had something to get off his chest, before getting down to work, about the latter.

‘Dem black bastards!’

‘Yerwhat, Guldip?’

‘Dem black bastards - they wouldn’t pay me!’

‘Wouldn’t pay you for what, Guldip?’

‘These cards.’ He threw a rubber-banded wedge of printed invite cards down onto the workbench. ‘Blues party’ they were headed, bordered by a swirly motif.

‘Guldip, did they ask for these long haired white people in bell-bottoms to be added, or was that your idea?’

‘I did that. Fill white space. But them black bastards wouldn’t take them.’

‘Guldip, you’re not exactly white, yourself.’

‘Different. Black bastards.’

 

Guldip sucked his teeth, ominously. He’d deftly snipped the chain holding the cuffs, with his bolt-cutters. That just left the cuff around Chris’s wrist to deal with. ‘Well, I can put the bolt-cutters on it. I mean, it’s old; bit of rust here. Might be the weak point. But if it slips…can’t answer for what could happen. Might be better taking it up to Ripley tomorrow.’

Ripley could be a problem…’

‘And I have to be on a plane to Malta tomorrow morning. A chopped-off handcuff isn’t exactly a good look for going through immigration. I’d say go for it.’

‘How did you end up handcuffed to a bedframe?’ Guldip narrowed his luxuriant black eyebrows.

‘Oh, I was just…mucking about. Thought I’d handcuff myself to the bedframe, just for a laugh.’

Sam, standing behind the locksmith’s shoulder, blew him a silent kiss.

‘Well, I try to make a hacksaw cut through this rusty bit here. Might give cutters enough leverage to work. Might just. Lay wrist on the bench.’

The locksmith got to work, wielding the hacksaw with surprising gentleness. Then he slowly and carefully lined the jaws of the bolter-cutter up on the barely discernible incision. ‘Now, you absolutely sure about this?’

‘Go for it!’

The jaws of the cutter sliced through the grey metal of the cuff. ‘Well done, mate!’

‘Not finished yet. Got to cut the other side. Put hand on bench again.’

The cutter sank through the metal with a sharp CRACK! At the same instant, red blood spurted from Chris’s wrist. Chris gasped, in disbelief as much as pain. Sam grabbed a rag from the bench and twisted it around his arm into a tourniquet.

 

---***---

In the taxi from the A&E, Chris leaned against Sam’s shoulder. ‘I never said thank-you for saving my life.’

‘Well, you never bollocked me for nearly getting you killed in the first place. I’d say that’s about quits.’

‘You sure about flying off to Malta tomorrow? The doctor said…’

‘I’ll be fine. Anyway, I don’t have much choice. Malta feature’s a massive money-earner for the mag. I won’t have a job any more if I don’t go.’

‘Well, you know best…’

‘Surely they wouldn’t sack you? You’ve a serious injury…’

‘You don’t know Tammag Associates.’

 

---***---

 

The London train wasn’t due to leave for another half hour.

‘Where’s your jacket?’

‘Drat! Must have left it at the locksmith’s in all the excitement.’

‘Here – have mine. I’m only ten minutes from home.’

‘I thought the bloke was supposed to give his jacket to the woman? In normal couples.’

‘Normal couples. Anyway, you can bring it back when you come to see me again. If you ever want to see me again…’

‘Wait there, Sam.’ He walked over to the ticket window and said something to the clerk, who nodded uncertainly before busying himself with his machine. Chris handed over his money and took the small piece of paper.

‘Don’t you already have a return ticket?’

‘I do. This is a London to Rabey return for this coming Friday. See you in Ye Olde Dolphin, six o’clock.’

‘Wait for me if I’m late.’