Frisked

5 March, 1988

Up ahead, the small straggle of Charlton fans processed slowly through the turnstiles at the away end of the Baseball Ground, in the fitful March drizzle. Fitful cries from the programme and scarf sellers, desultory chants, the expectant murmur wafted across from the stadium. A couple of bored coppers frisked each away fan in turn before motioning them towards the entrance.

‘God knows why, we must be by far the biggest wimps the world has ever seen,’ said Guz to Bazza. ‘What’s Igor going to do? Attack the Rabey with one of his corned beef sandwiches?’

‘Big London club, ain’t we. Up for the Smoke for a bit of aggro with the Rabey.’

‘Not exactly the hard men of Division One…’ said Bazza. ‘Trainspotters, more like.’

‘I-GORE! I-GORE! I-GORE!’

Igor had emptied the contents of his Sainsbury’s plastic bag: sandwiches, a thermos, the British Rail all-line timetable and, inexplicably, two Barbara Cartland paperbacks.

Bazza snatched them up: ‘What’s with the Barbara Cartlands, Igor? Missing a little romance in yer life?’

‘Givvem back, yer wanker! I’m supposed to be dropping them off to my Grannie’s this evening.’

Bazza held the battered volumes just out of Igor’s reach. ‘Love Is Innocent – ain’t it just? But how would you know, Igsy? Starlight Over Tunis.’ He flipped open Love Is Innocent: ‘The Duke allowed himself the luxury of admiring an exquisite young English girl on sale in the Algerian Slave Market. As he moved closer to appraise her beauty, the terrified girl looked straight into his eyes, whispering: ‘Save me…save me!’

‘You total tosser...’

Bazza chucked the books at Igor’s head. ‘Read us the sexy bits on the train home…’

Gus said: ‘That reminds me. Remember when I brought Virgins of Isfahan round and we couldn’t get the video to work? Maisie had it set up for us; we had to keep calling her back in when we wanted to rewind the good bits…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Did I tell you, we actually tried to create the chair scene afterwards? Where he’s sitting down and the bird comes and sits on his lap?’

‘Oh yeah. Any good?’

‘Nah, not really She’s quite a big lass; got herself wedged between the arms.’

Chris was next in line. The others knew him only slightly; he was a mate of Igor’s and he’d only just started to come along to away games. Quiet, unassuming. Asked a few questions about the players, tactics, the manager. Quite tall, slim, but broad shouldered, short light brown hair, about 25. Guz and Bazza had the idea that he was pretty new to football.

Then, Guz noticed, standing with the two bored policeman, was a woman constable, tallish, willowy, short straight dark hair. Wearing trousers, a recent innovation by the Rabeyshire Constabulary for its WPCs.

Possibly the most under-employed police officer in the whole of Rabeyshire that afternoon. Female Charlton supporters were unusual, female away fans rarer still and any remotely likely to be carrying weapons must be like hens’ teeth. Perhaps news of the Battle of Stamford Bridge, a few years earlier, had filtered through to Rabeyshire. According to legend, a suede-headed female Charlton supporter had laid about her during a crucial relegation battle match, decking at least couple of Chelsea. Though, if the stories were to be believed – the lady concerned hadn’t needed any weaponry, just her fists and boots.

‘Ever take you Missus to games, Bazza?’ said Guz.

‘Nah! She’s got better things to do on a Saturday afternoon. Not so say she wouldn’t if I asked. But she goes round to see her sister most weekends, they go off together. Shopping and stuff.’

‘She would have liked that Cup game at Lincoln City though. Remember Ricky Jones chucking his groin-protectors into the crowd at the end?’

‘Can I ever forget it…’

 

Now the WPC was beckoning to Chris. He pointed an interrogative finger to his chest: She nodded, motioning him out of the queue.

The WPC stooped down and patted the bottom of the left leg of Chris’s jeans, then the right. Then, slowly, methodically, she worked her hands up one calf, then the next. Then up his thighs, finishing with a flourish just below his crotch area. Her two male colleagues stared straight ahead, smirking, momentarily pausing their own frisking activity. Probably trying to pretend they hadn’t seen.

Guz, Bazza, Igor and the other Charlton away supporters gaped, mouths open. ‘What the f…’ breathed Bazza.

‘Now, I think I really have seen everything,’ said Igor.

‘Look out for his concealed weapon!’ someone shouted.

‘So well concealed no one can see it!’

‘Lift your arms up,’ ordered the WPC. Then, the police radios crackled into life. The message was unintelligible to the supporters, but the two male PCs started to sprint down the street. The WPC took her hands off Chris and turned to follow them.

‘Meet after the game?’ Chris called after her, wildly.

‘Yeah, six pm in the Olde Dolphin, on Queen Street! Wait if I’m late!’ She turned and sprinted after her colleagues.

‘PHWOR!’ someone yelled. ‘He’s pulled! He’s only gone and pulled a fookin’ coppesse!’

‘Hope his truncheon’s big enough!’

‘GERRIN there, son…!’

 

The Charlton away support was unusually animated that afternoon. Blokes nudged each other and pointed in Chris’s direction. Charlton drew with Rabey, one all. Well before half time, the away end were singing: ‘He’s going down on the Filth, Chrissie’s going down on the Filth…’ to the tune of Guantanamera.

 

Five minutes before full time, Chris muttered something in Igor’s ear – Igor didn’t catch it – and slipped away.

 

---***---

At ten to six, Chris pushed open the door of the Olde Dolphin. To his dismay, Bazza, Igor, Guz, were leaning on the bar, facing the room. Not only those three, but at least a couple of dozen of the Charlton away support, who he knew by sight, though not by name.

‘Oh for FUCK’S sake guys! Bring the whole bleedin’ family, why don’t yer? Make a day of it…’

‘We’re just here to ensure your wellbeing Chrissie. Make sure she doesn’t stick her truncheon into any orifices she shouldn’t. Those Rabey WPCs can be pretty insatiable, can’t they, Igor?’

‘They can indeed, Baz. Rabey policewomen are noted insatiabilitists…’

 

Chris grunted. He ordered a pint of Marstons Bitter and sat on a stool nearest the entrance.

At twenty past six, the door pushed open, hesitantly. She was out of uniform now, dark blue jeans, a mustard-coloured polo-neck and green jacket. Chris shot straight up out of his seat. ‘Half the Charlton away end’s turned up to watch!’ he hissed.

‘Shit! Quick! Run!’

They sprinted down darkened Queen Street. She swung left into College Place, he followed. Yards behind them, they could hear the clatter and thud of doc martens and trainers on the wet pavement.

She tugged his sleeve. ‘Quick! Up here! The iron fire escape thrummed under her flat-soled boots; Chris followed, taking the steps two at a time. They crouched down behind the low metal screen at the top platform; the door into the building was locked. They peeped over the edge of the screen. Below them, they could see the posse of Charlton supporters clattering down the passage.

‘Let’s hope they don’t think to turn round,’ she said, softly. ‘Looks like there’s a few Rabey faces there as well. Word must have got round - we’ve become the latest Rabey tourist attraction. The only Rabey tourist attraction.’

‘Safe enough for now. How did you think of this fire escape?’

‘Chasing shoplifters. I know most of the hiding places…By the way, Chrissie, I’m Sam. Samantha.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Sam…how do you know my name?’

‘It’s been ringing out across the RacetrackGround all afternoon…Shit! One of them’s seen us! Down the steps!’ She gave him a half-push. They both took the steps three at a time, hitting the pavement three feet in front of the pursuing posse.

The guy behind them slipped and stumbled on the wet pavement, the two behind him careening into him, sending them sprawling, arms akimbo. Just enough breathing space. Chris and Sam were back outside the Olde Dolphin; they rounded the corner at full speed, fighting for grip on the pavement. ‘Quick. Back in the pub!’ whispered Chris, hoarsely. ‘Last place they’ll come looking for us.’

‘Smart boy! The snug - bit more private…’

 

---***---

‘Can anybody tell me what the hell is going on?’ said the deputy chief constable, laying his horn-rimmed spectacles down on the desk.

‘Usual Saturday evening after football, Sir,’ said a sergeant. ‘We’re doing our best to keep an eye, keep a lid on it. Actually, we had a hell of a job trying to get the away fans into the station. Kept giving us the slip and heading back into the city.’

‘But it’s weird. There’s no fighting. I’ve had reports of Rabey and, er - Charlton is it? - running all over the city centre together. I hope this isn’t some link-up between hooligan firms.’

‘With Charlton? Seems a tad unlikely. Charlton are a family club. Not really noted for their hooligan element. You’ll have heard about all the Back to the Valley stuff?’

‘Can’t say I have. Hear any chants from the crowd that might give us a clue?’

‘Something about someone called Chrissie going down on the filth.’

‘Down on the filth? Down WITH the filth?’

‘Definitely down ON the filth sir. As in having…sexual relations with.

‘Who’s Chrissie?’

‘No idea, sir…’

‘Was WPC Henderson on duty at the ground today?’

‘Believe she was, Sir.’

‘Hmmm…’

---***---

 

Chris settled into the seat opposite Sam; a ‘drah whahte wahne’ for her and another pint of Marstons for him.

‘Well, Chris. I know absolutely nothing about you – just that you follow Charlton. What brings you to Rabey…Oh, silly question… OK, what do you?’

‘I’m a journalist…’

‘Journalist? Wow!’

‘Hardly. I freelance for trade publications, mostly ones about shipping, logistics that sort of stuff. Nowt glamorous.’

‘Less glamorous than nabbing Rabey’s finest for shoplifting? Hanging around like a spare part outside the Baseball Ground on a Saturday afternoon…’

‘What you did then; wasn’t it a bit, kind of…against the rules? Lady policemen searching blokes? I’m not objecting, mind…’

‘Er, yes, actually….’

‘Won’t get yourself into trouble?’

‘Nah! One of the blokes that was with me – that fat little git. I’ve got enough on him. He won’t say anything.’

‘What’s he done then?’

‘Not sure I should be telling a journalist. But, anyway, he takes bribes. In kind, from the Toms. HE won’t dare open his trap…’

‘Toms?’

‘You know. Prossies. Prostitutes! You’re a journalist – you must know.’

‘Subject doesn’t come up much, to be honest…’

‘I thought you wrote about shipping? Sailors in port; must happen all the time…’

‘Don’t really write about operational matters…’

‘Operational matters! Chrissie! You crease me up, you really do. Sounds like something the deputy chief constable would say.’

Sam looked over her shoulder, then quickly turned round again. ‘Bugger! Couple of the Rabey lads; they’re drifting back in. Quick! Outside!’

 

There was the merest patter of rain. ‘Pull your hood up!’ Chris said, reaching for his. ‘Just about enough rain; we won’t look conspicuous…’

‘Good idea! Come on! I know where we can go. Do you like curry?’

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

‘Yehwhat?’

‘Do bears shit in the woods? Is the Pope Catholic? Sort of run them together…’

‘So that it makes no sense…’

‘Spose not. But, yes, I do love curry.’

 

---***---

‘Ah, welcome, welcome, PC Henderson. And I see you bring with you esteemed gentleman companion. Policeman too?’

‘Don’t call me PC Henderson!’ muttered Sam out of the corner of her mouth. ‘No, he’s not. Listen Sajid – can we use your family room?’

‘Certainly, certainly. Only too happy to be of service to the ladies and gentlemen of law and order. The usual refreshments?’

The small, thick-set curry house owner ushered them behind a heavy brocade curtain. There was a long brown formica-topped table and half a dozen red vinyl padded chairs.

‘And Sajid? If any blokes come in here that look like they may be football fans – can you steer them away from here?’

Certainly, certainly, Miss Henderson. Unless you’re now a Mrs…’

‘No, I’m not! Get us our drinks, Sajid!’

 

A waiter – one of Sajid’s sons – pushed his way through the curtain bearing a large brown teapot, cups and saucers, which he placed gently on the table.

‘Don’t worry, it’s lager, not tea. They’ve been putting it in the pot ever since we found they didn’t have an alcohol licence. Trusted customers only…’

‘Like the Police?’

‘Like the Police…’

‘I never realised Rabey was such a hotbed of corruption. Policemen getting free rides from prostitutes, illicit lager in teapots. Not to mention mixed sex bodysearches…’

‘You didn’t mind that I did that? It was way out of order, I know...’

‘No, far from it. I was going to ask you for your number anyway…’

‘Only I got called away and had to announce our dating plans to ten thousand footie fans...’

‘Rather enjoyed the chase.’

‘It did add a certain frisson.’

‘Going back to the frisking. Why did you do it?’

‘Just bored, I suppose…no, I didn’t mean it like that! I mean, there was I, hanging around with absolutely nothing to do, and here comes this guy, a lot nicer than your average, and I just thought: ‘Why the hell not?’ Liven up a dull afternoon.’

‘Certainly did that, didn’t it…’

 

Chris read the menu: ‘Mixed grill – burger, chop, chips, chicken breast, mushrooms. He-man’s grill, as above, double portions; should that be ‘It-person’s Grill?’

‘Sorry?’

‘He man; It-person. The feminist take…’

‘Don’t think feminism’s reached Rabey yet.’

‘Oh well, I think I’ll go for the meat bhuna and pilau rice. And a couple of chapattis. Are the chapattis a decent size here? Not those thin, grey things we get in London?’

‘They’re pretty big, yeah…’

 

‘By the way – is Chrissie what you normally get called. I mean, I’ve only heard you as a football chant…’

‘I go for Chris, usually. Chrissie’s just what the Charlton lads call me. But I don’t mind, really. I suppose it’s sort of …affectionate, really.’

‘Chris, Chrissie…Chrissie sounds a bit girly. Chrissie the Sissie. Sorry.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Chris. Is that short for Christopher?’

‘That’s right. That’s what my passport says.’

‘I suppose you travel a lot in your work?’

‘Yeah, a fair bit – Dubai, India, Singapore, Thailand, pretty much everywhere in Europe…’

‘Whoo! Quite the little globetrotter…’

‘Still, home’s best. This country’s got a lot going for it.’

‘Not Rabey though…’

 

Chris pushed the last piece of nan around his plate to soak up the sauce.

‘Well, you’re certainly a good eater – never seen a meat bhuna disappear so quickly. Want some of mine?’

‘Well, if you really don’t…’

‘Feel free. Can’t pile on the pounds in my job.’

‘You look great. Nothing to worry about it.’

‘Chris. What time’s the last train back to London?’

‘Not sure. About nine, I guess...’

‘It’s ten.’

‘Ah.’

‘Welcome to come back to mine. It’s only ten minutes’ walk.’

 

They linked arms and walked through the drizzle. ‘Actually, I knew the time of the train all along; nine twenty-four. They told us at the pre-match briefing…’

‘And you decided not to remind me – so that I’d stay?’

‘Correct!’

 

---***---

They sat on the bed, next to each other. A massive Victorian antique, iron framed. Nothing else in the room except a small dark-wood bedside table with a flickering lamp in a blue shade, a digital clock with red numbers.

‘You OK, Chris?’

‘Yeah, great. Perfect.’

‘Sure? Sure sure?’

‘I mean, I don’t want to…I realise…’

‘You don’t want to what?’

‘I dunno. I don’t want to presume that, just because…’

‘Just because you gave my thighs a total rub-down outside the Rabey ground in front of the entire away end…’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘Why don’t you start where we were so rudely interrupted? By your radio.’

‘OK, OK…Arms up, Chrissie…’

 

She yanked his white T-shirt over his head, slowly, deliberately and draped it over the bedspread. ‘Nice chest. More hair on one side than the other.’

‘Umm. Maybe I’m missing a chromosome somewhere.’

‘The unhairy side’s still hairy enough for me.’ She ran her slender fingers through it. Then she grabbed the top of her polo-neck and pulled it off over her head.

‘Hey! Don’t I get to undress you?’

‘This jumper’s a bugger to get off; wouldn’t have been very sexy. You can take my bra off, though. That reminds me. Why did the tomato blush?’

‘I dunno. Why?’

‘Because it saw the salad dressing…’

‘Uuurggh! Is that a standard-issue police joke?’

‘Got it out of a cracker last Christmas. Nowhere filthy enough for the canteen.’

‘So, apart from Charlton, which team has the best-looking fans?’

‘Wouldn’t know. Haven’t done a lot of games. Thought some of the Spurs fans looked nice last December, even if they’re all Yids…’

‘Hey! M