Frisked-part 2

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! My Dad was Jewish!’

‘SHIT!’ She threw herself face-down on the bed, buried her face in the pillow.

‘Sam! It’s OK! It’s OK! I’m not bothered!’ He stroked the back of her head, then leaned down and kissed it. She twisted around and faced him. ‘Sorry, Chris. My stupid mouth…Sure you’re not upset?’

‘Sure sure.’

‘You don’t look Jewish.’

‘Well, I’m not, totally. Take after my Mum, physically. She was from Hull.’

‘Nice, wherever it comes from. Like to take my bra off?’

Yes, sure.’ He fumbled ineffectively with the clip on the sturdy white garment. Hang on, let me grab my specs…’

‘Chris! What are you like! Let me unclip it, then you can take it off.’

‘Is that bra standard Police issue too?’

‘Actually, it was bequeathed to me by my granny in her will…’

‘Oh Sam! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…’

‘Ha! Ha! Only kidding…’

‘Could have believed it though.’

‘Don’t push your luck, Chrissie…’Will I do? A bit small up top?’

‘You’re nice. Slender. Like one of those Greek or Roman marble statues.’

‘Hmm … Sam the statue.’

‘I’d come to Rabey Museum to see you.’

‘Not sure I’d fancy that anyway. School parties leering at me, sticking their chewing cum on my bits…’

 

---***---

 

Chris glanced at the clock. Just gone 1am.

‘Shit! Haven’t any more condoms.’

‘S’OK. Like me to show you my special place?’

‘Shouldn’t be that hard to spot. What is it with men? Perhaps I should mark it in orange felt-tip. Here, give me your fingers….That’s it, that’s it. You’ve a nice touch … Mmm…’

 

---***---

It was morning. Grey light seeped through the beige curtains. He turned over; she was already awake. She smiled softly. ‘Chemist should be open now; I’ll just nip out.’

She was back within ten minutes. Chris awoke from his slumber.

‘Go again?’ She ran the side of her finger down his nose, then fondled his earlobe.’

‘Yeah…’

He looked up. ‘Sam? Why have you got handcuffs dangling from your bedstead? Taking your work home?’

‘Oh, that…That was just a boyfriend I had, he was a bit into…that side of things. I got Sergeant Plum to liberate them from the stores for me. Never got round to trying ‘em though…We split up before we got the chance.’

‘I guess police people must be into that sort of thing. Ready access to the kit, slapping irons on crims all the time…’

‘Not specially. Not as far as I know, anyway…Chrissie, you wouldn’t fancy trying?’

‘NO! I don’t want to spend all Sunday chained to your cast iron bedstead.’

‘I’ve got the keys. Made sure Plumby gave me those of course. I can release you whenever you want…’

‘I dunno.’

‘Come on, Chrissie. You know you want to…’

‘Do I?’

‘Of course you do…’

‘No I don’t.’

‘You do. You’re just pretending you don’t.’

‘Sam! I don’t. I really don’t---AAARRRGGGHHHHHHH!’

‘Oh Chris! I’m so sorry love! Didn’t mean to hurt. You OK?’

‘Felt like my arm was coming out of its socket.’

‘Yeah, sorry. Those restraint techniques we get taught…’

‘I’m amazed anyone dares go shoplifting in Rabey with you about.’

‘Kiss better?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Happy to keep it on for now, or shall I get the key?’

‘It’s OK.’

 

‘Look, Chris, up on the ceiling!’

‘Where? what? – SAM!’

‘Sorry, Chris. Just couldn’t resist. I’ll get the key if you want.’

‘What exactly are you planning to do now that I’m immobile?’

‘I’ll be Sam the insatiable sex-goddess. And you’ll be my sex-slave.’

‘You already are an insatiable sex-goddess...’

‘Even more insatiable! Even goddier!’

 

 

‘Well, that was certainly….different. Is Sam the insatiable sated? Bit uncomfortable now, though. Any chance you could unlock?’

‘Yes. Of course. I’ll get the key.’

‘Something wrong?’

‘Nah. Just a matter of wiggling it a bit. It’s got to unlock. Just let me…that BASTARD Plumby!’

‘What? Wassup?’

‘He’s only given me the wrong keys! On purpose, I’m sure! His sick idea of a joke.’

‘Oh. Bugger.’

‘Should have tried the key before we got started. FUCK!’

‘We didn’t. Can we get hold of this Plumby bloke?’

‘Transferred to West Midlands two weeks ago.’

‘The right keys must be somewhere. Just a matter of getting hold of them.’

‘The only way to do that is to get hold of Plumby. Which is currently impossible.’

‘Ah-ha.’

‘Shit shit shit shit shit SHIT! I’m such an IDIOT!’

‘There must be a way of dealing with this sort of thing. Handcuffs must jam up from time to time. What happens?’

‘Usually, we take them to the central workshop up in Ripley. They’ve got bolt cutters and all sorts. But you’re chained to a huge cast iron bedstead.’

‘Hmmm. Can you borrow the bolt-cutters from the workshop?’

‘Doubt it. I mean, I know the guy there slightly but I don’t think he’d let me take them away. Questions would get asked. But I do know a locksmith about two miles from here. Gets enough business from us; he’d be sweet.’

‘Can we dismantle it? The bed, I mean’ he twisted himself round, trying to peer at the underside of the frame. ‘Can you see any bolts, or screws or anything?’

‘Nah. Don’t think so.’

‘Solid casting. Awkward.’

‘Could we get a hacksaw and cut the frame? Then we only have to get you down to the workshop and cut the cuffs off.’

‘And then you don’t have a bed to sleep on. I’ve a better idea.’

‘Which is?’

‘We get ourselves downstairs, with the frame. And then to this locksmiths. Get the cuffs cut off – and you’ve still got a bed. How far is it?’

‘Couple of miles, I think. But we’d need a van. I’ve only got a Mini.’

‘It’s got castors. We could push it.’

‘Push it?’

‘Yeah. We could pretend it’s one of those charity bed pushes that the medical students do for Rag Week. Hang a bucket on the end, write a couple of notices saying ‘In aid of whatever’ and away we go.’

‘Brill! I’ve got a bucket. I’ll grab it.’

‘Before you do, I think I’ll need it. And give it a good scrub afterwards…’

 

‘CAREFUL!’ Sam arrested the swing of the heavy iron frame just before it hit the glass of the stairwell window. It teetered for a moment, then swung the other way. ‘AAARRRRRGGH!’ The metal handcuff twisted against his wrist before crashing down onto the stairs. Chris threw himself face-down on the mattress, clinging with his free hand to the frame. The bed careered down the stairs, bursting through the street doors with a crash and out onto the pavement. The front castors dropped off the pavement into the gutter and the bed rocked gently to and fro, Chris clinging to both sides of the mattress.

‘You OK?’ said Sam.

‘All’s well that ends well, I suppose,’ he said, swivelling round and planting his feet on the pavement. Got the notices?’ He draped his jacket across his shoulders.

Sam sellotaped two cardboard placards made from the inside of a cereal packet to the front and rear of the bed, and a paper one to the red plastic bucket dangling from the end: ‘Rabeyshire Hospital for Sick Children’.

They headed down St Thomas Road, castors thumping, keeping up a steady, thundering rumble over the joins in the pavement. At the corner of Walbrook Road, a burly bloke in a string vest chucked a 50P coin into the bucket. ‘Thanks!’ Sam shouted, swing the heavy bed around the corner. Chris winced as the handcuff took the strain. ‘Take it easy!’

‘Sorry! Forgot!’

Outside Number 56 a small boy asked his mother: ‘Why is that man handcuffed to the bed?’

‘Yeah, love, why are you handcuffed to the bed?’

‘It’s to symbolise the oppressive relationship between the masses and the institutionalised capitalistic oligopoly of the modern nation state,’ said Chris.

‘Oh well…here’s ten pee anyway.’

They clattered on, the bed screeching and bouncing over the uneven pavements. ‘You used to be a student. I suppose you believe in all that old bollocks…’

 

 

Now they were getting into the city centre. They paused for a breather in the pedestrian precinct, outside Boots. Most of the shops were shut, but there was a steady trickle of passers-by and coins clattered into the bucket from all directions.

‘Well, there should be plenty to pay off the locksmith with.’

‘Sam! We’re not going to keep it. I’m surprised at you.’

‘I’ll send the hospital a cheque; and I’ll add a bit on top.’

‘Good. Glad to see two years in the Force haven’t totally corrupted you.’

 

More coins dropped into the bucket. After 15 minutes or so, a thickset guy veered across the street, eyes quizzical. ‘Oh, hello Sam. What on EARTH are you up to?’

‘Oh hi, Benny. Charity bed push for the Hospital for Sick Children. This is Chris. He’s helping me? Chris, this is PC Benny Rogers.’

‘Why’s he handcuffed to the thing?’

‘Oh, er…he’s on probation. Rehabilitation of offenders…’

‘What you do, Chris?’

‘Me? Oh. Littering.’

‘Littering?’

‘Yes, littering. Down in London. I’m from London. They sent me up to Rabey for my probation…’

‘Well, that’s a cruel and unusual punishment. Didn’t think that would get a custodial sentence.’

‘A lot of litter. Some of it was quite smelly.’

‘Right. See yah, Sam…’

‘Cheers, Benny…’

 

‘What possessed you to say littering, of all things?’

‘First thing that came into my head. Alice’s Restaurant. Arlo Guthrie. He tries to dodge the draft by saying he’d been done for littering…’

‘Did it work?’

‘Yeah, think so. If the song’s to be believed…’

‘Well, if you were going to do a crime, I suppose it would be something weird like that. Can’t see you as a GBH merchant, somehow…’

‘Thanks. I think…’

‘Don’t mention it. Time we got this bed on the move again. Locksmith should be awake by now…’