Timothy Lea - Confessions from a Nudist Colony

‘Er – yes,’ I say, not wanting to give too much away. You never know what Sid has been up to.

‘Balham,’ she breathes. ‘Sorry I’m late for our Romeo Victor. Has there been much action?’

I don’t answer at once because I am trying to work out who this Romeo Victor bloke is. Perhaps I misheard her and she said Romany Victor. That would make more sense in our present surroundings. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I think there’s been a mistake.’

‘You were expecting a man.’ To my surprise her lip starts to tremble. It is a nice lip, as is its plump little friend underneath, and a wave of sympathy runs through my Y-fronts.

‘Only Sid,’ I say.

‘I don’t know Sid,’ she says. ‘I’ve only just joined the station.’

‘Balham,’ I say. ‘Oh yes, you said.’

‘I won’t let you down,’ says the bird. ‘I may only be a woman but inside me beats the heart of a man.’

‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘I bet that made the Police Gazette . It’s wonderful what surgeons can do these days, isn’t it?’

For a moment, I think the bird is going to burst into tears.

‘You’re making fun of me!’ she accuses. ‘I was referring to Elizabeth the First’s words at Tilbury.’

‘Oh, them,’ I say. ‘Yes, well, you should have made yourself clear. I missed that episode when it was on the telly. What precisely are you trying to say to me?’

‘I’m trying to say that you can rely on me,’ she says. ‘I won’t let you down. I don’t care what they’re doing in there. I won’t be shocked. Just say the word and I’ll be right with you – oh!’ While I am wondering what the hell she is talking about she suddenly whips a pair of handcuffs from under her skirt and slaps them on my wrists. God knows where she keeps her truncheon.

‘Don’t look surprised!’ she hisses. ‘Somebody’s watching us from the window. I’ll pretend to arrest you.’

I glance up at the window of Madame Necroma’s caravan and am not a little taken aback to see Sid blinking down at me. He looks strangely flushed and dishevelled. Maybe it is the surprise of seeing me being led off by one of the female fuzz. I raise my manacled mitts along with my eyebrows and his boat race is joined by Madame Necroma’s. She is looking a bit on the heated side and I can’t help wondering what they have been doing. Surely it is beyond the realms of possibility that kapok karate has been indulged in? Before I can indulge the horrible thought to excess, the female copper has led me round the corner and is feeling in the pocket of her tunic.

‘Sorry about that,’ she says, sounding like Barbara Cartland watching one of her pekes relieve itself against your ankle. ‘I thought they might think it was a bit fishy if they saw us hanging about outside the caravan – oh no!’

Her face goes all horror-struck like Harold Wilson looking at the latest trade figures and I am swift to realise that something is wrong. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to sound unsympathetic and I always used to enjoy Z Cars , but what is going on around here?’

‘I’ve lost the key to the handcuffs,’ she says. ‘Oh gosh. You’re going to think I’m an awful goose.’

‘At the very least,’ I say. ‘Look, you could get arrested for this. Everybody’s looking at me.’

‘Come over to the car,’ she says. ‘Perhaps the driver will have a spare one. I am most awfully sorry about this.’

‘So you should be!’ I hiss. Honestly, you feel like sticking your tongue out at Jack Warner, don’t you? No wonder the country is in a mess. I wonder this kid was able to cut out the application form without doing herself a serious injury. She must have needed guidance to follow the dotted lines round the advertisement. If she was not easy on the eye-balls I might be thinking about writing to my MP.

‘What’s he done, miss?’ says one of the kids who is clustering around us.

‘Child murder!’ I tell him. ‘Hop it, you horrible little basket!’

‘Looks a villain,’ says another God forbid. ‘Do you want any help, miss?’

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m going quietly. Which is more than you will be if you don’t scarper sharpish!’ I make a threatening lunge and they drop back half a dozen paces.

There is a police car parked under a tree and the bloke at the wheel puts down his copy of Six Hundred Ways To Thump Someone And Leave No Trace and leaps out hungrily. ‘Got the ponce, have you?’ he says looking me up and down hungrily. ‘Wait till we get you back to the station, matey.’

‘No!’ says little Miss Blue Serge, blushing. ‘He’s our contact. I locked him up by mistake.’

‘Oh, gawd, Millie!’ says the fuzz. ‘I thought you’d finished for the day when you arrested that store detective for shoplifting. Unlock him quick!’

‘I’ve lost my key,’ says the bird. Her lip has started trembling again and it is clear that she is on the verge of tears.

‘Oh no!’ The rozzer bashes his fist against the side of his nut so hard that his hat nearly falls off.

‘Haven’t you got one?’ says Millie.

‘Course I haven’t got one!’ The fuzz looks about him desperately. ‘Who’s keeping the caravan under surveillance?’

‘Nobody,’ says Millie. ‘I’d better go–’

‘No you don’t! You’ve done enough damage for one day,’ says the fuzz. ‘You stay here. I’ll go.’

‘What about me?’ I say.

‘You can’t go,’ says the copper. ‘Not with those handcuffs on. You get in the car with WPC Marjoribanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ I say, not without a trace of sarcasm.

‘Sorry about this,’ says the male fuzz, considerately opening the car door for me. ‘These combined ops are always a bit of a disaster, aren’t they? Get out of it! !’ His last remark is delivered to the pack of kids round the car as he turns and strides purposefully towards the caravans. The kids follow him.

WPC Marjoribanks slides along the back seat beside me. She has nice little knees and I can’t help clocking the curve of her thighs underneath the blue serge skirt. ‘Alone at last,’ I say.

She smiles nervously. ‘I don’t have to say it again, do I?’

‘Please don’t,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t help very much. Haven’t you got a hacksaw tucked away somewhere?’

She does not answer but starts running her hands over the front of her body. ‘I must have a hole,’ she says.

‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility,’ I say suavely. ‘Perhaps you’d better have a look for it. I shouldn’t think anything would have much chance of dropping out of that lot.’

I am clocking the front of her tight tunic when I speak and it is true that she would be pushed to smuggle a thin stamp hinge in the space not taken up by knocker.

‘I suppose there’s always a chance,’ she says.

The same thought occurs to me as I watch her fingers delving in the breast pocket of her tunic and a wave of naughtiness sweeps over the maximum stress area of my jeans.

‘Any luck?’ I say.

‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘There is a hole. The lining’s gone.’

Not surprising with that lot chafing against it, I think to myself. ‘Perhaps it’s slipped down inside,’ I say, jerking my manacled mitts to indicate that some kind of action needs to be taken.

WPC Marjoribanks nods and starts to undo her tunic. She is wearing a plum red half cut bra under her blue shirt and I suck in my breath appreciatively. ‘That’s not government issue, is it?’ I say.

‘What, the shirt?’ she says.

‘The bra,’ I say. ‘I can’t help noticing it when I look. It’s nice.’

‘Oh, no, it’s not – I mean, it’s not police issue. Frankly – if it doesn’t sound like heresy – I’m not all that keen on the uniform. In fact–’ her lip starts to tremble again ‘– I’m not all that keen on the Force.’