Once Seen, Never Forgotten……….

As the radio burst into life with Heidi’s high pitched squeal from the Control Room, Petey hastily recovered his slouched position in the front passenger seat, eyes wide in anticipation, clutching a scrap of paper and his trusty Bic Biro poised in hand.   Oooh, it’s a job Mave, hope it’s on us, me bums numb with all this sitting……”  

Glancing out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t help but stifle a giggle. It had been cold, wet and very windy on this shift and Petey had dressed for the weather in style.  Ignoring the fact that he was doubled crewed with me in a nice warm patrol car, he had spent twenty minutes in the locker room after Parade preparing himself for his foray into the tempestuous imaginary storms he believed would strike at some point during the evening.

Woolly jumper, body armour, functional jacket topped off with his quilt-lined florescent coat, all strung together with his utility belt clipped on the outside and pulled together so tightly that he could hardly breathe.   He now resembled a brightly coloured, double sided Aldi pan scourer.  I smirked as he struggled to fasten the seat belt around him.

“AM21, AM21 can you start making to a Grade 1, possible Burglary in progress, neighbours report hearing unusual noises from The Harringby Chase, Dawsett Drive.” 

This area was the higher end of the market with large detached houses in extensive grounds. The last job I’d been to around here had ended with me chasing Billy Burglar through a Greek Mythology designed garden hosting several half-dressed statues. I’d lost count of how many times I’d grabbed hold of a rather large manly appendage to stop myself from falling over. In hindsight, even Shirley couldn’t boast to having clutched that many. 

 Putting my foot down on the accelerator, blues flashing in the descending dusk, Petey excitedly acknowledged the call. Heidi marked us down as responding. 

“Bob’s backing you up with Martin, they’ll make the rear of the property on a silent approach.”   

We arrived at the huge Mock-Georgian house in less than four minutes, Bob was just swinging his car into the cul-de-sac that ran behind the house.    He disappeared out of sight.   

A few seconds ticked by broken by Martin’s voice over the radio on talk-through.  “Mave, we’re in position at the rear, can hear banging and shouting coming from the first floor.”   

Petey was fair straining at the leash in rising excitement. He could hardly contain himself, flicking one handcuff round and round in its holder. As he shuffled his boots in the foot well, I placed a restraining hand on his arm.  “Don’t slam the car door when you get out, Martin thinks there is definitely someone in there.” 

He paused and exhaled loudly. “Okay Mave, but stay with me won’t you, don’t leave me on my own it’s dead dark out there…” 

I gave him a sideways glance accompanied by a wry smile.  At least he had the decency to blush.  “… it’s just so I can look after you, that’s what I meant really.” 

He waited for some sort of acknowledgement but I was already thinking two steps ahead.   “Right, we’ll go on the count of three, Bob will be in position by then, okay?”  

With his hand on the door handle, he nodded enthusiastically as I began to count. 

“Okay….one, two…. three.” 

I jumped out of the car and keeping to the shadows, ran through the gates and up the driveway towards the front door. I knew Bob and Martin would be doing exactly the same at the back of the house. Worryingly, although I was pleased not to hear Petey slam his car door, I didn’t hear his usual gasps of exertion coming from behind me either, but I did hear a sort of muffled thwuuuump followed by a loud groan, gravel being kicked and a breathless voice rasping from the darkness. 

“Oh shit, oh bugger, Mavis they’ve got me…. I’m a man down Mave…” 

My heart thudded in my chest. Skidding to a halt, churning up gravel and dust, I turned and ran hell for leather back to where I had left him. Sweeping the beam from my Maglite torch around the nearside of the Police car, it caught Petey slumped against the open door, wedged between the grass verge and the gutter, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Mave, I’ve been ambushed, I’ve been hit from behind, they’ve taken me by surprise.”  

I knelt down to check on him as his muffled wails tapered off. Apart from a huge bump to the back of his head, he was fine.   

“Look at this you ruddy idiot?” I pointed to his handcuffs. “You’ve only gone and handcuffed yourself to the bloody seat belt when you were messing with them before.”   

Fumbling in my pocket for the keys, I ran the scene through my mind. As he’d tried to gather pace to follow me, digging his feet into the grass verge Ussain Bolt style, ready for a quick take-off, the utility belt around his waist which held the handcuffs had refused to succumb to the strain. Even as the seat belt reached its full extension, the handcuff holder had held its own, yanking Petey backwards onto his butt whilst slamming his head against the side of the car. 

“You absolute bloody buffoon Petey…” I quickly unlocked the handcuffs. “Ambush, man down! Where the faark did you get that from? Come on, quickly the lads will be in there by now.” Helping him to his feet, I shoved him in front of me, and started back up to the house.  

Bob, who had already gained entry to the house, was waiting for us in front of the open front door. He had a huge smirk on his face. “You know how you’ve always said that nothing would surprise you any more Mave? Well you’ve just gotta come and take a look at this.”   

With Petey in tow still rubbing the back of his head, I followed Bob up the winding central staircase to the first floor. Turning the handle of the second door along the corridor, Bob beckoned us forward.   

Standing to one side, he opened the door with a flourish…. 

….and there in all his glory was the owner of Harringby Chase himself.

 The Right Honourable Rupert Monroe Carrington-Browne, tied tightly by each wrist and ankle of his lightly tanned limbs to the four poster bed by an oyster pink, fine-grade, woven silk rope. 

If this vision wasn’t bad enough, Rupert had clearly chosen to attire himself in clothes from the Burlesque period and was currently sporting fishnet stockings, a red lace Midi-Basque with matching thong, a rather fetching pair of red spiked stiletto heels and a set of bronze nipple tassels that were now hanging limply down, somewhat tantalisingly, under each of his hairy armpits. 

Sitting next to him on the king-sized bed was the delicious Lorretta LoveHoney, half deflated, slumped to one side, still rapidly losing air via a soft, gentle hissing that was coming from under her left vinyl buttock. She was frozen in time, her ruby red mouth mocking the unfortunate and very miserable Rupert. 

Eyes wide in embarrassed horror, Rupert began to mumble. “She only went to make a cup of tea, but I think she forgot to come back.”   

I picked up an empty monogrammed leather wallet that had been carelessly thrown on the bedside cabinet alongside a glossy call card that announced ‘Mademoiselle Femme Fantasie’.  

“Would this be the lady in question?” I held up the card. 

He nodded and looked wistfully towards the window. “She wasn’t cheap either.” he whispered.   

It quickly became apparent that Rupert, after paying for the procurement of her services, had allowed himself to be ensconced in his current predicament, whereupon she had quickly done a runner with a substantial amount of his cash. 

Trying to show a concerned face of utmost discretion so as not to compound The Right Honourable Carrington-Browne’s embarrassment, I choked back a snort of laughter and turned to look at Petey, who at this point was standing, open mouthed and glued to the spot.   

I threw a blue silk dressing gown at him that had been draped over a nearby chaise lounge. “Petey, untie Mr. Carrington-Browne and help him to get dressed will you, I’ll be back in a minute.”  

Petey caught the dressing gown and gave me a look of complete and utter confusion, as though he didn’t know where to start.

I took him to one side.  

“Just get him dressed Petey and for God’s sake be discreet. We can’t all have the same sexual preferences, don’t make him feel even worse than he already does.”    

As I reached the bedroom door I heard Petey sigh loudly. 

“…. but Mave.” 

I turned and gave him a withering look, just as Rupert chose that moment to disappear under Lorretta LoveHoney’s left buttock in a futile attempt to assist her deflation with more air.  Petey stood, transfixed.

Emerging onto the landing, I came face to face with Bob and Martin who had been using Rupert’s quilted bog paper to wipe away their tears of laughter. Not being so lucky I had to resort to wiping my now streaming nose and eyes on the sleeve of my jumper.  

“Tell you what Mave…” Bob collapsed again into a further fit of the giggles, spluttering over his words as Martin held onto the bannister rail. 

“… it certainly brings a new meaning to the phrase ‘blow job’ doesn’t it?” 

“Bob, trust you! You know who he is though don’t you?” I paused, waiting for some sort of recognition, after all Rupert’s face was currently splashed all over the newspapers due to his high flying political career, but before anyone could answer the bedroom door slowly creaked open to reveal Petey sitting on the bed, with the newly released Mr. Carrington-Browne on one side of him and Lorretta LoveHoney on the other, with a bronze tassel clutched in each of his hands. 

To the faint hissing of Lorretta as she continued to crumple to one side like a weekend drunk, Petey swung the tassels from side to side.  

“…. to be quite honest Sir, I don’t think red is really your colour, or even bronze for that matter…”     

Rupert, holding his head in hands looked pleadingly at me as Petey continued to offer his worldly advice.  

“….. and if you shaved your legs, the hairs wouldn’t poke through the fishnets so much, it really does ruin the full effect you know Sir.” 

Bob let out an almighty groan, Martin sniggered loudly and I just knew that I would never again vote Conservative as once something is seen, it can never, ever, be forgotten.

(c) 2016 Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong


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