It was about three in the afternoon by
the time he reached Bradford City Interchange: the Plod would be on their way
and he was wearing a simple white blouse over a blue satin camisole with a
clerical grey skirt. He was the only running and his actual innocence meant
nothing in the heavy commuter traffic. At least the boots had low heels. With a
disregard borne of panic he boarded the nearest shuttle clutching the satchel
and tried to look nonchalant as he took a seat in the plain compartment.
Everything he owned was now in that
simple green canvas bag, worn around the edges and with frayed stitching, which
was a strange enough thought without considered how he was dressed in public.
The wig helped detract attention from the fact that he hadn’t had time to shave
properly but there was no chance that he would pass under anything more than a
cursory glance. With no sign of his pursuers on the platform, Ben heaved a
grateful sigh as the train shunted into motion.
“So,” and the word destroyed his
self-congratulation, “Do you always dress like that?”
“Ah...” he looked across that the woman
to see her smirking. “No. This is... an unusual situation,” he finished lamely.
A glance confirmed that there were no other surprises in the form of missed
fellow passengers.
“I see.” Her face was suddenly serious
but something around her eyes remained playful. “Are you some kind of queer
then?”
At first he was taken aback, then
horrified at the realisation that a deep-seated fear was being voiced and then
he felt strangely in control and at peace. “No. No, quite the opposite.” He was
even smiling. “I don’t suppose you’d care to find out how much?” Great, he thought, I’m on the run, cross-dressed and now I decide I’m a latter-day Casanova?
“Sorry, cat, you aren’t quite my type.”
“Pity,” he found himself replying, “You are rather pretty.” Oh come on! “I guess that makes you my type.”
“You often speak in clichés from the
flicks, sweetheart?” Her head was cocked, her eyebrows raised, something was
drawing her in.
“Only when the situation calls for it.”
Maybe it was the clothes, the wig, or the fact that he’d clambered down a
concrete block of flats already but something made the ridiculous situation not
only bearable but almost comfortable. “What about you?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” she smiled again,
it was a pretty one, “You’re still not my type, but I think you’re going to
like me.”
“Pardon me?” He was fairly certain that
this wasn’t how these sorts of conversations were supposed to go. “Aren’t you
going to like me?”
“Should I?”
“Isn’t that how-?”
“You didn’t answer my question, chicken,”
she assumed a more business-like air, “But maybe I should have made myself more
clear. Why is someone who isn’t a queer dressed like that?”
“I’m...” He considered lying but nothing
plausible came to him. “I’m on the run from the Plod.”
“Really? Well that-”
She was interrupted by the door to the
compartment sliding open. A blue-uniformed ticket inspector entered, looking
intently at his counter. “Tickets and ID, please.” His eyes flashed once on the
woman but seemed to fix on Ben.
“Here,” began the woman, a little
forcefully, “It should all be in order.”
He took her proffered documents, “There’s
no-”
“No, I know,” she waved he outstretched
hand at him. “Does this cover it?”
Dubiously, he took the coins, “I-”
“I don’t need any change, he’s with me.”
Ben opened his mouth to speak, as the
ticket inspector grumbled to himself and rolled off the small paper chits, but
the woman shushed him with a look. “Two singles.” They were pointedly handed
directly to the woman without another glance at Ben. “Good day.” And the door
slid shut again.
A moment passed.
“What did you do that for?” Ben was incredulous.
“Did he check your ID?”
“No, but he knows that I’m dressed in
drag like some circus freak!”
“You’re on the run from the Plod, right?”
Uncertainly: “Uh, yes.”
“So they’ll be looking for you,” she
stared directly at him, “And that means checking for any sign of you on any
public transport. That means asking people if they remember your ID papers. It
won’t hold them up for long,” she smiled with genuine amusement, “but it will
make their lives that little bit more difficult.”
He didn’t like it, but Ben had to concede
her logic worked.
“Now, here’s your ticket, Princess,” she
handed him the red card chit as if explaining to a child, “You’ll need it to
get off the platform.”
A moment’s hesitation before Ben was able
to move and take it. He was rewarded with another smile. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you’ll pay me back, this isn’t a
free ride.” Crossing her arms, she sat back in the seat.
“No, not for the ticket.” His hands shook
as he fumbled in his bag for change, “Just... thank you.”
She took the two five pence coins
offered. “I didn’t mean for the ticket.” There was something almost predatory
about her as she placed them in her purse. “Don’t go on about it.” The train
began to slow down on the approach to the platform. “Have you somewhere to
stay?”
“I’ve never been to Leeds before,”
turning back from the window he caught her eye again, “And I think you’ve done
enough for me. Thank you, but you’re going to be in enough trouble as it is.”
“And?” Unimpressed. “You don’t know
anything about me.” She looked back out of the window. “Look, stay with me
tonight, at the very least I can fix your wardrobe.”
“I can buy my own shirt and trou-”
“They’re looking for a man travelling
alone, right? And I’m guessing they don’t know about your little fetish. So
let’s use this to our advantage and make it that little bit harder for them,
no?” A mischievous grin crawled across her face as she fixed him with a stare
again. “Name’s Iris, sweetness, you?”
“Ben-” He stopped and looked down.
“That’s not going to work. Rebecca?”
“Oh yes, let’s go with that one! Bex it
is.”
“Do I get a choice in shortening it?” The
train juddered to a halt.
“No. Should you?”
“I assume you’re not called Iris either.”
No comments:
Post a Comment