Holding Out for a Hero

Heather's grin vanished as the policewoman came out with a minor bombshell, mentioning extreme media interest and hoping she had a thick skin.

'What do you mean by that?'

Carole responded by leading her across the canteen and pointing out of the window. Heather gasped. The street was two floors below them and there had to be twenty people crowding the entrance to the station. Mostly male, half of them had cameras and the rest had microphones.

And there was a large van with BBC NORTH WEST TONIGHT emblazoned on the side.

Good grief, thought Heather, I'm going to be on the evening news!

'Two choices,' said Carole. 'You can go out the front and answer their questions . . .'

'I'd rather die.'

'I suspected you might say that. And it's a pity. I can't tell you how much I'd like all of Amos's scummy friends to see him on TV, knocked to heck and back by a slip of a girl.'

'I'm not that small. And I regularly fight and beat men.'

'That's something else to keep out of the courtroom. And I was only comparing you to Amos. He has to be twice as big as you.'

'Fair enough, but I still can't face that lot. And wouldn't it jeopardise our case to spill the beans at this early stage?'

'I suppose it would. That leaves us with choice two.'

'What's that?'

'Brian.'

*****

Carole introduced Brian down on the ground floor. He was a big man with a rugby player's oft-broken nose and a ready smile. 'This is Heather Hunter,' she began.

'Star of stage and screen,' said Brian, shaking her hand. 'It's an honour to meet you, even if this eager beaver's going to earn her stripes hanging on to your coat-tails.'

'"Beaver" is a sexist term,' said Carole, 'now you have to help us otherwise I'll make sure that it's your stripes I inherit.'

Brian swiftly switched to business mode. 'Quit joking about and tell me what you need.'

'Heather doesn't want to face the pack of jackals out front. And at least two of them saw me bring her in. We need someone else to smuggle her out the back. I thought of you straightaway.'

Brian was smiling again. 'Worry ye not,' said he, 'your wish is my command.'

*****

Escaping the police station was unexpectedly easy. There was an underground car park accessed by a lift. Brian escorted Heather down there; they got into a marked patrol vehicle then drove up a steep ramp and away. Two women with cameras were at the top of the ramp and they fired off flashes as they passed, but probably to no avail. Heather had her hands covering her face and her head down; meanwhile Brian was driving very much like Michael Schumacher . . . except even faster.

And he did it with lights and sirens. To all extents and purposes it was an emergency response and in no way an illicit flit. The pair of female reporters/photographers couldn't possibly have been sure who they'd snapped.

'Okay, where to?' Brian asked as they left the station behind them, cloaked in road dust.

'Anywhere away from that mob,' said Heather.

'Are you due in at uni today?'

Heather eyed him askance, wondering how (giveaway togs aside) he knew she was a student. 'I rang and said I'd be in as soon as poss,' she admitted. 'So I guess I'd best live up to my promise.'

Now driving like Mr Respectable, blues and twos turned off, keeping within the speed limits instead of exceeding them times ten, Brian said he'd circuit the university, make sure no reporters had "staked it out". Fortunately, they had not. Not yet, anyway.

Clapping Brian on the shoulder, she thanked him for his help.

He gave her another priceless smile. 'I'm desk sergeant these days. I don't get many chances to play Starsky and Hutch anymore. That was the best fun I've had in ages.'

'Don't you outrank Carole?'

'Of course I do . . . For now, anyway.'

'So why do you let her boss you around?'

Heather had half-expected to hear bad news; the sort along the lines of younger woman, older guy. It never happened.

'I was lucky to have a protective sergeant when I was her age,' he said. 'He kept my feet firmly on the ground and all that. I'm trying to do the same for WPC Green. She's like the daughter I never had.'

There was something knowing in his stare. Deliberately ignoring it, avoiding the obvious, Heather said thanks for the lift and went into the university's Main Building.

By then it was five past eleven and the Union Bar was open. Superhumanly fighting off the temptation of a pint of Marston's best bitter, Heather went up in the lift to F Floor and arrived not too exceptionally tardy for her latest lecture.

Sadly Dr Jerwood was in charge. And he'd been pre-warned precisely why she was likely to be a late arrival. Dr Jerwood was a great guy; the bad news was he was an expansive sort of lecturer, the sort who found it tricky to let ten minutes pass by without cracking some joke or other.

'Ah,' he cried as Heather tried to sneak in unobserved, 'the late Heather Hunter!'

'Sorry I'm running behind,' she muttered, trying to slither unnoticed into a corner . . . as if! The lecture rooms up on F held a hundred or more attendees. And this one was packed.

'For anyone who hasn't heard,' Dr Jerwood went on, 'Heather confronted a violent robber this morning and caused him no insubstantial damage.'

'Way to go girl,' someone yelled and suddenly the whole lecture theatre was applauding as if North End had finally won a home game.

Heather cringed for England. But then it got worse.

Chapter Four

Heather wanted to copy Carole's "unavoidable appointment in the gym", albeit with an earlier kick-off. So she left her last lecture shortly after five o'clock and headed for the on-campus sports centre.

And she froze as she exited Main Building. That swarm of media parasites had left the police station and descended out there instead.

'Ms Hunter,' a female voice shrieked, 'a word for the Daily Mirror . . .'

That was instantly drowned by voices wanting "words" for the Mail and the Sun and rags that she had never even heard of.

It wasn't in Heather's nature to flap but the torrent of questions got to her. Turning swiftly on her heel, she fled back into the main reception area, for once in her life catching lucky with a lift. As the hordes pursued her she hit the first button and the lift doors shut barely in time.

Then her brain clicked into gear. There were four lifts and destinations were shown out on the ground floor. They'd all know she'd hit K and had three other lifts to dog her in. So she hit E as an emergency stop then, as she hastily disembarked, hit M.

And then she left Linford Christie trailing in her wake as she sprinted the length of the building, east to west, arriving at a set of service stairs. Within thirty seconds she was down on D Floor and soon after that she was safely in the Union Bar.

She hoped.

If Dr Jerwood's reception had been embarrassing the one in The Union was infinitely worse. Normally at that time the bar was more than half empty. Today it was stuffed to the rafters. As Heather came in through the door every last one of the customers bounced to their feet.

'Here she is,' someone yelled, 'the one and only . . .'

Everything else was drowned out in cheers and applause. And the applause was universal. For once it wasn't just the usual suspects on Lesbians' Corner . . . it was simply everyone, male and female.

Even the darts, pool and video addicts broke off to join in.

Hearing footsteps behind her . . . God knows how over the din . . . Heather realized she hadn't shook off all of the reporters. Some were swarming along the corridor behind her, closing in like a plague of locusts. She was doomed after all.

But Gloria sprang to her rescue.

Gloria had worked behind the bar in The Union since before Moses was found in the bullrushes. And she took bull from nobody. Given the option of fighting Blackie Amos or Gloria there would have been no option at all. Not even for Heather.

Gloria was out from the bar, collecting empty glasses. Materializing at Heather's side, loud cheers still resounding, she hissed into her ear.

'Are those bastard reporters?'

'Yes,' Heather hissed back.

'Want me to get rid?'

'Yes, please.'

'Okay then; watch this.'

Physically Gloria wasn't a big woman but, personality-wise she made Muhammad Ali seem somewhat shy and retiring.

'Whoa, whoa,' she cried, stopping ten media beasts with one upraised hand. 'This ain't just me; this is part of the Union. I need to see NUS cards before letting you in.'

That was, co-incidentally, a gross exaggeration. In reality just about anyone was allowed in, as long as they had money to pay. Somewhere in the university constitution it did specify "students only" but lecturers and guests had long been tolerated. As had day students from the neighbouring college.

The reporters weren't to know that, however. They came out with all manner of crap. Gloria met it with utter disdain. And, when one of them tried to fob her off with an enamelled card, she hooted.

'National Union of Journalists . . . Get your arse out of my bar and eff off back to Fleet Street.'

'But . . .'

'But frig off before I call Security. No, frig off before I chuck you out myself.'

All ten of them retreated at that. They clearly believed she meant it.

Or maybe the three hundred students standing firm behind her swung the deal.

*****

Getting through the throng to the bar took a while. Getting past Lorna took even longer. Lorna was the wide-eyed girl from Mr Khan's Emporium. The one WPC Carole Green had reckoned was lost deep in some sort of hero-worshipping frenzy.

She was, Heather decided, a little on the short side but well-built and seriously attractive.

She was also noticeably without her boyfriend. Seeing as he was usually surgically attached, Heather asked where he was.

Lorna shrugged like a girl saying "what if". 'He's traumatized,' she said, rolling her sexy peepers.

'It was fairly disturbing to be there.'

'Not to me. I found it invigorating. Yes, scary, but invigorating. If I'm ever in a fight again I'm going to make sure I'm on your side.'

Heather laughed at the old line but Lorna wasn't for letting go.

'Lara Croft's not a wimp,' she said earnestly, 'my boyfriend's the frigging wimp. And he can't even see how fantastic you are.'

A friendly face from Lesbians' Corner rescued Heather . . . even if she wasn't quite convinced that she needed to be rescued.

It was Maxi, perhaps the world's most domineering queen bitch, certainly one of the very best in bed.

'Want to get out of here undercover?' Maxi asked.

Heather couldn't see her matching Brian in expertise but nodded all the same.

'Great. We'll use the old Greenham Common techniques.'

Maxi was ten years or so older than Heather: a mature student and one-time peace protester with all the credentials to prove it.

In other words she had undisputed history to back the fearless face she showed to the world.

Heathers opinions of nuclear weapons were as good as set in stone. Given her say they would never have been invented in the first place. Given that they were unfortunately invented, all she wanted was for the world to keep them heavily under lock and key for ever and a day.

If she'd been born a decade earlier she'd probably have been there with Maxi, sharing her tent and a sleeping bag.

Not that the former peace merchant ever looked particularly peaceful.

Lorna, visibly awed by the heavyweight lezzie, made her apologies and withdrew. 'I'll see you in here tomorrow,' she said to Heather as she went. 'I'll buy you a beer for saving all our lives.'

'Oh dear,' said Maxi insincerely, 'I've buggered your date.'

'Not yet you haven't,' said Heather. 'I've an alternative date set up already. Lorna's one for the future.'

*****

Maxi's initial plan involved a "flying wedge". Twenty or so girls were going to surround Heather as she left the building, crunching all opposition underfoot. Then she reconsidered. The front of the building gave no camouflage at all. The pack of hounds would be after them in no time.

And there was no underground car park or convenient ramp.

Abseiling down the rear of the Main Building was considered but dropped in the conspicuous absence of suitable ropes . . . and not to mention expertise. Even the queen bitch herself couldn't claim to have trained with the SAS.

'They don't let women in,' she said bitterly, 'else I'd show them what was what.'

In the end a compromise was agreed. Maxi led a wedge diversion with a tall, black-haired imposter tight in the middle while Heather exited via those service stairs.

If anyone saw her go she missed them by miles and cared even less.

Chapter Five

Off campus and with two hours to fill Heather camped out in the public library. Her home address was listed in the phone book and therefore hardly secret. With the police station and uni locations now well blown she (probably correctly) guessed where the vultures would descend next.

Omigod, she thought as she picked a dusty Econometrics text book off its shelf, no way can I sleep in my own bed tonight!

I'll have to find somewhere else . . .

Ninety minutes of studying settled her a tad. She had a project to complete and submit shortly; this bit of out-of-hours research could only help. And it made up for missing most of the morning's lectures.

Well, more or less.

The rendezvous wasn't far from the library. Consequently Heather got there nice and early. Meaning she was early enough to have a nerve-calming pint but not so early as to get wasted. She'd only had one drink in The Union and, for some strange reason, the public library didn't do best bitter; hopefully her "good girl" tactics would bear dividends.

Good grief, good grief, her mind rambled. I'm meeting a strange woman in an (almost) strange pub. I have nowhere to lay down my weary head and I don't even know if she's interested.

And she's a copper!

Be strong, she told herself.

Yeah, like right!

The Market Arms wasn't much of a students' pub. It was also located just about as far away from the police station as you could get without heading into the next city. The optimist deep in Heather's mind insisted that was a good sign; that she was on a real date, away from prying eyes. Her inner pessimist insisted it was coincidence and nothing to get excited about . . .

Unlike Carole's awesome entry into an otherwise busy eating place of a pub. With true police timing she arrived at eight on the dot and a dozen heads turned to watch her. Hair wet from the shower after her gym session she was (sadly) not in uniform. Even more sadly, she wasn't literally uniform-less. No she was wearing a tight white T under a black leather jacket and leggings which left little to anyone's imagination.

Heather was entranced. Previously concealed behind an anti-stab jacket and weighed down with tons of kit, Carole had looked very good indeed. Now, dressed for a rave, she looked infinitely better.

Sticking to the cool approach, Heather had decided to greet her with air kisses. But stuff that. She met her with a smacker on the lips that would have made Valentino blush with shame.

(For his relative lack of Latin passion, that is.)

And Carole didn't protest at all.

Result!

Leastways she accepted the kiss and the offer of a beer, taking a seat at the table which Heather had already bagged.

'That's my reputation in here trashed,' she said as Heather passed her a pint, smiling, not seeming to be bothered in the least.

'Do you come here often?' asked Heather, mock-innocently. 'Or is it only in the mating season?'

Carole snorted at that, half a mouthful of ale going down the wrong way. 'You,' she spluttered, 'what are you like?'

'I'm like curious to know more about you. I gave you all sorts of personal details about me before you took my statement. I want to hear all sorts of personal details about you. It's only fair.'

'Talking about this morning,' the policewoman hedged, 'you do realize what you did was foolhardy in the extreme, don't you?'

'I couldn't stand by and watch Mr Khan get his throat ripped out.'

'Hmmm,' said Carole, 'I saw the other statements before I clocked out. They differ to some extent but they do all do say Amos threatened to cut his throat. I like that sort of unanimous. It'll go down well in court.'

'Does that include Mr Khan himself?'

'You bet it does, except he spends most of his time calling Amos stupid. "I'm wearing a turban and I'm watching Punjabi TV," he says, "and he calls me names insulting to Pakistanis. He tries to rob my till less than an hour after I've opened my doors. Out of his skull or not, how many notes did he expect to steal at that time of day?"'

'What about Amos? What his version?'

'I haven't seen it yet because it has not been made. They've kept him in hospital, worried about the cocktail of drugs they found in his body and the concussion you inflicted on him. Poor old Danny was at his bedside last I heard. He should have been relieved by now, but he wasn't very happy.'

'Would that be Danny, the PC with an attitude?'

'He's not that bad. I'm teaching him the ropes, slowly but surely.'

'Do you mean like Brian's teaching you the ropes?'

Carole rolled her beyond delightful eyes. 'Oh my, you talked to Brian.'

'Of course I did. He's a nice guy and he really cares for you.'

'I'll kill him.' Carole slurped more ale then changed the subject again. 'Good work with the first aid, by the way. Where did you learn that?'

'I was born and brought up on a farm.'

'And . . .'

'Accidents do happen. By the time I was six I could patch up everything from sheep to dumb beasts or farm labourers, who can be even dumber than the dumbest of beasts.'

'Judging by your accent you're from one of those farms in the Home Counties; one that covers half of whatever county it is.'

Heather laughed. 'Our farm was in West Yorkshire. I'm the seventh generation of pure farming stock. In fact I'm the entire seventh generation.'

'So why don't you keep saying "Eh by gum"? And why do you sound like Liz Hurley?'

'Hunters Farm is gone now,' Heather said, feeling the usual sense of loss. 'It was struggling badly so Dad sold out to house builders for squillions. That was when I was thirteen. My mother insisted that I was sent to a very posh all-girls school in Cheshire. We had our own elocution teachers. They soon beat the Yorkshire accent out of me.'

'An all-girls school,' Carole echoed. 'Does that mean . . .'

'Yes it does,' said Heather, her eyes on Carole's. 'There was an all-boys school next door, so straight sex was available. But that was during the day. The boys weren't so easily available after Lights Out. That's when most of the more interesting experimenting took place.'

'I see.'

'I like straight sex,' Heather continued. 'But relatively speaking, I haven't had a lot of it.' Little white lie or what! Crossing her fingers behind her back, she made her usual declaration: 'When it comes down to it, I'm well on the lezzie side of bi.'

'Carole nodded. 'I guess I'm well on the lezzie side of lezzie. And I guess that's why I'm here tonight.'

Inside Heather was turning cartwheels. 'Talking about tonight,' she said, 'are you single . . .'

*****

The agreement was to spend the night at Carole's but, after a modest number of beers, they got a taxi and asked the cabbie to drive past Heather's place. And the pack of jackals was there in force.

Talk about being in your face! If anything they had multiplied in number. There really were dozens of them, mostly talking into their mobiles and trying to seem important.

'Can't I get police protection or anonymity?' Heather wondered as they drove on by.

'Bit late for anonymity, isn't it.'

'But surely something can be done.'

'It's a free country and we have freedom of the press. God only knows how that lot get their tip-offs so fast, but it's always the same. I'm afraid we're stuck with it. And I'm afraid you are going have to share my bed.'