It is true – I was kidnapped and held for ransom by a soldier dressed like one of Fidel Castro’s men.
It was the second day of my new job in the city. I was seventeen years old and in my head, I was the most sophisticated woman in the world. My new employees were knighted gentlemen who doffed their hats to me as I entered the lift. Can you imagine? Me – a little miss nobody from the slums being treated like a lady.
So, on that fated Tuesday morning, I was entrusted to take documents across the city and to hand them over to the clerks of a sub branch. On my return journey, I was to present myself at another sub-branch and pick up the trading accounts.
Head held high and full of my own importance I frequently glanced sidelong at the plate-glass windows to check my bouffant hair was held in place. It was and I bobbed to the rhythm of the sixties in my four-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels.
Having dropped off the first batch of documents and picked up the accounts, I headed dutifully back to Head Office, the place of my new employment, where I was the latest recruit to their statistical department. I was going places, no longer the junior typist of an engineering company, oh no, I was almost a woman and one with a career.
But when I crossed the road and entered the main retail section of town, I realised the city was alive with strange people. Weird youths dressed in crazy clothes milling around the pavements whilst other, ordinary pedestrians had gathered together by barriers to form a crowd by the road. Forgetting my importance, I stood on tiptoe to get a better view and it was then that I was whisked away by bandits.
In the space of a few heartbeats I was carried into the road and manhandled onto the back of a truck – a street float made to look like a Cuban missile. The more I protested, the more the crowd loved it. They whistled and cheered and poured money into the collection boxes handed out by the Rag students of Manchester University.
‘Let me go,’ I shouted above the roar, ‘you don’t understand, I have to get back to my office.’ But the float was moving on and soon other modern chicks were being snatched from the roadside and lifted to stand beside me.
I hatched a plan. As soon as the procession halted at the crossroads, I would make a dash for freedom – but not in these shoes. Carefully, I slid one off, then the other but when I ducked down to pick them up, a pair of combat boots blocked my way.
‘Not thinking of escaping are we?’
My smile wasn’t its sweetest. ‘Actually, if you must know, they were killing me.’ I curled my arm behind his camouflaged clad legs and scooped my new shoes from the gunmetal painted platform. ‘See,’ I challenged, ‘If you cared to look, the soles are hardly scratched.’ When he tilted his head back to mock me, I noticed how white his teeth were. ‘You don’t even look Cuban,’ I fumed, ‘isn’t Cuba supposed to be famous for cigars?’
How naive I must’ve looked. What did I know about Castro? What did I know about nuclear bombs? Those subjects were not on my radar. Not at that particular time, on that Shrove Tuesday at any rate.
The other hostages appeared to be enjoying the situation whereas I felt nothing but panic. I was going to lose face amongst my new employers, I was going to lose their trust, I was going to lose the best job I had landed and all because spoilt oiks were putting my city to ransom. I glared at the stupid girls waving to the crowd from a mock-up of a deadly weapon. I turned away from them and my eyes locked into those of one of my captors. He was stood by the one who found me amusing, listening to his chum’s every word no doubt sharing his toffee-nosed principles – brats – the bloody lot of them.
I pretended to ignore him – put my shoes back on, lit a cigarette and pulled my collar around my neck. I had been out of the office over an hour. Perhaps, I hoped, no one had missed me. Perhaps my predecessor took a long time to collect the trading accounts. Perhaps they’d all gone to lunch, giving me another hour to get back. I stared at the crowd waving and cheering from behind the barriers, looked in horror as more girls squeezed through the gaps in the hope of being kidnapped. Was I the only person in Manchester with a job?
‘What’s in the briefcase?’
I swung round, ‘Nowt to do with you.’
‘Could be Russian documents,’ he mocked, ‘that’d make you an ally – our friend.’
‘I know what a bloody ally is.’
‘Ooh tetchy eh,’ less mocking now and paler than the Che Guevara image he tried to emulate. He turned to his comrade in arms, the one whose eyes bore into my soul. ‘Hey Nick,’ he jerked his head in my direction, ‘she’s all yours. Let’s hope you get better luck with this one.’
‘Better luck?’ I snarled, ‘what you playing at? This isn’t a game – let me off this contraption at once.’
Nick, the one with those eyes, patted his fellow kidnapper on the back and strolled towards me. ‘Look,’ he soothed, ‘I can see you’re upset but if …’
‘Upset – you can see I’m upset. Oh I’m upset alright.’ I took a long pull on my cigarette, he ventured to say more but I cut him off. ‘I’m not interested in your high-minded politics – your fancy debates or philosophic societies – I don’t have the luxury of sitting in libraries deciding which way our country should go. I have to work for my keep. Do you understand? Work for my keep. And at this moment in time, I should have returned with this,’ I lifted the briefcase, ‘where those who pay my wages are waiting to receiving it.’
No longer were the captured and captors waving and giggling, they were turned in my direction accusing me with their eyes – accusing me for not enjoying the fun.
The silence aboard that grey missile was broken by Nick’s mocking comrade, ‘Then my guess,’ he swaggered, ‘is that your paymasters will cough up a pretty ransom to have you returned to them.’
‘A what?’
‘You heard – what d’you think you’re worth?’
‘Have you lost all your marbles?’
‘She’s a feisty madam eh Nick.’ He turned to the others, ‘What do you think she’s worth.’
One of the captive girls shouted, ‘Throw ‘er off – she’s spiolin’ the show.’
‘Yeh,’ the rest chorused.
Suddenly I was everyone’s enemy. It was my chance to escape yet I felt hurt to be treated so badly. I took a last pull from my cigarette and dropped it onto the deck of the float, grinding it with the sole of my new shoes. Nick took hold of my elbow, shouted something to another comrade who jumped over the side and ran to give instructions to the driver. We stopped briefly – Nick hoisted me over and lowered me to the waiting arms of his friend. When my feet touched the solid road, I ran towards the barriers and looked desperately for a gap.
The crowd let me in. They even clapped me like I’d done something wonderful in allowing myself to be taken prisoner. I couldn’t see it. All I wanted to do was make up for lost time and keep my job. As I ran the labyrinth of back streets my heels clattered along the pavement and echoed off the tall buildings looming above. Should I tell my new bosses what had happened? Or should I just play the new girl unused to my whereabouts in the city?
I was too breathless when I stepped out of the lift and walked the corridor to the account’s department to notice how quiet everything was. With the exception of Fred, one of the commissionaires operating the lifts, there was not a soul in the building. I placed the signed receipt and trading accounts on the appointed desks, took the briefcase back to my own office and looked out of the window. A lone figure dressed in tropical fatigues stood on the corner of the street below me. We locked eyes and he waved.
‘Ah, there you are Miss Downs,’ said the voice of my boss, ‘sorry we didn’t wait for your return, but the Rag procession was due, and we didn’t want to miss it.’
‘Rag procession?’
‘Oh I really am sorry, you being new to the city and all that. Look, go now, take an extended lunch break and watch it. They do wonderful things for charity you know – these students – wonderful things.’
I looked down and Nick was still there. I waved – he beckoned – I nodded, picked up by coat and left the building. That evening, I went to the Rag Ball, met his oik-ish friends again and this time, kept my feistiness to myself.
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett.
