The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3133 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.

I was pressed against the doorway trying to shelter from the deluge which only lasted ten minutes but dampened my clothing if not my spirits, arresting just as the police arrived with blue lights but no sirens.

Two coppers, one a grizzled sergeant and a young constable emerged from the car which pulled up alongside the building on the yellow lines. “Mr Cameron?” asked the senior copper addressing his remark to Simon. “You called about your daughter being stuck in this building?”

“I did.” He beckoned the sergeant to the door and bid him listen. “Are you okay, Danni?”

“Yeah but I need a wee, Daddy.”

“How did she come to be in there?”

“We don’t know but couldn’t that wait until we have her out when I’m sure she’ll answer all your questions.”

“How did you know she was in there?”

“Another story which can wait until she’s been released and which we’ll explain to you in explicit detail.”

“Has she been falsely imprisoned or abducted?”

“I have no idea but I don’t think so, we think she got herself shut in there but how, we don’t know. However, I don’t think conducting an interview through a steel shuttered door will conducive to clarity and I also think she’s becoming anxious.”

Over the next ten minutes they spent time on their radios ascertaining the key holder of the building and trying to contact him. “This can take a little while, sir, madam.” It did but it was probably quicker than we could have done it and half an hour later a disgruntled middle aged man arrived with a white van.

His language matched his air of disgruntlement until Simon suggested a case of his favourite booze would be delivered if he could share his address with us. Naturally, her with the handbag and pen and paper became taker of such address.

With much squeaking and rattling the shutters were opened and Danni flung herself at us and sobbed. “I was frightened, Mummy.”

“I’m sure you were but you’re going to have to explain to this nice police sergeant how you came to get stuck inside.”

She hopped from leg to leg, “Can I have a wee somewhere quickly?” she squeaked and my pleading expression and the prospect of a case of drink thawed the stony heart of the liberator who showed her where the loo was.

After she was relieved from the siege of Bladderstrain, white van man went home and I suggested we all decamp to the house and statements could be made and tea drunk with biscuits if it wasn’t seen as bribery. The copper actually smiled and his colleague nodded—vigorously.

It took about twenty minutes for Simon to get my car and drive us home, I sat in the back cuddling a shivering and sobbing teen hoping her mascara was waterproof or washable. When we got there the police car was waiting for us and its two occupants followed us in. There were lots of hugs and tears then I sent Danielle up to the bathroom to wash her face with instructions to come straight down and explain what had happened. Meanwhile I boiled a kettle and made umpteen cups of tea and coffee and broke open the biscuit tin.

Like an idiot, I asked the coppers if they’d like a sandwich and ended up making one each for them and of course Danielle had one too, her fry up was dried up and would go to a good home inside a spaniel in the morning.

Basically, the story we’d all waited for wasn’t one of nasty men and kidnappings but a nervous teen who mistook someone for John Jackson and ran off when she thought he was following her, dropping her phone as she dived through an open door to hide, only to find the person whose door it was slammed it shut and pulled down the shutters before she could yell out. She found herself trapped in a small entrance hall between the outer door and an inner and equally robust one.

She then simply sat tight because she knew I would find her. The police gave me a very old fashioned look when I managed to shut Danielle up by saying how we found her.

“One of my older daughters is a computer expert and she managed to locate Danni’s phone through the GPS tracker they all have. All we had to do then was use the coordinates she gave us and start looking about for her in that area.”

“What if someone else had picked up the phone?” asked the younger copper.

“We knew it was stationary so we assumed no one had picked it up, if they had we’d have asked them to tell us where they found it and paid them for their trouble.”

“I still find it a bit slick, Mrs Cameron.”

“It’s what happened and from now on I’m going to get Samantha to put the tracking system on all our phones, so we know where everyone else is.”

“Can they do that?”

“I believe so, I shall find out tomorrow when I speak to her.”

“How many children have you got then?” asked younger cop.

“Eleven.”

“You look far too young to have eleven kids.”

“They’re adopted.”

“Did you get a bulk discount or something?”

“No, we just got lucky. They are some of the nicest children anyone could wish to have and they have all bonded as siblings.”

“So why did you think this journalist guy was after you?”

“For an interview.”

“What does he want to talk to you for?”

“I play soccer.”

“Yeah, so does my daughter, plays for the school.” Sergeant Plod was about tto have his smugness removed.

“I play for my school too,” offered Danni.

“Who else d’you play for?” I encouraged.

She blushed as she said, “Pompey ladies...”

“And?” I said firmly.

“Okay, England.”

“Oh, we got ourselves a school girl international, well done, kiddo.”

“Uh, she plays for the senior side.”

“At fourteen, I doubt it,” he scoffed.

“Show him your caps.” I said to Danielle but Si returned with his scrapbook—he keeps one with newspaper articles on her games and any photos he’s taken. He handed it to the sergeant who flicked through it.

“Jeez, this is her, isn’t it?” the series of photos from the Daily Mirror showed her doing the over head bicycle kick and the ball going into the goal. “Bloody nora, we’re in the presence of football royalty, Smith. My daughter thinks you are the main woman—I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an autograph is there?”

I went off and printed a picture of her in her England kit on proper photo paper and she signed it and handed it to the sergeant. He went off looking very satisfied and said not to worry about the incident, he’d down play it and as no one had been harmed, there was no reason for any further action.

Oh well it made a change from them recognising me and that bloody youtube clip.