It was a seedy bar, probably just on the cusp of illegality. If Detective Inspector Alex Drake had been so inclined she could have probably found a dozen infractions which would lead a magistrate to close it down, ranging from fire regulations to the definite smell of pot in the toilets. She sighed, back in the twenty-first century the only time she would come into a bar like this was surrounded by twenty burly cops and sniffer dogs. But then the Twenty First century was much more liberal than 1984, at least in terms of sexuality. Back at home, in her own time, she was out and proud, a fully paid up, and active, member of the Gay Police Association. Here, well she thought Chris would have thought Gay meant the happy Police Association, Ray would have wanted to watch and as for Gene Hunt... Well, thought Alex Drake, for both her sanity and that of her boss it was much better to pretend she was straight. Not that she lied... she didn't have to – they just assumed that lesbians were all dungaree wearing hippies camped out round Greenham Common and that all it would need to make them heterosexual was a bit of male cock.
None of them would believe that a woman who voted Conservative, wore make-up, went to a hair stylist for expensive cuts and wore glamorous clothes would lie in bed at night fantasising about sixty-nining with Madonna. Unfortunately this gay bar was short of Madonnas, or at least the 1984 version. Alex felt that her police colleagues dealt in stereotypes, but looking around the lesbian bars clientele she thought that so did eighties lesbians. With their bovver boots, piercing and shorn heads most of the women wouldn't have looked out of place at a National Front rally, though she suspected most of them would have been the ones trying to break through the police cordon to rip the Nazi's to shreds. Why, oh why, couldn't some of them shave under their armpits – that at least was common amongst most eighties women, even if full Brazilians had yet to catch on. She sipped at her drink, if it was a Martini she was Dutch – another infraction under the Trade Descriptions Act.
Shaking her head, Alex directed away the fat, ugly troll who had stomped over to chat her up. The woman walked away, looking for a more pliable partner. Alex knew she shouldn't be so picky, it had been over a month since she'd had sex; fingers and toys would do for a time, but she needed real company. Toying with her drink Alex decided she'd give it five more minutes and if no-one remotely attractive arrived, well she'd go up to small skinhead sitting at the bar who was giving her the eye and see if she wanted to go home.
The five minutes went faster than Alex had hoped, so quickly that she decided to give herself another five and then another. Still no joy, she drank the last of her 'Martini' and stood up; the small skinhead would have to do. Picking up her jacket she quickly cast a last desperate eye over towards the door.
And that was when WPC Sharon 'Shaz' Granger walked in. Alex's colleague looked around nervously before cautiously walking over to the bar. Alex draped her jacket back over the chair, and gave a quick thank you to a God she wasn't sure she believed in. She walked over behind Shaz. The young WPC was in her civilian clothes, beret, stripy top, tight white jeans and boots, with a Walkman headphone was clasped round her neck. She was looking nervously at the drinks, seemingly unsure what to get.
"Hello Shaz" said Alex.
The young WPC jumped at the mention of her name. Her frightened face turned round to look at Alex's, "Ma'am," she gasped out in her thick Essex accent, "I'm not a lezzer, honest Ma'am. I'm just here for a drink."
It was so obviously a lie Alex wondered why Shaz would think she'd believe her. Desperation probably, good little eighties plonks made the tea and laughed at their superiors jokes – they certainly didn't go to seedy lesbian pick-up bars. She smiled at the nervous young policewoman, "In that case why don't I get you one. What do you want?"
"Bacardi and coke," Shaz forced a smile onto her face. Alex had always thought her colleague was attractive when she smiled, she had just never thought that she might also be a lesbian
Turning to the barmaid, Alex said, "Bacardi and Coke and a Babycham," if you could ruin a Martini, you couldn't ruin a Babycham.
Picking up the drinks she headed for the table followed closely by Shaz, the young WPC casting worried looks at the women around them. Alex raised her glass to her lips and rapidly revised her notion that you couldn't ruin a Babycham, it was warm and flat. At least Shaz seemed to like her Bacardi, as she sat there sipping it. A thought seemed to come to the Essex Girl, "What are you doing here Ma'am? Are you undercover?"
Alex grinned and put down her drink, "No Shaz, I'm a lezzer, a muff-muncher, a rug-eater, a dyke or whatever other charming words Ray can think to describe lesbians as."
"Oh," replied Shaz and went beetroot red.
Alex reached her hand across the table and lent it gently on Shaz's, allowing her fingers to stroke the WPC's skin. If Alex was wrong about Shaz's sexuality her hard won reputation with the team would be going out the window, to be replaced with locker room sniggering and smutty innuendoes. She paused, pleased that Shaz hadn't reacted by snatching her hand away, "Shaz, you're not really here for a drink are you? You're a lesbian."
"Oh Ma'am," Shaz looked like she was about to cry, "I feel so disgusting, but I can't help it; it's just the way women look – they do something to me. I'm sorry, it's wrong."
Alex tried not to smile, she could remember feeling the same way. Luckily she had lost her virginity in her teens with one of her schoolfriend's and had never looked back. She couldn't imagine what it was like to be in your mid-twenties and still be trying to repress your feelings. She stroked her thumb against the back of Shaz's hand and tried to speak encouragingly, "It's not disgusting Shaz. Some women like men, others like other women. Neither is right or wrong, they just are."
"Thanks, Ma'am," Shaz kept one of her hands under Alex's, but put the other one up to wipe away a tear. She gave a sniff and forced a smile, "I wish I could be like you. I'm just a silly girl."
A silly girl, with nice knockers thought Alex, but not silly at all, just living in a decade where lesbians were regarded as slightly above communists. She didn't say that though, instead she said, "Why don't we go to my place? We can talk in private. Oh, and when we're off duty call me Alex."
"I'd like that... Alex," smiled Shaz. She reached for her back.
Alex finished her Babycham and got up. She wondered if Shaz knew going back to her place to talk was code for going back to her place to fuck like rampant bunnies...
*
Alex had kept her hands to herself in the Black Cab. Even in 2008 drivers looked askance at women making out in their back seat, she imagined that in 1984 the cab drivers would be even less liberal; she didn't fancy being dropped out in the middle of London and made to walk home. But it was that also Shaz still looked nervous, as if she wasn't sure what she was doing their and Alex didn't want to scare her off.
She switched on the light to her flat and turned to Shaz, "Would you like a drink?"
