A Bank Line tale

(Fiction – maybe)

by Alan Rawlinson and John Wale

Unknown to the lads onboard, hungry and salivating over the dinner to come, their shipmate Cocky was in trouble.   It had started out alright when he had spruced himself up and gone ashore to ring a cab.  The phone was inside the shed on the quay, and without realising it he had called what turned out to be a dodgy number.  The corrugated wall was plastered with garish cards and advertising of all sorts and he had carefully picked a pink one saying, “ TAXI – We take good care of you and all your needs”.   He should have known, he reflected later.  The clue was in the wording. Anyway, here he was, feeling somewhat trapped on plush leather seating in the back of the limousine, swaying through the streets of Liverpool with a girl either side and brightly painted fingernails grasping his inner thigh.  Music blared out from the boom boxes, and he vaguely wondered if this really was a regular taxi.  It was reggae blasting his ears but his immediate and most pressing thoughts and concern were for his nether regions!    Suddenly, a hand with a glass was thrust in front of his face and he heard the girls giggling.  “  What’s a handsome boy like you doing on a dirty old ship like that ”, a voice said.     It sounded far away, but maybe it was down to the combination of the scented interior, the drink, and the singing that had started up.    He recognised the Scouse accent, but the tune was not “ Maggie May”, far from it.   He looked out from behind the grubby curtains.  They should have reached the Liver building where the Agents were, but instead the Limo seemed to be heading for the Birkenhead tunnel.   Cocky wondered idly what the Captain would say.  “ How about a club, La?” ,  said a disembodied voice in his ear.  It was a statement more than a question and Cocky realised he was in deep trouble.   It was time to assert himself, but how?

to be continued……

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