First Frost by Henry James Page A

heard her say, as he pushed against the main revolving door into the store. ‘I’ll get a ticket.’
    ‘Let’s hurry up, then,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘We want the third floor.’
    ‘Whatever for?’ Clarke was close behind him now, Frost’s progress being impeded by hordes of OAPs hunched around the bargain bins on the ground floor.
    ‘Come on,’ he shouted above the din of excited old codgers, ‘we’ll take the back stairs.’
    The third floor was much less crowded, the school-uniform area all but empty and just a few housewives browsing in the lingerie section. Frost, with Clarke dutifully following a few paces behind, meandered through the colourful aisles. ‘What sort of underwear tickles your fancy, Sue?’ he asked loudly. ‘French knickers?’
    ‘G-strings, preferably black,’ Clarke said crossly, struggling to keep up. ‘What the hell do you think?’
    ‘Only asking,’ he said. ‘Come over here, there’s something I want to try.’ He sprinted ahead.
    ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Clarke, ‘you’re one of those men who likes to wear women’s underwear.’
    ‘The fire door,’ he muttered, continuing towards the changing rooms in the far corner.
    At the entrance to the changing area was a desk and an unruly pile of numbered plastic discs. But there was nobody around, and even if there had been on Saturday, Frost doubted an attendant would have been able to see what went on further down the corridor. A returns rack blocked much of the view towards the cubicles and, of course, that fire exit.
    He slowly made his way down the corridor before pausing to look back. Yes, it was certainly obscured. Nobody could see a thing: the security in this place, it was a joke.
    Where the hell had Clarke got to? Frost pushed on towards the green double-door fire exit, and began rattling the release bar.
    ‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ came an authoritative female voice some distance behind him.
    He turned to encounter a buxom, middle-aged woman bearing down on him. Christ, he thought, it’s Mrs Slocombe straight fr om Are You Being Served? The buttons on her blouse looked as if they might ping off at any second.
    ‘No, we’re all right – just looking,’ Frost said, again glancing around for Clarke.
    ‘Looking at what, sir? These are the changing rooms for the lingerie and school-uniform departments. Menswear is on the second floor.’
    ‘In that case I appear to have made a mistake,’ he said, trying to avoid the woman’s suspicious stare. ‘This way, is it?’ he said, turning back round and giving the metal bar of the fire exit a hefty shove.
    A shrill, deafening ring blasted out. ‘It works,’ he said, surprised, walking out on to the fire escape. That bloody store manager Butcher must have had the batteries changed. There was a worrying creak, more a crack, as he peered over the edge.
    ‘You can’t go out there!’ the woman was shouting behind him, trying to make herself heard above the piercing din of the alarm. ‘Come back at once, or I’ll have to get security.’
    Ignoring her, Frost edged further out, clutching the rusty metal railing. He felt a wave of vertigo. Below him was a skip full of mannequin parts – lurid pink arms and legs and torsos, and the odd bald head. Beyond it was the loading bay, an articulated lorry parked up. The gates to the back of the building from the street – which must have been Piper Road – were wide open. There was no evidence of a security post, no one checking who was coming in and out.
    The manager might have panicked and got the fire-exit alarm working again, but overall the store’s security set-up was poor.
    The piercing ringing, Frost realized, had now stopped. He turned round to be confronted by the Mrs Slocombe figure. She had been joined by a burly middle-aged man in a suit, clearly a security guard. Both stood in the doorway, not venturing out on to the fire escape.
    ‘Sure this platform is safe?’ Frost gave it a good