Fare evasion

Piccadilly station, Manchester. Not somewhere they usually check your tickets as you leave the train, but on this occasion the inspectors had descended on the platform opposite mine.

There were three officials on duty. Two were taking money from those who’d underpaid, whilst their more senior colleague engaged in deep and serious conversation with a pretty young lass wearing a stylish, short dress.

See, he’d been suspicious when she’d hesitated in providing her personal details, having explained that she must have dropped her ticket on the way to the birthday party she was attending. Did she really have nothing with her that could confirm her name? Why did her apparent address not match the postcode she had given? Why did she look vaguely familiar to him?

She didn’t notice the police officer behind her; the first she knew was when her hands were pulled sharply behind her back and the cold steel of the cuffs embraced her wrists. Her cheeks burnt with shame as she was marched through the rush-hour crowd, and let to the waiting patrol car.

The procedure was surprisingly swift. A plain Victorian building barely two minutes drive from the station; a signature in a log book from the constable as he led her inside. Stripped, roughly. Thrown into a cold cell. Made to wait – twenty minutes, no more, before the arresting officer reappeared accompanied by a gentleman who introduced himself as the duty magistrate.

The circumstances of the case were briefly explained. Along with her real name and address, gleaned when they had searched her belongings. Oh, and the fact that a check if the computer had revealed that this was the third time this year she had been found evading fares.

“Twelve strokes for theft; doubled for providing false details,” came the swift sentence as the magistrate turned on his heels and left. No room for debate. And immediately she was being dragged down the corridor, led into the end cell, hosted into position over a wooden punishment frame and tied into position.

The only slow part of the proceedings was the flogging – twenty seconds or more between the strokes, to allow each to have its maximum input. And afterwards, shaking, she was ordered to put on her clothes from the pile on the floor, and thrown out onto the street in a daze: “We’re sure you can find your own way back to Piccadilly. Enjoy the party…”