UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘How do you know this? You’ve lived in Bingley all your life.’

  ‘Family legend . . . and not one we’re proud of. So please, Sean, don’t mention it to Padraig.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You know I wouldn’t upset the daft old sod.’

  They were by Northcliffe playing fields now, approaching Shipley’s ASDA. It had been raining heavily and the tarmac reflected back light from cars, streetlamps and houses. That morning’s sunshine seemed farther away than ever.

  ‘What about Mike?’ Sean asked. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he did the same sort of thing, only nastier?’

  ‘He kept his head down for long enough. Auntie Mary started hoping she’d only lose one of her boys. To the Cause, that is.’

  ‘To be sure,’ said Sean.

  ‘Mike was only biding his time,’ Pat continued, ignoring Sean’s pathetic attempt at an Irish accent. ‘Everyone knew who’d killed his dad. It was this big hard loyalist, famous for killing five men before Martin McGuire, probably as many again after. And still walking free. When Mike was finally ready, he did a Luca Brasi.’

  Sean’s ears pricked up at that. Luca Brasi was his all-time hero.

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘He went after this hard man with an axe he’d nicked from a fire station. Christ knows how but, single-handed, he overpowered him. Took him somewhere where they’d never be disturbed. And then . . . chop, chop, chop; no more hard man.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Sean. ‘I hope he did most of the chopping while the hard man was still alive.’

  ‘He did. According to the legend he did, anyway.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘So was everyone else,’ said Pat. ‘Nobody had been able to stop this loyalist for years. Then Mike comes along and does it just like that. And he was hardly out of short pants.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Ferrands was half-empty as far as customers were concerned but the air was still absolutely full of cigarette smoke. Heather was fighting back a cough when Victoria tapped her shoulder and pointed to a slightly elevated seating area to their left.

  ‘It’s more private over there,’ she said. ‘Not to mention less smoggy.’

  ‘Okay. Do you want me to get a menu?’

  ‘No, just get an extra packet of crisps. Any flavour, we can always share.’

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘What do you normally have?’

  ‘In a place like this, it has to be beer.’

  ‘In that case I’ll have the same as you.’

  Heather edged past two guys feeding the bandit and found most of the drinkers standing in the supposedly smoking-excluded safety of the bar. The only decent gap was off to the right, where half a dozen lads in their early twenties were laughing and joking together. Glad she didn’t recognize anyone from WYB, she took it and was surprised when the barman immediately materialized in front of her.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said in a Kiwi accent. ‘Had a nice day?’

  ‘It’s been wonderful,’ she replied. ‘How’s yours been?’

  ‘Not wonderful, but all the better for seeing you. What are you having?’

  ‘Two pints of Landlord, please.’

  While the barman got the drinks Heather realized her heart was up to its pounding tricks again. Not that she was complaining. A pounding heart was one of her body’s ways of expressing extreme excitement, and was exciting in itself. She hardly ever experienced extreme excitement before sleeping with a regular lover. In fact, although regular lovers were very pleasurable, they were rarely exciting, never mind extremely. Going first time with a newbie, however . . .

  Well, first time was the biggest kick of all.

  Even if the actual shag wasn’t brilliant, the anticipation invariably did the trick.

  Witch, she thought cheerfully. Wet and wicked witch . . .

  It took a while for her to realize that the loudest of the group of lads was addressing her.

  ‘I said, Excuse me miss,’ he repeated, ‘do you have the time on you?’

  Heather smiled. She wasn’t going to fall for this clown’s party piece, no matter how good-looking he was. ‘According to that over there,’ she said, pointing to an old-style, railway station-sized clock, ‘it’s quarter to seven.’

  The clown immediately squinted and said, ‘I can’t see that. I’m registered blind.’

  ‘Two Landlords,’ the barman put in, placing foaming glasses on the bar top. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Two packets of crisps, please. Any flavours, as long as they’re different.’

  The Kiwi produced a couple of enormous bags of crisps. Heather pulled the folded twenty pound note from her breast pocket and handed it over before turning back to the clown.

  ‘I bet you noticed, didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hauling his still-squinting eyes up from her chest. ‘I mean . . . bet I noticed what?’

  This brought more derision than laughter from the clown’s friends, encouraging Heather to go for the kill. Quietly, so only the group of lads could hear, she said, ‘When I first arrived, I bet you noticed how the cold air had made my nipples look like bullets, as if I was really, really ready to have sex.’

  Five pairs of eyes instantly dropped to her boobs. The sixth, squinting pair first grew as round as saucers, then dropped to her boobs.

  Amid many groans and a few chuckles, she went on, ‘Luckily for me, it’s nice and warm in here, so they’ve gone back to normal now. It’s a pity you missed them. All six of you.’

  Heather collected her change from the barman and shamelessly deposited it in the same breast pocket. She was deciding how best to ferry everything to their table when the clown approached again, more circumspectly this time.

  ‘Sorry. But a guy’s got to try, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ she said. Then, grinning, ‘I’ll tell Goldie the Guide-dog she’s redundant.’

  ‘Can I help carry your drinks?’

  ‘Thanks but no. My partner’s probably impatient already. I don’t want to make her jealous.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘She’s very much a her. If you really do want to help, you can put the corners of those crisp packets between my teeth. After I’ve picked up my beer.’

  He obliged and she nodded thanks before leaving the bar.

  My partner’s waiting. Oh good grief, my partner is waiting.

  * * *

  The killer had chosen Doncaster because it was good for prostitutes . . . or so he’d been told. Apparently every horny lorry driver in the UK overnighted there and demand was second to none. That was high recommendation indeed!

  He smiled as he cruised. Prostitutes had never previously entered his thoughts, not even for traditional purposes. But pressure had been building in him for weeks now; it had to be released.

  Somehow.

  This was his third drive-through and would be his last. He hadn’t exactly memorized the place but had already seen enough. The right area had jumped out at him straightaway. Drives two and three had been just to make sure.

  Parking outside a modern-looking pub the killer went inside and bought a pint of John Smith’s, keeping himself to himself while he drank it. Confident nobody had taken the slightest notice of him, he left the car where it was when he’d supped off. He’d be back for it later, all being well.

  Or rather, not. If all went well, the pile of shit could stay there and rust.

  Walking across an estate of 1960s and 70s houses he got back into big adventure mode. He wasn’t in the least bit nervous but did feel underdressed without the long leather jacket. Still, Different was the name of the game tonight, wasn’t it? The pressure inside him wasn’t the sort that inspired legends. Tonight wasn’t part of his magnum opus.

  ‘Practice,’ the killer murmured, ‘will make perfect.’

  The current street joined with a more major highway. From the junction the town centre was about a mile away to his right, along a road paved with p
ros. Tempting, of course, but far too risky. He wanted them hundreds of yards apart, not chatting together in twos and threes.

  And never mind witnesses, he hadn’t done this before. Hadn’t a clue what to say. It would be downright embarrassing to haggle in front of an audience.

  He’d think of something for one alone, though. He had no doubt about that.

  Humming under his breath, he turned left.

  * * *

  Victoria had taken a table so far into the raised area it was hidden from the rest of the pub. She waited until Heather unclamped her teeth, dropping the crisps onto the table, and then patted the seat beside her.

  ‘I’m so nervous,’ she said as Heather sat. She was smiling but Heather could see none of the easy confidence she’d oozed in that morning’s meeting.

  ‘I don’t know why you should ever be nervous about anything,’ Heather countered, staring into Victoria’s lovely brown eyes. ‘Not when you’re perfect in every way.’

  ‘Me!’ Victoria exclaimed. ‘Haven’t you got a mirror?’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous too.’

  ‘Well you don’t look it.’

  Heather picked up her glass. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘have a drink.’

  They both took a couple of mouthfuls. Conscious her heart was off yet again, Heather turned to the crisps. ‘Which do you fancy first? Cheese and onion? Or tomato?’

  ‘Tomato, but I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on, ask away.’

  ‘Is this . . . is it just a drink? Or is it a date?’

  Don’t say I’ve got it wrong! Heather was alarmed. Linking arms, swapping stories about Lights-out . . .

  ‘Let’s think,’ she managed. ‘I did the actual inviting, and you weren’t sure if I was proposing a few comradely drinks . . . or a proper date?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And by “date” you mean a romantic sort of thing?’

  ‘Romantic?’

  ‘Okay then, a sexual sort of thing.’

  ‘That’s more accurate.’ Victoria’s smile was less strained already.

  ‘So my invitation was ambiguous?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But, not sure what you were agreeing to, you still agreed straightaway?’

  ‘That is also correct.’

  ‘So I’m right in concluding you’d have agreed if I’d unambiguously asked you for either? Isn’t that also, also correct?’

  ‘This is like being cross-examined.’ Victoria’s smile was back to blinding. ‘But I can’t deny it’s also, also correct.’

  ‘Then there can be no doubt this is a proper date.’

  ‘Of a sexual nature? Potentially, I mean.’

  ‘It is from where I’m standing. Or rather, sitting.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing to stop me doing this . . .’

  Victoria leant towards Heather and gave her one of those kisses that started off fiery then went thermonuclear. Heather quickly decided her only choice was to hang on and enjoy it, which was easy enough. If she’d ever had any inhibitions that kiss would have blown them out of the water. Ten seconds later, when the other girl’s hand landed on her leg, inhibitions were the last thing occupying her brain.

  Yes, she thought as fingers slid up her thigh. Good grief, yes!

  Damp thong? Who cares?

  She was only distantly aware of movement by the swing doors but suddenly Victoria had pulled away. Surprised, Heather looked round to see an odd-looking character, wearing a full-length coat that nearly touched the ground and an Australian bush-hat, minus the corks. Her first impression was of Doctor Who, as played by Tom Baker; meaning years and years ago, probably in black and white before she was born. But that had to be the ridiculously long, knitted scarf wrapped round his neck, because a second glance at his face found no resemblance to Tom Baker at all.

  The man had just arrived. He was standing a couple of feet inside the doorway, in one of the few places from where their table could be seen.

  ‘Miss Hanson!’ he cried, sweeping the hat flamboyantly from his head. ‘And friend, a very good evening to you both!’ He gave each of them a nod that was almost a bow before carefully replacing his hat. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get sauced.’

  Heather copied Victoria by giving him a small wave as he strode purposefully towards the bar.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That was Dom. WYB’s best IT nerd. No, make that the most intelligent man at the Bank, bar none.’

  ‘Intelligent enough to recognize Act One of a live sex show?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he recognized what he was seeing.’

  ‘You don’t seem bothered that you . . . that we have been caught.’

  ‘I’m glad he caught us when he did. I was getting to the point where I wouldn’t have been able to stop.’ Victoria took a large swig of her beer then patted Heather on the knee. ‘What’s to be “caught” anyway? Are you ashamed of your sexuality? Or is it me you’re ashamed of?’

  ‘No . . . and no. I’m not ashamed of anything. I just don’t want you having problems with rumours at work.’

  ‘Dom doesn’t do rumours. Gallons of beer yes, every single day. Rumours no, never. So relax.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Try while I get some more drinks. It should be easy for you; you’re just friend, not a known offender like Miss Hanson.’

  ‘Known offender? That’s not what I’ve heard. And where are you going? I’m buying tonight.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Getting us together is more than enough.’

  ‘No, I insist.’ Heather went back in her breast pocket for the tenner that had come with all the coins. She waved the note at the alleged offender who raised both perfect, sexy eyebrows before finally taking it and heading after Dom.

  * * *

  Sean now had three legitimate Kings businesses. The least hyped was Kings Cars, located among a lot of other small businesses on Whitley Street, close to the geographical centre of Bingley. Although there was a servicing garage attached, Kings Cars was essentially a sales operation that catered for all tastes. A lot of the vehicles passing through were little more than bangers, but they did shift some decent motors from time to time, so the place was well-secured by night . . . making it perfect for hiding an old Rover with a boot full of firearms.

  ‘I’ll warn Joe tomorrow,’ Pat said, ‘early doors, before anyone’s about.’

  ‘Tell him it’ll be gone by dinnertime. No need to flap about it lowering the tone.’

  ‘It’s not that bad. Joe’s sold worse.’

  ‘Well don’t let him sell that fucker,’ said Sean. ‘Not until I’ve emptied it, anyway.’

  Pat used his keys to relock the gate and they set off for The Kings Head.

  ‘See?’ Sean persisted. ‘It’s hardly been raining here. There are stars in the sky. I bet it’s still pissing it down in Drabford.’

  ‘Bradford’s not that bad. You always make it sound worse than it is.’

  ‘Not possible. Drabford’s a shithole and always will be. No wonder Joey and Mike don’t like it. It must have been a hell of a shock, leaving the Emerald Isle for a place where even the snow comes down looking like crap.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Pat. ‘Their bit of Belfast is about as emerald as my arse. When they find a pub that sells a decent pint they’ll think they’re in clover.’

  ‘Shamrocks, don’t you mean?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  They both laughed and kept on walking.

  ‘Do you admire them?’ Sean asked as they approached Main Street.

  ‘Not at all,’ Pat said, sounding surprised. ‘I’m with Padraig when it comes to sectarian violence.’

  ‘It didn’t seem like that in the car. The way you were talking, you were in awe.’

  ‘No I’m not. I just appreciate what they were born into. If I’d have been born there and Padraig got murdered, I’d have done the same. Thank Christ I’m English. And thank Christ they’re through the wors
t of it in Ireland.’

  ‘Slightly divided loyalties there, Patrick. Do you pass the Cricket Test or what?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a contest,’ Pat chuckled. ‘Ireland’s far too good. They can leave tests to the Aussies next summer.’

  ‘Seriously, though?’

  ‘Seriously, win or lose I support England, like I always have. You stick with your original team, don’t you? You can’t be switching from Man United to Arsenal every other season. That’s why Padraig’s been a Burnley fan all these years.’

  They reached the pub, glanced at each other, then walked on and had a look in the window of The Kings Table. This was only the second night but the first chance to turn a profit, so there was a lot riding on it. And early indications were good: the ristorante was packed again. There was no sign of Marco, who was presumably in the kitchen, yet plenty of waiters and waitresses hovered around, looking attentive. Anne-Marie saw them peering in and waved before taking her latest order.

  ‘How'd it go last night?’ Pat wondered.

  ‘Great, didn’t cost nearly as much as I’d expected.’

  ‘Not the opening. The fun bit afterwards, with Anne-Marie.’

  ‘Oh that. Good, thank you. She’s a sweet girl.’

  ‘Sweet enough to keep you well amused, judging by the time you resurfaced. Aren’t you going to tell?’

  ‘No I’m not.’ Sean looked at Pat and saw him grinning. ‘Piss off, Paddy. I’m not telling.’

  Pat went, ‘Whooo, sorry!’

  Sean just grunted but Pat wasn’t done yet. ‘That’s a pint Andy owes me. I told him I’d get you to confess.’

  ‘I haven’t confessed anything.’

  ‘You don’t need to. It’s flipping obvious.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Clouseau. Are you going to tell me what’s so flipping obvious?’

  ‘Sure. You’re infatuated . . . already.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘Yes you are. If you weren’t, I’d be sick of hearing about how many different ways you’d fucked her.’

  ‘Trouble with you, McGuire, you know me too well.’