UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  Her eyes did that shooting wide open trick again. She must have spent three times as long as usual in bed today and hadn't spared Geoff a thought. Well, maybe she had thought of him early on . . . briefly in passing . . . but then she’d completely excommunicated him. He certainly hadn't featured in any of her thingies, not even the really big ones.

  Her latest smile was rueful. Never mind "special" and "juddering", today she'd gone right up to asteroid impact. Once or twice she really had felt the earth jarring beneath her while rainforests fell and whole species died out.

  It's nothing to fret about, she assured herself, just a clean break before the start of a new phase. Geoff's his old self again so my mornings in bed are done. I just needed one last blow-out to draw the line. That's it for me. I'll bury my not-so-little helper deep in the wheelie bin. It'll be crushed and gone with the dustmen on Friday.

  Honestly, it will . . .

  * * *

  ‘That's bollocks,’ Harry said, his voice more strangled than ever.

  Joey finally stopped smiling. ‘I'm sick of you and your baby gangsters denying everything. It’s getting very boring.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. We didn’t do your fucking safe.’

  ‘Arthur did.’

  ‘Maybe he did. But not for me.’

  ‘Strikes me Arthur’s not management quality,’ said Joey. ‘So who did he do it for, if not you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The clue’s on that beer mat, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not my writing.’

  ‘I know it’s not. But it belongs to someone in here. And I want that someone.’

  Silence . . . apart from the drills still pounding away outside.

  ‘Come on,’ Joey resumed. ‘Let's not make everybody give samples. It'd be much quicker for Mike to just blow 'em all away.’

  Harry took a deep breath. ‘Don't recognize it.’

  ‘Don't believe you.’ Joey levelled the Desert Eagle at Harry's head. ‘Five seconds, then we'll see how loyal they are when you're dead and gone.’

  ‘It's my writing,’ said Jonjo, standing without Joey's signal. Jonjo had untangled himself from Baz's remains but was drenched in gore. Like really, really drenched. He couldn’t have been so gory if he’d been made up for Hammer House of Horror. No self-respecting make-up girl would have sent him on set looking like that.

  ‘I wrote it on Monday,’ he said, ‘in Odd Fellows’. It's nothing to do with your safe. I was testing Laing, seeing if he could stay off the piss. If he made it yesterday, he'd have been in for today.’

  ‘You lying twat.’ Joey moved aim from Harry's forehead to Jonjo's, his finger starting to tighten on the trigger.

  ‘No!’ Harry yelled.

  ‘Got something there.’ Joey's smile returned. ‘Is Jonjo special, Harry? Bum-chums, are you?’

  Harry glared at the older Irishman. He wished he had a shooter. If he had he would have gone for the bastard whatever the consequences.

  ‘What’s worse for you, Harry?’ Joey switched aim from Jonjo's head to his groin and back. ‘Or are both as bad?’

  Harry said nothing so Joey fired at Jonjo’s knee, making it detonate in a blizzard of gristle and bone, sending him crashing onto the ruined carpet, his leg bent at a bizarre angle. Jonjo’s body twitched alarmingly. He looked to be having a fit.

  ‘He'll save a while,’ Joey said. ‘Now, how many more do I have to kill to make you talk? Five? Ten?’

  ‘How much?’ Harry countered.

  Joey took a few careless pot shots. The pub lounge was starting to look like a slaughterhouse. Some of the men were wailing and sobbing like little girls. The air reeked of gun smoke and shit.

  ‘How much for what?’ he asked casually.

  ‘How much to fuck off?’

  ‘Without finding Dave Peters' murderer, you mean?’

  ‘Nobody here had anything to do with that. I want your price to stop the killing and call it a draw.’

  ‘Blood money, eh?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’

  Joey considered a moment. ‘Our twelve grand, plus another ten for Peters’ widow. And we're taking back our weapons.’

  ‘I paid for those weapons.’

  ‘Too bad, you're going to have to count them as interest and charges. If you want to keep ‘em, the price goes up to thirty grand.’

  ‘What? They were only five and a half in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m using round figures. And you're no longer a valued client. You're very much an ex-client.’

  Harry glared some more. All that shooting must have been noticed, jackhammers or not. Surely word had got to the Filth and they’d arrive any second. If he dragged it out . . .

  ‘Twenty-five thousand,’ he said.

  ‘Thirty and it’s non-negotiable. You’ve still got five seconds. Don’t waste them.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake . . .’

  Ignoring him, Joey put two bullets into Arthur, finishing him off.

  ‘I've been itching to do that since last night,’ he said, with unmistakable relish. ‘Right then, what's it going to be?’

  Harry couldn’t see any alternative. ‘Thirty grand and that's it. End of story. We keep the guns. You call it quits. Permanently. No more revenge. Meaning nothing on me or anyone else in this room.’

  Joey glanced at his brother. Mike snarled at the world in general but said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ said Joey, smiling even wider. ‘Let’s see the colour of your money. This isn't going to be a credit transaction.’

  * * *

  Sean admired himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. He’d been alternating between confidence and nerves all day. Confidence was currently winning again.

  ‘Come on Luca,’ he murmured. ‘Chop, chop, chop.’

  Angel was waiting for him when he left the gents’, blocking off The Meeting Room.

  ‘That fucking Kyle,’ he said in greeting.

  ‘Now, now,’ Sean replied. ‘Not so loud. I’ve got guests, remember?’

  Angel obviously did. He let Sean manoeuvre him towards the corner of the bar before speaking again.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Sean laughed. He’d managed to attract a local councillor and two off-duty coppers into a midday card game. Quite a feat, considering he’d only come up with the idea over his cornflakes.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We’re letting them win. Well, two of them, anyway. The other’s going blind like a madman. I’ve had to stack all sorts to keep from skinting him.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re losing,’ Andy said, passing across two pints.

  ‘I’m scraping by,’ Sean replied, peeling a twenty off a bankroll that would have choked a horse.

  ‘Anyway,’ Angel went on, ‘Kyle’s doing my head in. He really does want me to break his fucking neck for him.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘He’s fucked off round the corner. Sat at the bar, drinking that girly pop of his.’

  ‘Is he pissed?’

  ‘No. He’s pissing me off though. I gave him five minutes to get his arse round here.’ Angel checked the time. ‘Quarter of an hour ago, that was.’

  ‘Did you go there yourself?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Might not be a bad thing.’ Sean shrugged. ‘Getting noticed, I mean. Like part two of my alibi.’

  ‘Can I go back and belt the fucker? That’ll get noticed.’

  ‘Give him another five. Pat’ll be here by then. He can fetch him.’

  Before Angel could object Pat strolled in through the main door. Kyle followed ten seconds later, smirking.

  ‘Twat,’ Angel growled as the younger man headed straight for the bogs.

  ‘Me?’ said Pat, tapping his own chest.

  ‘Not you.’ Angel broke into a reluctant grin. ‘I meant the other twat.’

  ‘That’s all right then. Pint of Stella please, Andy.’

  ‘Best bring it with you.’ Sean nodded towa
rds The Meeting Room. ‘They’ll be missing me. And we need some new money.’

  ‘Good job we just sold a motor then.’ Pat had a look at his watch. ‘Heard anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But we will.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Harry made a call to his wife, instructing her to get the cash to The Noble Comb as soon as possible. Sylvia was surprised but didn’t waste time with silly questions. Blonde she might be, dumb never. Not when the chips were down.

  When he announced she'd be there in half an hour the atmosphere in The Black Horse eased considerably. Even he felt better.

  Not.

  The agreement was for Harry to go with the McGuires, in case anybody decided to take after them. As if anybody would. The guys weren’t looking him in the eye right now, never mind clamouring to join the posse.

  On leaving, Harry told Barney to evacuate the hardware along with the injured, and to clear the car park. Barney nodded and told him to take care.

  And rightly so; it was dangerous out there. In addition to the two backing Mike, the McGuires had brought four other men, these dressed like road workers and toting suppressed rifles as well as pneumatic drills. Harry was glad he hadn't started dishing out his own weapons before picking teams. Armed resistance would have guaranteed a bloodbath.

  Make that even more of a bloodbath.

  The handover was smooth and quick. Sylvia was already waiting in her Corvette. Harry got the money off her and gave it to Joey. Joey checked a couple of notes then grinned widely, got back in his motor and started the engine. Mike lingered long enough for a quiet word.

  ‘I'm not soft like my brother,’ he grated. ‘Cross me again and you’ll be begging to die. I’ll cut off your arms, an inch at a time.’

  Then they were gone.

  Sylvia slid her lovely self out of the car and flicked her hair. ‘They didn't look very nice,’ she said.

  ‘You do,’ said Harry, giving her a hug.

  ‘Why don't you come home for an hour? I can be much nicer than this.’

  ‘I've a better idea. Why don't you find somewhere we can go for a week? Somewhere hot, sunny and leaving tomorrow. I’ll be home at six. After you've been really nice, you can tell me where we’re going.’

  ‘I thought you’d got something on tonight?’

  ‘Not anymore I don't.’

  He stood a while after she'd driven off. Brooding over life’s complexities and how the best laid plans could turn to ratshit.

  Without rhyme or reason.

  Sometimes even without blame.

  Although she didn't know it, the aggro with Dwyer was all Sylvia’s fault. She and Harry had married young and he was sure she'd been faithful since the day they’d wed. Before that, however, she'd been a bit wild. So had he, of course. He still was. But before the wedding it had been a teenage thing, something they allowed each other to do.

  Except . . .

  Well, except for Alice.

  At one stage Harry had been screwing Alice nearly as regularly as he’d been screwing Sylvia. Problem was, Alice knew about Sylvia but Sylvia didn’t know about Alice. And the two girls were supposed to be friends . . .

  Initially, from Harry’s point of view, it had been a good do. He hadn’t needed to mention the likes of Alice because of his deal with Sylvia. Put simply, they were both free to fuck around as long as they kept the details schtum. And he hadn’t really wanted to know who’d been knobbing Sylvia anyway. Unfortunately Alice played to different rules. Especially after sex, when she still had her claws out.

  ‘What a tart,’ she’d said one unforgettable evening, ‘and proud of it too!’

  Like an idiot he’d asked and she’d duly obliged.

  Last Friday, she’d gleefully informed him, during that hen night in Bingley. Sylvia had pulled in no time. Fast, even by her standards. The other hens thought she'd just disappear for the “usual” half an hour or so, then catch them up at the next pub. But she hadn't. It had been after midnight when she finally resurfaced in Porkys. Turned out her easily-pulled older man (who’d been as ancient as twenty-one) had given her the seeing-to of her life.

  ‘He'd cum in her seven times,’ Alice said, chuckling wickedly. ‘She told everyone, including the bloke behind the bar. You could tell she'd mashed her brains. She was even dizzier than normal.’

  The older man had been Sean Dwyer. In those days Dwyer had been well on the way to being a face. Harry had been a lowly football hooligan. Killing the bastard hadn't been an option. And he hadn’t been able to confront Sylvia, because she hadn’t technically done anything wrong.

  Apart from being so impressed she had to tell every man, his dog and the twat behind the fucking bar!

  Harry couldn't even express his jealous rage to Alice without looking like a tosser, because she knew about their deal. His only option had been to start screwing her again, hoping he could cum another six times, struggling to manage it twice.

  Seven-three to Superstud . . . what a bastard.

  He’d harboured a grudge against Dwyer ever after. And (surprise, surprise!) when he did start mixing with major players, Dwyer was the one he could never get on with.

  But fuck the past. Harry went into the pub and bought two pints of Strongbow, downing the first in one and immediately ordering another two, shrugging when the barmaid remarked on his thirst, hardly noticing her youth and beauty. Paying for his drinks then immediately forgetting her very existence.

  * * *

  Heather glanced at her in-box and, not for the first time, wished Steve hadn’t changed seats. Until recently he’d been occupying the desk immediately to her right, although he did flit about a lot, covering for absences. These last few days he’d been doing a special job on the other side of the office. The emails had been flowing ever since.

  Her smile was wry. It was nice to be missed, but this was getting silly.

  She checked for snoops before opening the latest message, quickly clicking it shut again. It wasn’t in the least work-related . . . and it most definitely wasn’t in line with WYB’s Internet Policy.

  No-one had noticed. She had another stealthy check over her shoulder before reopening, catching a chuckle with her hand.

  Today’s exchange had started with a cartoon from Steve: one of Snow White, naturally, quite scantily clad, but not too indecent. She was looking at the dwarves with a pensive finger to her lips. Steve’s caption read:

  WHOSE TURN TO BE “HAPPY” TONIGHT?

  Heather had spent lunchtime surfing for a response, finding plenty of possibilities. She’d finally settled on one showing Snowy taking a fully grown lover . . . so fully grown he seemed to be bashing twenty inches into her. In this vibrant image, everyone’s favourite princess was naked apart from her frilly panties, which were hooked around a waving ankle.

  Even though it was pure porn Heather reckoned the drawing had merit. Snow White’s face was all appreciative Os (cooing mouth, wide-open eyes and matching circles of colour on her cheeks). Her lover was all vigour and strength. If asked to sum it up in art class, she’d have used the word enthusiastic. To her mind the cartoonist had perfectly captured the joyous energy of two humans shagging. Not to mention the dynamics: those panties really did seem to be twirling in the air.

  She shouldn’t have responded so provocatively, no question about that, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. Just as she hadn’t been able to keep from adding a caption of her own.

  SOME DAY MY PRINCE WILL COME . . . ALTHOUGH NOT UNTIL I SAY NOW!

  Provocative? Well, at least she’d swapped cum for come.

  Steve’s reply had taken more than an hour. Maybe he’d been lost for words. Or maybe he’d actually been doing some work for once. Anyhow, it was here at last, and all he’d managed was the single line under her caption:

  NEVER MIND SOME DAY, WHY DON’T YOU SAY NOW TODAY?

  Heather responded with:

  SAME REASON AS ALWAYS. YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS.

  Within two seconds he bounced
back with a sad blue smiley and:

  TEASE!!

  Before replying to sender she added dozens of sad blue smileys and:

  DON’T WANT TO BE, BUT NEEDS MUST.

  Then, more than slightly pensive, she went for her break.

  Mary Rose would have done that, she thought, taking her cup from the drinks machine. Picked the most outrageous image and added an incendiary comment . . . except Mare wouldn’t have chickened when her target immediately took the bait.

  Cluck, cluck indeed!

  The vending machine was in the corridor, outside the main office. Still having ten minutes to drink her coffee, Heather strolled across to the nearest window sill and got out her mobile.

  ‘To be or not to be,’ she murmured, before smiling again. However she dressed this up, she was going to come across like a bitch in heat, and not least because she was a bitch in heat. All that rot about being off men and what was she about to do?

  ‘Shouldn’t,’ she said, and dialled anyway, getting the unavailable tone. Supposing she’d made a mistake, she redialled: same tone.

  Okay then, what about Steve? I owe him something for flirting so wantonly, and it’s that leaving do tonight. A one-off, never-to-be-repeated below job would prove I’m not a tease, wouldn’t it?

  Maybe two or three, never-to-be repeated below jobs . . .

  And below jobs don’t strictly count as “sex”, do they?

  Well, do they?

  Mavis was Steve’s old friend from Premises. Nobody else from Joanna’s team would be there to bid her farewell. Steve had invited Heather along to keep him company, saying he’d hardly know anyone and was only attending to be polite.

  I could always change my mind and go with him. Make our excuses after a couple of drinks . . .

  Back to the penthouse . . .

  Lay down the rules then below him to Heaven . . .

  Perhaps indulge in a little sixty-nine . . .

  Resisting the temptation to go further, of course, because I’m so not a horny witch . . .

  Unconvinced, Heather selected another number.

  ‘Hello, Sean Dwyer.’

  ‘Hello Sean Dwyer, Heather Hunter calling. Remember me?’