Unforgiving

by Nick Oldham

  ‘You know,’ Morton said, stressing both words with deliberation.

  ‘Know what?’ Jake realized this was a stupid game, but wasn’t going to relent.

  ‘I’m not going to spell it out … Unwritten rule, OK?’

  ‘So … if it’s an unwritten rule, then I can’t fucking break it, can I?’ Jake shook his head sadly, as if Morton was the one in the wrong, got into his car and screeched away across the tarmac whilst Morton watched him disappear.

  Jake knocked quietly. Four times with the tip of his forefinger. Then took a step back and waited. His heart pounded, his mouth was dry; it was almost the same sense of anticipation he’d felt in the back of the van, waiting for the target to put in an appearance.

  He heard soft footsteps.

  She hadn’t had time to change, was still in full battledress, although she had removed her boots and replaced them with big fluffy slippers, a ridiculous combination. She had on her ballistic vest and utility belt, attached to which were her handcuffs, baton, CS canister holder – now empty, as the canister itself had been logged back into the system – PR harness and torch ring.

  Jake grinned at the slippers.

  ‘Something funny?’

  ‘Just you,’ he said, now feeling an extra rush that he definitely hadn’t felt in the back of the van, even if he had been sitting next to this woman. As exciting as it was chasing armed villains, it never gave him an erection.

  ‘Come in.’

  He edged past, chest to chest, into the hallway of the tiny flat. She pushed the door closed, and they were face-to-face, inches apart.

  Jake gasped, moved his face forwards and brushed his lips against hers. His intention had been to do this softly and slowly. Explore, touch, take time, experience everything in slow motion. Run his lips down her long neck – but as they clashed together, all those good intentions shot out of the window. The first few seconds were gentle, but then all those hours of pent-up frustration, having been in such close proximity to each other and unable to do anything about it, made them want to burst, and the frustration was unleashed.

  It all happened there and then in that hallway.

  Their overalls were ripped off as their mouths mashed and ground together, each greedily removing the other’s garments and equipment, thick leather belts thudding heavily on the floor, clothes torn off and flung away until they were both naked. Jake raised her on to him, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, and he slid deep into her, thrusting and banging against the wall. Then, thus engaged, he carried her the few steps to the bedroom, most of which was taken up by an enormous king sized bed. They fell on to the duvet, Jake above her, pinning her arms above her head and moving his hips in a circular motion, using the full length of his hard cock to probe slowly then quickly, then deeply, pelvis to pelvis.

  Then she took charge, flipping him on to his back, straddling him and arching backwards so he had to stretch to reach her breasts. But he was deep inside her, and she rose and fell with a wonderful rhythm as he grew even harder, feeling her own waves of pleasure course out from her sex. Jake held her bottom with one hand and ran his other all over her, and then he was unable to hold himself any longer.

  He came with juddering, uncontrolled spasms as she fell forwards on to him, her soft breasts pushed into his chest, holding his head between the palms of her hands, tearing at his lips with her teeth. As he finished, she climaxed, but slowed it all down, moaning with delight as she sagged on to him, exhausted.

  ‘Oh God, I wish you could stay,’ she whispered.

  ‘So do I, Kirst, so do I.’

  ‘You could, you know.’

  To that he did not reply. He knew he could not and that he would be leaving within the next ten minutes.

  He had a home to go to.

  And a family.

  And a wife.

  And at that moment, it was destroying him.

  He left, as he knew he would. Kirsten lay in bed, watching him collect his clothing from the hallway and then re-dress himself whilst sitting on the edge of the bed. In silence. She watched him crossly, her eyes stone cold.

  He could not find anything to say, and he left without a word or a kiss.

  Outside, morning had arrived full on, and as he emerged into daylight he was very unsettled. He knew he could not maintain this. Something would have to give.

  He had parked three streets away and made it to his car, all the while with the unpleasant sensation that he was being watched by a hundred pairs of eyes, all of them knowing his guilty secret.

  He actually saw no one and tried to scoff at his paranoia, but could not shake it off. It was always with him these days and came with the territory of being a cheat.

  But he was right about one thing. A hundred pairs of eyes were not watching him.

  Just the one pair.

  THREE

  Jake Niven dithered just a few seconds before sliding his key into the front door of his house. He took a deep breath to brace himself. Already, he could hear his wife, Anna, screeching at the kids.

  The house was in Bispham, just to the north of Blackpool, on a small estate that was about ten years old. Detached, three-bedroomed, it was the second home he and Anna had owned. The first had been a very modest terraced house – still in Bispham – and they had traded up for this modern one five years ago. Even though it was detached and had an extra bedroom and a garden, it still felt more cramped than the first home. But it was nearer to the sea, and a couple of minutes on foot got Jake running along the cliff tops overlooking the magnificent beach below.

  He swallowed and inserted the key, shaking off his paranoia and fixing a smile to his face, then stepping into the hallway and announcing his arrival home.

  He was met by his son, Danny, hurtling down the stairs half-dressed in school uniform, shirt and tie askew, last minute as ever. He managed to stop himself from colliding with Jake, gave him a lopsided glance and rushed through the lounge towards the kitchen shouting, ‘Will you stop yelling, Mum?’

  Jake dropped his kit bag in the hall and took another breath, not noticing that his daughter Emma was standing halfway down the stairs, looking curiously at him.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’

  Jake suddenly switched back on, annoyed at himself for being caught off guard. ‘Hey, honey … just tired, that’s all. Been a long, long night.’

  Emma came down the last few steps and gave him a hug.

  ‘How are you, babe?’ he asked, his chin on her shoulder. She was just fourteen, quite tall, and was definitely becoming a woman, but would always be his little babe, even if she was a bit of a tomboy and well into her karate classes.

  She drew away and looked quizzically at him. ‘I’m good, Dad.’ Her hazel eyes narrowed. They were almost Asian in shape, and Jake realized that in the very near future, boys would be drooling over them. They were killer eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ He had seen her expression.

  ‘Um … nothing … just …’ she floundered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You smell odd. Like you, but not like you. Sweet, or something.’

  Jake’s guts did a three-sixty degree turnaround. This kid, he thought, is too observant for her own good – or mine. She had picked up another scent on him.

  ‘A night in the back of a van, coupled with the quick wash before I left HQ,’ he lied quickly. He gave her his best quirky-dad grin and poked her shoulder gently. ‘You had your breakfast yet?’

  ‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘Running late—’ The sound of her mother’s voice cut her off.

  ‘Emma!’

  ‘Better get moving … she’s on the warpath again.’ She pecked Jake’s cheek and followed the path her brother had taken – lounge, then kitchen.

  Jake cursed under his breath as he peeled off his windcheater and slung it over the end of a radiator, then removed his boots. They came off easily because he hadn’t laced them up. Then he followed the wake of the kids.

  ‘Hi, hi,’ he said brightly, e
ntering the kitchen and planting a kiss on Anna’s cheek. She was busy slapping tuna and mayo on to bread, making sandwiches for school lunches. She half returned the kiss with a twitch of her lips and said, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. And a result,’ he said and jabbed a fist into the air. ‘Cops, one, crims, nil.’

  ‘Long night, though?’

  ‘Too bloody long,’ he said, wondering suspiciously if it was a cynical question based on suspicion. ‘But the baddie turned up and we nailed him.’

  ‘What time?’ Anna’s eyes flickered to the kitchen clock on the wall above the work surface she was busy at.

  Jake screwed up his face. ‘What time what?’

  ‘Did he turn up …? The bad guy.’

  Jake glanced at the clock and did some quick mental calculations. He added three-quarters of an hour to the time that Wayne Oxford was actually arrested and said this to Anna. She nodded. For a moment Jake thought she was going to challenge this, but she didn’t. For the third time in as many hours, his mouth freeze-dried instantly. She slammed a slice of bread on top of another and, selecting a very sharp knife from the block, she cut the sandwich in half, then stacked it into a lunch box.

  He watched the process, transfixed for a moment, before turning to put the kettle on, shouldering Danny playfully out of the way. His son was eighteen months older than Emma and was growing just as fast. He was getting tall and broadening out across the chest and shoulders. A few tufts of bum-fluff were appearing on his jawline, proudly displayed for the moment. So far the father/son relationship had not deteriorated into a generation war, but Jake could sense battle lines being drawn. Some minor skirmishes had happened, and there was a slight, but ever increasing distance between them.

  ‘I’ll run ’em both to school,’ Jake volunteered as he poured boiling water on to a tea bag.

  Usually, the children caught separate buses to their schools, both hating the morning trudge to the bus stop in any weather. A lift from a parent was always a treat.

  ‘But you’ve been working all night,’ Anna protested.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jake said patiently, ‘then I’ll get my head down.’

  ‘Cheers, Dad,’ Danny said, gesturing his thanks by raising his cereal bowl.

  Anna shot Jake a look of disdain. She belonged to the school of thought that it was good for them to have to make their own way. One of life’s little lessons. She loved them both like crazy, but didn’t mollycoddle them and was always slightly miffed when Jake took them or picked them up.

  ‘Dad, you are a star,’ Emma said and slotted two pieces of bread into the toaster. Now there was a bit of time to relax.

  Danny edged out of the kitchen into the front room and dropped on to the settee, glad of the respite. He now had a ten minute window to chillax. He put on the TV – CBBC – and started watching Tracy Beaker, which just happened to be on at that time.

  ‘All I have to do today is sleep,’ Jake said defensively.

  ‘And pick us up from school,’ Emma chirped hopefully.

  ‘Maybe that, too, babe.’

  With his mug of tea, Jake sat with Danny watching TV, whilst Anna finished up in the kitchen. When the children were ready, he did the school run.

  By the time he returned, Anna had gone. She worked mornings at a local builder’s yard where she organized the office and dealt with that day’s orders and deliveries. Three hours a day, ten pounds an hour, five days a week. Not a lot, but important money that helped ensure the family got away a couple of times a year to the sun.

  Jake was relieved to find the house empty, though he was surprised Anna had gone so early. She usually did 9.30 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. and didn’t leave home until 9.15 a.m.

  He took a long shower, soaping off every trace of the night, then climbed into the unmade bed and was instantly asleep.

  Anna went into work early in order to leave early, her employers being fairly flexible on that score. As long as the work was done, they were happy. She therefore left at 12.15 p.m. and drove south along the seafront at Blackpool, past the remnants of Pontins holiday camp, the scene (although she did not know this) of Wayne Oxford’s arrest at gunpoint a few hours before. Clifton Drive angled slightly inland, but when she turned right on to Todmorden Road, then left on to North Promenade at St Annes, she was back on the shore. She drove past the boating lake and miniature golf course, then pulled on to the car park next to the Beach Terrace Café, went in and claimed a table.

  She didn’t have long to wait.

  She had spent a little time looking unfocused out across the sand dunes to the Irish Sea, which was a long way out. When she looked around she saw her friend Jackie Powers threading her way through the tightly arranged tables. Anna rose; they embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks. Very old friends now, sixteen years’ standing. Both women were now in their mid-thirties.

  Anna ordered them both a soup and sandwich and a coffee, then returned to the table where she sat nervously and surveyed her friend. ‘You’re looking good.’

  Jackie grinned ironically. ‘Sixteen years of shifts does this to a woman.’ She tilted her head and framed her face between her hands. Underneath her jacket she was wearing her police uniform, minus tie and epaulettes. These items would be going on when she reported for duty at three. Jackie looked at Anna, paused, then returned the compliment, but didn’t mean it.

  Anna Niven, née Andsell, had been one of the most stunning looking young women that Jackie – no slouch in the looks department herself – had ever seen. They had met, both at the age of nineteen, when they joined the police at the same time, went through initial training together, and then even got the same initial posting to the same location: Blackpool Central. Which was good, as both girls were Blackpool born and bred.

  Jackie recalled those early times with fondness. Both of them had spent a lot of effort fending off advances from testosterone-fuelled young male cops. The difference between them was that Jackie had succumbed to more advances than she would ever have admitted to, while Anna had fallen under the spell of just the one: the young, cocksure recruit called Jake Niven. They had fallen madly in love with each other, and as soon as they’d completed their probationary period, they’d married, settled, and Anna had got pregnant.

  Jackie had had her doubts, citing that both were too young, but as it transpired, it seemed to be a match made somewhere near heaven.

  On the other hand, Jackie had been through two disastrous marriages – both to cops – and was now resolutely single and loving it.

  As Jackie critically eyed her friend in the café that day, for the first time she saw a woman who was approaching middle age too quickly. Pale, tired looking, even haunted; bags under her eyes, hair scraped back, an expression of hopelessness on her face and a quickly spreading frame. Behind that veneer, though, she also saw the same extraordinary looking lady she had once been. Jackie was convinced that Anna could have been a supermodel, but all she’d wanted was a good husband and family. Nothing wrong in that.

  The two ladies hadn’t seen each other for a few months, and they caught up with each other’s news. Jackie was having problems with her current boyfriend, and Anna spoke of the day-to-day drudgery that was her life.

  Finally, they finished eating and were sipping their coffees.

  Outside it started to rain heavily, large spats of icy water covering the windows and blurring the view of the sand dunes.

  Jackie had never had the capacity to see the follies in her own relationships – until they went sour – but she was an expert at spotting the creaky signs in other people’s. She leaned back in her chair and regarded her friend, who avoided her gaze by dropping her eyes. Something knotted tight in the pit of Jackie’s stomach as she said, ‘So now, tell me, lovely, what’s up? Spit it out.’

  Anna stared into her coffee, which was the colour of tarmac, not denying anything. She stared into it for a long time before raising her face. ‘How do you know if your husband’s cheating on you?’

  Tha
t response did not faze Jackie. She quipped instantly back, ‘Y’mean short of finding him in bed with some floozy?’

  FOUR

  ‘I think we’ve got him.’

  They were words of gold to Henry Christie’s rather ragged ears. At least, his left ear was ragged, having been partially shot off about six months earlier by a shotgun wielded by one of the most violent individuals Henry had ever had the misfortune to encounter in his long police career. The blast of the gun had basically skimmed the left side of his face, and the few pellets that didn’t embed themselves in his cheek had nicked his ear. Although he’d undergone plastic surgery since then, the shape of the ear remained like a cog in a gearbox. The pellets wedged in his face had been surgically removed, and the scars were almost healed now, though they were still clearly visible, like raised flecks of silver on his skin. Henry knew they would never completely disappear. Scars for life. Badges of rank … badges of pain.

  When he heard the words spoken by PC Jake Niven over the radio, Henry had been sitting in the comms room at Blackpool nick from where he commanded the operation – Amethyst – to follow and arrest Wayne Oxford, a young thug wanted for the murder of an innocent kid on the Shoreside estate in Blackpool a few weeks earlier.

  The death had come as the result of an ambush by Oxford, who had been lying in wait for a deadly rival in a nasty turf war over who could deal drugs on the estate. Unfortunately, a completely innocent boy had been caught in the crossfire and shot fatally in the head.

  Identifying Oxford as the killer had been the easy part for Henry, who was the Senior Investigating Officer (SIO) in the case.

  Catching him had proved more difficult.

  Henry’s murder squad had been faced with a stone wall of people out to protect Oxford, some of whom had now marked their cards for Henry and would later face obstruction charges. Henry had leaned on a lot of Blackpool’s lowlifes during the manhunt – and his shotgun ravaged face, he discovered much to his delight, came in very useful when intimidating some of the little shits whose cages he was rattling. It was as a result of pinning one up against a wall and squeezing a set of testicles that he’d got strained word that Oxford might be found that very night in a fleapit flat in South Shore and also that he was supposed to be bedding down in another flat in St Annes. The in-pain snitch had only known the address of the first property.