UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  UNCONSECRATED

  GROUND

  By

  Mark Woolridge

  Published for Kindle

  © Mark Woolridge 2015

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author.

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  www.kindle-publishing-service.co.uk

  UNCONSECRATED

  GROUND

  Dean Charles (“Dion”) O’Banion was buried at Mount Carmel Cemetery on November 14th, 1924 in a $10,000 silver and bronze casket. His funeral procession was a mile long, including twenty-six cars and trucks just to carry the flowers. Despite the spectacular turnout O’Banion’s grave was originally sited in unconsecrated ground, because the Archbishop of Chicago refused to allow so notorious a racketeer to rest among good Catholics. Following family protests, he was later reinterred in the cemetery proper.

  Less notorious racketeers haven’t always bowed out in such style

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  EPILOGUE

  BEST SERVED COLD

  PROLOGUE

  West Yorkshire – the early 1990s

  John Hunter groaned as the rattle in his engine changed tune. It sounded even worse than usual, making the Border Collie in the passenger seat give him a funny look.

  ‘Steep hill, this,’ the farmer bluffed. ‘It’ll even out over the tops.’

  Gyp wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Honest Injun, it’ll be purring like a BMW again. You wait and see.’

  John laughed as his dog gave up on him and stuck its head out of the window. Getting some sensible cool air, he supposed, instead of his silly hot air.

  Not that it was cool outside. It was mid-July and the Landy’s bald tyres weren’t rolling along, they were squelching through melting tar. And who was he kidding about purring like a BMW? This old heap never had purred.

  ‘There,’ he said as the road levelled off, ‘told you.’

  Gyp kept his head in the wind and ignored him.

  John kept the worn pedal pressed down and tried to ignore the flickering oil light, as he had been doing for weeks. Bloody Landy. Every bugger else’s ran forever but this sod had other ideas. And he’d only bought it in 1984! Not ten years past brand-new and already planning treachery. As if he hadn’t enough to worry about.

  ‘Worse things happen at sea, Gyp. That’s what my mother allus used to say. She even said it when Dad caught hissen in the baler. He wasn’t too happy about that observation, I seem to recall.’

  The farmer chuckled to himself then grew serious as the turnoff to Hal’s came into view. Never mind his worries, worse things were happening at Hal’s. That was why they were here, ready to lose out on a bit of horse-trading, hoping to give the so-and-so a bit of a smile.

  The gate was open. John squelched the Landy off the road and left the engine running while he latched up behind them.

  ‘Between you and me Gyp, Hal’s losing the plot. His missus has left him. Up and away with all the kids. Hurt any man, wouldn’t it? What’d we do if Susan and Heather left us? Who’d make our rabbit stew then, eh?’

  The Border Collie gave him another of his looks.

  ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but it happens. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  The rutted track wound around one empty field before dipping down past a second. The last of Hal’s cows had gone a fortnight ago but John was still shocked by the loneliness of the place. Pulling up in the farmyard didn’t make him feel any better. Hal’s dog, Laddie, should have been out barking by now. And where were all the hens?

  ‘Stay,’ he said, closing the driver-side door.

  For once Gyp didn’t argue.

  John wasn’t overburdened with imagination. Even so, the deserted yard gave him the creeps. Okay, the last farm lad had gone along with the cows, but it shouldn’t be as quiet as this. Summat should be going on.

  ‘Hal!’ he called, flinching at the sound of his own voice.

  Nothing. He glanced at the Land Rover. There was a shotgun in there. He’d feel happier carrying it, but that’d be daft.

  ‘Hal!’ he called again, getting an echo but no reply.

  No volley of barks, either.

  * * *

  John made his way to the farmhouse and went inside without knocking. Downstairs was tidy enough, apart from a newspaper on the kitchen table and washing-up on the draining board. It was clean washing-up though, so Hal hadn’t lost the plot altogether. Just hadn’t got round to putting it away. And the paper was last night’s Telegraph & Argus, so he hadn’t gone after the missus. Not unless he’d left today and gone shank’s pony: Hal’s Landy (even more of a heap than the Hunter Landy) was out there, parked by the laithe.

  John called his friend’s name again before going upstairs, leaving the obvious until last, giving everywhere else a quick once-over. Hal had five kids. Three girls shared one spick and span (but now very empty) room. Two boys shared a messy (but now very unlived-in) attic. All was as to be expected. John approached the main bedroom and hesitated. If anything had happened in Hal’s sleep, this was where he would be.

  His hand was trembling as it reached for the handle.

  ‘Don’t be soft,’ he muttered to himself.

  He opened the door and had a look.

  Nothing to see. The bed was rumpled but unslept in, and definitely not occupied by a dead farmer.

  The trembles became more noticeable. Natural causes would have been bad, but John had ruled them out from the start. Laddie wouldn’t have gone off if there’d been a heart attack or summat. Hal knew they were coming, too. He wouldn’t have gone off either. Not when there was bartering to be done and whisky to seal the deal.

  John rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, suddenly jiggered although he’d barely been up five hours. All farmers were under pressure these days. He was creaking and groaning along with the rest of them, trying to balance reality with the supermarkets’ demands. Slipping a little further into the mire as each season passed. He’d see it through, somehow, but plenty of others had fallen by the wayside.

  The laithe. That’s where they do it, nearly allus.

  As he left the farmhouse Gyp barked to attract his attention. The Border Collie was
standing on the driver’s seat, his single front paw on the steering wheel, nose aimed towards the patched-up barn.

  ‘Great minds, eh? Stay there, boy. There’s a good ‘un.’

  The sun was beating down harder than ever. Dust came off the parched farmyard as John crossed it and pulled open the much-weathered barn door. Immune to the blast of heat and reek of recently-cut, no longer needed hay, he stood a moment, getting used to the light.

  Swiftly wishing he hadn’t.

  Laddie was bundled on the floor, beside a split bale. He’d been decapitated and was lying in a puddle of blood. Flies were feasting on his remains.

  Gyp was barking like crazy when John returned to the Land Rover. He had to yell at the top of his lungs to shut him up.

  ‘Stay,’ he added, when they’d both calmed down a bit. ‘You don’t want to be seeing that.’

  He broke the weapon and loaded both barrels before snapping it shut again.

  ‘I’m not flayed,’ he said to his still-excited dog. ‘But some bugger’s gone mad. Now wait there. I’ll be back soon.’

  The barn door was the sort on runners . . . in this case, rusty and twisted runners. John’s first attempt to open it had only half-succeeded. Covering inside with the shotgun, he used his boot to open it wider.

  ‘Hal?’ he called. Hearing a faint noise from somewhere deep inside, he skirted poor Laddie and turned into a purpose-made aisle between two twenty-foot stacks of bales. Thin shafts of sunlight came in through gaps in the roof. Hal was slumped in the glow of the brightest shaft, propped against one of the wooden struts that supported the south-facing wall, gagged with the sleeve of his shirt.

  John was beside him in a flash, ripping away the gag.

  ‘Jesus’ sake, Hal, what’s happened?’

  Tears and snot caked the other farmer’s face. He was moaning and didn’t appear to be in any state to reply. John rose to his feet.

  ‘I’ll ring 999.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me hand,’ Hal jerked his head to one side. ‘Look what the bastards did to me fucking hand.’

  * * *

  The damage looked worse than it was. Not that anyone would have swapped places. Not with a man who’d had his hand nailed to a strut.

  It took the end of a crowbar and a delicate touch to get the six-inchers out. John grabbed the bottle of Grant’s as he half-carried Hal past the Hunter Landy. For medicinal purposes: Hal’s pain and his own shakes.

  Finally, two glasses inside them, initial first aid out of the way, they faced each other across the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you ready for a brew?’

  Hal nodded so John used the teapot to fill two badly-chipped mugs, adding plenty of sugar and generous splashes of whisky.

  ‘Still no ambulance?’

  ‘No. I’ll be right.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘I said I’ll be right.’

  ‘Okay, you’ll be right.’ John swigged down some fortified tea. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

  ‘They killed Laddie.’

  ‘I saw that, but why? And who the hell were they?’

  Hal had swilled his face after bathing his hand. His eyes were still swollen and red though, and talking about his dog was bringing fresh tears.

  ‘There were four of them,’ he said, ‘four of the bastards. Turned up last night, late on. Caught me napping.’

  John remembered the open gate. ‘Didn’t you hear them coming down the track?’

  ‘No. I don’t know how they got here, or how they surprised Laddie.’ Hal sniffled. ‘First I knew I had a gun under me chin.’

  ‘Armed then?’

  ‘Two of them had guns. One of the others had a gert big knife. Like a cleaver. Dripping blood it was. They’d come prepared, all right.’

  ‘Robbing farms now, are they?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Hal snorted. ‘They were after the millions stuffed in me mattress.’

  John tipped more Grant’s into his friend’s half-empty mug.

  ‘Did they get it?’

  ‘Nothing to get, is there?’ Hal wiped his leaky eyes. ‘I’m fucked, John. I can’t keep up with the debts.’

  ‘We’re all in the same boat. Bloody banks! They’ll be charging for fresh air next.’

  ‘These weren’t from WYB.’

  ‘I guessed not. Who were they?’

  ‘Local lads. I don’t know names.’

  ‘What do you mean, lads?’

  ‘Early twenties, I’d say.’

  John refilled the kettle and put it on the stove, buying time to think.

  ‘This was over an unpaid bill, right?’

  Hal stared at him before answering.

  ‘WYB stopped me writing cheques in January. About the same time me last card stopped working, just afore Mr Taxman wanted his pound of flesh. It’s been hand to mouth ever since.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I borrowed from a man down in town. Now he wants it back.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I’ve had a few threats, but nowt that worried me. Tried to bide it out.’ Hal shook his head. ‘I’m not as tough as I thought. Thank God Gwen didn’t stick around to see this.’

  ‘Listen Hal, you have to go to the police.’

  ‘And tell them what? I’ve blobbed on summat I shouldn’t have had?’

  ‘You can tell them you’ve been brayed. And that they’ve murdered your dog.’

  ‘I don’t even know who they are.’

  ‘You know who lent you the money.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’ Hal shrugged helplessly. ‘They haven’t started yet. Bastards said I was getting off lightly for now, so I can keep working and repaying. They even made sure I was right-handed afore banging in them nails.’ He waved his bandaged left hand in the air. ‘Next time they’re going to bring bolt cutters for me toes. And jump leads for me balls.’

  ‘All the more reason.’

  ‘I’m not going to the police.’

  ‘Okay,’ said John, ‘why don’t you get your gun? I’ve already got mine. We can go and discuss things with this moneylender. Come to an agreement.’

  ‘I can’t let you get involved. Asides, they know where Gwen is. Any funny business and they’re going for her and the kids.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What would you do, eh? What if it was your missus?’

  ‘I drive down into town and blow the bastard’s head off.’

  ‘What about his gang of mates?’

  John took the pot and made another brew. This time he tried not to think too much, but couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘This moneylender,’ he resumed. ‘They wouldn’t call him Dwyer, would they?’

  Hal’s jerky reaction answered the question.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Sean Dwyer?’

  ‘Not you an’ all?’

  ‘No. Not anymore.’

  Hal reached for his mug then took a diversion to the whisky bottle. ‘So,’ he said, significantly strengthening his tea, ‘you know him?’

  ‘I borrowed a few quid last year, paid it back a month later. He seemed decent enough.’

  ‘Decent enough,’ Hal waved his bandages again. ‘He might be when you keep to your instalments.’

  ‘How far behind are you?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I’ll help if I can. God knows, I’m struggling myself, but I won’t stand by.’

  ‘You can’t.’ Hal’s eyes were leaking again. Seeing him like that made John’s blood boil.

  ‘Yes I can,’ he said firmly.

  ‘There’s no point, I’m in too deep. The bank’s after me an’ all. This place will be gone soon.’

  ‘So it’s more than a few quid?’

  ‘It’s thousands, not hundreds.’

  ‘You haven’t mortgaged your granddad’s farm?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Hal added even more Grant’s. ‘That’s what WYB want me to do. Clear what I owe them through a mortgage. Borrow enough o
ver to freshen everything up. Buy some new beasts.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’

  ‘I can’t pay Dwyer’s instalments. How the hell can I pay a mortgage?’

  ‘You can try. A new herd of cows will only help.’

  ‘That’s the way Silas went, afore he hanged himself.’

  ‘Silas tried too much, too fast. You’re not gambling.’

  ‘No? Would you start from scratch right now, with twenty-five years of mortgage around your neck?’

  ‘What’s the alternative? Giving in?’

  ‘The farm’s not good for building,’ Hal said, staring down at the table. ‘But I’ve had an offer. Some fancy dan wants to open a B&B.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘It’s selling out, I know. And he’s offering bugger all, just enough to get the creditors off me back.’

  ‘Including Dwyer?’

  ‘Yes, including Dwyer.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Tent in a field and labouring, I suppose. I’m no good for owt else.’

  ‘Hal, take the mortgage. Forget what I said about your granddad. In your position he’d go for the mortgage every time. So would your dad.’

  ‘I know. But there’s a problem, isn’t there? How can I ever sleep here again? Land’s poisoned now, isn’t it?’

  PART ONE

  Two years later - May to October

  I believe it is peace for our time.

  We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

  Go home and get a nice quiet sleep.

  Neville Chamberlain

  Chapter One

  ‘Woman is hurrying us to Armageddon!’

  The street preacher could have stepped straight out of The Life of Brian. He had long, wild hair and even wilder eyes. His clothes were expensive and clean but hung unkempt on his gangly frame. He was unshaven, gesticulating like a madman and might as well have had PROPHET OF DOOM tattooed on his forehead, together with a sign hanging around his neck announcing THE END IS NIGH. Yet for all that, there was something compelling about him.

  It must be his voice, Samantha thought, because it’s certainly not his looks.

  ‘Call her Goddess of the South Wind! Call her Queen of the Succubi! She’s been playing the same games since time began! And now Man is standing back and watching as the whore straddles her scarlet beast and rides hard for Megiddo!’