The rescue only lasted moments but seemed to take forever. Dinger’s heart was in his mouth all the way. Although he would never admit it, he almost shat himself. There was none of the adrenalin rush he got fighting Huddersfield or Leeds. No natural coolness under fire, just a mad dash, muscles burning, fingers scrabbling frantically for a grip on Speed’s clothes. Two shots: one pinging off the tarmac by his feet, the other parting the short bristles on his skull. Then Zed was filling the sky with mirrors, the shooting stopped and Speed was bouncing as he was dragged to safety.
‘Fucking surrender,’ Zed bawled. ‘Or come out and fight.’
‘Just fuck off! Leave me alone!’
‘His gun’s empty,’ Zed said to Dinger. ‘Let’s get him.’
‘Let’s not,’ said a new voice.
Even Speed looked round and joined in the general groan when he saw who’d arrived. Bobby Roberts was one of the spotters for troublemakers at City matches, home and away. They knew each other of old. In fact they’d played a sometimes grim, sometimes hilarious version of hide-and-seek from Newcastle to Plymouth.
‘What are you doing here?’ Dinger snapped.
‘Checking nicked wing mirrors.’ Roberts laughed as he crouched beside them, like one of the gang. To be fair, he looked the part. He was dressed as if he was out on the ale and didn’t have the obligatory copper’s tash.
‘Sounds about right,’ Zed snarled.
‘Chill,’ said Roberts. ‘I was joking. We’re on the same side for once. We’re just taking over before you two get shot up as well. Can’t afford the compensation.’
About a million uniforms were flooding the area now, some of them armed.
‘Will I have a compo claim?’ Speed had quickly got over the trauma of taking a hit. ‘Nice one!’
Dinger felt distinctly cheated as he and Zed were bundled away from the action, leaving their mate grinning as he waited for his stretcher. Someone with a megaphone was already addressing the gunman, attempting to strike up an accord. This encouraged the gunman to climb onto the multi-storey wall and threaten to jump. Seemed he was less afraid of being exposed to trained marksmen than Zed’s mirrors.
A crowd had gathered in the street below. Flatfooted officers were holding everybody back, creating a space to catch the potential jumper. Roberts took Dinger and Zed inside the cordon and stood with them, making sure they kept out of the way while the catchers got themselves organized.
‘What happened to the woman?’ Zed asked.
‘She didn’t make it.’
‘Bastard!’
‘He’s flipped,’ Roberts agreed. ‘Two murdered in broad daylight . . . another critical. Attempts on you three . . . endangering countless others. The punk’s gone mad.’
‘Why don’t you boys blow him away?’
‘Not politically correct, I’m afraid.’ The spotter kept watching the figure up on the roof as he spoke. ‘Believe me, lad, if it was down to us we’d fill him full of lead and dance on his grave.’
‘It must be hard, playing by the rules all the time,’ Dinger said harshly.
‘You have rules in your firm, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, but they’re there to be broken for twats like him.’
The crowd behind them was getting restless. A few bored people were moving on. Six or seven youths started chanting, ‘Jump, jump, jump!’ Dinger fingered the calling card in his pocket and wondered how he was going to pass it across. The card read:
CONGRATULATIONS, YOU
HAVE HAD THE PLEASURE
OF MEETING THE
BRADFORD OINTMENT
Normally these cards were left with individuals who’d already been badly beaten. This bastard could have one in advance because, even if it took forever to get hold of him, his time would come.
The gunman shouted something that was distorted by the wind. Dinger couldn’t decipher what he’d said, but heard the tinny response from the megaphone all right.
‘Don’t be hasty, Johnny. These things take time.’
The gunman wasn’t listening. He had a quick look down at the catchers then sprinted along the wall away from them . . .
And jumped.
Chapter Two
Heather ignored the first nudge and kept watching the video, afraid of missing a vital twist in the plot. Not that Mary Rose was so easily ignored. She gave Heather another nudge then digged her in the ribs . . . hard.
‘What?’ Heather hissed.
Mare nodded to her left, as if something was worth seeing, but Heather couldn’t work out what. The room was dark, for one thing. And so far as she could tell, everyone else was glued to the action, like she wanted to be.
She shrugged and carried on watching. There were four of them at it now: two men and two similar-looking blondes. The storyline, as far as it went, was that Hubby had come home to find the blondes having it off with the postman. It wasn’t immediately obvious which was Hubby’s wife but that didn’t seem to matter. Rather than creating a scene he’d simply ripped off his clothes and joined in.
And he had the most enormous willy; it couldn’t possibly be real. She had to see it again.
Warm breath in her ear preceded Mary Rose’s whisper.
‘Look at Daphne and Madeleine. Look what Daffy’s doing.’
Heather had to cover her mouth to catch a surprised laugh. The light from the TV screen was just enough to see Daffy groping inside Madeleine’s flimsy summer frock. She could see an enigmatic little smile on Maddy’s face too.
So it’s true, she thought. They really are special friends.
The film ended half an hour later, exactly when the bell rang signalling ten minutes until Lights-out.
‘Okay,’ Jacqui cried, clapping her hands. ‘That’s your lot for tonight, ladies. Let’s have you back in your own rooms, vibrators at the ready.’
‘Can I borrow your batteries please, Madeleine?’ Mary Rose smiled sweetly. ‘Mine have gone flat. And you probably won’t be needing yours.’
‘No chance,’ Madeleine replied. She was blushing but unbowed. ‘You’ll have to use Creepy’s tongue, like you do every other night.’
Mary Rose made exaggerated choking noises. ‘Please . . . anything but Creepy’s tongue!’
‘What about her big toe instead?’
‘No way! Anything but Creepy!’
Cackling, the crowd of teenagers left Jacqui’s illicit picture palace, scattering back to their quarters. Mary Rose’s room was close to Heather’s so they didn’t need an excuse to walk together. As soon as they were out of sight they held hands and swapped shameless grins.
‘What did you think about that?’
‘Not too shabby,’ said Heather. ‘And Hubby’s willy was enormous. My knees went weak just looking at it.’
‘Not the willy, silly, I meant Mad and Daffy. I told you, didn’t I? You don’t have to be in the Fourth Year to go all the way.’
‘Oh, that. Well, they were hardly going all the way, were they?’
‘I bet they’ll be at it as soon as they’re alone.’ Mary Rose’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s not fair they get to share and we don’t. We should make Creepy move in with Tanya, so you can move in with me.’
‘Shush,’ said Heather as they stopped at her door. ‘Tanya will hear.’
‘I hope she does. It might make her do the decent thing.’
‘Please don’t, Mare. She’s really nice. I don’t want to upset her.’
‘You’re nice too,’ Mary Rose countered, ‘and as fit as a butcher’s dog. That’s why I want to go all the way with you. And a few hundred million times, not just once.’
Heather kissed her. It was all she could think of to shut her up. They always kissed goodnight anyway, it was a sisterly thing, as well as very, very pleasant.
Mary Rose sighed as full Lights-out sounded. ‘I suppose I’ll have to be patient. Just remember what you’ve promised for September, when we get our single rooms.’
‘Oh I’ll remember. I could hardly forget with you remi
nding me every two minutes, could I?’
‘No. And you’d better not even try to pretend.’ Mary Rose rubbed noses with her. ‘Night, night, Hev. I love you.’
Heather always tingled when her best-ever friend said that. She returned the nose-rub, smiling soppily. ‘Night, night, Mare. I love you too.’
Tanya was in bed with Nine Modern Poets. They had Yeats in next week’s exam and she found him hard going. She’d been cramming since netball practice and didn’t look anywhere near done.
‘Hi Hev,’ she said, barely glancing up. ‘Good film?’
‘Yes, it was another pound well spent. You’ll have to come along to the next one. Get a bit of excitement into your life.’
‘I don’t have time for excitement, just like I don’t have your photographic memory. I really struggle to get this. And that’s the bits I think I understand. Most of it goes way over my head. Do you mind if I keep going a little longer?’
‘No probs. I don’t think we’re going to get raided.’
Tanya chuckled and kept cramming. According to legend, Lights-out used to apply everywhere, with punishment for transgressors starting at execution and getting steadily worse. These days it applied to common passageways and the First and Second Year dormitories, but not to single and double rooms. The death penalty had been relaxed too. Execution now only applied to third-time offenders; second-timers were thrown in the school dungeons while first-timers were merely flogged.
Heather looked at herself in the mirror as she undressed. She hated vain people but Mare was right: she was as fit as a butcher’s dog. And strikingly pretty with it. Some even said she was bewitching. Her eyes were as green as Mary Rose’s, if not nearly so wicked, and her long, jet-black hair and never-fading tan made her intriguing and exotic.
She knelt at the foot of her bed and prayed, thanking God for her good fortune and asking Him to forgive her sins, especially vanity, promising to keep it to herself until it wore off altogether. Then she jumped between the sheets and called goodnight to Tanya before switching off her lamp.
‘Night,’ Tanya mumbled, still buried in her book.
Heather usually fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Tonight there was no chance. Her mind was filled with images from the video. She was going to have to get rid of them before she could possibly sleep. And, in the absence of Jacqui’s mythical vibrator, there was only one way she could do that . . . which meant waiting for her roommate to finish her doings with dear old William Butler.
* * *
As she surveyed shadows on the ceiling Heather marvelled at how she’d ended up here, at one of England’s most elite establishments.
Me! Enrolled at The Manor School For Young Ladies!
More to the point, she marvelled at how smoothly she’d fitted in. It sometimes seemed as though she’d arrived only yesterday, scared and excited, wondering how she’d find her way through the maze of corridors and if she’d struggle to make friends. But everyone had been really nice. Once she’d got to grips with all the names she’d been completely at ease. Her first year (in the school’s Third Year) had whizzed by; it was nearly over already.
And not one mangel-wurzel gibe to be heard.
Heather had been brought up on Hunters Farm, in that bit of darkest West Yorkshire where nature starts to take over from brick and concrete. All her early memories were of the sights and sounds of countryside, the very first beingr one of a horse foaling. By the time she was thirteen she could wring chicken necks, climb every tree and run faster and farther than any boy she’d ever met. Most of her waking hours had been spent outdoors, innocently acquiring that never-fading tan. Life had been wonderful. She hadn’t stopped to wonder why Dad worked brutally long days then spent his evenings frowning over piles of paperwork.
Thirteen had been when it changed. Up until thirteen her only concern had been the lack of a sister to share all the fun. She’d been born at home and there had been complications. That was tough on Mum, who came from a big family and had been intending to have five or six children. Tough maybe, but at least they’d both survived. Lots of births didn’t end well at all. Heather had delivered her first lamb when she was eight and seen her first wrong ‘un long before then. If nothing else, farming had taught her that giving birth was a risky business. She was going to avoid it herself if she could. Else save it until she was pushing forty, with nothing left to lose.
Life altered forever one sunny Thursday evening. Mum and Dad had sat her down at the kitchen table and told her that, after six generations of Hunters, the debts were finally too much. The choice was to stay and go under, or sell. They were telling her because, as she was the entire seventh generation, everything was supposed to pass to her. If she wanted them to stay then stay they would, whatever the consequences. They had, however, found a lovely new house in Kettlewell. And they’d had an offer on Hunters Farm that would ensure money would never be a problem again.
Looking back Heather was surprised how well she’d taken it. Although she loved the farm she’d suddenly realized she had no desire to be a farmer. Starting fresh hadn’t seemed the only option, it had seemed far and away the best option . . . as long as they could take Gyp, Dad’s sheepdog and Patch, her pony. When she’d been assured they were included in the plan it was easy to strike a bargain.
At Mum’s insistence, she’d agreed to the private school.
At her insistence, Dad had agreed to stay in charge of the money.
And at Dad’s insistence . . . well, he’d just been glad the womenfolk agreed it was right to move on.
They hadn’t been debating five minutes before they were spitting on it, committed to new beginnings. Heather could remember thinking the private school sounded cool if a little daunting, but looking forward already, sure she’d do well. Thoughts of control of the money had been even more daunting. It seemed far better to keep everything in one family pot. She could always inherit the leftovers later, preferably two hundred years down the line.
Seeing her dad’s face after the three of them shook hands had given her the best-ever feeling. After a moment of sadness, when the tough old so-and-so looked like he might actually shed a tear, he must have thought about his bank balance. More probably he’d thought about his piles of red bills, blowing away on the wind. Ten years of worries fell from him in less than a second. He’d suddenly looked younger, taller and even stronger. She would never regret her part in that decision as long as she lived.
Never, ever, ever.
Coming to The Manor meant that Kettlewell hadn’t really become home for her, but her parents settled in overnight, along with Patch and Gyp, of course. The “new” house (actually built in the eighteenth century) had a quite enormous garden . . . big enough to keep Dad busy for all of a fortnight. By the start of the third week he was doing casual farm-labouring around the village and, by the end of the first month, he was helping out fulltime. If asked, he would tell folk he felt guilty working as few as fifty hours with Sundays off . . . and guiltier still at surrendering to house builders when there was still a living breath in his body. He would also mutter darkly about “damn’ supermarkets”, saying they plotted to grind honest farmers into the dust. In other words he shared the same opinions and spoke the same language as the locals. Mum fitted in just as well. The fact they were country people helped, obviously, but not nearly as much as the fact they’d moved there wanting to fit in. Too many properties in those parts had been snapped up by townies as holiday homes, driving house prices up and youngsters away.
* * *
Tanya clicked off her light without calling goodnight. She must have thought Heather was already asleep. Heather didn’t correct her. Instead she waited quietly in the dark, giving it another quarter of an hour, wanting utter privacy.
Her roommate was a lovely girl but she worried too much. These school-year-end exams weren’t important in the scheme of things, yet poor Tanya was treating them as if they were make or break. And it wasn’t as if she was bottom of the
class or anything; she was in the top five in every subject. If she could only recognize how good she was, lighten the intensity . . .
Heather wasn’t much of a worrier. Starting late she’d assumed she would be behind the girls who had been here for years One and Two. She’d soon realized that wasn’t irretrievably the case and relaxed, easing into a new life where she was always in the top three in every subject.
Her concerns about making friends had been settled even sooner. That very first morning, after her parents had deposited her, she’d been shown to her room and introduced to Tanya. She’d then been left alone to unpack. Seconds later, before homesickness could properly kick in, there had been a knock on the door. It was Mary Rose, eager to meet her.
‘You look lots more interesting than the other newbies,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t shilly-shally about with them. Stick with me. I know everything there is to know about this place. I’ll show you the ropes.’
Mary Rose turned out to be just two days older than Heather. She was incredibly beautiful with reddish-auburn hair and the world’s most mischievous grin. Her skin was flawless and her body could have been stolen out of Playboy. Goodness only knew what she’d be like in a year or so; every last inch of her already reeked of sex.
Initially, until they really got to know each other, Heather had been overawed by the stunning (self-proclaimed) redhead. Each day seemed to bring another revelation. When she took tally she realized that, academically, Mary Rose was always in the top one for every subject. On the sports field she captained every team and was in the top two or three for every individual activity. Socially, she knew and liked everybody and was known and liked by everybody. She also knew the school and grounds like the back of her hand, swiftly teaching her new friend the quickest routes to all the best places. On the negative side . . .
Well, once a blue moon she’d forget to wash her hockey socks. Otherwise she was perfect.
It had taken Heather a fortnight to come out of Mary Rose’s shadow. She did this by finishing top in the morning maths test and then obliterating all opposition on the running track after lunch. Mary Rose had been surprised but not in the least offended. Still gasping after trailing in a distant second over eight hundred metres, she’d said it was good to have someone to compete with at last. Then she’d invited Heather along to one of Jacqui’s video showings, an honour only bestowed to the chosen few, and never before to a newbie.
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