UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  That was when their relationship had moved up a notch.

  Make that several notches.

  Talking after the video it seemed Mary Rose knew everything about every conceivable sex act. In fact she claimed to be highly experienced in every conceivable sex act, swearing she had a Sex Proficiency Badge as well as the ones The Manor issued for cycling and swimming. She proudly declared, ‘It’s the best fun you can have without laughing,’ and gave graphic accounts of sex she’d had with both boys and girls. Boys were a must because their joysticks felt so good, she maintained. And girls had to be tried too, because they were much more passionate and skilful. Her enthusiasm for the subject was infectious. She’d hardly had to try to get Heather to sample her kisses, cuddles and just the odd fumbly grope.

  Far from being backward in coming forward, Mary Rose wanted more, and by now it was mutual. Those kisses and cuddles were great and the fumbly gropes were really exciting. Going for gold in September seemed just about right.

  ‘I think about you every night,’ Mary Rose had said not so very long ago, ‘and I always end up playing with myself. It’d be too much to bear not to.’ She’d laughed wantonly. ‘You should be flattered. I haven’t cum fantasizing about anyone else in months.’

  At the time Heather had thought that was typical Mary Rose. Being outrageous was the girl’s answer to most situations. Not that she needed a situation; she used outrageousness as an opening gambit to test even the calmest waters.

  But she’d said something very similar again later that same evening, when they’d kissed goodnight. And again the following evening, sounding less outrageous and more sincere each time, becoming quite believable. She’d even rubbed noses on it, so it had to be true.

  Across the room, seemingly miles away, Tanya’s breathing was regular and slow. A sure sign she’d be out until morning. Heather slipped a hand under the sheets, her fingers inching towards the magic button. She was going to take this nice and slow and enjoy every second. And, when she’d finished thinking about Hubby’s willy, she was going to do it again, thinking exclusively about Mary Rose.

  It would be too much to bear not to.

  Chapter Three

  Shipley was full of people wanting to die. Everywhere the killer looked he saw someone begging for it. The sheer number of possibilities was staggering. He couldn’t fail to find a fitting victim. His only problem was in picking the one who deserved it most.

  Then the auras began to fade.

  Yes, auras!

  The killer had started seeing them earlier and it had been a shock, he had to admit. Normally he didn’t believe in psychic. To him psychic was mumbo jumbo, designed to part widows from savings. He was more inclined to believe in fairies at the bottom of the garden than that shit. Yet there he’d been, preparing for his big adventure, suddenly framed in an electrifying glow.

  At first he’d thought he was imagining it. When he looked down at himself he couldn’t see anything unusual. Face-to-face in the mirror the glow was unmissable. He’d closed the blinds to shut out the patchy sunshine and, to his amazement the glow was still there, stronger than ever. His reflected body was cocooned in sheets of multi-coloured light, beating in time with his heart. Yet that was nothing compared to the ball of orange fire circling his head.

  To tell the truth it was Biblical, right up there with Charlton Heston and the Burning Bush.

  The killer supposed the colours signified something but hadn’t a clue what. All he knew was that his ball of fire was best. That blazing orange wasn’t weak in any way. It was strong and powerful, there wasn’t anything that could have beaten it. Feeling invincible, he’d pulled on his long leather jacket and set out to launch the legend.

  Buzzing as he went.

  The streets were busy for a Thursday, despite cool air and the onset of drizzle. Lots of people were wearing coats, although they probably weren’t carrying the same sort of things in their pockets as he was. They were all lacking spectacular auras too, even though he could see something faintly hovering around everyone. There were blues and greens, turquoises and pinks, reds and yellows . . . plus a few muted-to-middling mixtures. And some that didn’t glow at all. These were more like storm clouds of dismal browns, dreary greys and gloomy off-whites. There weren’t so many of them and they were wrapped around people who looked like nutters or junkies.

  Or both.

  The killing had to happen after dark. The killer had decided that when he’d decided tonight was The Night. This time of year, beginning of June, dark didn’t usually start until ten-ish. In crap weather like this it was going to happen sooner, but not for a while yet. That was okay. It gave him chance to walk about a bit. Have a few drinks.

  Size up those possibilities.

  Plan A was to select a victim from a pub. Going in The Ring O' Bells settled him on that. The auras everywhere else might be all colours, but the ones in The Ringer were mostly reds and yellows, with a few storm clouds thrown in here and there. He reckoned the stormy ones were more fruitcakes while the reds and yellows were happier souls, out for a good time. The general drift of Plan A was to leave the happy souls to get pissed and laid, take out a storm cloud instead; one who was by nature worthless, yet fit for purpose.

  Well, fit for tonight’s purpose, anyway.

  Leaving The Ring O' Bells, the killer strolled down into Shipley town centre and had a tour of the other drinking dens, swigging Hooch and not seeming particularly out of place. Each time he moved on the outside world had got a little quieter, as if the streets were emptying into the boozers.

  And all the while the auras were dwindling, as if they were connected to a dying power source.

  Going, going . . .

  As he arrived here, in this latest Aladdin’s Cave of possibilities, they blinked out altogether.

  Gone!

  Maybe he really had imagined them. Maybe he was so keyed-up he was hallucinating.

  Never mind, it didn’t matter. He was here where he was supposed to be, tooled as he’d always intended to be . . . and as ready and able as anyone ever had been.

  Who needed help anyway? He’d rehearsed and re-rehearsed endlessly in his dreams. He didn’t need help; he just needed that fit-for-purpose victim.

  But which one?

  Three-quarters of the customers in this latest bar were young and female; none with coats, most of them dressed more for the beach than the chilly Aire Valley. Whilst it was good to look at all the titties and tramp-stamped flesh, tonight wasn’t about girls. He’d proved himself with girls many times already. He’d worry about girls later, after he’d found and killed his man.

  And it had to be a man, not kiddies like the ones in here. The legend demanded it.

  The choice wasn’t so staggering now, however. The more popular pubs had nothing but spotty teenage boys in them. Didn’t those beautiful beach babes have any taste? Perhaps he ought to come back after he’d done the deed. Give two or three bleached-blondes a proper, manly seeing-to. Show them what they were missing.

  The killer left the bar. Twilight had become full darkness and the air was even cooler, but at least the drizzle had stopped. His new, revised plan was to class miserable expressions as storm clouds and then proceed as per Plan A. Assuming he could find a boozer with some men in it, that was.

  Okay, enough of the alcopops, time to mix with grown-ups. Back to The Ringer or on to The Bull?

  He was walking thoughtfully towards Fox’s Corner when luck finally struck.

  There, diagonally over the crossroads. A shambling hulk. Must be a six-footer. Obviously a real-life tramp, complete with can-filled carrier bags. Yes, obviously a real-life tramp . . . but no poxy-faced weakling.

  The killer experienced a brief moment of doubt. Was a down-and-out beneath him? Where exactly would this bastard rank in tonight’s top twenty?

  Higher than any of those kiddies in the last boozer, that was for sure.

  Fuck it. Game on.

  The shambling hulk was heading away from him
, towards Leeds Road.

  Smiling to himself, the killer followed.

  * * *

  Mo didn’t like the emptiness of the residential road. If this was another no-show he wasn’t going to be happy. He growled a bit but, before he could call the office for a rant, a figure appeared out of a garden a few houses away to his left. Mo checked the number on the gatepost. He’d been given thirty-seven, and that was where he’d stopped. But who cared? He was making a pickup after all; that was what mattered.

  The figure approached the passenger door and stuck his head in the open window. ‘Taxi for Taylor?’

  ‘Pongo,’ Mo sighed. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘Moby, me old beauty! Open the boot, will you? I’ve got luggage.’

  The taxi driver sighed again as Pongo hurried away into the shadows. Almost immediately he was back, carrying a new-looking TV. ‘You’ll get me sacked,’ Mo said as he locked it safely out of sight.

  ‘Bollocks.’ Pongo laughed. ‘You’re as sound as a pound with me. When have I ever dropped you in it?’

  ‘Every day at school.’

  ‘Since then?’

  ‘Not for the want of trying.’ Mo chuckled in spite of himself. ‘Where you heading?’

  ‘Bingley, and don’t spare the horses. I’m meeting someone at ten. I’ll miss out on fifty notes if you blob.’

  ‘If I blob?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t.’

  ‘All right, but you’re paying the fines.’

  Mo drove them up to Saltaire Roundabout and turned onto the A650. By day this built-up bit of road was supposed to be busier than the M1; later on it was hardly used at all. He wouldn’t struggle to get Pongo to Bingley for ten. Not unless they ran into thick tumbleweed in Main Street.

  ‘Still on the nick-to-order?’ he asked, already sure of the answer.

  ‘What can I say? It keeps me out of mischief. And I’m banned, so cabbying’s not happening.’

  ‘When do you get your licence back?’

  ‘Another year, give or take. In the meantime I’m okay. I’ve got a good boss. He’s not like that slave driver you work for.’

  ‘Dwyer’s all right, then?’

  ‘Careful. He’s got ears everywhere.’ Pongo was laughing again, but not too convincingly.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’

  ‘Yeah, look, we’re nearly there. Stop in the Magistrates’ Car Park. And keep everything running.’

  ‘The Magistrates’ Car Park! You’re having a laugh.’

  ‘Course not. Quietest place in town, this time of night.’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ said Mo. But he turned right and stopped as instructed.

  There was only one other vehicle on the car park. As they drew to a halt a man got out and waited while Pongo walked over. Mo watched them nervously. He kept the engine on and the handbrake off. If there was any funny business his foot was going down and he was out of there. Pongo might be a mate but he wasn’t going to prison with him. Not for a one-way fare that hadn’t been paid yet.

  He needn’t have worried. There was a brief exchange then the man was opening his boot while Pongo collected the TV from Mo’s. Sixty seconds and the deal had been done.

  ‘Now where do you want?’

  ‘Shipley,’ Pongo grinned, ‘same road we just left.’

  ‘I mean where in Bingley, not where in the rest of the world.’

  ‘And I mean back to Shipley. I’ve one more job and that’s it for today.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ve no more jobs. I finish at ten.’

  ‘Okay, how about this? Knock off your meter and take me back. I’ll only be two ticks. Then it’s time for The Granby. I’ll give you a tenner for the round trip.’

  ‘On top of the three quid you already owe?’

  ‘Not so fast, Moby old son. Let me finish.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A tenner for everything . . . plus as much beer as you can drink.’

  ‘You know I’m not supposed to drink. And they shut at eleven, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve never said no before. And they’re staying open tonight. It’s another closing down do.’

  Mo pulled out of the car park. ‘My wife’ll kill me if I go home smelling of ale.’

  ‘I thought you were lord and master in your house?’

  ‘I am. I do what I want. She tells me what I want; I do it.’

  ‘My wife was like that. That’s why I’m back living with my mum.’

  ‘Seriously though,’ said Mo. ‘You are all right to be doing this in Shipley, aren’t you?’

  ‘Course I am. You know who my gaffer is. He arranges everything. Probably tells the cops where not to be.’

  Mo considered as he drove. He didn’t want to seem like a pussy but couldn’t help thinking about those scary passengers he’d had the other day. He had to at least mention them.

  ‘These guys,’ he said. ‘They told me Harry Williamson’s out.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He used to rule Shipley. He’s been a year on remand for murder. Now he’s picking up his old manor.’

  ‘Got off on the murder, did he?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Mo paused for dramatic effect. ‘All the witnesses died.’

  ‘Of old age?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘A year’s a long time,’ Pongo said comfortably. ‘He’s going to find things have changed.’

  ‘Yeah, and his mates think he’s going to change ‘em all back. If he’s scarier than them, they’re probably right.’

  ‘Fuck ‘em. My gaffer’s scarier than their gaffer. If they try anything, they won’t know what’s hit them.’

  * * *

  Micky Johnson had had a good day. After a morning when even the most aggressive begging brought in hee haw, he’d struck pure gold at a cash point. Saying a note would do if the wee chap had no coin . . . being astonished when he was given a crispy new Hampden roar. For the first time in years he’d been gobsmacked. He’d stood there with his jaw flapping while the little fella wet himself, thinking he was going to get eaten or something. If he’d had his wits about him he could have got more, but he hadn’t. Instead of giving the usual surly nod, he’d actually thanked the chap and wished him well.

  Suddenly starving, Micky had headed for the nearest greasy spoon and a second slice of luck. He’d planned on buying something to get the note changed, but hadn’t needed to. For no obvious reason his least-favourite café owner had given him a full English with toast and tea, absolutely free. And he hadn’t wanted the heart-to-heart that came with most freebies. What did you do before? What went wrong? Where were your friends? Pry, pry, pry.

  There was no need to cadge after that so Micky snatched a few hours kip on a bench then walked up to The Branch, which was one of the few pubs that served him. Okay, he had to drink outside, but there were tables and seats. There was a big fuck-off Martini umbrella too, for anyone afraid of a bit of rain. Nice and sophisticated, it was. He’d treated himself to six pints of Tetley’s, taking his time and savouring every sip, not bolting at them like a dog with scraps of meat. And the landlord had got his cellar cock-on. Those pints tasted like beer always used to taste . . .

  Before.

  If outrageous good fortune came in threes it hadn’t happened in the offy. The tight bastards hadn’t just wanted him to pay for his Special Brew, they’d wanted to charge him for the carrier bags as well. Something to do with saving the planet, they’d said. Fuck that. He had lots of screwed up carriers in his pockets and used two of them. He’d save the planet later, after he’d had his third slice of luck. Like happening across a discarded lottery ticket with five matching numbers, maybe six.

  He checked the coffers as he walked. Still nearly a tenner, so tomorrow could be his personal bank holiday. He might even have a little lie in.

  That winning ticket would be there when he got up.

  And if it wasn’t . . . well, he’d have to make some more of his own luck, wouldn’t he?


  Micky had been on the streets since 1988, learning his lessons at the University of Hard Knocks. Lesson Number One, cast in iron, was: Never share outrageous good fortune with anyone. So he was going to spend the rest of tonight alone, in one of his secret places where he could drink his cans without being bothered by other, less lucky beggars.

  He’d share when he got those five numbers. Or probably not.

  It was a trek back to Briggate but at least it was all downhill. Micky ambled along, whistling tunelessly and only stopping twice for a piss. At the crossroads he turned right and carried on to the railway station, where Leeds Road began. It became significantly uphill from there, but not much farther to go. He passed The Blue Bell and The Travellers Rest (barred from both, currently not giving a toss) and trogged on a few hundred yards before taking another right by the petrol station, skirting a darkened school.

  There was a football pitch behind the school, bone hard in spite of the earlier mizzle. Micky didn’t worry about the going underfoot. None of that long stud/short stud shite for him. He was more bothered about being seen. Sometimes there were kids back here, smoking dope and shooting up. They weren’t usually interested in a tramp and his booze, though; he wasn’t too concerned about them. It was other gentlemen of the road he wanted to avoid. Not to mention the gentlewomen of the road. Whereas most of the men understood fuck off, the women seemed to think it was an invitation to barter. And a fuck for a can wasn’t always possible to resist, even if he was sober enough to know he’d regret it later.

  Tonight there was nobody about, full stop. Micky left the light of the last streetlamp and crossed the football pitch diagonally. He was heading towards the far corner, where the undergrowth beyond the touchline was thickest. There was a clearing deep in the bushes; one where nobody would ever find him and he could sleep dry after the Special Brew had worked its wonders.