UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  He’d reached the halfway line when a voice behind him called, ‘Oi!’

  Chapter Four

  Michelle had been a class act until she realized she’d been burgled. Then the Bradford in her came right to the fore.

  ‘I do not believe it!’ She stamped her foot. ‘I do not fuckin’ believe it! Just wait ‘til I get my hands on the bastard that’s done this. I’ll pull off his balls and ram ‘em up his arse!’

  Jonjo Blake could see his leg-over flying out of the window . . . straight after Michelle’s TV. ‘Is there anything else missing?’ He tried to sound compassionate, like an ever-caring, New Age man. ‘We should do a list for the police.’

  ‘I’m not calling the fuckin’ police,’ she snapped, ‘everything’s hot, innit? I can’t afford Comet after buying this place.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said calmly. ‘Check and see what’s gone. I know a guy who specializes in electrical stuff. If you don’t mind your replacements being a bit hot, I’ll get you sorted in the morning, new for old.’

  Michelle did a double-take. Jonjo had been on his best behaviour tonight, in spite of severe provocation from her knee-high fuck-me boots. His suggestion had surprised her. She really must have mistaken him for a mummy’s boy tree-hugger.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ she said. ‘You’re not trying to impress me?’

  ‘Of course I mean it. I can replace anything. Or my mate can. Together we’re better than Direct Line.’

  The transformation back to class act was stunning. ‘So you’re not just a pretty face.’ She moved right into Jonjo’s airspace and stared up at him. ‘What will these replacements cost?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he grinned back at her. ‘I’ll do you for free.’

  ‘I’ll go check.’ She kissed him and rubbed her body alluringly against his groin. ‘Wait here. I won’t be long.’

  Jonjo went to the window and shut it, not even trying to preserve prints. With Michelle’s TV being hot there was no chance of anyone ever dusting that handle. In fact there was even less chance than if she’d been a normal, premium-paying householder.

  Glancing round the living room he reckoned she’d been lucky. Whoever the bastard was, he hadn’t done any damage. He’d levered the catch, probably bobbed in and out in a matter of seconds, doing a professional job. Most likely he’d targeted the TV and not allowed himself to be distracted. There was no graffiti on the walls, no smashed vases . . . and definitely no shit on the sheepskin rug. It was unlikely anything else had been taken.

  Michelle reappeared wearing a see-through chemise and a seductive smile. ‘Looks like only the telly.’ She clicked the light off and came back into Jonjo’s airspace. This time she deftly unzipped his flies while she kissed him. His cock seemed gigantic as she took it in her dainty, manicured hand.

  ‘Stay right there,’ she commanded, sinking to her knees on the rug.

  Who was he to argue? He stayed right there and enjoyed himself while she set to work. And she was good; really, really good. All tongue and no teeth. When she’d finished he’d return the favour, he decided. Then he’d fuck her two or three times, to be polite. It was the least a New Age man could do.

  A classy bird with a great arse and even better mouth . . . suddenly it was all too much.

  ‘I’m going to cum,’ he announced, taken aback by the speed of it.

  ‘Mmm,’ she replied, not stopping for one second.

  Oh well, she had been warned. No point in bottling it up any longer.

  ‘Here goes . . .’

  ‘Mmm!’ she groaned, pulling on him, swallowing every last drop. Carrying on after he’d finished then holding him like a lollipop and licking him clean.

  He pulled her upright and kissed her, tasting saltiness on her lips. When he slid his hand under her chemise she was dripping wet.

  ‘God, yes,’ she sighed, thrusting onto his fingers.

  It didn’t take much to have her squealing and contracting.

  ‘Right,’ she said when the squeals were done. ‘That’s our quick thrills out of the way. What do I have to do to get a CD player as well?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs while you think. Unless you’d rather christen my brand-new, squeaky leather sofa.’

  ‘The squeaky leather sofa sounds good.’

  ‘Okay then. Let’s . . .’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Who’s this? Did you order a cab?’

  ‘Not me. I’m in the car, remember?’ He looked out of the window. A taxi had stopped outside but it was delivering, not collecting.

  Don’t say she’s got a husband!

  Jonjo didn’t want a confrontation just now. Any other time, but not now. While he was up for the fucking, fighting could wait. To his relief, the passenger walked away from Michelle’s place and turned into next door’s drive.

  ‘That’s not my neighbour.’ Michelle’s accent was slipping again. ‘He’s taken his kids to Majorca.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘And it must be the bastard who nicked my telly. He’s going to do my neighbour as well.’

  She had a point. It wasn’t a door-to-door salesman at this time of night. And the burglar had been brassy enough to get in through the front at Michelle’s. He must think he was on a good thing. Maybe he was going down the road, one house at a time.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jonjo said. ‘I’ll get him.’

  ‘Be careful. He might have a knife.’

  ‘He’s only a bairn.’ Jonjo could feel himself coming over New Age for real . . . or reverting to Neanderthal. Whichever it was, his attitude had changed abruptly. He was well ready for this.

  ‘They all carry knives nowadays.’ Michelle sounded concerned.

  ‘I don’t care. He could have an AK-47 and I’d still handle him.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Bring him back here. So you can rip his balls off.’

  ‘No! Please don’t. Just give him a slap and send him on his way.’

  * * *

  The killer had wondered if the auras would come back when the time was near, but they didn’t. Probably just as well because this pathetic ruin would have had the blackest of storm clouds over him. Even without an aura he looked like Pig-Pen, trailing a shadow of dust.

  Fucking Pig-Pen!

  The sense of total, absolute power was growing stronger with every step. The killer knew he’d made the right choice even before the tramp detoured off Leeds Road, into proper darkness.

  Tramp? He was a scruffy wreck of a man, but still unmistakably a man for all that; one who would have toughened on the streets, not softened.

  This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for.

  The killer let the man hobble-wobble his way onto a football pitch before closing in from behind, the suppressed Beretta in his hand making him feel like James Bond. When he got within ten yards he called out and the miserable loser stopped and turned.

  It was as simple as that.

  ‘Who’s that?’ the loser growled. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Two shots in the gut shut him up and brought him down. Suddenly a victim, he lay on his back, clutching his belly, trying to scream but only managing breathless whimpers. The killer flicked his safety back on and put the gun away, drawing a hunting knife in its place. The blade was very, very sharp. Even though the victim had a dozen filthy shirts on, it was easy to cut through them and expose his chest.

  No, this wasn’t his chest, this was a blank canvas.

  The victim’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as the killer carved into him. He tried to whimper more loudly and failed. He tried to wrestle himself away and failed at that too. After a lifetime of failure it was surprising he bothered. Maybe he thought this was the first day of the rest of his life, not the end of everything.

  There was still a little more carving to be done. Satisfied with his preliminary work, the killer started on the victim’s forehead, carefully cutting in an upper case X, not too dissimilar to the one once sported by Charles
Manson.

  ‘There you go, matey, X marks the spot.’ He giggled, ‘Helter-fucking-Skelter.’

  The knife went back in the jacket, replaced by a claw hammer and a long metal stake. He struck up his lighter and waved them before his victim’s bulging eyes, letting him see.

  ‘For you,’ he said, placing the point of the stake against the centre of the X, digging the point in firmly. Only then did he raise the hammer.

  ‘You are the first of the privileged,’ he went on. ‘Your name will live forever . . . whatever it is.’

  The victim tried to yell and twist away.

  And failed.

  No change there, then.

  The initial blow sent the stake an inch through forehead, into brain. The victim reacted as if he’d been electrocuted, bucking and twisting, arms and legs thumping on the turf. Fortunately he remained unable to yell, because the killer wasn’t finished yet.

  Holding the part-embedded stake as steady as possible, he struck it again, sending it deeper, feeling it pierce the back of the victim’s skull. A third blow sent the point partway into the ground and a fourth ensured it stayed there. Stronger than ever, he stowed his hammer and stood back to watch.

  The victim was still bucking and twisting, although not so violently now. His life was ebbing from him. It was like watching the stub of a candle burning out and dying. In fact it was awesome.

  To think that such a useless lowlife could cling to the flame like this.

  And to think how well he was snuffing the lowlife out.

  As his victim stumbled towards The Gates of Hell the killer realized he’d got an almighty hard-on. Shocked by its intensity, he witnessed one final convulsion and, a split second later, the snake spat.

  Somewhere not so far away a car door slammed. The killer had a quick jiggle but couldn’t escape the wetness flooding his boxers. Perhaps it was a sign from above, warning him not to get too big for his boots. God’s way of telling him he was good, but not that good.

  But fuck the inquest. There was no God. The tramp was dead, killed by his fair hand, and there was no God.

  Anyway, enough of that. It was time to make like an aura and fade.

  * * *

  Women, Jonjo thought as he let himself out of the house. That bit about changing their minds was a pain in the arris. His eye fell on Michelle’s coat rack before he could close the door. As well as half a dozen coats there was a dog lead hanging there. A thick, sturdy affair, lots more chain than leather and with a choker on the end, Doberman-sized at least. He pocketed it and, as an afterthought, grabbed the belt out of her suede jacket.

  He saw the open window as soon as he reached next door’s driveway. The burglar had indeed stuck to his winning formula. Jonjo stealthily approached and stood to one side, making sure he could see but not be seen. Almost immediately he sensed movement. Moments later a dark shape slipped agilely out. Jonjo waited until it reached back for the swag before pouncing.

  The burglar was wiry and aggressive but no match for a six foot three prop forward. Jonjo quickly overpowered him and held him against the wall by the throat.

  ‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the little twat snarled. ‘Let me go, you dickhead. I’ll get you done for assault.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ Jonjo said, crashing his fist into an undefended belly. While the smaller guy was doubled up, sobbing for breath, he used the suede belt to bind his hands. He then looped the choker around the little bastard’s neck and pulled it tight enough to show he meant business.

  ‘Right, you snivelling shit. Where is it?’

  Breathless gasp.

  Tighter pull on choker.

  ‘Where is it?’

  This time the gasps were bordering on frantic. Jonjo eased off on the pressure and repeated his question.

  ‘Where’s what?’ the lad said, his voice raspy.

  ‘The TV you nicked from next door.’

  ‘I sold it.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I have. I fucking well have.’

  ‘Who’ve you sold it to?’

  ‘Some dickhead from Bingley. What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to my lady friend. She wants your nuts if she can’t have her TV.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t have it no more. Look mate, I’m protected. Do yourself a favour. Let me go.’

  Jonjo slammed the lad hard against the wall before confiscating his wallet. It was too dark to see the contents so he dragged him towards the road, where there were lampposts. As they reached the pavement a passing taxi slowed right down before suddenly accelerating away.

  ‘Looks like your driver’s jumped ship,’ Jonjo opened the wallet and helped himself to the notes inside. Without the money it was as bare-arsed as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. No credit cards, no driving licence . . . nothing. Not even an old library card. He closed it again. Written on the outside in black marker pen was the one word: PONGO. The writing was bold but childish; it reminded Jonjo of the doodles he’d done on his schoolbooks when he’d been about twelve.

  ‘Is this you? Are you Pongo?’

  Pongo nodded.

  ‘Okay then, Pongo. Last question: Which stupid twat’s protecting you?’

  ‘Dwyer,’ Pongo said. There was a glint of defiance in his eyes. Perhaps he expected to get his hundred and seventy quid back.

  ‘Would that be Sean Dwyer?’

  ‘Yeah, now let me go.’

  This time Jonjo hit Pongo even harder in the belly and kneed him in the balls for good luck. He waved to Michelle’s unlit house as he hauled his prisoner past, holding up five fingers. He couldn’t see her but hoped she was still there, looking out of the window and keeping everything warm.

  The car was parked down the road, under one of those weepy trees. Jonjo opened the boot then chinned the bastard, sparking him, letting him slump on top of the spare wheel. He used a couple of oily rags as a gag then rigged the dog lead so it was taut between Pongo’s feet and throat. If he tried kicking to attract attention, he’d throttle himself. Come to that, if he tried moving enough to let out a fart, he’d throttle himself.

  Jonjo closed and locked the boot, looking around carefully. It was Ghost City in these parts. Nobody had seen a thing.

  Michelle flew at him as soon as he got back in her house. ‘I thought you’d run out on me. I thought you’d cum and run.’

  She was tearing clothes off him as she spoke. They barely made it onto the sheepskin before he was inside her and they were frenziedly fucking.

  Frenziedly, fiercely and finishing well for both of them.

  Temporarily sated they lay together, still joined, Michelle gripping him with her arms and legs.

  ‘I’m not running off,’ he said, basking in the afterglow.

  ‘I know you’re not. I’m not letting you.’

  ‘Shall we retire to the sofa? Try for that CD player?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about a CD player anymore. I just want you to stay. In case he comes back.’

  Jonjo thought of the lad huddled in the boot, possibly choking himself to death.

  ‘I saw him off good and proper. But it’s awful when your home’s been violated. If you’ll make me breakfast in bed, I’ll stay until you feel completely safe.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.’

  ‘You will in the morning. I know another guy who’ll come and fix new locks on your windows and doors. Strong, burglar-proof ones.’

  ‘Fix them for free, you mean?’

  ‘Free as far as you’re concerned,’ Jonjo chuckled. ‘Your friendly robbing bastard’s already covered my costs.’

  Chapter five

  Geoff’s arm hurt from shaking hands. His forced smile was starting to ache. And the day hadn’t properly started yet, the worst part still stretched out before him like a hideous yawn. He honestly didn’t know how he was going to get through it.

&n
bsp; Not that quitting was an option.

  Seeing a familiar face among the ranks of policemen he walked over, leaving his mum and dad to greet latecomers. The officer gave him a sombre nod.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Rodgers. You have my sincere condolences.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Geoff. ‘I’m grateful for you turning out.’

  ‘It’s the least we can do.’ The policeman shrugged. ‘If nothing else, the sight of a few uniforms might make the reporters behave themselves.’

  Geoff glanced around the crematorium grounds. Although it was reverently quiet the place was packed and bristling with microphones and cameras. He could only recognize half of the people there; the rest were either lookie-loos or part of the media circus. Ghouls, the lot of them.

  Parasites.

  ‘I gave an interview yesterday,’ he said. ‘My boss knows a man who knows a man. They’re going to get their pictures then clear off.’

  ‘Good. We’ll make sure they do.’

  ‘Is there any news about Green?’

  ‘No change.’ The policeman shrugged again. ‘He’s still malingering with all those pretty nurses, hiding behind the usual smokescreens. Says he thinks they’ll get him when he finally lands in Armley.’

  ‘Who’ll get him?’

  ‘The list’s endless: other dealers; inmates who don’t like lady killers; inmates who don’t like more notorious inmates; inmates who just don’t like. He even reckons Ointment want a word. Maybe they do. There’s a few of them in there with time on their hands.’

  It was hard for Geoff to know how to feel about the man who’d slaughtered his wife. Johnny Green was a small-time drug dealer who’d operated in and about Lumb Lane. He was twenty and had been chasing an even smaller-time dealer, Len Desmond, who was nineteen. The police said their dispute had been “territorial”, meaning Desmond had been seen walking through Green’s patch twice in less than a week. Green’s solution to this was to mow him down with a machine pistol. It wasn’t possible to say what he’d have done if he’d actually caught him trying to deal.

  Geoff hated Green, obviously, but he also struggled to understand what could make a twenty-year-old act like that. The police said he’d tested clear for intoxicating substances and had been running on sheer nastiness. They also refused to believe his leap from the car park was an authentic suicide bid. Okay, he’d jumped away from the catchers, but it wasn’t so great a height at that side of the multi-storey. And he’d aimed for a patrol car roof, taking care to land feet first when he bounced, breaking his legs and a few toes but not much else. As for remorse . . . the only thing Green was remorseful about was getting nicked. To him Samantha Rodgers was collateral damage, and insignificant collateral at that.