The early June sunshine shone unstrained on assembling mourners and hangers-on. This wasn’t the first funeral Geoff had attended at Nab Wood, and the weather had always been glorious. He hadn’t particularly taken notice before, but today was so spectacularly fine it seemed as if God was playing games. Or maybe it was good old Bill, mocking with his quality of mercy.
Is this all a test? Am I supposed to react meekly, like Jesus? Or furiously, like some Old Testament king, taking an eye for an eye?
Thoughts of revenge had only briefly crossed Geoff’s mind. How could he, an everyday white-collar worker, confront a gun-toting drug dealer? How without adding himself to the roll call of hapless victims?
How when he had the kids to consider?
Green was as good as convicted anyway. His day in court wouldn’t come around for a while but it was a done deal. Although there had been reporting restrictions, the world was already outraged by the barest of facts. Green was going to get life . . . whatever life meant nowadays.
But enough of that. Today wasn’t about vengeance. It wasn’t even about mourning, exactly. Not for Geoff; it was about closure.
Samantha had been his first love. They’d met on the day they started the Sixth Form. She had recently moved to Bingley and, up until then, he’d been hell-bent on following family tradition and joining the Army, intending to win a second (preferably not posthumous) Rodgers VC. That had never happened. By some miracle the instant attraction had worked both ways. And the rest had been history . . .
Until Johnny Green came along, carefree with his flashy machine pistol, tearing her away from her loved ones.
Thanking the policeman again, Geoff strolled back to his parents. His dad looked calm and composed. Mum had her usual worried head on.
‘You were right to ban the children,’ she began, ‘all those cameras! Goodness me! They’re like parasites!’
‘Ghouls,’ Geoff agreed glumly.
‘You will be all right?’ Mum was in front of him, peering anxiously into his face.
‘I’m not going to break down so they can film me, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Are you sure? It’s going to be an awful experience.’
You could always trust Mum to look on the bright side.
‘I couldn’t cry if I wanted to,’ he assured her. ‘I’m emotionally drained.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said, and went off to bother Dad a bit more.
It was good to be alone in the crowd, even if everyone was surreptitiously watching him. Geoff spent a moment taking stock of the people he did know. Lots from the pub: mainly football players with wives and girlfriends. Penny was there with Lee, but she hadn’t been over to speak, limiting herself to a little wave and a few sad smiles. There were some of Samantha’s old workmates and quite a few old workmates of his own; neighbours from Bingley; Samantha’s parents, relatives and friends from away; some half-remembered faces from their long-ago wedding. And the more immediate Rodgers clan had turned out in force. His middle brother, Frank, was there with his second wife, Sharon. So too was Frank’s first wife, Grace, and her new, much older husband. Just about everybody he could possibly have expected.
Less one, of course, and it wasn’t time to worry about him yet.
There was a bunch of people admiring the floral tributes. Geoff had already been there (he’d been as touched by the wreaths as he was by the turnout) and didn’t want to look again. He truly was drained; drained to the extent he hadn’t been able to shed a single tear since he got the terrible news. But the cards with the flowers . . .
Sandy’s card said:
I WILL THINK OF YOU EVERY DAY FOREVER
Becky’s card said:
LOVE YOU ALWAYS
Jamie’s (in Sandy’s handwriting) said:
YOU ARE THE BEST MUMMY IN ALL THE WORLD
To prove he was as hopelessly devastated as the kids, his own said:
WE WILL BE SWEETHEARTS AGAIN IN HEAVEN
Damn, damn, damn! What have we ever done to deserve this?
He checked his watch. Three minutes to go. Bang on cue a taxi pulled up and his not-so baby brother got out.
Rick wasn’t in uniform but still had SOLDIER stamped all over him. He had short brown hair and walked with a ramrod for a spine, seeming taller than his six-one. It was often said Geoff and Rick looked alike, but Geoff had never bought that. He’d never had girls throwing themselves at his feet, for one thing.
And he could never look so impossibly smart, for another.
As Rick make his way through the throng Geoff noticed how every woman’s head turned and how most of their eyes stayed on him . . . the jammy young sod. He paused to say something to Frank and made Sharon suddenly laugh. Then he was hugging Mum and Dad and holding out his hand to Big Bruv.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m lost for words.’
So was Geoff.
Fortunately, it was time to go in.
* * *
‘Okay, we’re all grown women . . .’
Roz snorted and pushed out her boobs. ‘Some more than others,’ she said. ‘Hello, boys.’
Jacqui didn’t like being interrupted, especially not by someone with the chest of a Page 3 girl. She glowered and went into her best Miss Whiplash mode.
‘Rosalinda, the only boys you’ll be seeing this afternoon are going to be badly dubbed from Danish into English. If I let you stay and watch, that is.’
‘Sorry Miss.’ Roz grinned. ‘Please don’t send me to the dungeons. I want to stay and watch the girls playing with the boys’ willies.’
‘Behave then,’ Jacqui said severely. ‘And listen to what I have to say.’
The king-sized joint had made its way round the circle to Heather again. She had two big drags before passing it on to Toni. It seemed wonderfully sinful to be here, smoking the weed, ready for a preview of Jacqui’s latest, purportedly best-ever movie. This afternoon was lesson-free as it was reserved for sporting activities . . .
Well, supposedly. In real life outdoor sports just weren’t going to happen today. While the BBC was telling the world Britain was sweltering in the sun, their posh bit of Cheshire was being hit by a deluge of epic proportions. A lot of the girls were taking the downpour as opportunity to swot for exams. Tanya was, of course. So, surprisingly, was Mary Rose, who for some reason had developed anxiety about German. Maybe she was afraid she’d only get ninety-nine per cent instead of her usual hundred and ten.
Heather was already as swotted up for next weeks’ exams as she ever intended to be. And despite Tanya’s claims, she didn’t have a photographic memory. There was no point in memorizing last-gasp dates and facts now for tests a week away; she’d only forget them. Extra swotting at this stage might even mess up her carefully balanced revision plan.
Besides, she wanted to watch the girls playing with the boys’ willies as well.
‘The film lasts ninety minutes,’ Jacqui said. ‘And we’ve all afternoon, so I want to start with a game of True Confessions. If we remember we’re adults with nothing to be ashamed of, it’ll be great fun. And it’ll put us in the mood to watch hanky-panky. No arguments and no lying. The key to this game is in the name: True Confessions. Do you all understand that?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ they said in a ragged chorus.
‘Good. We’ll go round clockwise and I’m starting.’ Jacqui cleared her throat. ‘Right Daffy, what’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done with a boy?’
Daffy was taken aback. ‘Had sex? Aren’t we all going to say that?’
‘Let me rephrase the question. Apart from having sex, what’s the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done? To give you a clue, I’m looking for something a bit different. Something that felt really naughty at the time, even if you didn’t go all the way.’
‘Like kiddie stuff, but spicy?’
‘That’s exactly what I want.’
‘Okay. The summer before last, I let the boy next door suck my nipples.’
‘Call that naughty?’ Roz scoffed.
<
br /> ‘It was naughty enough to make me cum my brains out,’ said Daffy. ‘I couldn’t have been wetter if I’d peed.’
‘Better,’ Roz conceded, ‘still a bit tame though.’
‘It was my best-ever cum. And the first time I’d . . . you know.’
‘No we don’t. Please enlighten us.’
‘It was the first time it wasn’t DIY.’ Daffy looked simultaneously embarrassed and proud. ‘I’ve still got the panties hidden away at home, as a memento.’
‘Unwashed?’
‘Unwashed and very stinky.’
‘That’s the sort of thing I’m after.’ Jacqui applauded. ‘Mad . . . same question.’
‘I haven’t done much with boys,’ Madeleine began awkwardly. ‘I’m going to have to say it was letting my second cousin feel me up.’
‘That’s not legal, is it?’ said Toni.
‘He only touched me. We didn’t have it off together.’
‘Did you cum?’
Maddy nodded. Heather just knew she was fibbing, about the end result, anyway, but wasn’t going to take her to task. Not while she was so relieved she wasn’t going to have to confess herself.
Not right at the start of the game.
Me! Nearly fifteen and still a virgin! How utterly uncool!
And how utterly unfair. Back at Hunters Farm nearly all her friends had been boys. This was by chance as much as anything else, with the neighbouring farms simply not having any girls of her age. Thinking about it now, she wished she’d had sex with at least one of those friends. In fact thinking about it now, she was amazed she hadn’t had sex with all of them. But she hadn’t; the move to Kettlewell had happened just before she’d really got interested. Although . . .
She frowned. There had been one close encounter: a passionate snogging session in the hayloft, with one of the lads who allegedly worked for her dad. Could she use that as her first True Confession?
Hmmm . . .
Perhaps not. Sammy had been seventeen with serious acne. She’d only done it because he was upset after Dad gave him and the other farm lad notice. And she’d chickened when he’d asked her to shag.
Can’t admit that, I’d never live it down.
* * *
Pongo hadn’t been scared when he’d been grabbed by the giant ape. He’d been taken unawares and a bit awed, but not scared. Getting caught was an occupational hazard; he’d been there before.
Normally it wasn’t a big deal. Normally you accepted some rough handling then mentioned “assault”. After that the dickhead householder would threaten to call the Pigs or back off. If the dickhead really did try to make a call, you used the word “protected” and that almost always did the trick. You very rarely had to utter an actual name.
Last night’s dickhead hadn’t conformed to type. He’d been violent but not out of control. The accusation of assault had sailed over his head. He’d recognized the taxi for what it was. Had, in fact, seemed to know exactly what was going on . . .
Yet he’d heard the moniker and didn’t care.
Spending the night in a boot had been the last thing Pongo expected as he’d climbed out of that final window. He’d been thinking about the next twenty minutes, wishing away the time until he hit The Granby with Moby. Then . . . zilch.
Or virtually zilch. He could remember everything up to being slammed into Dickhead’s car. Next thing he’d woken with a killer headache, bound and gagged, his body contorted. Once he’d worked out where he was . . . and why the slightest movement made him choke . . . he’d been furious. He’d wanted to kick and scream, struggle and shout. But he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep from garrotting himself.
He’d been trapped there ages. At first he’d thought Dickhead was just putting the frighteners on him. That made him even more furious and he’d started to plot terrible revenge. He really would get the twat done for assault. No, he’d get Sean to send his enforcers to break the bastard’s legs. Then he’d borrow a gun off Tinner and personally kill him.
For God’s sake, his mum always went mental if he wasn’t in by two!
He didn’t know whether he’d slept or not. If he had, it hadn’t revived him. Whatever had been stuck in his mouth reeked of engine oil. It had sucked the spit out of him and fucked his sinuses at the same time. His arms, legs and neck had lost feeling long ago. He’d got so cold his shivers had shakes. All in all, he felt like shit.
At last, a million years after he’d come round, the car started. Pongo tried flexing to stop being thrown about, choking again in the process. It didn’t make much difference anyway; he was pretty well jammed into one uncomfortable position. It seemed best to stay as he was and hope they didn’t go over too many potholes.
Thankfully the drive was a short one. Maybe ten minutes after they’d set off the car stopped and, moments later, the boot opened, dazzling him with sunlight.
Never mind two in the morning; it’s more like two in the afternoon. Mum will be well mad by now!
Strong hands grabbed Pongo’s jacket, un-jamming him and pulling him out.
Instant agony. The world’s nastiest cramps sank fangs into his legs. He would have wailed if it hadn’t been for the gag. He sagged against the car while Dickhead Ape-man untied his hands. New agony! Suddenly his arms hurt even worse than his legs. All he could do was lean there and hope things got better.
They didn’t.
‘Okay, Pongo, time for walkies.’
Ape-man was big but not fat. He had short-cropped fair hair (no doubt cropped to try to offset his spreading bald patch) and a rugby player’s battered face. He could have been any age between twenty and thirty. He was grinning but there was no humour in him whatsoever.
It finally dawned on Pongo what the thing around his neck was. The bastard was going to lead him through the streets like a beaten cur.
He looked about him. They hadn’t driven far, so had to be still in Shipley, but not anywhere he recognized. The whole area was derelict and deserted. The houses were terraced, fucked over and boarded-up. Some of them had old, faded GAS DISCONNECTED signs stuck on the boards.
‘Come on Pongo, there’s a good boy.’
Pongo had no say in the matter. Ape-man led and he followed on wobbly legs. They rounded the end of the nearest terrace, went three houses along a back street and into a debris-strewn yard. He could see that most of the debris came from a tumbledown outhouse, probably the old-style shitter. Weaving between heaps of broken bricks they arrived at a surprisingly intact back door. Ape-man tugged him inside, into the gloom, through a completely stripped-out kitchen with cut-off pipes exposed, towards another closed door, this one swollen and not nearly so intact.
There was a flight of steps behind the second door. An electric light was burning below, just out of sight. Pongo’s legs were so unsteady he had to grip the splintery wooden railing to get down without falling. Somehow he made it and was dragged into the cellar proper.
The man waiting there was just as big as Ape-man and even more fearsome. He had a large glassing scar on his cheek and glittering black eyes. He looked like a troll in a cave.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said gleefully. ‘No need to guess my name.’
* * *
Rick had only made arrangements to get as far as Samantha’s funeral. He hadn’t considered the bun fight afterwards. Well . . . he’d vaguely hoped to hitch a ride with Frank and had the number for 5 Rise Taxis as a contingency. As it happened, Elaine offered him a lift before he needed to start thumbing.
Elaine had left Bingley Grammar at sixteen. Up until then they’d been in the same classes for as long as Rick could remember. At school she’d been a good laugh but, although reasonably pretty, hadn’t been exactly sought-after. She’d been taller than most and very skinny, with a flame-red ponytail and thick-framed glasses. The other kids had called her Carrots.
Apart from the cruel few who’d tagged her That Sean Dwyer
Rick had only ever called Elaine nice names. He always seemed to end up with her
at parties and youth clubs. He’d suffered endless piss-takes because he kept going back for more. Not that he let the piss-takes influence him. He really had liked her, and not only because of those mile-long legs.
Now though . . .
Duckling to swan or what! Even he, a long-time admirer, had to admit she’d transformed. Her hair had been cut stylishly short and dyed burgundy. The glasses were gone, made redundant by contacts or lasers. She certainly wasn’t fat but nobody would think of calling her skinny: she had become significantly curvaceous. And who cared if she’d slightly underdressed for the occasion? It was lust at first sight.
Or at a thousand and first sight.
Or whatever.
The lucky bastard with her was called Rob. Rob was a footballing mate of Geoff’s who didn’t seem to mind having Rick on board. Not to start with. However, when he realized he was ferrying Elaine’s schoolboy lover, he came over all frosty. That was her doing of course; she always had been a wind-up merchant.
They were in a newish Escort. Rick sat in the back while Elaine sat in the front, twisted around the passenger seat so they could maintain eye contact while they talked. Well . . . eye-tit-eye contact; he was only flesh and blood.
‘Rob, remember I told you I had a scary boyfriend?’ she said without sparing Lucky Bastard a glance. ‘This is him. No-one else dare ask me out, even though we were never an item.’ She chuckled. ‘I had two whole years when I couldn’t give it away because of Rick Rodgers. Mind you, I was no oil painting. No-one else wanted it anyway.’
‘Don’t do yourself down,’ said Rick. ‘Everyone fancied you.’
‘My arse.’
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