Pat knew Huyton was carrying at least the razor so hadn’t wasted time talking. Instead he’d unleashed a left-hander that sent him crashing into the doorway of a charity shop. Sean then produced a Rambo-style knife and set into the dreadlocked bully like a madman. When Pat hauled him off there were wounds everywhere, one of them jetting a steady stream of blood onto the shop window.
Huyton had looked to be terminal. Pat hastily recovered the wallet then dragged a suddenly shell-shocked Sean out of sight, more or less locking him away from the world for three days, not trusting him to cover his own tracks. And arguably saving his bacon. By what could only have been an act of God, there had been no witnesses. Better still, Huyton pulled through and refused to identify his attacker before discharging himself from hospital. He then conveniently took his bandaged arse back to Keighley and was shot to death within a matter of hours. As far as Pat was aware, the enquiry into his stabbing never even started.
It had been an escape OJ Simpson would have been proud of.
But that was hardly the point. If Sean went at Maurice like he’d gone at Huyton, he really would do for the bastard.
A couple came out of the pub, holding hands. They turned left and walked away up Wagon Lane, pausing to kiss as they went over the narrow canal bridge. Apart from the very occasional passing vehicle, the road was now deserted. Pat checked his watch: ten to ten.
Come on Evans, you wanker. Let’s get it over with.
* * *
It was twenty-two hundred, dark already and still raining. All four soldiers had now moved into position, although nothing had changed; nothing apart from the news recently relayed by Tommy.
The targets are on their way.
Rick felt the adrenalin flow. A whole day of cold MREs and pissing into a bottle suddenly seemed worthwhile.
At last he heard an engine in the distance. The sound approached slowly, as if the driver had no worries about time at all. Rick turned his head so he could see the rough track that ran from the metalled road to the farm. There was a shape moving along the track; a Range Rover, driving on sidelights. It finally stopped outside the farmhouse. Four men climbed out instead of the expected three. Rick scoured their faces through his night-sight.
Shit! He could only recognize Player Three.
He looked at them again, one after another, hoping he was mistaken. But he wasn’t.
Tommy made his situation report as the men entered the building. Rick heard him swear before giving the order to wait out.
Fuck me, head-shed’s mass-debating. We could be here all night.
One of the PIRA men stood alone, filling the farmhouse doorway, casually smoking while the others presumably got digging inside. Rick studied him, trying to memorize his features. This wasn’t Player Three, who was short and stocky; this was a giant of a man. He had to be six-five or six-six and was built like Frankenstein’s monster. Except Frankenstein’s monster didn’t look nearly so evil. Rick could sense menace coming off this guy in waves.
Who in hell is he?
Tommy was cursing again. The order to wait out went round once more.
As the soldiers watched and waited, the PIRA men removed a number of objects covered in sacking and loaded them into the Range Rover. From the shape of the objects Rick guessed they were rifles. Lying there, doing nothing as the bastards drove away was torture. He wanted to rip someone’s head off.
‘What now?’ It was Phil the Pill, sounding just as frustrated.
‘We stay where we are,’ Tommy replied. ‘And hope it’s our three if they come back.’
‘Shame,’ said Scouse. ‘I might never get Mike McGuire in my sights again.’
* * *
The attic had smelt vaguely of embrocation. There was a skylight that hadn’t been cleaned since about 1927 and the air was explosively hot. None of that mattered though. Heather dropped all interest in her surroundings in the rush to get naked and join her friend on those handily placed crash mats.
She shivered as she thought back. The whole afternoon and most of the evening had just . . . gone. She could remember everything and nothing. Touches and tastes. Words said earnestly about giving, receiving and equal shares. Mare proving herself to be the world’s best giver and an even better receiver . . .
And the power in their slender young bodies! Who would ever have believed that! All those previous, self-induced orgasms were luke-warm by comparison.
Now it was a shudder, not a shiver. Heather hadn’t taken too much notice of equal shares and had done a lot more giving than receiving. Giving had fascinated her. Teaching herself how to summon that wonderful, wonderful power within Mary Rose. Then containing it, making it grow and grow before erupting, time after time. Their increasing lack of control. Having to bite on Mare’s bunched up shirt to stop herself screaming . . .
‘Penny for them.’
Heather blinked. ‘I was thinking about the curfew.’
‘Curfew!’ Mary Rose snorted. She didn't seem concerned about being in a forbidden corridor so late in the day. She didn't seem concerned about lingering there either. Even if Tanya had her ear to the keyhole, Mare clearly couldn't have cared less.
‘I can’t tell you how well you did,’ she went on. ‘Consider me yours. You can fuck me anytime you want. Anytime and anywhere.'
‘Don't say fuck.'
‘No really Hev, I've never cum like that. You're the best.'
Reverting to time-honoured tradition, Heather kissed the redhead in a bid to shut her up. Mary Rose responded by sticking a hand in her knickers.
‘No!' Heather gasped, pushing her away, laughing in spite of her sudden panic attack.
‘Don't be like that. You know you want to.'
‘I know we're an hour beyond the pale. And I know I don't want to be chained to a wall upside down, next to you.'
‘No? Sounds exciting to me.'
This time Heather didn't resist. It took maybe one minute for her friend to achieve her goal.
‘Good grief,' she groaned, expecting to be caught at any second.
‘You're still very slippery. I wish I could get more personal.'
‘More personal!' Another gaspy laugh. 'Not possible!'
‘Want to bet?' Mary Rose kissed her deeply, simultaneously squeezing her bum. 'We're both proficient now,' she whispered. 'No reason to save anything. Forget deals for summer. Go for everything you can get. Just make sure you try all your new tricks on me in September. Okay?'
Heather stared at her. 'What?'
‘I’m declaring open season on girls too.’
‘There aren’t any in Kettlewell.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure there are dozens of stable lasses in thigh-length boots.’
‘Mare . . .’
‘Brown leather does it for me. You can get yourself a pair if you want.’
Heather shook her head and chuckled. It occurred to her that she was, with girls at least, no longer a virgin. More to the point, Mare had done some giving . . . and she hadn’t found evidence of virginity. Neither had Jacqui come to that, although she hadn’t had quite so close a study. The conclusion had to be that there was no evidence to be found.
Heather Hunter, your secret is safe! All that horse riding must have covered your tracks.
‘Brown leather,’ she said. ‘Make up your mind, Mare. One minute you’re casting me off, the next you want me to wear kinky boots.’
‘We’re sisters forever,’ Mary Rose replied seriously. ‘Lovers forever too. Forever’s a long time though. And sisters don’t need to be faithful, do they? Sisters just want to have fun . . .’
* * *
At school Maurice had been short and skinny with ginger hair. Ten years hadn’t changed him, apart from adding a weirdly disproportionate beer belly. He looked like he was carrying twins or maybe triplets. Pat followed him away from the pub, into the car park. There was nobody else anywhere to be seen.
Tinner and Moggs must have everything under control.
‘Maurice,�
�� he called. ‘Hang on a moment.’
Maurice stopped and squinted back. ‘Pat? Pat McGuire? Is that you?’
Grinning amiably, Pat caught up and thumped him as hard as he could in the beer belly. It was like thumping a drum filled with water. Maurice let out a thin wail and doubled over before ejecting three pints of best bitter. Pat avoided the vomit and grabbed him by the arms.
Sean had parked in the rearmost space. As Pat held Maurice upright he got out of his motor and approached them. Sean had his punishing expression on. He looked tough and menacing, nothing like the smooth charmer fancied by all the girls. He was carrying a length of lead piping, probably filled with sand. Pat let out a sigh of relief; he’d half-expected to see another Rambo knife.
‘Hello, Maurice.’ Sean’s eyes were completely emotionless. ‘It’s settling up time.’
‘Sean,’ Maurice wheezed. ‘What’s going on?’
‘This is.’ Sean belted Maurice with the pipe. Then he did it again and again, smashing into his ribcage like a lunatic xylophone player. Maurice gasped and grunted but didn’t seem to have enough air in him to scream or yell. Pat knew bones were breaking but kept hold, watching Sean’s face, alert for signs of real madness.
At last Sean stopped. Maurice had gone all floppy. His chin sagged onto his chest and his legs had become rubber bands. If Pat hadn’t been supporting him he’d have been flat out. Sean grabbed a fistful of ginger fuzz and jerked Maurice’s head so they were eyeball to eyeball.
‘That’s what you get for blabbing,’ he snarled, ‘and for knackering my education. I’d have got as many A-levels as Pat if you’d kept your gob shut.’
He crunched the piping into Maurice’s balls.
‘Blab about this and you’re going to die. Do you understand me?’
Maurice seemed to have lost the ability to speak. He scraped together a nod.
‘Good,’ said Sean, raising the pipe.
‘Enough,’ Pat said.
Sean gave him a glare then turned and stalked back to his decrepit Golf. Pat lowered Maurice onto the tarmac then looked towards the pub. Moggs was standing in the doorway. Tinner was still inside, hopefully not holding everyone back by brute strength. Pat gave a low whistle and got the thumbs up from Moggs. Ten seconds later they were piling into the car.
‘Any trouble,’ Pat asked.
‘Fuck all,’ said Tinner. ‘Nobody even noticed.’
Sean eased carefully out of his parking slot then suddenly jumped on the accelerator. The double bump as both on-side wheels went over Maurice’s legs was sickening.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Pat yelled.
But it was too late, the damage was already done. Looking back he got a glimpse of a dark, motionless heap. Then Sean threw the vehicle out into Wagon Lane with a screech of burning rubber before auditioning for The Dukes of Hazzard over the humped bridge.
‘Anyone cop us?’
‘There’re people coming out,’ Pat said as The Fisherman’s disappeared from view. ‘But they can’t have copped us. Someone might have got the number, though.’
‘It’s nicked anyway.’ Sean sounded more normal already. ‘Who cares?’
Now they were out of sight he was driving like Mr Careful Driver of the Year, apparently in no hurry at all. Even so, scarpering didn’t take long. Inside five minutes he’d dropped Tinner and Moggs by The Granby and was pulling up in a deserted builders’ yard off Leonard Street. There was a gallon container of petrol in the boot. Sean got it while Pat balled the pages of yesterday’s Sun. By the time they left the yard the fire was burning nicely. As they strolled past Bingley Working Men’s and turned into York Street they heard a satisfying WHHUUMMPHH!! behind them.
‘That Golf’s played its last round,’ Sean said.
It wasn’t even half ten when they arrived in The Star taproom. The darts and doms team arrived moments later, fresh from a win in Bradford, ready for a lock-in. That meant there was no chance of anyone getting out much before dawn, which suited Pat just fine. He bought two pints of Tetley’s and joined Sean, who immediately downed his and went back for two more.
‘There’s another motor bunning back there,’ one of the darts players observed grimly. ‘No sign of the police.’
‘Bloody kids,’ Pat replied.
Sean returned and Pat followed him to a table where they could sit and talk.
‘Bit naughty, that,’ he said. ‘I told you he’d had enough.’
‘They want to get more lighting in that car park,’ said Sean. ‘I never even saw the poor sod.’
‘Bollocks!’ Pat couldn’t help smiling. ‘Do you think he’ll blab?’
‘He’d better fucking not. I’m going to send a Get Well card to keep him focused. And grapes. That’s what you send, isn’t it; grapes?’
‘What about Harry Williamson? Are you going to send him grapes too?’
‘I’d like to send that cunt a ton of Semtex.’ Sean had a big swig of beer. It was incredible how quickly he’d reverted to his everyday self. ‘But he’s going to have to have it cold this time. We can’t fight yet. We’d get wiped out.’
‘What about Pongo? Can’t we find out what happened?’
‘They’ve killed him,’ Sean said shortly. ‘He’ll be buried in unconsecrated ground somewhere, like he was working for Al Capone, not me. I just hope they did it fast.’
‘Me too. It’d be good to get his body back, though. His mum doesn’t know what to think. Even his ex is worried about him.’
‘I’ll ask.’ Sean pulled a face. ‘I’m going to speak to Williamson tomorrow. Eat some shit. Agree to keep off his manor.’
‘I’ll bring you a bucket. You might want to gip.’
‘No fucking might about it.’ Sean drained his glass. ‘Get a move on, won’t you? I don’t want to be buying every round tonight.’
While Sean got more beer Pat went into the gents’ and locked himself in trap one. He had a slash then used a rolled tenner to snort a couple of lines off the cistern lid, bringing instant relief. This was getting to be a habit but so what? He could afford a little luxury now and then. Besides, his ever-recurring smoking was a bigger worry; it was starting to affect him in the scrum.
He wiped his nose with bog roll then let himself out and double-checked in the mirror. Sean had quit everything but grass along with the dealing; nowadays he got all sanctimonious about lesser people’s weaknesses.
Maybe I’ll be like that as a reformed smoker, Pat thought, grinning at his reflection.
Not!
He went back in the tap room and picked up his new pint. ‘This truce with Williamson,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t extend to the rugby pitch, does it? We’ve a pre-season friendly against Jonjo’s lot coming up soon.’
Sean laughed. ‘If you get chance, break the cunt’s neck.’
Chapter Nine
Geoff waited for the time on his PC to change before dialling.
‘Hello, Penelope Browning speaking.’
‘Hello, is that Penny’s Emergency Services?’
‘It certainly is, Mr Rodgers.’ Penny’s chuckle was delicious. ‘I didn’t expect you to be using your membership quite so soon.’
‘I’ve lasted more than a day.’
‘Didn’t you only sign up yesterday?’
‘That’s right. Twenty-four hours and one minute ago. I’m sixty seconds into day two now. And you did insist.’
‘I know I did.’ She chuckled again, even more deliciously. ‘And I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re calling. What’s to do?’
Geoff tried his best to sound upbeat but it wasn’t easy. The weight of responsibility was starting to crush him. Making this call was like confessing defeat . . . already.
‘I’ve got a problem at Auntie Sue’s end,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be picking the kids up by seven each evening.’
(Not strictly true: he’d originally promised to be picking them up before six thirty; so far he’d been averaging more like half seven.)
‘Auntie Sue is o
n a big night out tonight,’ he went on, ‘so it’s no-miss. And I’ve just had a three-line whip on a job I didn’t even know existed.’
‘Never fear, Penny’s here. Give me your aunt’s address and phone number. I’ll do the rest.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Geoff, I’m delighted. Honestly I am. So go on, give me the details and leave the rest to me.’
He did and told her how to get into his house as well. ‘I really am grateful,’ he added. ‘If you can collect them by seven, I’ll be home as soon as possible.’
‘Don’t go rushing around having accidents. That wouldn’t do anyone any good, would it? Do what you have to do. Let it take as long as it takes.’
Geoff glanced at his desktop. Everest hadn’t got any smaller. His job was in there . . . somewhere.
He hoped it was one of the half dozen items on Janes & Co’s distinctive letterhead. It could take ages to find if it wasn’t.
‘I shouldn’t be too late,’ he said optimistically. ‘And I’ll make sure I don’t crash into anything.’
He pulled a wedge of yellow paper out of the middle of the pile, taking care not to bring everything tumbling down. Blinking in disbelief, he double-checked with the still-open message on his PC.
Got it first time!
Maybe this wasn’t going to take so long after all.
* * *
John paid for an hour and displayed the parking ticket inside his windscreen, sticking it next to the tax disc. It was still strange seeing the best part of a year’s road tax to go. He used to buy in lots of six months and they allus seemed to be running out. It was strange to be driving a decent Landy, as well.
‘Stay,’ he said, leaving the side window open a crack and locking the door. ‘Guard it for me.’
Gyp put his nose on his paw and pretended to go to sleep. John wasn’t fooled. Anyone coming too close to the brand-new Defender 110 would get the fright of his life.
The ex-farmer took a moment to study the lie of the land. Keighley Market was ahead to his right, Morrisons off to the left. More interestingly, there were two pubs perhaps as much as fifty yards away. A Taylor’s sign made him pick The Burlington.
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