UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  He left them going to action stations thinking that, for a tyrant, Marco certainly motivated his people. Stopping a moment outside The Kings Head he looked up and down Main Street. There were lots of eat-in places and takeaways of every description, but nothing in the niche he was aiming for. Confidence flooded through him. This was going to be a success, like the struggling Kings Head had been turned into a success. He could see himself in the not-too-distant, totally legit and owning half the town.

  It took an effort not to laugh out loud. He was a local lad, proud to be hosting the cream of the community and to have their genuine respect. God only knew what reputation he’d have fostered another ten years on. Maybe by then he’d have dropped his plans to go legit and become MP!

  Ladies and gentlemen here he is, the honourable Member of Parliament for Shipley and Bingley, Sean Dwyer.

  Or should that be Sir Sean Dwyer?

  And shouldn’t he change the seat to Bingley and Shipley?

  * * *

  Rick lay on his stomach, oblivious to the cold, surveying the target through his night vision device. Apart from being green it looked exactly as it had in the satellite photos. A single-level L-shaped building close to a taller, square building, the pair surrounded by a circle of flattened desert and enclosed by razor wire fencing. If the intel was correct, four kidnapped reporters were slammed up in the northernmost end of that L-shaped building, the rest of which contained half a dozen guards and fuck all else. The taller building housed anything up to thirty terrorists . . . or hostage-takers . . . or whatever they called themselves this week. And the gate, twenty-five metres to his right, was the only way in or out of the compound.

  These particular terrorists had bought the reporters piecemeal from smaller groups. They’d previously been held in the nearest city, being frequently moved from one makeshift prison to another. Now they were in a single group and this was the last stop before they were taken up into the mountains, from where rescue would be difficult if not impossible.

  Rick’s decision was easy enough. Go or don’t go.

  Time had made him cynical. He no longer believed anything until it’d been thoroughly tested. He didn’t particularly swallow this scenario, but everything the spooks had said backed it up. And so now did the evidence before his eyes.

  Fuck it. If the assault team are happy, I’m going to go.

  Scouse had already cut an entry hatch into the fence, having first made sure it wasn’t alarmed or electrified. Judd and Tel were prone, eyes on target. Rick swept the compound again. There were five trucks outside the square building, but nothing with any defensive capability and no sign of anyone standing stag. Lazy bastards must rely on the location to cover their arses.

  A million icy stars glittered overhead. Rick made the call.

  ‘Phil, how’s it looking?’

  ‘Like it says on the can. Ready when you are.’

  ‘Okay, we go in two.’

  Precise as always, the assault team cracked off a bombardment of 40mm grenades, aiming at the square building’s doors and windows. The top storey immediately started to burn. So did the trucks, which had been attacked separately. The assault team followed up with fire from C8 rifles and a gimpy. The terrorists’ response was so feeble they shouldn’t have bothered.

  Rick and the other three were through the fence while the first grenades were still in the air. They were halfway to the L-shaped building when two armed men burst out. Rick dropped them both without breaking stride.

  Into the building. Rick and Tel cleared the south end, finding four more terrorists and quickly neutralizing them. That accounted for all the expected guards but they weren’t taking anything for granted. Hyper-alert, they headed along a central corridor, kicking in doors and clearing rooms as they went. No resistance. The corridor ended in a final door which was metal and locked. Scouse had come prepared, though. He’d brought plastique keys with him. He fixed a small charge and they covered their ears and took what shelter they could while it worked its magic.

  There was another short corridor beyond the door. The cell at the end stank of PE-4 and human waste. Through their NVGs they could see piles of shit and great pools of piss. There were four bodies on the floor, three motionless, one moving . . . a bit. Without speaking the soldiers grabbed a body each and left the way they’d come, meeting zero opposition.

  The assault team had stopped firing. Rick could hear screams and entreaties in Arabic from wounded men. Flames danced in the sky. He pushed his way through the hatch in the fence before contacting Phil the Pill.

  ‘Got them all. We’re pulling back to our RV.’

  ‘Roger. I’ll let our mate do his dems, then we’re out of here.’

  Rick’s RV was a K south of the compound. En route he heard four or five serious explosions, confirming Beefy had flattened the taller building with that SMAW he’d been itching to use.

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ Rick said, carefully lowering his burden onto the stony desert floor and checking his watch. They had three minutes to wait, no more. The airbus service out here was very reliable.

  ‘I’ve got the Aussie,’ Scouse said.

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s in a bad way. But alive.’

  Rick used a pencil-sized torch to check out his own reporter. ‘I’ve got one of the Brits, also in a bad way. But still with us.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I went in there for a dead Kraut,’ said Tel.

  ‘No,’ Judd put in. ‘I’ve got the Kraut. You must have the other Brit.’

  Tel had a closer look. ‘So I have. And guess what? He’s breathing.’

  ‘So’s mine. We’ve hit the jackpot.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rick, hearing the chopper as it approached, looking up for it. ‘Nice one.’

  * * *

  Sean started up the pub steps then, seeing the NO MOBILES sign, paused and switched off his Nokia. The rules in The Kings Table were going to be Marco’s but the rules in The Kings Head, vigorously enforced by the landlord, Andy Sullivan, were mostly his own. And he nearly always obeyed his own rules.

  By now the pub was heaving. Sean did the gracious host bit, shaking hands and patting backs as he moved through the throng, stopping to speak to a senior police officer and his very high-maintenance wife.

  ‘I’ve invited a few of your lads in later,’ said Sean, ‘off-duty ones, I mean. They can do the usual and make sure Andy doesn’t start taking money for drinks.’

  The copper laughed. ‘In that case I’ll do the usual and make sure they behave themselves.’

  Sean made it back to the bar and took a pint of lager from Andy, paying for it with a fiver.

  Naturally.

  House Rule One was that everyone paid for every single drink. Rule Two was that no smuggled or knock-off goods were sold over the bar. The only exception was on nights like tonight, after last orders, when everything was on Sean. That was when Andy would switch to the hooky stuff.

  Got-to-pick-a-pocket-or-two . . . somehow!

  The pre-booked diners all seemed to finish their drinks at the same time. An exceptionally well-dressed couple drifted off towards The Kings Table and, by some herd instinct, the rest followed. From heaving the pub was suddenly almost empty. Sean sipped his pint as he studied the remaining customers. Most of the diehard, unselected regulars hadn’t arrived yet, having adjusted their schedules to account for free drinks later on. The sixteen ravenous reserves, however, were very much present, expressions ranging from hopeful to despondent, depending how well they’d done in yesterday’s draw.

  Freebie or no freebie?

  ‘What’s the betting?’ Andy wondered as he refilled Sean’s glass, ‘one empty table or two?’

  ‘I spotted everyone bar four,’ Sean said. ‘Is that where you get two empties from?’

  ‘The missing four might have gone straight next door.’ Andy grinned. ‘Or some of those you spotted might have changed their minds and done one. I’ll go a tenner it’s a sell out.’

/>   ‘This’ll tell us,’ Sean replied as the landline behind the bar (courtesy of Rule Three, the only telephone allowed to operate in the pub) started to ring.

  Every eye was on Andy as he picked up the receiver, hopes ranging from no empty tables to lots. Sean was surprised to feel his hand trembling. He hadn’t previously realized exactly how much this mattered.

  ‘Hey, Marco, how’s it going?’ Andy listened a moment before saying, ‘Right, I’ll tell him. Cheers.’

  Looking at Sean but speaking loudly, so everyone could hear, he said, ‘No no-shows . . . total sell-out. Not an empty seat in the house.’

  One hundred and eighty!

  Sean jumped off his bar stool and pumped his fist into the air. Success was going to cost him a packet but he didn’t care. He was in this for the long term and Objective Number One had just been pissed on.

  Then he saw the doom etched into the reserves’ hungry faces.

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to let you all starve, do you?’ He laughed. ‘Here’s the choice. Andy can do a big plate of his world-famous cheese and onion sandwiches . . .’

  That prompted plenty of groans.

  ‘Or you can get yourselves off to the Shama. I’ve booked seats and they’re sending me the bill, so order anything you want. But don’t stay there all night. You’ll want to be on the right side of these doors when Andy pulls the bolts.’

  * * *

  Bunny Burrows’ latest hideout wasn’t so far from The Mucky Duck. His beat-up Astra was parked in a short, cratered driveway and lights were burning inside the house. Moggs did a risk assessment as they approached the splintering front door. The area was quite smart but Burrows’ place looked like a hovel. The windows were old, wooden and rotten, ready to fall out any second. Triangular patches of rendering were missing from the walls. The small jungle of garden could have come from one of the wilder parts of Borneo. To tell the truth, it brought the neighbourhood down. Its only saving grace was that the adjoining semi was even worse.

  Moggs didn’t think anyone would come running to help.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got him,’ said Swanny.

  ‘Yeah,’ Moggs agreed, ‘at last.’

  And it had taken a while. They’d been chasing Burrows for nearly a year, ever since he defaulted on the loan Swanny had been fool enough to give him . . . without paying one single instalment, of course. So far the trail had led from Bingley to Keighley to Silsden. Then Otley to Burley to Harehills. They’d saved Harehills for today, when they’d had other business in Leeds. Not-so-amazingly, they’d found Burrows had moved on again, this time to Frizinghall, which was a break of sorts. Previously he’d been skipping farther and farther away; Frizinghall was a big leap back in the right direction.

  Cue this visit on their way home.

  Swanny was going to knock but Moggs stopped him and tried the handle. Unlocked! Ta dah! If only everything could be so easy.

  Burrows didn’t seem to notice them arrive. He was down the hallway in the kitchen, sitting at a table with his back to them, music blaring, yapping into his mobile, surrounded by see-through envelopes. The defaulting bastard was somewhere in his early thirties but looked older. Or maybe they weren’t seeing him at his best. He was dressed in white joggers and a lime-green string vest, showing off bunches of hair and rolls of flab, obviously not expecting polite company this time of night.

  Moggs let him finish the call before snatching the phone out of his hand and killing the rap.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Burrows almost fell off his chair when he saw who it was.

  ‘Guys,’ he blustered. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘My arse,’ said Moggs.

  ‘I have. I want to start clearing that eight hundred quid.’

  ‘It’s gone up, Bunny.’ Swanny grinned at him. ‘You’ve not paid anything in months. Interest mounts, you know.’

  Moggs was looking at the envelopes. ‘What’s going in these? Smack?’

  Burrows laughed falsely. ‘My little business venture, that’s what. I’ll be paying you up in no time.’

  ‘I don’t want paying up in no time,’ said Swanny. ‘I want paying up now, before you think of somewhere else to fuck off to.’

  ‘I can’t give you eight hundred now. I haven’t got it.’

  ‘It’s two grand, Bunny. And I want it now. Stop piss-balling around. It’ll be an extra five hundred if Moggs has to break your leg.’

  ‘Two grand, that’s mental!’ There was panic in Burrows’ piggy eyes. He evidently liked his leg just the way it was. ‘Listen, best I can do: five hundred a week for three weeks.’

  ‘Not good enough. I’ll take five hundred a week for four weeks. But I want the first payment right now.’

  Burrows looked at Moggs before replying. He was sweating horribly, soaking his already atrocious vest. ‘Eight hundred cash,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘Here and now. Then it’s quits.’

  Moggs had heard enough. The house reeked of fear and fried food. It was time to hurry things along and get out into the nice fresh smog. He forcibly relieved Burrows of his wallet and emptied it. ‘Seventy-five quid,’ he barked. ‘Where’s the rest?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Bollocks. You said eight hundred, here and now.’

  ‘Yeah, well I meant from the cash point.’

  Moggs grabbed Burrows’ hand and bent his fingers until he yelled.

  ‘You haven’t got any cards,’ Moggs growled, ‘probably because you’re a shit credit risk. So where’s the fucking cash?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Burrows wailed, ‘in the bottom of the wardrobe. I’ll get it.’

  ‘Like fuck you will.’ Moggs let go and shoved Burrows back in his seat. ‘I’ll see what’s there. Then I’ll decide what you can pay.’

  ‘Evening, gents,’ a new voice said.

  It was Moggs and Swanny’s turn to swing around in surprise. Three men had come into the house behind them. Through that same unlocked door, pointing guns in their direction.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After an extravagantly extended gap year, approaching her supposedly respectable mid-twenties, Heather decided to live in Bingley. Although her dad had misgivings about the place she’d felt a buzz in the air, not to mention a sense of Bypass Boom. House prices were rising at crazy rates and builders and estate agents were having a ball. Property-wise, Bingley was the ladder to climb on.

  It was time to buy anyway. Simply going home wasn’t an option. She’d been as good as out-of-the-nest ever since she went away to school, over a decade ago. And personal freedom aside, job hunting had become a must. There was no chance of finding anything suitable in or around Kettlewell. With its well-publicized road and rail links, Bingley was a much more promising starting point.

  Getting a job wasn’t so easy though. Not for her, anyway. She’d had a couple of big hurdles to clear. One: graduates were ten a penny, even those with first-class degrees. And two: most graduates her age had already accumulated valuable job experience. All she’d accumulated was an every-last-inch tan and experiences best kept off CVs.

  Apart from Sexy CVs, that was, and those only ever got submitted to Mary Rose.

  A month applying for everything nice and shiny produced only frustration. At last admitting she needed help, she’d registered with three employment agencies and began to fare better . . . well, slightly better. Using her specifications, her dedicated advisors came up with a handful of low-ranking, temporary positions. Using their own initiative (wilfully ignoring her clear-cut instructions!) they flagged up a couple more possibilities, and local possibilities at that.

  Ironically, both major employers in Bingley were bank headquarters and both were always recruiting. Known worldwide by their initials, B&B and WYB simply couldn’t get enough graduates. All three advisors pushed her towards them despite being aware that, although she liked living there, actually working in the sleepy old market town wasn’t what she wanted.

  Not to begin with.

&n
bsp; No not.

  Heather’s original plan had been to find something in Leeds and commute. Leeds was the happening place for finance. Failing Leeds, she could always do Manchester. Failing that, surely something would come up. Surely it would.

  Her parents kept saying money wasn’t an issue but, the longer the hunt went on, the more anxious she got (her, the girl who never worried about anything!). Dad kept producing statements proving their investments were doing well but that hardly helped. He’d worked all his life, she hadn’t managed to hajime.

  Or even get into her gi.

  Halfway into the third month, when one of the agencies suggested paternity cover at a small accountancy firm in Batley, she cracked. To heck with it, she’d concluded. Bingley might not be in the financial Super League, but its two banks had sound reputations. If nothing else, she could fill in some of the yawning gap that was growing in her post-academic history.

  So she’d dumped the idea of living the high life and applied to the pair of them, giving it everything in her interviews, preparing ahead as thoroughly as Tanya ever prepared for an exam. And she’d made all the impressions she wanted to make, duly receiving two decent offers . . . decent enough for a novice armed with a rapidly-aging degree, anyhow.

  The offer from Bradford and Bingley was best but she’d dithered. She couldn’t put her finger on just why, but somehow it didn’t feel right. In the end she turned them down, accepting instead a position at the smaller, funkier West Yorkshire Bank next door, marginally swayed by their female-friendly marketing campaigns.

  Okay, she’d reasoned, maybe the money is a little less, but there’s a clearer career path and the competition won’t be so fierce.

  And anyway, it’s only a stepping stone. A promotion or two and I’ll be off.

  To her surprise life at WYB wasn’t at all sleepy or provincial. A lot of her colleagues lived nearby but many travelled in from five or ten miles away. Quite a few high-fliers actually reverse-commuted from big cities or remote rural retreats. There was a good atmosphere, a real can-do culture . . . together with plenty of cynicism and a handful of no-hopers, of course.