UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘I could say the same for you, Dwyer.’

  Andy attracted their attention the moment they entered the pub. ‘You’ve had a call,’ he said to Pat. ‘It’s Jonjo. He needs you to call back, soon as.’

  ‘Fucking Bubbles,’ Sean spat. ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘One way to find out,’ Pat said, entering the number Andy had taken down. They went outside before he rang.

  ‘Hello, Jonjo? It’s Pat McGuire.’

  ‘Evening Pat. You took your time.’

  ‘I’ve been busy, only just got your message. What’s up?’

  ‘Is Dwyer with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him he’s a twat from me. And tell him Harry’s going to be ringing later. He’ll be ringing on this number of yours, so you can wait together.’

  ‘Pardon me, Jonjo, but so what? Harry wants to speak to us? Why should we give a toss?’

  ‘Because he's got something of Sean’s. Something he won’t want burying. Keep your phone on and who knows? We might send it home.’

  * * *

  God help me, I’m turning into a gibbering wreck. Heather shook her head. Who are we going to bump into next, an ITV News crew?

  Still, Victoria was cool about Dom. And Dom was the one who might blow the whistle, not Mr Carmichael. Directors didn’t do grapevines.

  Did they?

  Well, did they?

  The tomato crisps were down to crumbs so Heather tore open the cheese and onion and picked out some of the nicest looking, brownest ones.

  At least my heart’s behaving itself for now . . . until ITN turn up.

  Shame about the thong . . .

  Victoria returned carrying two new pints. ‘Those men at the end of the bar were asking about the state of your nipples,’ she began. ‘When I told them they’d have to ask me later, one of them said he hoped I’d find them like bullets again. What’s that all about? He seemed to know you, otherwise I would have supposed he’d escaped from somewhere.’

  ‘Was it the one in the Bench T-shirt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know him. He just made an approach. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to pick me up or put me down.’

  That cued more elegantly raised brows from the beautiful high-flier. ‘So?’

  ‘So I defused him gently.’

  ‘By showing him your nipples?’

  ‘No. They were discussed but never remotely visible, and in no way exhibited.’

  Victoria had a drink before shrugging. ‘Well, whatever defusing action you took certainly made an impression. Goodness knows how big an admirer he’d be if you’d tried detonating him.’

  ‘Right,’ said Heather. ‘Did you see Dom while you were there?’

  ‘Is that an attempt at changing the subject?’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  ‘In that case yes, I did see him at the other end of the bar, putting the world to rights with a couple of kindred spirits.’

  ‘You didn’t speak?’

  ‘No I didn’t. And stop worrying about him, please. He’s a true gentleman who wouldn’t even think about engaging in rude gossip. Not even faced with your erect, bullet-like nipples.’

  ‘He did seem rather gallant,’ Heather conceded. ‘The way he took his hat off. Well, it had to be gallantry or extreme sarcasm.’

  ‘It’s gallantry. He’s always like that. If he’d been close enough, he’d have kissed our hands.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Heather, ’You’ve convinced me. I promise I’ll stop worrying. In fact I’m chilling already. How about you? Have you sorted those nerves?’

  ‘You sorted my nasty nerves when you said this was a date. All I have now is sexy nerves.’

  There was eye contact at that; very warm eye contact.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Heather. ‘They sound nice.’

  ‘They feel nice in my tummy too. Like friendly butterflies. So friendly they lead me to ask . . . do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘On a first date . . . do you?’

  ‘Ninety-nine per cent of the time I do,’ Heather laughed again, ‘arguably ninety-nine point nine. What about you?’

  ‘Right now it’s a hundred. I’d say more, but we mathematicians don’t do more than a hundred.’

  ‘Spoilsports,’ Heather said, grinning.

  ‘I think you’ll find me sport enough,’ Victoria retorted. ‘I model myself on Maggie Thatcher. When this lady makes her mind up, she is not for turning. Apart from gymnastically, that is.’

  Adrenalin surged through Heather at the very thought.

  ‘I’m glad you don’t look like Mrs T.’

  ‘And I’m glad to hear it. I model myself on her stubbornness, but that’s as far as it goes.’

  ‘Your place or mine? Isn’t that the next question?’

  ‘Anywhere’s fine by me.’

  ‘No,’ said Heather, ‘you decide. I got us together. That gives you the choice as to where we burn off the lust.’

  ‘It does, does it?’ Victoria’s smile was more dazzling than ever. ‘We’ll have to get a move on if we’re going to my bed. I live in Headingley and I’m on the train today.’

  ‘I leave my car at home because of the parking. I suppose we could go get it; it’s only a few minutes up the hill. But now I stop to think, I’ve got a cat to worry about. So, if anywhere really is fine by you . . .’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Victoria, ‘don’t say you’ve got a houseful of cats!’

  ‘You won’t find any cats in my luxury apartment,’ Heather replied, sounding snooty without meaning to. ‘The one in question lives next door. I’m looking after it while my neighbour’s in Mumbai.’

  ‘Can you keep cats in a luxury apartment? Surely not. Where is this place?’

  ‘On the top floor of the Old Tannery. It’s one of the two new penthouses.’

  ‘Very swish.’ Victoria almost cooed. ‘I’ve signed off a few mortgages there as well. Not on a penthouse though. At least, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been mine anyway. Dad bought it outright. Although I didn’t expect him to. I only wanted to rent somewhere while I found a job.’

  ‘Dad bought it?’

  Heather winced. ‘Yes. But don’t go thinking he’s an eccentric millionaire. He’s just re-investing part of our windfall.’

  ‘He sounds prudent then, not eccentric.’

  ‘What can I say? He’s an ex-farmer. Won’t take out loans and can’t see the point in paying rent. I’d been at WYB a week before Mum dared tell him I was working for a bank.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Victoria. ‘My dad has a thing about banks too.’

  ‘Bloody moneylenders,’ Heather laughed.

  ‘I’d better not tell you what my dad calls them. Why don’t you tell me about this Indian neighbour instead?’

  ‘He’s not Indian; he’s an oily-handed engineer from Keighley. Once upon a time a company in Mumbai bought a mega weaving machine from his firm, wanting to undercut the British textile industry. They did that so well they shut down most of our machine makers, as well as all the weavers. Graham’s one of the few people in the world who knows how to fix this machine when it goes wrong. He gets called out there regularly.’

  ‘I hope he charges top dollar.’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but he feeds his cat with tins of Felix.’

  ‘Must be rich. What’s your reward for looking after Tibbles? I hope it’s more than half a pound of Bombay Mix.’

  ‘I got my reward when he asked me to look after the flipping thing. Several times.’

  ‘I see,’ Victoria said slowly. ‘He’s a proper boyfriend, is he?’

  ‘He’s a lapse. I don’t often do men. Not anymore.’

  ‘But you did Graham?’

  ‘He’s the only bloke I’ve been with since I’ve been back in England.’ Heather could feel herself starting to blush again. But knickers, she was going to tell the truth. Her tan camouflaged a blush anyway.

  ‘I’ve sp
ent one night with him,’ she said, ‘the night he asked me to cat-sit. We’d hardly passed the time of day before then. I suppose he caught me at a lonely moment . . . or five.’

  ‘Lonely moments . . . or five . . . I’ve had a few of those lately.’

  ‘Well you won’t have any tonight, I promise.’ Heather had finished her second pint. ‘Are you ready for another?’

  ‘I’m not too bothered. I’ll only go again if you insist.’

  Heather felt the other girl’s hand land on her again. This time it reached bare thigh above her stocking-top. And immediately edged higher; lots higher. Into the wet zone.

  ‘I thought just one more,’ Heather said, the words coming quite breathlessly. ‘While we . . . you know; while we have that chat.’

  ‘What chat’s that?’

  ‘What we did after Lights-out.’

  ‘It’ll save,’ Victoria said. ‘I’m past the time for talking.’

  They stared at each other, Victoria’s eyes brown and warm and liquid behind her snazzy glasses. Heather’s heart was hammering away harder than ever. And yes, her nipples had turned into bullets, as if she was really, really ready to have sex.

  ‘My place, then,’ she murmured.

  ‘Your place,’ Victoria agreed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The killer needn’t have worried. Although he hadn’t previously been through the “Looking for Business” conversation, his girl of choice obviously had.

  He’d found her about half a mile along the major road, smoking under a tree. She’d made all the running, asked all the questions then suggested a walk across a nearby park. He’d simply given her twenty quid and played along.

  And now here they were, hidden by darkness and bushes, ready to close the deal.

  ‘You have to wear this,’ she said, thrusting something at him.

  He took the johnny and tried not to laugh. No way was his cock going anywhere near her diseased slit.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, mock-obediently.

  She was busy unfastening straps and clips and never saw him shake the homemade cosh down his sleeve. Which was a pity; he was proud of that cosh. He’d got the weight to balance just right. He’d also drilled a hole in the end and attached it to a cord inside his trendy jean jacket, making it undroppable, guaranteed to land in his hand every time.

  ‘Sorted,’ she said, finally looking his way. ‘Ready when you are.’

  The killer replied with a smash across the side of the head that sent her down like a sack of spuds. There didn’t seem to be any need to follow up but he knelt and gave her another anyway. It was always best to be on the safe side.

  Controlling his breathing, he had a careful listen. Still nobody about.

  Back to work.

  One of the whore’s shoes had come off in the fall. He removed the other and threw it into the nearest bush. Then he tore away her short leather skirt. Even in that darkest corner of the park there was enough light to see what lay beneath: deathly-white skin and black stockings, very good on the eye. He’d picked her in anticipation of this moment.

  Well . . . okay, he’d picked her because she was the first lone pro who’d crossed his path. She hadn’t had to try too hard to draw him into conversation, though. Not with pins like that.

  Prostitutes might be a new venture but women weren’t. He had her stockings and panties off in a jiffy, pausing for a quick sniff in passing. Yuk: pee and burnt rubber. And she’d looked such a nice girl!

  Up to the other end. He balled the panties and stuffed them into her mouth, making her moan and groan in a muffled sort of way, confirming she hadn’t checked out altogether.

  Good. He reached for a stocking then hesitated as he saw something in the grass; an empty Heineken bottle . . . nearly empty, anyway. He picked it up and tipped out the dregs.

  ‘You should be enjoying this,’ he murmured, ‘not just me.’

  The neck-end of the bottle went into her easily. So easily she didn’t seem to notice it was in. Annoyed, the killer reversed it and gave her some of the thick-end.

  She noticed that all right.

  Bored with being a considerate lover, he rammed the bottle into her as far as possible then left it and went back for the stocking. Felt like nylon; made a decent garrotte.

  The whore’s eyes were open now. He could see them flicking from side to side like a trapped rabbit’s. Her mouth was in top gear too, trying to eject the panties.

  Now that wasn’t going to happen, was it?

  The killer finished the job swiftly then, leaving the stocking wrapped around an abraded and compressed neck as a fashion statement, exited discreetly.

  Very different, he thought as he slipped out of the park’s rear entrance. No gun. No stake . . .

  No cum in the old boxers, either.

  He mused on this as he wove through another set of streets, back towards the major road. But not for long, because tonight had only ever been a dry run.

  And because the pressure inside him had gone.

  For now.

  * * *

  ‘Oh my,’ Victoria sighed, lying flat out on the king-sized bed. ‘I’m glad we didn’t wait for that.’

  Heather untangled their legs. They were both drenched with sweat and passion but the smell of them wasn’t unpleasant. She’d always liked the smell of urgent sex.

  Not to mention the salty-sweet tastes.

  ‘What’s with you, Vic?’ she ran her fingers through the other girl’s damp but still spiky hair. ‘Had enough already?’

  ‘Vic now, is it? I must have been all right.’

  ‘Better than all right, you’re my Hot for It Girl of the Month.’

  ‘Me hot for it! I hardly got to do anything.’

  A brief but awkward silence ensued.

  ‘Did I get carried away?’ Heather asked finally.

  ‘Just ever so slightly. That was like being fucked by the Tasmanian Devil. God knows how Joanna came up with Snow White.’

  Heather scrunched defensively. ‘Joanna isn’t to know how depraved I am, is she.’

  ‘I should hope not. If you went at her like that she’d be begging the huntsman to cut out her lungs.’

  ‘Sorry. I . . .’

  ‘Shush, shush,’ said Victoria. ‘I’m not complaining. Not in the least.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Victoria kissed up at her forehead, ‘really, really, really.’

  Heather was relieved. She’d been starting to think she’d given it too much oomph.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘You surprised me,’ Victoria went on, almost-but-not-quite accusingly. ‘In my experience, the heroic white knight usually gets to ravish the damsel in distress. It’s rare for the knight to be on the receiving end.’

  ‘You should have said.’ Heather tried to seem demure. ‘I’m always open to being ravished. Or equal shares. I’m very adaptable.’

  ‘Oh I see. I should have spelled it out in advance, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘It would have helped. You’d better give me a list of does and don’ts before we resume.’

  ‘Resume?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m not nearly done yet.’

  There was another brief silence, each of them studying the other.

  ‘Honestly,’ Heather said. ‘Just let me know and I’ll be up for anything you want.’

  ‘Equal shares sound good.’ Victoria broke into a welcome and dazzling smile. ‘Although I must admit, being overwhelmed like that made a rather pleasant change.’ She chuckled. ‘It usually goes without saying I’ll be the ravisher. Comes with being a bossy cow, I suppose.’

  They studied each other again, the high-flier still wearing her snazzy specs.

  How’s she managed that? Heather wondered, remembering a flurry of limbs, clothes flying off in all directions. Had she kept them on when she’d . . .

  It was no use. The details were fuzzy, as if they’d had a whole night on the beer and not just a couple of pints.

 
And how did she know about Snow White? Was the grapevine really as good as that?

  ‘Haven’t you got a cat to see to?’ Victoria asked eventually.

  ‘It’s a fat ginger tom who keeps late hours. He’ll be okay.’

  Victoria (Vic from that moment onwards) pulled Heather closer and they shared a lingering kiss, hands steadily touring now familiar sections of body.

  Hot, moist and very receptive sections of body.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ said Vic. ‘Tell me about yourself: your life in fifteen minutes. Then you sort out Ginger Tom while I make us a snack. Then we come back here, turn out the lights and see who can stay awake longest.’

  ‘Don’t you like it with the lights on?’

  ‘Of course I do. But I like it in the dark as well. It stimulates my imagination.’

  ‘I’ll stimulate more than your imagination.’

  ‘You’re doing that already.’ Vic laughed. ‘But my tummy just rumbled. And I’m worried about that cat.’

  ‘Okay, okay. You win. You might be disappointed on the snack front, though. I could clothes shop for England, but I’m useless at shopping for food.’

  ‘I’ll find something.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

  ‘And I had you down as Little Miss Perfect.’

  ‘I’m far from perfect,’ Heather grinned, ‘as you will discover when you visit my fridge.’

  ‘Does that rule out breakfast in bed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’ll be breakfast in Mario’s, not bed.’

  ‘How about coffee and toast in bed?’

  ‘Coffee shouldn’t be a problem.’ A thought struck Heather. ‘Talking about tomorrow, what are you going to wear? I won’t have anything that’ll fit you.’

  She squeezed Vic’s bazoomas to prove her point.

  ‘I doubt anyone will notice the same suit. If they do, I’ll say I got carried away shagging. Never went home.’

  Heather’s heart started pounding for the zillionth time, although less excitingly now.

  ‘You don’t gossip after one night stands, do you?’

  ‘Didn’t Hot Lips tell you? The Ice Queen never gossips. She doesn’t do one night stands with colleagues either. And she hasn’t made an exception for you because . . . hopefully . . . this is just the first of many stands.’