UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

And how its original owner had then carried her into the changing room and thrown her into the bath, giggling and eager to join the rest of the players and half a dozen female fans.

  Binging? Not half!

  It was hard to believe she’d behaved like that. A sane, mature adult would have screamed and got the heck out of there. Not her. Not when the bath was full of erect willies and the orgy was already in full swing. No, high on beer and a miraculous semi-final win, she’d simply grabbed the nearest willy and got on with it.

  What did I tell Joanna? That I never do men more than three at once?

  Hmmm, comes down to the strict definition of “at once”, doesn’t it . . . although try telling that to the university gossipmongers!

  Even now, all these years later, Heather thought it was unfair that she’d been credited with the whole episode . . . or, more specifically, with shagging the whole team. She had, after all, been last into the water. There again, the other girls had had the sense to get naked indoors. When the action fizzled out they just hunted down their kit and got dressed, transforming themselves back into sugar and spice and all things nice.

  Undergraduate Hunter hadn’t been so lucky. Some kind soul went and got her clothes for her but a cat (probably a ginger bloody tom!) had peed all over them, ruining everything apart from her Nikes. Seeing no alternative, she’d persuaded one of the players to wring out the rugger shirt. Then, using the changing room hair-drier, he’d dried it on her while she stood in front of him, slowly rotating through three hundred and sixty degrees. This, as a tactic, was only a qualified success. It was fair to say that, when she went into the bar in her new outfit, heads had turned.

  Memories from then-on were patchy, even if some of the individual events were unforgettable, starting with her trio of travelling companions greeting her as a hero. They’d seen her launch an assault on the winning-try-scorer; in their eyes possession of his shirt meant Heather had won that confrontation. They’d also heard she’d been in the bath, taking that to mean she’d escalated her assault to include the rest of the First XV. She swore black and blue that others had shared the load but struggled to point any of them out. Mysteriously, just about every other girl in the clubhouse had morphed into Doris Day. Faced with a lack of evidence, her companions had insisted on plying her with drink. Faced with an argument she couldn’t seem to win, Heather had stopped protesting and started drinking.

  Again.

  They were against the clock, she could remember that much. It had been an away game in Cornwall . . .

  Thank God it had been an away game!

  By the time Heather arrived in the bar there was only an hour before the coach was due to take them home. She had, however, had several pints before kick-off and another two at half time so, plied with more, she’d quickly caught up.

  And then overtook.

  Blokes kept coming up to her, rugby players from both teams, judging by the broken noses and cauliflower ears. She could easily identify the Cornish ones because they called her “My Lovely”. The others had more northern accents, ranging from Birmingham to Aberdeen. Flatteringly, quite a few of those northerners wanted to congratulate her for being a sport in the bath. Even more flatteringly, every man in the room wanted to know what she was wearing under the creased, damp and still grubby shirt. Conscious that, in spite of their hero-worshipping, her three friends weren’t exactly sexual revolutionaries, Heather met early enquiries with: Who knows? But the beer kept going down and before too long she heard her mouth answer: Search me . . . prompting her latest inquisitor to do just that.

  Heather wasn’t sure if it was his quick reaction or the shocked look on the other three’s faces; whatever, something made her stand there laughing while he pulled her close and had a good grope of her bare-cheeked bum.

  After that it was open season on bum-groping, with her happy to play along and blokes practically queuing up to have a hug and a feel.

  One of her last clear recollections was of hearing someone shout, ‘Coach leaves in ten minutes,’ and looking round to find her friends had all paired off. She’d gone for a final beer, paying with a fiver that stank of cat pee, and then turned to find she was blocked in by one of the Doris Day look-alikes. That particular Doris (who’d been reading Psychology, Behavioural Science or something equally horrific) was worried her non-travelling boyfriend might find out what she’d been doing amongst the soap suds.

  ‘Four different men,’ she’d kept saying. ‘I’ve hardly been with four different men in my entire life, never mind one after the other.’

  Heather hadn’t kept tally but supposed her own score must have been at least seven . . . if she hadn’t forgotten a few and you didn’t count below jobs . . . plus the shirt’s owner, of course.

  Someone suddenly shouted, ‘Coach leaving now!’ She presumed that must have made her down her last pint in one. She couldn’t fathom what it was that inspired her to pull off the shirt, though. Or what made her run around the barroom, waving it over her head.

  Well, she’d been assured often enough afterwards that that was what she’d done . . . before standing in the doorway in only her trainers, giving a series of bows.

  If it hadn’t been for Gary she might have been standing there still. It had been Gary who’d helped her dry the shirt. And by all reports, it had been Gary who’d carried her out of the rugby club, put the shirt back on her in the car park then led her onto the coach.

  And it was definitely Gary beside her when she woke, mostly sobered, somewhere near Bristol. As she tried to remember what she’d been up to, she became aware of couples copulating. Lots of couples. From the sound of it everybody was ending the day by celebrating with sex, whether they’d considered diving into the bath or not. Heather later discovered that plenty of place-swapping had gone on, with players masquerading as supporters and vice versa. There were many after-the-fact debates about who’d actually been with whom, but consensus had it that even the most retiring girl got shagged on one coach or other. Indeed that had been the day when Edith finally got her man.

  Gary tried to maintain the show of being considerate, but not for long . . . not in a reserved way, anyhow. Heather was revived and far from retiring. She’d soon had his zip down and, encouraged by what she found, rolled onto her side and hitched up the shirt.

  That had been all the invitation Gary needed. He’d slipped into her as smoothly as that fabled hot knife into butter, sighed in appreciation, then slowly and steadily bonked her for a couple of hundred motorway miles. And it was, in all honesty, one of the best bonkings she’d ever had from a man. Corny or not, he’d seemed to care about her orgasm as much as his own . . . or, rather, her thirty-five as much as his three.

  Except maybe he wasn’t altogether caring. Ten minutes after getting of the coach she’d been told he was married. Gary hadn’t seemed to think that mattered but she’d been riddled with guilt for ages. Still was even now, if the truth be told . . .

  * * *

  ‘Okay, Harry. What’s the score?’

  ‘We’ve caught two of your guys,' Williamson said, sounding grimmer than ever, ‘shaking down a dealer. The penalty for that is very nasty.’

  ‘Moggs and Swanny were in Leeds,’ Sean protested.

  ‘No they weren’t. Hear for yourself.’

  Moggs came on line, his voice subdued. ‘Sean,’ he began, ‘this is a set up.’

  ‘Never mind that, are you okay?’

  ‘I am now I’ve had a drink. Swanny doesn’t look good though.’

  ‘What have they done to him?’

  ‘Nothing, he just seemed to throw a fit. He’s here next to me, but he isn’t with it.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a pub. It’s all boarded-up . . .’

  There was a loud smack and they heard Harry bark, ‘Keep that to yourself, cunt-face!’

  ‘Moggs,’ Sean said urgently, ‘what’s he done?’

  ‘He’s censored me. Must be afraid Angel and Tinner will come and get us out.’r />
  ‘Okay, stick to what happened. You were looking for Bunny Burrows, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. Swanny got an address for him in Harehills. What a shit-tip that was. And the woman who answered the door wasn’t much better. Even Tinner wouldn’t have gone there.’

  Pat could hear Williamson guffaw in the background; no-one in The Kings so much as smirked.

  ‘She said she knew Burrows,’ Moggs went on, ‘but wasn’t talking to anyone until she’d had her fix. Said she’d fuck both of us for a fiver, and that was all she needed. So I gave her a fiver and told her to forget the fuck, hurry up and get her fix. She told us to watch her kids. There were lots of them crawling about in all that muck. She was back two minutes later, happy as a lark. Must have got her stuff next door. Said Burrows stayed there a few weeks, then split to Shipley.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Sean bawled.

  ‘No, listen; she said she’d been there and it was near a pub called The Swan. I reckoned she was making it up. Maybe getting “Swan” from “Swanny”, because there isn’t a Swan in Shipley. But she gave us an address we recognized. Swanny checked it out in the car and gave me the nod. She meant The Black Swan in Frizinghall. And that’s where they got us.’

  Harry took over from there. ‘Told you,’ he said, ‘confessed from his own lips.’

  Pat knew how much Sean hated this territorial crap. He had an easy-going agreement with Danny Painter in Bingley and didn’t see the need for boundaries, unlike Williamson, who revered them . . . and regularly redrew them to suit his own purposes.

  ‘Frizinghall,’ said Sean. ‘Since when’s Frizinghall been in your manor?’

  ‘Since Larry had his little accident.’

  ‘Larry’s on the run, isn’t he?’

  ‘Believe me, Sean, he had an accident and won’t be running anywhere ever again.’ Williamson chuckled evilly. ‘I have that straight from the Undertaker’s mouth. That’s your old pal Bubbles, if you’re not in the know. Funny, isn’t it? Your lot have names like Pongo and Moggs; I’ve got the Undertaker and Driller Killer. Bet you can’t guess how they got their names. Here’s a clue. They’re both with me tonight, chomping at the bit.’

  There was the sound of a power drill revving up and more evil chuckles from Williamson.

  ‘Bit,’ he said. ‘Get it?’

  ‘What is it you want, Harry?’

  ‘Three things’ll do the trick. First: an end to that ridiculous non-aggression pact.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sean said immediately. ‘Consider my copy to be burnt.’

  ‘Second: you agree we can operate in your half of Bingley.’

  Every eye in The Meeting Room fixed on Sean. Agreeing this would be a big loss of face. Not to mention a financial disaster.

  ‘You know I can’t speak for the dealers,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Don’t worry about them. We’ll find ways to get along.’

  ‘Then I’ll agree. Provided your operations don’t interfere with anything we’re already doing. And provided you sort your own deal out with the Painters.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Williamson said, ‘with one exception.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s my third and final wish. I want your nick-to-order business.’

  Utter silence in The Kings Head. Williamson was asking for Sean’s first-born, and everyone knew it.

  ‘Harry,’ Sean said eventually, ‘didn’t you say Moggs was shaking down one of your dealers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how long has Burrows been working for you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘That fat twat was living on my manor not a year ago, ripping-off my lenders. Are you taking responsibility?’

  ‘No. That must have been before he joined up.’

  ‘Before, eh? It must be good to be in the right all the time.’

  ‘You know what they say, Sean old son. Possession is nine tenths of the law. And in this case I’m in possession. Here’s a little something to prove it.’

  The drill fired up again, followed by a scream and Moggs’s angry voice telling someone to ‘Leave him alone!’

  ‘Do you need any more?’ Williamson’s voice was excruciatingly calm. ‘Or have you reached a decision?’

  Pat had gone cold. His hand shook so violently that lager slopped out of his glass. Sean looked just as rattled.

  ‘If I agree,’ he said tightly, ‘how do we get them back?’

  ‘They’ll be dropped off in the next hour or so. I take it outside The Kings will be okay.’

  ‘Then I agree,’ Sean said, ending the call.

  Angel was grinning unpleasantly, exposing his gapped teeth. ‘Shall I blast whoever brings them back?’

  Sean shook his head as he poured more lager. ‘You can’t do that in Bingley Main Street. Some plod might notice. Besides, you can bet the Undertaker and Driller Killer won’t be there. And Williamson won’t come within a mile of us. No, what I want is for you and Tinner to go check out Frizinghall. See if you can’t find Burrows before Moggs gets here with the address.’

  ‘And . . .’ Angel prompted.

  ‘Go in one of the knock-offs. And take the Ingram. If he hasn’t flit, I want him dead as soon as those two are safely back.’

  Sean slid Pat’s mobile across the table as Angel and Tinner left. ‘Ring that tame doctor of yours. See if he’ll make an early morning call. Moggs and Swanny might be in a bit of a state when they get here.’

  ‘Sounds like Swanny already is,’ said Pat, hunting through his address book.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean muttered. And sat there brooding.

  * * *

  Anyway, Heather thought, the old red rugger shirt’s still going strong, to say it’s had more cum stains on it than that slightly more famous little blue dress. Okay, it’s been washed far too many times and most of the colour’s gone, along with the creases and grime, but it still feels good on my bare bum, even if the arms do almost trail on the ground.

  Top après-sex ladies’ wear. Wonder if Vic will want to rip it off my back?

  Probably not. It was early days yet, but Heather was as good as certain Vic wasn’t going to be the ripping-the-shirt-off-a-girl’s-back type. Not in their relationship. Not at heart . . . and in spite of her double-alpha reputation.

  Not that that was going to be a problem. She might not know exactly how it was going to work out with Vic, but shagging her wasn’t ever going to be a chore. She really was yummy. Those bazoomas! And those legs . . .

  Forget three times around the neck, it was more like five!

  Mmm nice! I won’t be kicking her out of bed anytime soon!

  Maybe not ever.

  The hallway outside Heather’s door was deserted, as it nearly always was. Casting around, she wondered how the moggie got in and out of Graham’s place. Not through the main door, that was for sure; there wasn’t a cat-flap in sight.

  The moggie was actually called Charlie Brown, not Tibbles or Ginger Tom. Heather didn’t see any sense in the name, but then she didn’t see much sense in having a moggie in the first place. They’d had cats on Hunters Farm, of course, but they weren’t pets and didn’t belong to anyone. The farm cats had lived in a barn, found their own food and didn’t do much apart from sleeping, fighting and producing the odd litter of kittens. As far as she was aware, all Charlie Brown ever did was loiter about the back of the chippy.

  She let herself into Graham’s apartment. The dish was on the kitchen floor and had been licked clean. She emptied a fresh tin of Felix into it, refilled the water bowl then went for a prowl. Graham’s apartment was a mirror image of her own, so she knew which windows opened and which didn’t.

  All of his were locked.

  So how did the flipping thing come and go?

  She had a quick check to make sure the cat hadn’t been locked inside all the while, finding nothing apart from a pile of magazines under Graham’s bed. That made her smile, even if it didn’t solve the cat puzzle. She’d stumbled on the mags a few days ago
. They were a blend of Engineering Institute publications, Golf Monthly and explicit pornography. Having time on her hands, she’d plonked herself on the duvet and flicked through the porn, most of which featured men with fully erect willies and women with misty eyes and enthusiastic expressions. There were lots of pictures of shagging too, including snaps of men climaxing while the girls faked rapture. And the rapture had to be faked because the guys all seemed to withdraw at the last moment, shooting just anywhere except where God had intended.

  One magazine seemed to be beckoning her again. Not an out-and-out bondage mag, but one with SEE OUR SIXTEEN PAGE SUMMER SPECIAL emblazoned on the front. As well as featuring women fastened to beds with ropes, chains and the like, this included good quality close-ups . . .

  But Heather overcame the temptation and went back into the lounge. Frowning, she had another look at the glossies on the coffee table. They obviously hadn’t changed from the other day but were still bemusing. Well, they were to her anyhow. She considered it quite normal for a single guy to leave soft porn (Penthouse and Club International in Graham’s case) in full view, while hiding away the truly filthy stuff. What she did find odd was the need to hide away Golf Monthly as well.

  Not to mention the Engineering News.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The two-man search team found Bunny Burrows’ latest hideout almost straightaway, thanks to the prehistoric Astra in the driveway. Like all the neighbouring houses at that late hour, Burrows’ was unlit.

  ‘Looks like he’s in there,’ Angel said, parking on the opposite side of the road, a prudent fifty yards away. ‘Can you see the number?’

  Tinner couldn’t, so he found a number on a closer house and worked it out. ‘Twenty-four,’ he said.

  ‘Right, here’s the plan. We wait while Sean gives the word, then you go round the back and cut off the escape. I’m going in through the front with this little beauty.’ Angel waved the Ingram in the air. ‘Won’t take two seconds. It’s not like I have to talk to the fat bastard, is it?’

  ‘Do you know him by sight?’

  ‘Yeah, Swanny’s had me after him before. I’ve seen a million photos. One time I even got to hit him.’