UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘You’re honoured,’ said Tinner. ‘I’ve just seen the million photos. That’s definitely his motor, though, I once waited by it for three hours.’

  ‘Didn’t he come back?’

  ‘I went for a piss and he was in and away. Must have been watching. He’s fly is our Bunny, slippier than a snake.’

  Angel laughed. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t be slipping out of this one.’

  They waited in silence, fighting off yawns. Tinner wouldn’t have minded doing the job himself, but he could see the former-biker was itching to let loose with that Ingram. So, although strictly speaking it was his turn, he decided to forgo the pleasure. If nothing else, the anticipation stopped Angel moaning about being tired and bored.

  Shame it didn’t stop him farting, too.

  Eventually Angel’s mobile rang. He took the call on hands-free. As expected it was Sean, in an even worse mood than before.

  ‘They’re here,’ he said tersely. ‘Swanny’s fucked. They’ve drilled his knees. The doc reckons the bastards did it the kind way, but he’ll still be limping for the rest of his life. And he’s had some sort of breakdown, probably going to need a shrink.’

  ‘What about Moggs?’ asked Tinner.

  ‘Cut badly. Looks like they’ve used a couple of Stanley knives, so the cuts are too close to stitch. Doc says football hooligans do that. And they’ve done Moggs just about everywhere.’

  A light had come on upstairs in Burrows’ house. Then a second light came on, quickly followed by a third downstairs, behind the door.

  ‘Sean, did Moggs give you a house number?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘We’re watching twenty-four right now. Someone’s about to leave in a hurry. Not to mention in Burrows’ car.’

  ‘He’s been told to get out,’ Sean growled. ‘The fact he’s still there says it all. Williamson never expected to send the lads back alive. He must have thought I’d let them hang . . . the cunt! Are you sure you both know what Burrows looks like?’

  Tinner glanced at Angel, who nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ll recognize him for sure.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. Make certain it’s him, then blow the fucker away.’

  ‘You know we’re on Williamson’s manor?’

  ‘That makes it all the better.’

  * * *

  Heather returned to her apartment, no wiser about Charlie Brown or men and magazines. Vic was in the kitchen, naked apart from her glasses, a small square of sandwich in one hand, glass of wine in the other.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The wanderer returns. Where’ve you been all this time? Looking at Graham’s porn? Or making out with his cat?’

  ‘He’s only got Penthouse,’ Heather fibbed, ‘and the cat’s nowhere to be seen, he must still be out on the tiles.’ She collected a glass of Pinot Grigio and checked the sandwiches. ‘Corned beef and iceberg?’

  ‘I did well to manage that. Another day and the bread would have been stale. You were right when you said you had nothing in.’

  ‘There are lots of places to eat in Bingley.’ Heather helped herself to another sandwich. ‘I’ve hardly started on the pubs, but I’ve found some great takeaways. And that chip shop next door is excellent.’

  ‘I did wonder how you kept so trim. In fact I’m still wondering.’

  ‘I’ve a lucky metabolism. And I make regular trips to the gym.’

  Vic raised an eyebrow. ‘You also regularly behave like the Tasmanian Devil, I suppose.’

  ‘As a point of order,’ said Heather, ‘I never made it to Tassie. Closest I got was somewhere in your namesake. Geelong, at a guess.’

  ‘Something must have blown across on the wind, then.’

  ‘What, over a hundred and fifty miles of ocean?’

  ‘Yes. Something extremely potent.’

  ‘Hmmm, enough about me, let’s talk about you. What’s your secret, exercise or starvation?’

  ‘Both.’ Vic smiled as Heather leered at her. ‘I like being like this, even if I am a bit of a giraffe.’

  ‘Vic, I’m hardly a midget, I’m almost five ten. And I utterly adore giraffes. You won’t have to starve yourself for my sake, though. I’ll make sure you’re so exercised you’ll need an all-kebab diet.’

  ‘Let’s not rush.’ Vic’s smile slipped a megawatt or two. ‘I’m not ready for anything major. I still need fun and flings.’

  ‘No major commitments?’

  ‘Not just yet.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Heather said sincerely. ‘I don’t do major commitments anyway. Just count me in for some of the fun. Particularly if you’re going to be sleeping here a lot. Or rather, trying to sleep here a lot.’

  Vic stared at her a while before replying. ‘Karen wanted me to be her man. In realistic ways, I mean. I didn’t mind once in a while, but the more I did it, the more she wanted.’

  ‘And the less you wanted to do it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Didn’t you protest?’

  ‘No. I just worked more and got accused of neglect. Don’t ask why; we simply weren’t able to converse.’

  ‘You can converse about anything and everything with me.’ Heather chuckled. ‘I’ll be up for just about everything too. Pre-planned, spontaneous, whatever you fancy. Aggressive, obliging . . . submissive . . . all you have to do is let me know.’

  ‘Submissive?’

  ‘Well . . . now and then. If you insist.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

  ‘Make sure you do. I don’t offer myself to absolutely anybody.’

  Vic re-raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment.

  ‘Honestly,’ Heather said, ‘I really will be up for anything you fancy, whenever you fancy it. And don’t worry about overtaxing me. Just lately I’ve been practically a nun.’

  ‘How about Graham? How’s he going to fit in?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve only slept with him once. That might be as far as it goes. Although he did promise me a long weekend in the Dales.’ Heather chuckled again. ‘I need to play it carefully, with him being my nearest neighbour.’

  ‘Go on. Keep surprising me.’

  ‘It would be handy having a boyfriend next door. In case my insatiable appetite for hard willies comes back, as it almost certainly will. Close but not too close.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But I need another reward before I make any decisions. I always overrate men first time. The second time’s my reality check.’

  ‘Heather, hasn’t it occurred to you that women are supposed to reward men with sex? You and Graham seem to be the wrong way around.’

  ‘Victoria, haven’t you heard about Women’s Liberation? I’ll be the judge about the ins and outs of my rewards system. Especially the ins.’

  They giggled while Vic poured more wine.

  ‘One final question,’ she said. ‘What was that “airhead” business?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No, tell me. Someone’s been going on about the dreaded grapevine, probably Joanna. What’s bothering you?’

  ‘It’s the labelling.’

  ‘Labelling?’

  ‘Doesn’t labelling apply to girls who shag colleagues on a higher grade? I heard they’re all airheads or bimbos. Not that I’m letting it put me off.’

  ‘I think labelling only applies when hard willies are involved.’

  ‘Does it? In that case forget I said anything.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Vic, ‘if you insist.’

  ‘I do insist. Come back to bed. Let’s go stimulate our imaginations in the dark.’

  ‘Eat your sandwiches first. You’ll need to build up your energy.’

  ‘Will I now?’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  * * *

  A badly overweight man came out of number twenty-four, threw a couple of bags into the back of the Astra and then climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I reckon that’s him,’ Tinner said. ‘Agreed?’

  �
��That’s him all right.’

  ‘Give me the weapon. You keep driving, I’ll drop him first chance I get.’

  Angel glared at Tinner a moment before breaking into his gap-toothed grin and handing over the Ingram.

  ‘Don’t empty it in one burst. Safety’s unlocked.’

  The Astra’s engine coughed into life. Angel started the knock-off as Burrows reversed out of the cratered drive and turned uphill, towards the main Keighley-Bradford road. Patient for once, the former-biker waited until the Astra rounded a corner and it was safe to flick on the headlights and follow. He obviously wanted to steadily yet inconspicuously close in, and that was easily enough done. It was still very early morning and the roads and pavements were deserted. Even so, the traffic lights thought it was rush hour. When the Astra passed Bradford Grammar School a green immediately went red.

  ‘Ignore the markings,’ Tinner said calmly, winding down his window. ‘Stop right next to him.’

  Tinner double-checked the safety while Angel complied. As their vehicle slowed to a halt Burrows yawned. Then, bleary-eyed, he glanced sideways to see who else was stupid enough to be travelling so late. And Tinner opened up.

  ‘Yo!’ Angel yelled. ‘Give him some!’

  The first wave of bullets took out the glass in the Astra’s driver-side window and drove Burrows into his seat. The Astra immediately stalled and rocked back a couple of inches before stopping abruptly. Then Tinner was hanging out of his window, leaning into the other car. Even in darkness Burrows didn’t look good. The safety belt was holding his body in place but his head flopped onto his shoulder, as though his throat had been cut. Tinner jammed the Ingram under Burrows’ chin and emptied the rest of the magazine through the bastard’s skull.

  Throwing himself back into the knock-off he shouted, ‘Go, go, go!’

  Angel didn’t need telling. He stamped on the accelerator and they rocketed across the A650, hooking right through more lights, then left, racing up Emm Lane past Manningham Park, not slowing until he was sure there was no pursuit.

  ‘Good one,’ he said, reverting to Runner-up, Mr Careful Driver of the Year. ‘You sure you killed him?’

  ‘He’ll look like a twat if I haven’t,’ Tinner replied, ‘walking about with no head on him.’

  * * *

  There were two sandwiches left. While Heather ate them Vic went into the lounge. Heather swigged down her wine then followed, finding her new lover standing at the enormous, south-facing window, seemingly at ease with her nakedness. Smiling to herself, Heather diverted to the settee and donned a pair of heels she’d casually discarded there days earlier.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Vic was watching her reflection in the window.

  ‘Getting equality in the height stakes.’

  ‘If it’s equality you want, aren’t you a bit overdressed?’

  Heather got to her feet and, holding Vic’s attention in the glass, slowly pulled off the faded red shirt before swirling it over her head.

  ‘Nice,’ Vic said without turning round, ‘lovely tits.’

  ‘These are boobs, Victoria. Or bazoomas. Not tits.’

  ‘Still lovely, whatever you call them.’

  Heather dumped the shirt on the settee and went behind the other girl, wrapping her arms around her. Even with the heels Vic was a little taller, but that was good, it brought the back of her neck perfectly into range. Vic liked having the back of her neck nibbled and chewed. And running a tongue tip across her smooth, olive skin brought a thousand tiny hairs upright, like a line of toppled dominos somehow standing back up.

  Vic arched sensually, moaning as Heather squeezed her ripe bazoomas.

  ‘You’re the sexiest,’ Heather whispered. ‘I haven’t met anyone as sexy before; never, ever.’

  She felt the other girl’s stomach, admiring bands of muscle, recalling images. When Vic tensed she had a six-pack that almost matched her own. The sight of their bodies straining together had been awesome. Shaved, tanned and toned, not an ounce of flab between them.

  ‘Ye gods,’ Vic murmured. ‘The things you do to me.’

  ‘Haven’t even started yet,’

  ‘Trust me, Heather, you have!’

  ‘Back to bed, then?’

  ‘No, here . . . I want you to fuck me here. Here and now, for anyone to see.’

  ‘My, my Victoria!’ said Heather, in-between renewed nibbles. ‘You really do use that word a lot. I wouldn’t have expected St Helena’s girls to know such language.’

  ‘It’s you Manor girls. Talking all the time we’re doing it . . . corrupting us.’

  ‘I don’t swear. Not much, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t have to. You can make the most ordinary words sound filthy.’

  ‘Do you like me sounding filthy?’

  'Yes.’

  ‘How about the filthy things I do? Do you like them as well?’

  ‘God, yes. That’s why I’m shaking so badly.’

  ‘Is it also why your nipples could torpedo battleships?’

  ‘God, yes.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me what happens next.’

  ‘I want you to fuck me.’

  ‘Like a man? I’ve something in my room, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No, not like that. I want you to sit me on the window ledge, stick your tongue inside and fuck me!’

  Vic’s body wasn’t just shaking now; it was juddering against Heather, who was suddenly in need of a similar service herself.

  Later, she thought. Then, aloud, ‘Who do you want to be watching? Tell me and I’ll do it. It doesn’t matter who you say, I’ll do it anyway. Just name them. They can watch me fucking you again and again. Until you cum in my face and . . .’

  Heather slid her hand downwards as she spoke. When she got as far as “cum in my face” she gently traced lines along her lover’s moist and very swollen labia.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Vic, and climaxed hard and fluidly.

  Without hesitating Heather pressed into the other girl, feeling for her special place, finding it at once. Vic threw back her head and screamed, her hips moving, thrusting powerfully against Heather’s now rigidly curled fingers.

  ‘God . . . Oh! Oh! OH!!’

  Her second cumming was almost immediate and ten times as spectacular. Heather couldn’t help but be impressed.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Vic gasped. ‘That was the world’s worst self-control.’

  ‘You must have been saving it up. We’d no chance of making it as far as the window ledge.’

  ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It was an honour to be involved.’

  Heather kicked off her heels and retrieved the rugger shirt, kneeling before Vic and using it to dry her, dabbing with the utmost tenderness and care.

  ‘I don’t do that often,’ Vic said apologetically. ‘I have to be very, very turned-on to cum like that.’ Then, noticeably blushing: ‘That’s why I called a time-out for snacks. I didn’t want you to stop fucking me, I just knew what was likely to happen.’

  ‘And you didn’t want it to happen?’

  ‘Of course I did! It’s embarrassing to make such a mess, though.’

  ‘It’s not a mess; it was a wonder to behold.’ Heather grinned. ‘Has anyone ever said you have the most beautiful fanny?’

  ‘Says she with the most beautiful everything.’

  ‘No really, I’m not joking. If I ever have to design the ideal fanny, I’ll make it exactly like yours.’

  ‘I hope you design better floodgates.’

  ‘That’s unlikely. I’ll probably remove floodgates altogether.’

  Vic laughed. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  The shirt did its job and was dropped over a rather large wet patch on the parquet floor. ‘I’ll sort that later,’ Heather said. ‘In the meantime, no-one’s any the wiser.’

  ‘Apart from anyone watching,’ said Vic.

  Standing side by side, hand in hand, they looked out of the window, over a sea of roofs and chimney pots, tow
ards the two banks in the valley bottom. Although night had fallen hours ago visibility was fine. Hundreds and hundreds of dingy orange streetlights kept the darkness at bay.

  ‘Can’t see any peeping toms,’ Heather said, ‘unless Dick Van Dyke bobbed out for a quick chim, chimney.’

  ‘Or unless Tibbles really is out on the tiles.’ Vic laughed again. ‘Let’s hope he’s not fatally attracted. You might come home to find someone’s pet mouse boiling away.’

  Heather pointed to WYB, one of the few buildings still burning any lights at all. ‘Top floor,’ she said, ‘six windows in. Isn’t that someone looking this way?’

  ‘It looks like a man.’ Vic adjusted her glasses.

  ‘Don’t say it’s Dom.’ Heather was only half-joking. ‘IT nerds do late hours, don’t they?’

  ‘Dom starts early and finishes at seven. He might have caught Act One in The Ferrands, but Act Five was far too late for him.’

  ‘Was that Act Five? I thought it was Act Six. Or maybe Sixteen.’

  ‘You might be right. Anyway, that’s not Dom; it’s one of the security officers. I can make out the uniform but not his face, which is just perfect. He’ll only be able to see us as two tiny, possibly naked women.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll bring binoculars next time.’

  ‘Next time we’ll be more discreet . . . wear ball masks or something. Come on, let’s give him a wave.’

  They waved and, after a moment’s hesitation, the man waved back before abruptly disappearing.

  ‘Gone for a quick wank,’ Vic said, before clapping a hand to her mouth. ‘Ye gods, you really have corrupted me!’

  ‘The corruption could get a whole lot worse. Want to find out how?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The double-sized terrace became very quiet after everybody had gone off to school or work. So too did the world outside; passing traffic in this part of town was as rare as hens’ teeth. A lonely housewife could easily believe she’d been abandoned.

  Redundant, Penny thought forlornly, thirty-six and not needed by anyone.

  She took her mug of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, not bothering to look at the unopened newspapers. They were only full of doom and gloom and she didn’t need that. She had enough doom and gloom of her own, thank you very much.