The coffee was red-hot because of her latest diet, which decreed she took it black, avoiding milk and sugar . . . as if anyone cared whether she kept thin or got as big as a whale.
‘Poor Penny,’ she said out loud. ‘Even your coffee doesn’t want to know you. Much more of this and you really will turn into Shirley Valentine.’
She chuckled weakly then shut up before she started talking to the wall. Okay, so she had issues, but they were nothing in the scheme of things, just part of getting old. The sort of issues everyone had to face sooner or later.
The kids were outgrowing her. Sandy was seventeen and in the Upper Sixth already. This time next year she’d be away at university, possibly gone forever. Becky wasn’t so far behind; she was doing her GCSEs next summer. Both had long since had all the advice their step-mum could give about periods, boys and the likes. Even Jamie had got to the ripe old age of twelve and was preparing to follow his hero, Uncle Rick, into the Army. Geoff was battling to make him to do his A-levels instead of joining up as soon as he could. And it wasn’t an easy battle; Jamie wanted to lie about his age and take the Queen’s shilling right now.
Penny sometimes wished they’d added just one more to the population after they’d married but they hadn’t even tried. Three is enough to be going on with, they’d agreed. Except three these days . . .
With her biological clock counting down . . .
She sighed and risked a sip from her steaming mug. At first their marriage had been idyllic. Geoff had kept a lid on his workaholism, boxing it in between Monday and Friday, rigorously reserving weekends for family things, with all five of them relishing every second they spent together. It had only been this last year, when he’d tried to stack a law degree on top of everything else, that he’d started to wobble.
Geoff blamed Henry, saying his boss was keen for him to progress. Penny didn’t necessarily believe that. She knew Geoff had an ambitious streak in him. Henry probably knew it too, was maybe even exploiting it for the good of the firm as much as Geoff’s career. The reason didn’t matter anyway. However he tried to explain it, her husband was burning the candle at both ends and stressing himself out in the middle. Not that the pig-headed so-and-so conceded stress even existed.
Penny had her own stress barometer though. It was called Old Faithful and was as reliable as any seaweed or pine cone. To her the weight of evidence was overwhelming. There had hardly been any strikes from the wedding right up until the course started, last autumn. Then things had changed with a bang. Or, to be quite crude, without a bang.
And why shouldn’t she be crude for once? Goodness gracious, she deserved a little leeway now more than ever!
The first serious work-to-rule had kicked off with a dramatic walkout the night of Geoff’s fortieth. At the time they’d laughed and called it an “age thing”. And Geoff had made love to her in other ways, making her deliriously happy as always. That industrial lack-of-action lasted about a week, then things had been normal again until July, when it should have been Samantha’s turn for the big Four-O.
The coffee suddenly tasted bitter. It made Penny shudder.
Or perhaps it was the memory of Geoff, behaving like a bear with a sore head.
Sandy and Becky marked their natural mummy’s birthday every year with cards and special prayers. Geoff had always previously joined in, but he hadn’t wanted to know when they planned a barbeque for that major one. To her horror Penny had felt awkward. She’d wanted to accuse Geoff of being unreasonable but simply couldn’t convince herself she had the right to get so heavily involved. In the end the girls had gone ahead with their barbie (with Jamie and their now-not-so-new mummy as VIP guests) and Geoff had turned up half an hour late, shamefaced, bearing chops and steaks, pop and wine as peace offerings. As far as Penny could remember Old Faithful had been a good boy that night, but soon after he’d gone unconditionally out for nearly a month.
She shuddered again. There had been none of the old self-possession from Geoff during that month. She’d tried to tell him it didn’t matter but he refused to listen, fretting about it instead. That was when stress really started to bite. But he wouldn’t listen to her about that either, which had been no surprise. In fact it had been just typical.
Strike action from then had been on a random, wildcat basis until only last month, when it had been tools down with a vengeance. She’d tried to talk it through but Geoff preferred to mope. He’d even got ratty about it. Making do with kisses and snuggles didn’t seem to interest him anymore, he’d rather pick fights and argue. Eventually she’d begged him to see his GP; he’d responded by telling her to go elsewhere for her loving.
She’d hardly believed her ears. The very thought had made her wail and that had melted Geoff’s suddenly stony heart . . . a bit.
He’d apologized, and then made things worse by trying to justify his suggestion. He’d said he was past it and no use to a woman. She was much younger, beautiful as ever and deserved the attention he could no longer give. And etcetera, etcetera. Digging a hole and keeping on digging.
He had actually relented since that horrible evening. He must have realized how badly he’d upset her because he’d done his best to go back to being the old, adorable Geoff. Things had been slowly becoming normal again . . .
Until last week, when his mum had a colossal heart attack in Marks & Spencer’s.
The funeral was next Tuesday and Penny was dreading it. Geoff was already walking around in a daze, bottling everything up, just like he had bottled everything up over Samantha. Except this time he was coming from a dark place to begin with.
And this time the kids would be there, relying on him for support.
Goodness, she really was dreading it.
* * *
Pat woke mid-afternoon and spent twenty minutes staring out of his bedroom window, hardly seeing the nearby Five Rise Locks, worrying about Sean and what he might have started last night.
Not that Sean would be worrying. He’d taken Angel’s report triumphantly, saying he didn’t care if it meant war. That Williamson could whistle for the nick-to-order and that he, Sean, was yet to play his cunning masterstroke. Pat had left him and Andy in the wee hours, after they’d cracked open a third bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label. For all he knew they were there still, drinking merrily away while Williamson prepared a masterstroke of his own.
Oh well, he concluded, at least we’re more geared up than last time.
He showered and dressed then walked along the canal towpath, leaving it at Park Road and turning onto Whitley Street, trying to enjoy the peace and quiet while he could.
First thing he saw at Kings Cars was the old Rover. The sales manager, Joe Clarkson, was washing windscreens of vehicles marked with bargain prices. He came over as Pat dialled Sean and got the answerphone message. Pat cut it off and tried Sean’s landline instead.
No reply.
‘Not full of powder is it?’ Joe asked. ‘I heard about Bunny Burrows.’
Pat chose not to mention the weapons. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s clean. The lads took one of the knock-offs.’
‘I noticed and put another in its place. Did they burn the bastard out?’
‘Yeah, Angel took care of it.’
Joe looked up at the darkening sky. ‘Does this mean we’re at war?’
Pat shrugged. ‘Harry Williamson isn’t going to be happy, but Sean has a plan. That’s why I’m looking for him. To get that heap of crap moved,’ he pointed at the Rover, ‘and to deal with Williamson.’
Joe nodded but didn’t look convinced.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Pat said. ‘What sort of a day have we had?’
That cheered Joe up. ‘Quiet all morning then, when we’re eating our sandwiches, this kid comes in and buys that Peugeot.’
‘How much did he give?’
‘Full asking price: four and a half grand. No trade-in. Paid cash. Donna did the deal. Or rather, her tits did. I was sure the kid was going to haggle, but he got distracted.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pat, ‘like you get distracted whenever she asks for a rise.’
‘Not my fault. I’m only human.’
‘Human enough to reward good salesgirlship?’
‘What are you trying to say? I sent Donna to bank the loot and gave her the rest of the day off.’
‘Tight bastard,’ Pat laughed. ‘Which account has she put it in?’
‘Account C.’
‘Okay. Look, why don’t you call it a day as well? I’ll stay until Sean shifts the motor. Then I’ll close up and lock the gate.’
Joe started clearing away his washing kit. Pat went into the office and sat at what had become his desk since Sean upped and moved into the pub. He redialled the first number and this time left a message.
‘Oi, dickhead, where are you? In case you forgot, we’ve a car to move and things to do in Shipley. Call me.’
He tried Sean’s landline again. Again there was no reply. And there was no point in just turning up at Southfork, which had more security than Fort Knox. Without the latest codes he’d never get in. Next he called Andy at The Kings. Andy, sounding much the worse for wear, told him Sean got a cab home late, saying he’d be back about eight tonight.
‘How many bottles?’
‘Well into the fourth,’ Andy groaned.
‘How bad was Sean?’
‘Same as me. More tired than pissed. I’ve got matchsticks holding my eyes open.’
Pat decided that was enough calls for the time being. Sean was almost certainly at home, sleeping it off. He didn’t want to keep chasing in case he made everyone think their glorious leader had done a bunk. Not right at the start of a war. He poured a mug of coffee from the percolator, smelling the milk for freshness before adding it to the brew.
Joe was driving out of the gate as Pat returned to his chair. Pat waited in case he’d forgotten something (Joe being the forgetful type), then treated himself to two very generous lines, sniffed off the desk top. It was his first of the day, if you didn’t count the emergency snort in the early hours. And well-needed, even if he hadn’t done anything to deserve it.
As always, he cast away concerns about addiction before they could properly begin. He had great will-power and had beaten smoking in the end. If coke ever became a problem he’d beat that too.
Buzzing pleasantly, he looked around. This office was lots better than Sean’s Meeting Room. Okay, it only had coffee on tap and wasn’t much more than a big wooden shed, but it was homely and secluded, ideal for getting through paperwork. Not that he did much paperwork. He left paperwork for Donna to do from her ultra-tidy desk, and Joe from the desk that was somewhere under that pile of clutter in the corner.
Pat smiled. Sean used to spend hours a day in here, every day. Now he only visited a couple of times a week, and then just to chat with Joe while they admired Donna.
Donna was somewhere between beautiful and lots-better-than-plain. About five feet five, with an all right figure, and knockers . . .
It was the knockers that Sean and Joe admired most. Picture that saucy young starlet in her earliest Carry On film, then increase her boobs by fifty or sixty per cent.
That’s somewhere near.
The funny thing about Donna was that both Sean and Joe, two notorious womanizers, were cautious. They could exchange banter with her but didn’t dare go any further, even though she could be as just as bawdy as them. And it couldn’t be a matter of scruples, because Sean and Joe didn’t have any. Pat could only suppose it came down to those knockers. Their sheer magnificence must act like the sight of a mighty stag, allowing the deadly duo to home her into their crosshairs without letting them pull the trigger . . . the silly sods.
Pat wasn’t so chivalrous. Not by a long chalk. He’d been shafting her for almost a year. A grin formed as he remembered how it started. Joe had been outside, trying to salvage a sale that was steadily slipping away, when the innocent, wide-eyed young thing had asked if he could get her some pot.
Just like that, right out with it, no foreplay or nothing.
* * *
Pat had looked at Donna, surprised. ‘I never took you for that sort of a girl.’
‘There are lots of things you don’t know about me,’ she said boldly. ‘Can you get some? I haven’t had any since school. And I’ve given up asking Stanley. He’s too much of a goody two-shoes.’
That had amused Pat. Stanley was Donna’s long-standing fiancé. He was also something important at Bradford and Bingley. He was clean-cut, handsome and, in Pat’s opinion, utterly boring. It was good to see Donna wasn’t totally blinded by his iconic image.
‘I can get pot,’ he said. ‘But I can’t sell it to you, because that would make me a dealer.’
‘What if I give you the money and you buy it for me?’
‘Sorry, in the eyes of the law that’d make me a dealer too. They’d arrest me twice.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed disappointed. ‘I see.’
‘There is a way round it.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yeah,’ Pat said slyly.’ I can get some and invite you to my place to share. That way I won’t be a dealer, we’ll just be personal users.’
‘A bit like consenting adults?’
‘Exactly like that.’
‘When do you have in mind?’
‘Sunday. We can make an afternoon of it.’
‘Can I bring Stanley?’
‘No,’ Pat replied, not bothering to concoct a reason.
‘Okay, then.’ Donna scarcely hesitated. ‘Let’s live dangerously. If he believes what I tell him, I can be there for one o’ clock.’
Pat didn’t expect her to show but bought a supply, just in case. And just as well because at one on the dot, there she was at his door. He let her in, appreciating her black and white Sunday best and what looked like stockings and benders.
‘I’ve been to church,’ she said nervously. ‘Everyone else has gone home to give thanks before lunch. I’ve come here. One extreme to another, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad you have come.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I didn’t want to be Billy No-Mates, sat here smoking a ton of weed on my own.’
Donna started to relax after they’d shared three spliffs. In fact she began telling risqué jokes halfway through the first and was laughing at his much ruder ones long before they started the second. And she agreed immediately when he suggested a wine-break. When he returned with glasses of quite decent plonk she was idly shuffling his playing cards.
‘Strip poker?’ he suggested, trying to look roguish.
‘I don’t know how to play poker. I can do whist.’
‘Don’t tell me you do whist drives as well as church.’
‘Not strip whist drives.’ She gave him the tiniest hint of a smile. ‘And that’s what I’m proposing. Assuming you can play whist, that is. And assuming you dare.’
‘Assuming I dare? Of course I dare.’
‘Can you play, though?’
‘Thirteen cards each. Seven tricks to win a round. Loser takes something off. Cut for first dealer. Aces high. Am I warm?’
‘You are for now. But you won’t be when I’ve had the shirt off your back.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Yes,’ she said, cutting the pack and turning up the Queen of Hearts. ‘We will, won’t we?’
Pat had set out intending to control the game, wanting to deliberately win and lose rounds so as not to scare Donna off. That lasted two deals. Then, realizing how exceptionally good she was, he switched to trying to win wherever he could, but with limited success. By the time they’d finished their drinks he was down to his jeans and underpants; Donna had removed no more than her shoes and neckerchief. He got more wine (bringing two bottles into the lounge and keeping her glass fuller than his) and knuckled down, getting her to take off her blouse and skirt before inevitably losing again. Hoping he looked at least a bit like the bloke in the Levi ads, he stood and stripped off his jeans.
‘Oh my
,’ Donna said, gazing at his crotch
Pat glanced down to find his erection had broken out of his boxers. And no matter what he tried, it wouldn’t fit back in.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, although he wasn’t at all. ‘Do you want me to cover him up with a tea towel or something?’
‘Not much point,’ Donna replied. ‘Another round and your boxers will be gone anyway.’
But that wasn’t immediately to be. Pat won the next round and stopped her before she could remove a stocking.
‘Be a sport. You’re ahead by miles.’
She looked at him coolly before unhooking her bra and unleashing her boobs.
‘Magnificent,’ he said.
Donna made a cross with her forefingers, pretending to ward him off. ‘Back,’ she chuckled, blushing but making no attempt to hide her assets.
‘That won’t work,’ he said. ‘A common-or-garden cross isn’t powerful enough to turn me into dust.’
‘I’d better resort to cards, then.’
‘Please don’t show me a red.’
She laughed then proceeded to slaughter him with diamonds, leaving him feeling lucky to end that round with two tricks. Without demur, he stood and discarded the boxers, exposing himself in all his glory.
‘Magnificent,’ Donna said, staring at his throbbing cock. ‘I mean absolutely.’
Pat had hoped she’d give him a clear signal but, apart from staring and giggling, she obviously wasn’t going to. Not even a warding-off cross this time. And suddenly he was the one unable to pull the trigger.
I can’t, he thought. Not from here, it wouldn’t be fair.
‘What now?’ Donna said at last, ‘double or quits putting everything back on again?’
‘We haven’t finished yet. I’ve got my Chinaman’s chance.’
‘What does that mean?’
By now Pat had become painfully hard. ‘We carry on,’ he said. ‘If I win a round, you take something off. If you win a round, you’ve won the game. So I have to do whatever you tell me to do.’
‘What do you mean do whatever . . . something physical?’
‘Yes. Something you’ll enjoy, but wouldn’t normally expect me to be doing.’
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