UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘What if we both end up naked?’

  ‘Then we’re both on Chinaman's chances. The winner of the deciding round wins the game and gets the choice.’

  ‘Do you agree I’ve still got four items to your zero?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve got one suspender belt, two stockings and one very sexy pair of black knickers.’

  Donna dealt and, in a closely fought tussle, Pat managed a win. Without waiting for a prompt she removed the sexy black knickers, surprising him yet again by being completely clean-shaven. He didn’t need to be eagle-eyed to see she was aroused.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, his cock twitching and throbbing even more painfully. ‘I wish it was all or nothing this deal.’

  ‘Well it isn’t’ she countered, passing him the cards.

  Another close round ensued, with Pat slightly on top until Donna produced the Ace of Clubs out of nowhere, swiftly cleaning up the last four tricks.

  Pat watched her boobs as she threw her arms up in celebration. It was the most inspiring sight he had ever seen.

  ‘Okay,’ he said in humbled tones. ‘You win. What do you want me to do?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know . . . massage my shoulders?’

  ‘Is that all?’ He lit the largest of the remaining spliffs and had a drag before passing it across. ‘If I’d won, I’d be smoking that joint. Meanwhile you’d be on your knees, bobbing your head while giving me your best blowjob.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize we were playing for such high stakes. Or that you were so wicked.’

  Pat grinned at her and said nothing while she took what might have been the biggest drag anyone has ever taken on a spliff. He held his hand out as she finally exhaled, but she wasn’t giving.

  ‘I’m keeping this if we’re being wicked.’ She was blushing again as she spoke but looked good for it. ‘I’m doing the smoking while you do the kneeling.’

  ‘Kneeling where, exactly?’

  ‘Right here.’

  She was pointing between her legs. Pat got his face in there before she could even think about changing her mind.

  Result!

  * * *

  Sex with Donna was astounding, even before Pat started on her tits. Their opening exchange had ended with her dragging him up by the hair so they could fuck vigorously on the sofa, both of them crying out at regular intervals. Then he’d carried her into the bedroom and they’d done it again and again until they’d fallen asleep, still embraced . . . well, as embraced as a couple can be in the inverted sixty-nine position, anyway.

  Their cosy, after-sex nap hadn’t lasted forever. Donna had woken at midnight and shot off in a big panic, afraid she’d be found out, leaving Pat strangely lonely, missing her only seconds after she’d gone. Missing her silliness and the feel of her and . . . and maybe everything about her.

  She’d been stand-offish at work the following week, classically embarrassed and repentant. At first Pat had left her to it, slightly annoyed when she kept avoiding him, but thinking about her all the time. Then, finally catching her alone on Friday morning, he’d asked if she wanted an encore.

  ‘I can’t,’ she’d said, crushing him.

  And then she changed everything by adding, ‘We’ll have to wait. But a week on Sunday isn’t just a maybe, it’s an absolute must.’

  She’d told him that second Sunday that, although she didn’t want an affair behind Stanley’s back, she couldn’t stop herself. She’d also given him way too much information about Stanley’s inadequacies, dwelling particularly on size. Pat didn’t want to know that. However, when she said she’d been wanting him every second of every day since their card game, his heart had softened as quickly as that other bit hardened.

  Their cheating evolved into a long afternoon in Pat’s bed at least once a fortnight. As weeks turned into months he gradually got her to say cock instead of organ and screw instead of make love (no matter how hard he tried, she simply wouldn’t say fuck). This proved to be far trickier than it was to get her to try a hundred and one different sex acts, all of which she bought into with gusto. Among other things she’d perfected the art of the blowjob and he’d taught her from scratch how to give the most sensational booby bang. Pat only hoped Stanley appreciated the effort he’d put in and wasn’t too shocked by her new foul language.

  But enough of the delectable Donna. If he thought about her any longer he’d end up doing something crazy . . . like trying to see her tonight instead of waiting until the weekend, after church.

  Pat checked his watch. Going on six already. The coffee percolator had run dry and he was out of coke. He’d give it a while longer then stroll over to Main Street. In an ideal world The Kings Table wouldn’t be too busy and he could bag another of Marco’s steaks. Not that he was counting on it. Knowing his luck the place would be packed and he’d end up next door, washing Andy’s growler and peas down with Stella.

  Christ! Thinking prosaic, everyday thoughts isn’t half as much fun as thinking about ding-donging with Donna!

  Bored, he pulled his top desk drawer right out. It had been catching on something for ages and ages; he felt suddenly motivated to fix it. It would be his good deed for the day.

  Now the drawer had been removed he could see what the problem was. There was a glossy magazine stuck down the back, doing its best to jam the runners. He grabbed it, expecting porn, finding instead an American gun thing dated May 2001. Sean must have left it when he’d moved out.

  Pat replaced the drawer and tested the glide. Perfect. Why hadn’t he fixed it before?

  Never mind; time to split.

  He picked up the magazine again and cursed when twenty bits of paper flew out in every direction. That was supposed to happen with new magazines, not ancient ones. Dumping the magazine in his waste bin, he snatched up most of the bits. Rather than advertisements and special offers they were letters to and from Sean. Pat scanned through before binning the lot. They were all car sale-related and even older than the glossy. Christ knew how they’d survived this long.

  He’d missed two sheets. One was another old letter, fit only to be filed in the round one. The other made him hesitate. It was a list, written in Sean’s handwriting. Except it wasn’t exactly a list.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, ‘the Commandments.’

  Sean had told him about the Commandments without going into detail. He’d put them together after that business with Huyton. ‘Rules to make a better me,’ he’d mumbled. Pat had assumed he’d been talking hot air, not realizing the muppet had actually put pen to paper.

  Bet he’s broken at least half of them.

  The paper was headed: THOU SHALT NOT

  Underneath, it said:

  LOSE IT

  DEAL DRUGS

  FIGHT WITH STRANGERS

  JOYRIDE

  DO DRUGS

  DRINK AND DRIVE

  SPEED

  GET TICKETS

  KILL

  GET CAUGHT COVETING THY NEIGHBOUR’S ARSE

  Pat’s mobile rang before he could begin to count the failures.

  It was Sean.

  ‘Dickhead yourself,’ he said. ‘Where in fuck are you?’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Naked midnight snacks were becoming a habit. So much so that Heather had finally done an Abel Tasman and sailed out to discover ASDA. Vic chuckled as she examined the large, fully-stocked breadbin. There were now two different types of wholemeal as well as several versions of white, plus dozens of crusty rolls and a French stick. And fresh too, all of it! Heather must be expecting a feast!

  Or, more likely, a serious energy boost.

  As if the randy bitch needed a boost . . .

  Vic chuckled again. The two of them had spent the last four nights together and routines had fallen in place: bed before the BBC News; a couple of hours of sex; Heather off cat-feeding; herself snack-making . . . then back to bed for more sex, followed by just a little sleep.

  Vic was surprised how comforta
ble she was with all this. She’d even bought new office clothes and borrowed the spare wardrobe.

  It was almost too comfortable, truth be told.

  The apartment door opened and closed as she quartered the last salmon sandwich.

  ‘Hi Honey Pie,’ Heather called. ‘I’m home.’

  She came into the kitchen, stripping off her makeshift dressing gown as she walked. ‘Tibbles is fed and watered for the last time. I’m free for the weekend.’

  ‘Shame I won’t be here to be free with you.’

  ‘Oh yes, your prior engagement,’ Heather shrugged her bare shoulders, simultaneously waggling her wondrous tits. ‘I’ll have to find some other willing helper.’

  ‘I’m sure Graham will help,’ Vic said archly. ‘Or reward.’

  ‘Graham’s going to be jetlagged. I can’t give him his reality test until he’s recovered. It wouldn’t be accurate. Or worth my while, come to that.’

  ‘Well you’re off to the rugby anyway. You can bag a player or two instead.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ Heather laughed. ‘I’m afraid I might outrage Joanna as it is.’

  ‘Not possible. Even I’ve heard stories about Joanna’s youth.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘The Ice Queen couldn’t possibly spread rumours. Sorry.’

  They regarded each other while they finished their snack. Coolly and . . . not so coolly. Vic was relatively relaxed but she couldn’t help noticing Heather was horny again. Already! The insatiable hussy was all but panting.

  She was leaking as well; very visibly.

  ‘Let’s go in the lounge,’ Vic said, taking control while she still could.

  ‘Are we putting on another show for the security officers?’

  ‘No Heather. We’re going on the settee, where no-one can see us.’

  ‘Mmm, sounds as if you’ve something naughty in mind.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and find out?’

  * * *

  Nobody tried to stop Kyle Cassidy when he turned away. A crowd of awed onlookers avoided his eye and said nothing. Leaving the three beaten losers on the ground he swaggered off, crossed Bingley Main Street and hopped into the only taxi on the rank. A couple of girls approaching from the other direction were not impressed.

  ‘Hey,’ they shouted together. ‘That’s our cab.’

  ‘Shipley Pride,’ Kyle said, ignoring them. ‘Let’s go.’

  The cabbie looked at the girls’ legs. ‘Aren’t you going to offer to share?’

  ‘Fuck ‘em,’ said Kyle. ‘They’re not The Shipley Pride type.’

  Police sirens blared as the taxi set off.

  ‘Typical Friday,’ the cabbie observed. ‘It’s a battlefield round here.’

  Kyle grunted and flexed his bloody knuckles. Too right, he thought.

  Like most in his profession, the driver was talkative. Even though he must have realized his fare wasn’t interested, the bastard couldn’t keep it shut.

  ‘Giving Shipley a go, are you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Bit rough, Shipley. At least you know who’s twatting you in Bingley. Unless the Keighley lot are in town.’

  Another dismissive grunt from the passenger seat. Kyle couldn’t decide which was worse: endless chatter or the stink of peach air freshener.

  ‘The Pride can be dangerous, especially if you’re with Dwyer.’ The cabbie hesitated. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  ‘Dwyer?’ Kyle shrugged. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He owns The Kings Head. Doesn’t get on with the guys who go in The Pride.’

  ‘Pub wars, eh? Nice one.’

  After brief consideration the cabbie tried again.

  ‘A mate of mine got involved once. Going on ten years ago. He was working for Dwyer. Went into Shipley . . . never came home.’

  ‘Why not? Shit sense of direction?’

  ‘No. The Williamsons got him.’

  ‘Unlucky,’ said Kyle, unfeelingly. ‘Good job I’m independent, isn’t it?’

  ‘Being from Bingley can be bad enough.’

  ‘Listen, you do the driving, I’ll look after myself. All right?’

  That got through. They completed the journey in silence. Kyle settled up and left the vehicle without saying goodbye.

  Work for Dwyer? He snarled to himself before entering the pub. Not forever I won’t.

  Using his bulk and fearsome appearance he elbowed space at the bar.

  ‘Pint of cider,’ he growled. ‘And stick a double port in it.’

  The barmaid was only young. Someone older might have railed at the alcohol content but not her. She just did as she was told. Kyle watched her arse while she rang in the sale. Very tidy.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as she gave him his change, treating her to a rare smile. She smiled back cautiously then went away to serve someone else.

  Time for Kyle to check his surroundings. No sign of Harry Williamson anywhere, just half a dozen likely lads playing cards in the far corner. All very slack compared to Bingley. The Kings Head currently bristled with guns. Dwyer even had sky marshals in The Kings Table.

  Not that the riffraff ever got to see them. Oh no, the riffraff only got to hear about the goings-on within the ristorante’s hallowed walls. Kyle and his likes had long since been barred.

  Maybe Dwyer’s afraid I’ll fuck that foxy little waitress of his.

  In fact I fucking-well will, whether she wants it or not.

  Anything to challenge the way things are.

  He ordered another drink, casually asking the barmaid what time she finished, getting politely brushed off.

  Stuck up cunt. I’ll fuck her too, one day, when my ducks are all in a row.

  Kyle knocked back most of his pint and looked again at the card players. They were almost certainly with Williamson, but low-level. Not worth bothering about. Not while he still had to give Dwyer an explanation for his actions.

  Fuck ‘em. He left The Pride and took the short walk to The Cricketers, where some sort of party was going on. A kid badged as SECURITY tried to deny access but a single glare was enough to defeat him.

  Armed with a new drink Kyle took opportunity to scheme. Shipley was just like Bingley; there was no reason why he couldn’t rule both. Between them the Williamsons, Dwyers and Painters had almost total control. It shouldn’t take much to narrow three gangs down to one. All he needed to do was make sure that the Dwyers were the “one” and he ended up in charge. How difficult could that be?

  Trouble was brewing across the room. The boy bouncer was talking to two bigger guys and pointing out the intruder. The bigger guys had drunken red faces and looked keen to impress their even drunker girlfriends. Kyle grinned. Tonight’s opening bout had been a disappointing walkover. He was more than ready to go again.

  * * *

  Heather pretended to be coy, taking the far end of the white leather settee and crossing her legs.

  ‘My mother warned me about older women,’ she said. ‘Apparently they like doing things we young innocents have never even heard about.’

  ‘I doubt that applies to you,’ Vic replied, ‘because we’ve done everything there is to do five times over.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘No. I want to play a game.’

  ‘Do you mean a sex game, like the ones you’ll be playing tomorrow?’

  ‘Heather, it’s my neighbour’s dinner party.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. And it is. I’ve the dinner party on Saturday, then intensive housework and homework on Sunday. There won’t be any games at all for me this weekend.’

  ‘I know,’ Heather grinned and uncrossed her legs. ‘And don’t worry; I’m not going to get clingy.’

  They kissed until Vic began to feel overwhelmed. ‘Enough,’ she declared, rather breathlessly. ‘It’s game time.’

  ‘Okay. What do we do?’

  ‘It’s very simple. We ask each other questions. And we have to answer truthfully.’

  ‘Sounds like
True Confessions.’

  ‘There’s a twist. I’m allowed to touch you, but you’re not allowed to touch me.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘Tough. Those are the rules.’

  ‘They’re very boring rules.’ Heather sniffed. ‘You and your equal shares!’

  ‘Equal shares? Don’t make me laugh. This game only lasts an hour. To equal things out it’d have to go on for a whole day.’

  Vic shoved Heather back on the settee and began stroking, concentrating on the insides of her thighs, deliberately keeping away from her sex. Heather soon stopped complaining and shifted into a more obliging position.

  ‘Your body looks fantastic,’ Vic said sincerely. ‘And I can’t get over your skin tone. Have you got gypsy blood in you?’

  ‘No,’ Heather replied, gasping a little already. ‘I work hard on the tan.’

  ‘This isn’t your natural colour? I’m astounded.’

  ‘Don’t be. It took two and a half years to get rid of all the white bits.’

  Vic couldn’t see the faintest trace of any white bits. She really had thought Heather’s colouring was natural. ‘How did you manage that? Did you spend your gap year in the altogether?’

  ‘Not all of it, just a big chunk. And just as well; the tan’s all I brought back. That and a broken heart.’

  ‘The broken heart sounds promising. Who did it?’

  ‘Ingrid. She was my travelling companion. My straight travelling companion. And my one and only long, abstinent courtship, now I come to think about it. The exception that proves the rule.’

  ‘Did it stay abstinent?’

  ‘It did through France and most of the Iberian Peninsula. We were at it hammer and tongs after that.’

  ‘Ingrid wasn’t completely straight, then?’

  ‘She dropped the pretence on the road to Guadalajara.’

  ‘In Mexico?’

  ‘No, there’s another one near Madrid. We were heading for Barcelona at the time.’

  Vic considered a moment, her hands still deftly busy. ‘Did she take much persuasion?’

  ‘I wasn’t particularly trying. We kept getting closer and closer, and then it just sort of happened.’

  ‘How did she break your heart?’