UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘It was the Gordon’s,’ Tinner said. ‘If he hadn’t started mixing ‘em, he’d have been right.’

  Everyone in The Meeting Room laughed, even Pat.

  ‘What about the snatch? Did Arthur recognize anyone, you reckon?’

  ‘No. He was only with the Leeds lads five minutes, won’t ever see them again. The rest of us wore masks until he flaked out. All he can say is some big boys made him do it. As if Joey’s going to believe that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tinner. ‘And Arthur probably will think he did it. We never let on about Eric. As far as he knows, we couldn’t open the safe without him.’

  ‘Good,’ Sean said. ‘Did Eric handle it okay?’

  ‘Eric Burnley from Burnley,’ said Angel, doing the East Lancs twang. ‘He shit himself when I topped that security guard. Otherwise he was okay. Couldn’t wait to piss off back to Are-You-Not-Land, though.’

  ‘We gave him three grand out of the safe,’ Tinner added. ‘He looked like he needed cheering up.’

  ‘Split the rest between you,’ Sean said. ‘You deserve it. Right, Pat?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pat said. ‘What happened to the Transit?’

  ‘It’s burnt out on Shipley Glen,’ said Tinner. ‘We nicked it from Shipley, so that seemed like a good place to dump it. If the Pigs bother, it’s going to look local. But not local to us.’

  ‘Joey and Mike don’t do Pigs. They’ll make their own enquiries.’

  Angel laughed. ‘I hope they start in Arthur’s wallet. He had a beer mat in there with a message about Harry. I made a couple of additions.’

  It hurt Pat to keep grinning. This was getting worse and worse.

  ‘Right then,’ Sean checked his watch. ‘It’s getting on midnight; Joey and Mike should be planning their retaliation by now.’

  ‘What should we be doing?’

  ‘Same as before,’ said Sean. ‘We stay on red alert, in case Williamson makes a move against us. And we wait.’

  * * *

  The new, specially targeted partner had been tickling Vic’s back. She stopped abruptly. ‘You’re joking. I don’t know the first thing about being a PA.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Your people skills are exceptional. You’ve a relevant first-class degree. And having The Manor on your CV doesn’t hurt. At least two execs have sent their daughters there.’

  Heather scowled, which was a first. Her eyes flashed menacingly. Vic was suddenly afraid she was going to blow a gasket.

  ‘Is that what the torture was about other night, Victoria? Some new-fangled interview technique?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. The idea only occurred to me this morning, when I finally accepted no-one else was good enough. That was when I dug out your HR file and started plotting, and not a moment sooner. Are you interested?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ Heather snapped. ‘I said I’d risk the grapevine for you, but that was for sex. Promotion never came into it.’

  ‘It still doesn’t.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Honest Injun Hev, I was only after sex too, originally. But having sex has helped me get to know you. Now I do know you, I’m convinced you’re the one I need.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Heather said after a short, prickly silence. ‘But I’d still look like someone who opened her legs to get promoted.’

  ‘I’ve been the one opening her legs, so it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I don’t think anyone will know that. And I’m certain nobody will believe it.’

  ‘And I don’t think anyone will waste time speculating,’ Vic said valiantly. ‘They’ll be too busy gossiping about Chris. How poetic will that be?’

  Heather still wasn’t amused. ‘You’d have to shag him to make the grapevine. Or is there some obscure reason why that won’t that count either?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not up on all the grapevine conventions. But nobody said anything the last time I shagged him. Not even Joanna.’

  That created a diversion, temporarily at least. ‘Have you really?’

  ‘Not for ages, but yes. And not just once.’

  ‘Was it for . . .’

  ‘Personal gain? No, Hev. Not for either of us. It was purely physical.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘He’s quite good,’ Vic went on, ‘not in Jack the Hat’s class for staying power, but twice as skilful. That’s not why I want him on the team, though.’ She put a tentative hand on Heather’s shoulder. Meeting no objection, she continued, ‘I’d never let sex interfere with work. Not for Chris. Not even for you.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Sex with you is brilliant,’ Vic said truthfully. ‘I don’t want it to stop. If you tell me to stick my job, I’ll still want to stay over. And I’ll be back on Thursday night as well, if you’ll have me.’

  ‘You said you wanted fun and flings.’

  ‘I do. And I still want you to provide most of the fun.’

  ‘But not permanently.’

  ‘Semi-permanently. For now.’

  ‘What if I had a fling over the weekend?’

  Vic paused a moment, thinking about the weekend she’d had herself, the one she’d made sure she hadn’t discussed before.

  ‘I’d say nothing,’ she said eventually. ‘Apart from I hope she was good.’

  ‘She wasn’t a she.’

  ‘Not Joanna then.’

  ‘No,’ said Heather. ‘Joanna doesn’t . . . unfortunately.’

  ‘How do you know she doesn’t?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘I’m glad you found someone,’ Vic said after further consideration. ‘And I hope he was good.’

  ‘You’re not going to storm out on me?’

  ‘No. I really am cool with flings. And he matters ten times less than she. You can have another go at him while I’m away tomorrow, if you want. I won’t ever be jealous, as long as you’re not.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Heather stopped scowling and smiled. It was reluctant and not nearly as cheery as usual, but a smile for all that.

  ‘Did you have sex this weekend?’ she asked. ‘During your prior engagement, I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vic admitted.

  ‘On the dinner party table?’

  ‘No. On the spur of the moment, after the party was over.’

  ‘With the lesbian at number eleven?’

  ‘No. The one at number fifteen, actually.’

  They stared at each other in silence.

  ‘I felt guilty as hell,’ Vic said finally. ‘But she made the opening move and I couldn’t help myself. I think you’ve woken a sleeping giant inside me.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ Heather laughed. ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘Yes it was. That’s my excuse. What’s yours?’

  ‘Similar, but the other way round. It was you who said I should bag a rugby player. I was only obeying orders.’

  Vic swiftly re-assessed her jealousy levels. Finding that a he really did matter less than a she . . . when it came to Heather’s behaviour, at least . . . she resumed: ‘Fun and flings still sounds like a sensible arrangement to me. And sex doesn’t have to intrude on our working day anyway. I can hack it.’

  ‘So can I,’ said Heather. ‘And I do want you to come back on Thursday.’

  ‘Thank God for that! Now, can I tell you about the PA position?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘It isn’t a bimbo role. I’m not looking for someone to flash her tits and monitor the paperclips. It will be long hours and hard graft. That’s why the starting grade is approaching departmental manager. After that it’s going to gradually rise very close to mine. In a few years you’ll be a director with your own PA. And you’ll get the mega bonuses as well.’

  Vic registered how mention of money didn’t impress Heather. She’d only ever got True Confessions, not My Life in Fifteen Minutes. Even so, she’d pieced quite a lot together this last week or so. Heather was only insatiable when it came to orgasms; banknotes didn’t matter to her at all, not in the scheme of things. Vic th
ought that was strange. Money had never been in short supply in the Hanson household, but she’d always had a healthy appetite for more. Maybe it was a matter of scale? Her lovely young friend might not be hungry for money, but success . . .

  Meaning success measured in terms of big rewards. Not doing it so much for the loot, but for what the loot signified.

  ‘Hev,’ she said beguilingly. ‘Do you know how much bankers are paying themselves in bonuses these days?

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Heather shrugged, ‘couple of hundred thousand?’

  ‘More . . . much more. If we have five years reaping the rewards, even at a smallish bank like WYB, we should see two or three million each. Maybe as much as twice that. And even five million won’t put us anywhere near Fred the Shred. Our heads will still be well under the parapet. Just think about it. Simply by putting ourselves in the right place and working like Trojans. Five million. You could buy Hunters Farm back for your dad.’

  ‘No I couldn’t. The builders have already put a hundred and sixty houses on it. And Dad wouldn’t want it anyway, he just pretends he does. Still, ten years and five million . . .’ Heather whistled softly. ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Then I’m approaching forty, you’re not even thirty-five. And we’ve five million each. I think then it’ll be time to go shopping.’

  They laughed a little then kissed a lot.

  ‘Okay’ Heather said. ‘Tell me exactly what I have to do.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Penny was alone in bed, curtains drawn against window cleaners and the brightness of another glorious autumn day, steadily bringing herself towards one of her special juddering thingies. For her the real world had ceased to exist. Her back arched as her right hand joined her left, fingers inching towards the best, most sensitive places. Her breath was coming in great panting gasps and her legs were writhing, gradually working the duvet off her body. At last she was ready.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Oh Goodness me!’

  As she finally surrendered her eyes shot wide open and stayed that way throughout her quite spectacular finish. Big, round . . . and shocked.

  ‘My word,’ she murmured, ‘wherever did that come from?’

  To Penny, MASTURBATION had always been a horrible word, wrapped in taboos. It might as well have been written in letters of stone and dumped outside a tribal burial ground, right next to the warning dripping in snakes and creepers to:

  ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE!

  School sex education had started off the very idea of MASTURBATION badly. The one lesson that touched on the subject had been taken by Miss Edwards, who must have been sixty and was probably still a virgin herself. When Miss Edwards got to the specifics some of the boys had started making (even by their standards) juvenile comments and she hadn’t just got flustered, she’d got extremely embarrassed. She’d raced through the rest of the lesson, leaving most of her audience unsure how or why anyone did it, but believing they should never try for “various health reasons”. Chance of elaboration had been lost when she timidly invited questions, only for one of the rowdies to raise his hand and ask, ‘Do you masturbate, Miss?’ Her strangled reaction persuaded even the unruliest to let the subject go.

  So much for mixed classes!

  Subsequent schoolyard gossip provided plenty of hows and whys, together with lots of possibilities for the “various health reasons”, and scary ones at that. Even when the patently ridiculous had been eliminated, it seemed the consequences of MASTURBATION were far more terrible than they could ever be for actually having sex. Consensus was that if you tried it just once there were signs left on your hand that any doctor would recognize in an instant. Try it a second time and the offending hand would go hairy and green. Carry on from there and you would get awful pains known as “wanker's cramp”. After that your hand would be deformed worse than the worst ever case of arthritis. And after that it would drop off, but by then it would hardly matter, because you would have already gone blind and mad.

  And be in an asylum.

  For the pitifully short time remaining before you died horribly.

  About a year after Miss Edwards’ mystifying lesson Penny’s libido had sprung to life, as suddenly as if someone had flicked a switch. In fact it sprung very powerfully to life. When she was older and wiser she realized her desire levels were well above average and learned to control them and be grateful. But those early days were torment. She went a month without properly sleeping, her body constantly screaming for her to

  DO SOMETHING FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!

  her mind not daring to risk it. While she didn’t really believe that stuff about hands falling off, she was convinced something dreadful would happen if she masturbated. She’d been fourteen at the time and had seriously considered sacrificing herself to one of her many young admirers. But she hadn’t felt ready to do that.

  Torment, it was, sheer torment.

  Finally she’d plucked up courage and consulted her mum, who was kind and understanding but not much help. Yes, she was a hundred per cent right to avoid “that sort of thing” until she was certain she was ready and, even more importantly, certain she was with the right boy. And she had to remember sex was illegal at her age. And she could so easily get pregnant or catch VD and herpes or that terrifying AIDS. As for MASTURBATION, there definitely were health implications; it was just difficult to remember what they all were. Didn’t they include splitting headaches and migraines? Anyway, it was a dirty, sad and lonely thing to do. Of course there were taboos about it; it wasn’t what nice girls did. Her best advice was the old advice: lots of exercise and cold showers. If that didn’t work, wasn’t there something they put in prisoners’ cups of tea?

  Penny pushed herself through half-marathons and ice baths every day for a week and thought she’d cracked it. Then, perhaps because she’d started to relax, she’d woken abruptly in the middle of the night with the urge back stronger than ever. For a few minutes she’d thought about making that day Jimmy Mason’s Lucky Day.

  But school had been six hours away and she couldn’t possibly have waited so long, not to mention however much longer it took to fix everything up with Jimmy. Nor could she spare any more time fretting about implications. However well-meant everyone’s advice, it was time to flipping well DO SOMETHING!

  Goodness, was it!

  Not really knowing where to begin, she’d rubbed her thingy and found a way to quiet the beast that raged within. She did it again when the beast returned a little later. Then, switching to preventative tactics, she did it before the beast even stirred, taking forever and savouring the experience for the first time.

  After a fortnight or so of disregarding all the dire warnings she’d decided her hands weren’t going to go green, and those terrible headaches would never come to pass. There was also no hint of blindness and she’d always been a bit mad, so who cared if MASTURBATION affected her that way. As for lonely and sad . . .

  No lonely and definitely, definitely, definitely no sad.

  * * *

  Waking Arthur Laing wasn’t easy. Punches to the gut made him flinch but not spew or even dry heave. Applying pressure to gunshot wounds made him groan but not come round. Frustrated kicks to his ribs and balls were less successful still. For a few moments Mike thought that playing a lighter flame under the bastard’s chin had done the trick. Laing’s eyelids flickered then slowly rolled open, revealing eyes redder than Dracula’s and deader than a dodo’s . . .

  Then they slowly rolled closed again, cueing an unpleasant, rattly snore.

  The snore settled it for Mike. Laing hadn’t just downed a lot of booze; he’d kept it down long enough to be anaesthetized. Right then he probably had whisky flowing through his veins instead of blood. A lot of men as drunk as him would simply die. Not that he believed Laing was the sort to check out on alcohol poisoning. A guy didn’t get a nose like that if he couldn’t take a drink. No, alcohol poisoning wasn’t a risk. Lead poisoning was very possible, but that could wait. Fo
r the time being all he could do was let the wee fucker sleep it off.

  The latter-day McGuire brothers used belts as tourniquets on Laing’s legs then sat back and watched three trusted men clean up the blood and remove Dave Peters’ body. Poor old Dave was going to join the list of the missing. They were going to have to let his missus cry a while before giving her something to tide her over, until the insurers coughed. This injustice seriously annoyed Mike. Dave had died in action and should be remembered as a martyr, not swept under the carpet.

  Some bastard is going to pay.

  Laing had been left lying on a sheet of tarpaulin, to keep any fresh leaks off the newly washed and bleached floor. He finally started showing signs of consciousness late morning, moaning and groaning, muttering something about “Josie”. Joey used smelling salts to help him on his way and this time his bloodshot eyes stayed open.

  ‘My legs,’ he bleated. ‘What’s happened to my legs?’

  ‘Never mind your legs,’ Mike snapped. ‘It’s our fucking safe we’re bothered about. Who's got our money?’

  Laing didn’t seem to appreciate the severity of his situation. A couple of smacks about the head helped him focus.

  ‘I don’t know who they were,’ he whined. ‘I don’t even know where I am. Have they just left me?’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’ Mike smacked him again. ‘You were here for Harry Williamson, weren’t you?’

  ‘No. I was on my way to see Harry when I got jumped. He wouldn’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t fucking lie to me.’ Mike could feel his fuse burning. He wanted to properly set into the little gobshite but held back, knowing he’d probably kill him.

  ‘Easy does it,’ Joey said. ‘Let’s revert to Plan B.’

  Crouching beside Mike, Joey returned Laing’s mobile, which he’d confiscated earlier. ‘Ring Harry,’ he said calmly. ‘If you’re telling the truth, Harry’s been fucking you over. So you won’t mind arranging us a little get-together, will you?’ He produced a gun and rested the barrel against Laing’s nose. ‘Before you think of an excuse, you might not remember one our lads getting topped last night. Either you did it, or one of your buddies did it. I’m going to find out who it was and then I’m going to blow his brains out. And you are going to help me. Unless you’re confessing, of course, in which case . . .’