UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘Now that’s what I call unconsecrated,’ Sean said to Pat. Then, after another nasty laugh: ‘You're fucked, aren't you, Harry? You've nothing to trade with and nobody to fight your wars.’

  ‘We can still fight. You might win, but it'll be at a price. We'll take as many of you with us as we can.’

  ‘Fuck me, I am scared.’ Sean dragged out another pause. ‘Okay Harry. Remember what I said all those years ago? About war not being good for business? Because that's still true, I'm going to let it lie. You stick to your manor and I'll stick to mine. I'm giving you nothing, but I won't take anything from you. And no pact, just a promise. If you ever hit me or mine again, I'll hit you right back, two-for-one. Get me?’

  ‘Got you,’ said Harry. ‘And don't worry. I won't be hitting you and yours.’

  Andy came in with more pitchers of lager as Sean slid the mobile back across the table.

  ‘CNN are comparing it to the St Valentine’s Day Massacre,’ the landlord announced.

  ‘Lovely,’ Sean replied. ‘Do me a favour. Ring George at the cop shop. Tell him we're having a late night and his boys are welcome. And pass the word to all the usual suspects. Let Marco know and ask him to make sure his people attend. Especially Anne-Marie.’

  He turned to Angel. ‘Pull the guys in from Kings Cars and get those sky marshals out of the ristorante. They'll be getting fat and besides, Marco's dying to have their covers available for paying customers.’

  ‘Okay,’ Angel said. ‘What about here?’

  ‘Ask for four volunteers to stay sober. I don’t think Williamson’s clever enough to counterattack, but let’s keep an eye open, just on the off-chance. Say our four heroes can have a private party tomorrow. I'll get those lap dancers from Leeds. Two each, as long as they don’t drink tonight.’

  ‘Might volunteer myself,’ Angel said. ‘Two’s a bit tight though. I’d prefer five.’

  ‘Fuck off you greedy bastard.’ Sean laughed. ‘Get me four volunteers and I’ll see you right as well.’

  Moggs and Tinner left The Meeting Room with the former-biker, taking the new lager as they went. Sean told them to say he'd be out to settle his tab soon, then grinned at Pat.

  ‘Shame Williamson made it. Otherwise it couldn’t have gone much better.’

  ‘If I had a hat I'd eat it,’ Pat said. ‘Just don't ever try anything like that again. If something had gone wrong, that would have been us on News 24.’

  ‘I know what you mean. But if Williamson's lost half a dozen or more, he's at his weakest since he was inside . . .’

  ‘Sean, you're not . . .’

  ‘No, I’m not. It was just a passing fancy. All I'm really thinking about is making us even stronger for next time.’

  ‘You don't think we've heard the last of him?’

  ‘No. Don't be fooled by that non-aggression shite, that's just to keep us sweet. He may not be the Terminator, but he’ll be back.’

  * * *

  Darkness was falling as Geoff arrived at Druid’s Altar, making him question his sanity. He’d left his car back at St Ives, in the same parking space he’d used when scattering Samantha’s ashes all those years ago. Returning to it was going to be a challenge, even going via the shorter route. He’d found an old flashlight in the back of the glove compartment, but wasn’t exactly inspired with faith.

  He stood on the flat rock and felt in his pocket, fishing out a small and battered metal tube. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember where it had come from. Probably free with a gallon of petrol, five BMWs ago. And the batteries weren’t any newer. When switched on they only produced a faint, orange glow.

  Never mind. The baby of the clan could find his way through hundreds of miles of hostile terrain, in pitch black with enemies on his heels, so surely Big Bruv could make it a few hundred yards across a golf course.

  Geoff looked upwards, seeing a clear sky and the first, brightest stars. He smiled to himself. If all else failed he could navigate the old-fashioned way, using the Plough to find the North Star, then . . .

  Then . . .

  Well, he’d worry about then when he came to it.

  Taking care to keep away from the drop, he looked over the valley, seeing Bingley’s two main, brightly-lit thoroughfares bisecting a network of minor roads, all swarming with headlights. Everyone going home at once, he supposed. Those roads really were swarming. The view from up here brought local traffic problems clearly into focus.

  But he hadn’t skived off early for local problems, not while he had two of his own to consider.

  A biggie and a not-so biggie.

  Work wasn’t relevant to Druid’s Altar, but he’d been thinking about it ever since his one-to-one with Rick. Not in a what-to-do sense, though. Oh no, he’d known what-to-do right from the start; it was the doing that had troubled him.

  Not anymore, however. As far as he was concerned, work was now as good as sorted. Henry hadn’t called back but he had finally sent a brief text saying: WILL COMPROMISE TOMORROW. Even if that didn’t seem much to hang a hat on, Geoff was reassured. Henry didn’t waste words and COMPROMISE was his middle name. Between them they’d find something to satisfy Penny.

  Johnny Green wasn’t so easily sorted.

  Geoff surveyed the valley again, hardly taking in the sights and distant sounds. He was vaguely aware of the smell of burning leaves and the absence of wind and rain . . . and the relentless onset of night, of course. Not to mention the fact he was absolutely alone in the wilderness.

  ‘Samantha,’ he whispered.

  Nothing came in reply.

  He’d dismissed the idea of confiding in Penny as soon as it arrived. How could he admit to Penny that he’d prayed for someone to die? She’d see that as akin to committing murder.

  Or, worse still, exhorting God to commit murder . . . he and the big guy could end up in the same cell!

  Geoff reckoned the initial shock of hearing the news had worn off. He could think about it more rationally and feel no guilt. To his mind Green was no more than a symptom of the larger cancer affecting society: an evil man who dealt in drugs and misery. And there was no doubt whatsoever in his case. He hadn’t seriously tried to deny the things he’d done, in spite of that baloney about remorse. Evil men like him should be executed. Seventy per cent of the population believed in capital punishment, possibly seventy-five. That was why there’d never been a fair vote on the subject.

  Given the chance, Geoff would have executed Johnny Green himself. Failing that, he’d have gladly assassinated him . . . if he’d thought he wouldn’t get caught. However he looked at it, Green’s horrible end was nothing but deserved. In fact he should go and thank the lowlifes who’d chopped him up.

  Except they deserved a dose of the same themselves.

  Prayer, he mused. Could he really believe one off-the-cuff Sunday morning prayer had resulted in a brutal Tuesday evening killing? God was pretty damned efficient if it had! God must get millions of requests, especially on Sundays. Surely even He couldn’t turn them all round in two working days?

  Service Level Agreement or what!

  Obviously it was coincidence. Green moved in circles where death lurked in every shadow. And going back to his roots . . . how stupid was that? No wonder he’d been killed so shortly after his release.

  The more Geoff considered, the surer he was that his prayer was coincidental. He could even persuade himself it would have been surprising if the coincidence hadn’t happened. The release was always going to make the papers. He was always going to react bitterly to the news. And Green was always going to come to grief.

  Those other visits up here, though. Hearing Samantha’s voice . . .

  How amazing if there was an afterlife!

  And a God: one who did dirty deeds dirt cheap.

  He laughed briefly. Better be careful what he wished for from now on. He really might end up with a cellmate who had a long, white beard.

  It had grown fully dark.

  ‘Samantha,’ he whispered again. ‘S
weetheart.’

  Still nothing.

  What was that second wish? In the WW Jacobs story? I wish my son alive? Something like that, anyway. Dare he try it?

  Should he try it?

  Geoff shivered although it wasn’t particularly cold. Things hadn’t worked out well in The Monkey’s Paw. Or in Pet Sematary, come to that. In real life it could only end in disaster. How would Penny cope with a zombie Samantha? Or the kids with a zombie Mummy?

  Even if she came back completely normal, she’d be a problem, to say the least.

  He shook his head. Best forget wishes and prayers; buy a nice bottle of wine and go home instead. Share the more recent news about Green, saying he’d thought the so-and-so was still inside. Share the latest from Henry too, playing down the COMPROMISE bit . . .

  Assuming he ever found the car.

  * * *

  Joanna frowned. Nobody ever rang after ten in the evening; nobody bearing good news, anyway. Taking care not to lose her page, she plucked her mobile off the top of the bedside cabinet.

  ‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Hi Hot Lips, it’s me.’

  ‘Heather, don’t you know what time it is?’

  ‘It’s not very late.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Joanna replied, feigning grouchiness.

  ‘I haven’t woken you, have I?’

  ‘No. Luckily for you I’m reading in bed. What do you want?’

  ‘To thank you for your very kind and wise advice this afternoon.’

  ‘Don’t soft-soap me.’

  ‘I’m not. I really mean it, even if I am still torn. It’s great working on your team.’

  ‘I know it is, but my advice still stands. You have to take your chance with Victoria.’

  ‘Huh!’ went Heather, abruptly dropping her bar of Imperial Leather. ‘You’re supposed to bribe me not to go.’

  ‘Says she in her fancy penthouse. I’ve no bribes worth offering.’

  ‘You could offer me your body.’

  ‘As if you’d want that!’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Heather . . .’

  ‘Are you really in bed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So am I. Naked and alone. Are you naked?’

  ‘Heather . . .’

  ‘Are you?’

  Joanna hesitated. ‘Yes,’ she said finally.

  ‘Are you reading dirty magazines?’

  ‘No. Thanks to you I’m reading Sense and Sensibility.’

  ‘Thanks to me?’

  ‘You seem to be so well-read.’

  ‘I’m well-read when it comes to passing exams. Otherwise I’m patchy.’

  ‘Not as patchy as me. I did get an O-level in English, but only just. When you mentioned Jane Austen I realized I’d half-read Persuasion and nothing else. I felt as though I’d been missing out.’

  ‘So you’re catching up?’

  ‘I’ve certainly started. I went online and bought the full set. By Christmas it’ll be my specialist subject.’

  ‘That Jane Austen’s full of explicit sex.’

  Joanna glanced at the other five books, stacked in a neat pile on her dressing table. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Oh it's there, simmering beneath the surface. Just wait until you get to Emma. She's worse than me.’

  ‘I do rather doubt that.’

  ‘Joanna, are you really naked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Send me a snap.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On your mobile. Do me a full-frontal.’

  Joanna was surprised by the lurch in her tummy. Heather seemed quite serious and bits of her own body were starting to respond . . . unwarrantedly, of course, because . . .

  Well, because.

  ‘I don't know how to do it on this phone,’ she hedged. ‘And I wouldn't, anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m old and wrinkly. And you’re a girl.’

  ‘You are not old and wrinkly. You're lovely. I want to see you.’

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go to the leaving do after all. I’ve been lying here since eight instead, jilling and daydreaming.’

  Jilling? Joanna frowned again. Didn’t that mean . . .

  ‘I’ve been pretending you did come with us on Saturday after all,’ Heather went on. ‘It’s been one of my best-ever daydreams.’

  This time Joanna’s tummy lurched into freefall. Her nipples were suddenly hard against the bed sheets and she was afraid she might have wet herself.

  ‘Heather,’ she began uncertainly, ‘are you telling me you’ve been . . .’

  ‘Jilling,’ her colleague said helpfully. ‘Thinking about you with Jonjo and jilling. Thinking about the other threesome combinations, too. Especially me and you.’

  ‘Heather . . .’

  ‘You have the most beautiful smile, you know? I’d love to see what you look like when you cum.’

  ‘Heather!’

  ‘I’ve tried to imagine your expression a few times before . . . in the privacy of my own home, of course. I’d never jill during working hours.’

  ‘This is a wind-up, right? You’ve had a drink and you’re winding me up.’

  ‘I had two pints of lager with my curry. I’m completely sober and it’s not a wind-up. I really do want to see photos of you, naked, climaxing or . . . preferably . . . both.’

  ‘Well you can’t.’

  ‘I can pop round if you can't work your phone.’

  ‘Heather . . . you can’t. I’m your boss.’

  ‘So? Victoria’s going to be my boss; you’re practically pushing me into her bed.’

  ‘You’re hardly kicking and screaming.’

  ‘Well she intrigues me . . . and scares me a bit, too. Should be exciting, shouldn't it?’

  Joanna took a deep breath, still physically aroused but glad of even the slightest change of tack. ‘You’ve decided, then?’

  ‘About Victoria? I'm a bit wary. You paint her as quite callous. She wouldn't do anything dodgy, would she?’

  Joanna frowned yet again. Heather sounded as if she had reason to be concerned.

  ‘What do you mean by “dodgy”?’

  ‘Oh I don't know. Falsify reports; lend irresponsibly; that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Definitely not. She tramples over her rivals, but only politically.’

  ‘Is that a definite definite?’

  ‘Yes, it definitely is.’

  ‘You trust her then?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘And you really won’t mind if I accept?’

  ‘I want what’s best for you, Heather. Honestly.’

  ‘In that case I’ll go for it . . . but only if you read me some naughty bits.’

  ‘From Sense and Sensibility?’

  ‘Unless you've got Playgirl stuffed under your mattress.’

  ‘I'm afraid I haven't.’

  ‘Okay then, get to the part where Marianne meets Mr Willoughby.’

  ‘I'm past that already. It's not at all naughty.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not reading it properly. Let me explain what’s going on between the lines . . .’

  * * *

  Pat sat in the back of the car, wondering what the hell Sean was playing at. It was past eleven and the celebrations at The Kings were in full swing. In fact it was a mystery why they weren’t still there themselves. He already had a gallon of lager inside him and there was a wrap of coke burning a hole in his pocket.

  And Sean had flowers. How crazy was that!

  The youngster behind the wheel was a new recruit. Luke had only been with Sean a matter of months and was still keener than keen. He’d refrained from drinking while all around him fell among thieves . . . and without being bribed with lap dancers. He wasn’t anywhere near the bitter and twisted stage yet.

  And those fucking lap dancers . . . well, wow!

  ‘Sean,’ Pat ventured. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not far, Paddy
.’

  ‘Don’t Paddy me, you twat. Where are we going?’

  ‘Not far, Patrick. Chill for fuck’s sake.’

  Pat shut up and watched Bingley smoothly turn into Crossflatts, thinking that Luke drove like a professional chauffeur. He should have had a uniform and peaked hat. Before long they came to a roundabout and, with the route obviously pre-programmed, took a left. Three-quarters of the way down the link road to the bypass they pulled up, stopping in the entrance of the new Bradford and Bingley building’s overflow car park. At this late hour the car park was barred but the entrance was easily wide enough to take an idling motor.

  ‘Don’t wait,’ Sean said, reaching for the door handle. ‘Drive around for twenty minutes then pick us up. If we’re not here, give us another five and come back. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Luke.

  Pat smothered a laugh as he got out of the vehicle. Sure boss, he thought. Anything you say, boss. Three bags full . . .

  ‘You can stop sniggering,’ Sean said as the car disappeared into the night.

  ‘Me? I don’t snigger.’

  ‘Yes you fucking do. And Luke doesn’t deserve it. He’s a good lad.’

  There wasn’t a pavement beside this short stretch of tarmac, just a grass verge. Pat followed Sean along it, glad the going was reasonably firm.

  ‘Maybe I was sniggering at you.’

  ‘Fuck of Paddy. Get into character.’

  ‘What character?’

  ‘Graveside character.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See that over there?’

  Of course Pat could see. There were powerful streetlights at regular intervals and, although the surrounding valley was in darkness, he could make out every detail of the carriageways. He could even see three wild rabbits nibbling the grass that fringed the roundabout.

  Rabbits?

  ‘Sean,’ he said. ‘Can you see anything?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Sean. ‘You must be pissed.’

  As if hearing them the rabbits scattered, disappearing into dense shrubbery in the centre of their private retreat. And it must have been noise from them. For the moment at least, the rest of the bypass was deserted.

  ‘Let’s go for it.’

  Without further ado Sean crossed the road, strode over some modern-style, flat cobbles and a couple of yards of short grass, into the shrubbery. Pat grinned as bushes whipped back into Sean’s face . . . then growled as he followed and got some of the same.