UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘It’s like an oasis.’

  Sean had pulled a powerful, waterproofed torch out of his jacket. When he flicked it on Pat could see that the roundabout was a series of concentric circles: tarmac; cobbles; grass; thick bushes; undergrowth; more bushes.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, crouching beside his glorious leader, well below thick bush level, ‘it’s an oasis. Do they do stronger drinks?’

  ‘Just wait, you boozy bastard.’

  Realization broke through the alcohol fumes. ‘This is about Pongo, isn’t it?’

  ‘You bet it is.’

  ‘Are you sure we’re in the right place?’

  Sean turned his torch into Pat’s face. ‘Sure I’m sure. Where else could it be?’

  ‘Back up there, next to Magnet.’

  ‘Nah, that one’s been there forever. This is the one they were doing when the bypass went pear-shaped. And that was when they got Pongo.’

  Pat supposed Sean might be right, although the details had got hazy. Hardly surprising, though. The arguments about the Relief Road had rumbled on for half a century. Finally starting thirty years late, work had halted midway and stayed halted for another decade or so. Tree-dwelling protesters and wild orchids in the South Bog had done it; them and ever-dwindling finances.

  ‘If you say so,’ he conceded. ‘Where is he, do you reckon?’

  ‘Here, in the middle.’ Sean adjusted the torch’s brightness before shining it on the centremost bush. Can’t you feel the vibes?’

  Pat shuddered. ‘It’s spooky, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Unconsecrated ground,’ Sean replied. ‘Of course it’s fucking spooky.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we consecrate it. What was he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Wasn’t he one of yours?’ Sean put the flowers on the ground beside that centremost bush.

  ‘One of mine?’

  ‘Was he Catholic, or what?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I thought you had a special handshake or something.’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Maybe he was one of your lot.’

  ‘Dunno what I am. My mum goes to that chapel near the pub.’

  ‘St Luke’s?’

  ‘No. The chapel near the pub.’

  ‘Tetley’s, then.’

  ‘Don't be a prat. I don't mock your religion, do I?’

  ‘Yes you do. It's a good job I never go, otherwise I'd be offended.’

  They stayed low while a few cars and a lorry raced past. From momentarily busy the bypass was soon deserted again.

  ‘All right,’ said Sean, ‘we’ll skip the prayers and move on to the holy wine.’

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’

  ‘No, I'm deadly serious. Except it's holy Johnnie Red, not wine.’

  Pat shook his head as Sean produced a bottle of whisky out of thin air.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘No?’ Sean cracked open the seal and had a swig. ‘You’re letting the ghosts get to you, Patrick old son. That’s why we need to lay them to rest. Or rather, him.’

  Pat wasn’t much of a whisky drinker but still took the bottle and drank deeply. The hit didn’t make him feel better. For some reason it made him think he could be standing on Pongo’s grave. Not beside it, on it. And that made a world of difference.

  ‘Fucking hell, Sean, I’m not sure about this.’

  ‘Come on. This is as close to a funeral as Pongo's going to get.’

  Moving sombrely, actually looking like a priest, Sean poured a very generous splash of Johnnie Red over the flowers.

  ‘Pongo,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry it's taken so long. And sorry you're here, without a headstone.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Pat. ‘This is creepy.’

  And it was; there wasn’t one hint of a wind-up. Sean had never been as earnest in his life. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘Christ,’ Pat said again.

  ‘We can't tell your mum where you are,’ Sean went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘but we know she misses you. So do all your friends. You’ll never be forgotten.’

  More vehicles raced past; half a dozen of them by the sound of it. Sean waited for absolute silence before resuming.

  ‘Bubbles has paid his dues. Most of ‘em, anyway. And Harry Williamson’s on his uppers. Even better, he thinks he’s through the worst of it, but he isn’t.’

  Sean’s laugh rang out almost madly.

  ‘Stupid cunt believed me when I said I’d let it lie. But don’t worry. I won’t.’

  He broke off to have another swig from the bottle and splash more over the flowers.

  ‘We’re not letting anything lie,’ he said fiercely, ‘not forever, anyway. We’ll let it bide a while, then . . .’

  Pat took the bottle as it was thrust at him, draining it.

  ‘You won’t be forgotten,’ Sean rose to his feet. ‘We’ll be back every so often. And trust me, Williamson will pay in full.’

  Pat let him lead the way out of the bushes, across the road and onto the verge.

  ‘This is our little secret,’ Sean said, wiping his face as they headed back towards their pickup point.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word.’

  ‘I mean it, Pat. Losing Pongo was like losing a limb.’

  ‘I know that, you daft sod. It hurts me too, even after all these years.’

  ‘Williamson’s dead,’ Sean said. ‘Forget waiting for him to strike. We’ll get in there first. And he’s not going under a road. He’s going into a fucking sewer.’

  EPILOGUE

  A month later – the end of November

  Heather’s eyes flew open five seconds before her mobile buzzed.

  Perfect timing, she thought. As always!

  Chuckling to herself, she clicked off the alarm. This was her first ever power nap (or more accurately, her first ever caffeine nap) but the timing really was spot-on. According to articles she’d read, twenty minutes was optimum if you wanted to wake alert and ready for action. And that was exactly how she felt now: alert and ready for action.

  What a pity she was all alone in this sumptuous four-poster bed!

  Another chuckle. She hadn’t been alone long and wouldn’t be alone much longer, fortunately. Even more fortunately, she and Graham were only midway through their long weekend. They had a day and a half ahead of them yet.

  Assuming he survived his mid-morning run.

  Heather took a moment to admire her surroundings. Very, very tasteful, she had to admit. How could a hairy-assed engineer from Keighley find a dream cottage like this, in such an idyllic Dales setting?

  Come to that, how could he still have the energy to go running up and down fells?

  They’d arrived early Friday afternoon and Graham had had everything planned. Fresh air, long scenic hikes and tasty pub meals had headed his agenda. Heather had taken one look at the sturdy, Victorian Gothic bed and that had been it; they’d been shagging ever since.

  Well, almost ever since. They had taken time out for two trips to the village inn and were due another shortly, for Sunday lunch and a few civilized beers. Graham had suggested a stroll afterwards but that wasn’t going to happen. It would be getting dark by the time they’d had those beers. And, although he didn’t know it yet, her favourite next-door neighbour had a treat in store.

  Thinking ahead made Heather smile. Up until Friday she’d more or less kept her hands off Graham; this weekend was doubling as his reality test. The good news was that he’d passed already, with flying colours . . . hence the treat.

  I’ll tell him when we’re in the pub, she decided. When he mentions that stroll.

  Her smile widened. Graham didn’t know she’d been snooping through his porn. He was going to be surprised when he found out about the silk restraints and blindfold. But not nearly as surprised as he was going to be when he found out who was being restrained.

  Must be spending too much time on top of Vic! I’m getting so dom
ineering!

  The sound of a dog barking broke into Heather’s reverie. No, not a dog; she’d know that sort of a bark anywhere: it was a mad Border Collie. Hearing it took her straight back to childhood. Gyp could make a lot of noise but his predecessor, Duke, had been world champion barker. Hunters Farm was big, but not big enough to get out of earshot of Duke. Sometimes she’d heard him echoing back off the other side of the valley, and that was miles away.

  Heather sighed. Duke was long gone now and Gyp was sixteen; still working but sixteen, very old for a Border Collie, beyond vintage, into veteran. Signs of arthritis were showing in the way he carried his rear-end.

  Life was so unfair. Patch was older than Gyp and he wasn’t on borrowed time. Not anywhere near. Ponies could live to thirty or forty. Collies didn’t get much past fifteen. Sixteen and still working really was pushing it.

  She sighed again. Dad would be gutted when Gyp’s time came. He always was with dogs. Him, the tough ex-farmer who’d sent hundreds of cows and sheep on their way, supposedly uncaring, expected to treat dogs as mere tools. Yeah, right! When Duke had been put to rest he’d moped about for ages, delaying getting a replacement, giving Mum a hard time. He wasn’t like that when any of his friends died. He didn’t wear the same long face and keep saying, ‘No more.’

  Well knickers. When Gyp’s number was up she would do something about it. And immediately, so he couldn’t drag it out. She was as good a judge of a dog as anyone, and you could always find a recent litter. She’d scour the local farms and beg, borrow or steal the best pup around.

  Save Mum a lot of grief.

  Stop Dad from upsetting himself too much . . .

  Silly old sod.

  Heather knew she was unconventional in being so close to her dad. She certainly told him things she’d never dream of telling her mum, trusting him to pass on the bits he saw fit . . . even if his judgment did sometimes mystify her.

  Sometimes she’d even listen to his advice.

  Sometimes.

  Dad hadn’t wanted her to move back to Bingley. He’d fallen out of love with West Yorkshire as a whole, moaning on about “mad buggers, moneylenders and thieves”, although that hadn’t stopped him getting involved with her house-hunting. And doing it far better than she had, to be honest. While she’d been looking at poky old flats, he’d been the one who’d found the penthouse. They’d had one of their special father/daughter conversations in Dick Hudsons after the second viewing. When he’d mentioned the moneylenders and thieves she’d laughed, reminding him she would likely end up in banking. ‘Aye,’ he’d replied, ‘if you can’t beat ‘em . . .’

  Then, unusually serious, he’d said the young men in Bingley had gone bad. In fact the young men in all the towns and cities had gone bad. He was flayed for lasses like her; flayed for everyone. She’d told him she wasn’t bothering with men just then, so getting involved with a bad ‘un wasn’t an issue. She’d worry about finding a good ‘un much later in the day, when she was ready to produce a few grandchildren. In the meantime she’d stick to females (she’d mentioned females before, but strongly suspected that bit of news hadn’t made it on to Mum). He’d accepted her assurances and left it at that.

  Nothing untoward had happened in the wicked old market town yet. Okay, she’d been as intimate as physically possible with three different guys, so not “bothering with men” had been a tad optimistic. And her latest, incredibly sexy girlfriend might be dragging her into something dodgy, maybe even involving Jack the Hat. But so what? She was a big girl now, more than capable of looking after herself.

  Anyway, what was she supposed to do? Publish a list of new lovers? Report in every time she had an orgasm?

  No, she was playing it right as she was. Mum spent most of her life keeping Dad happy and vice versa. As an only child, her role was to have them believe everything was hunky-dory . . . which, by and large, it invariably was.

  Aging sheepdogs excluded.

  And she’d already decided how she was going to handle that.

  * * *

  Contingencies made, Heather reached for the newspapers; lots of newspapers. Graham had been to the village shop before heading off for the fells. And he’d made slices of toast and mugs of real, freshly ground coffee. He was quite the considerate lover, Graham, catering for hunger, caffeine craving and the need for mental stimulation. They should do this again sometime. No, they should do it often, with or without the travelling. Perhaps they could make Saturday night, Sunday morning a regular thing. Vic liked her freedom at weekends . . . it could work okay.

  Monday-to-Friday girlfriend . . . end-of-the-week boyfriend . . . yeah, there was a certain balance about that.

  Graham would need educating about newspapers, though: six thousand pages of Sunday Times and three red top tabloids; both extremes without a Mail or Express to be seen. Never mind men and magazines . . .

  Heather didn’t have ten hours to spare, so she started on the tabloids. Reading the more lurid articles and checking out the topless models as she went, feeling only slightly pervy. When it came to feminism she was the first to admit she was selective. Newspapers exploiting women . . . women exploiting gullible men? She could argue it either way. Not today, though. Today she was more interested in looking at pretty girls with nice boobs.

  And today’s girls were indeed pretty. Particularly the last one she came to: Toni from sunny Brighton . . .

  Toni from sunny Brighton!

  Heather couldn’t believe her eyes. That wasn’t Toni from sunny Brighton; that was Toni from school . . . her Toni.

  She read the blurb beside the photo, expecting something like: Toni always presents a warm, welcoming front to her seaside visitors. All she got was brief details covering age (24) and vital statistics (34E).

  ‘Never,’ she murmured. ‘Roz maybe. But Toni . . .’

  There was no denying it was her. Looking like a teenager rather than a twenty-four-year-old, but definitely her. And those boobs . . .

  She’d had them enhanced. No doubt about it. Page 3 girls weren’t supposed to enhance anymore, were they? Maybe she’d got away with it by being on page 15?

  Heather was grinning as she folded the paper open. Graham just had to see that. And never mind Graham, next time she was down on the south coast she wanted a date. Toni’s bazoomas had been relatively small last time she’d had a go at them. Okay, size wasn’t everything, but 34E on Toni’s yummy bod . . .

  Nice, nice, nice!

  Heather picked up the News of the World and glanced at the back page. World-famous footballer has affair. Yawn. The only thing shocking about that was the state of his mistress.

  She had a quick peep at the headline on the front.

  BLACK HORSE MASSACRE EXCLUSIVE

  Fair enough, that was shocking. Just thinking about it made her shiver. She thumbed her way through the article which began by saying the investigation was very much ongoing and stressed that reporting was still restricted. Within the restrictions, it said it could be revealed that members of a gang from Shipley had been lured to a remote spot and executed. And, just like Chicago in 1929, machine guns had been used.

  Heather already suspected she wasn’t going to learn anything new. She carried on reading out of morbid fascination.

  Five gang members dead at the scene. A sixth died later in Bradford Royal Infirmary. Victims ranged from a twenty-year-old boy up to a safecracker aged forty-five. Most were mid-to-late twenties. Surprisingly few convictions between them: GBHs and ABHs, mainly. All regularly involved in activities such as drug dealing, protection and loansharking.

  No wonder Jonjo didn’t need help with his car finances!

  Heather shivered again. The six dead men were named (including delightful aliases like Driller Killer) underneath very unflattering mug shots. According to NOTW, they’d been disposed of by rivals from Bradford or Leeds. Links with the recent murder of Charles “Bunny” Burrows were being explored, as was the possibility that other gang members had survived. Hundreds of in
terviews had already taken place and hundreds more would follow . . .

  And that was essentially that. The rest of the article consisted of profiles of the victims and quotes from “witnesses” who all seemed to have heard and seen nothing. The whole thing was really an updated rehash, not in the least exclusive. Heather would have forsaken it for the world-famous footballer if it hadn’t made passing mention of “the seventh man”; the one (name withheld for legal reasons) who’d been admitted to a different local hospital (location withheld) later that same day.

  Thanks to the rugby connection, everyone at WYB knew who the seventh man was. There had even been a directive sent out instructing colleagues not to talk about him . . . for legal reasons, of course.

  Heather had been in a quandary about Jonjo Blake. On the one hand she was seeing police posters asking for ANYONE WHO KNOWS ANYTHING to come forward. On the other she had the Bank directing her to say nothing. She’d consulted Joanna, who quite predictably went for the Bank’s line. And correctly too, Heather hoped. After all, what could she tell? She’d spent a day or so shagging Jonjo, not listening to his confession.

  Consorting With Gangsters, though; that was a good one for the Sexy CV! It must score nearly as highly as Tribbing The Bank Robber’s Daughter.

  She swapped shivers for rueful smiles. Jonjo had been fun in bed but hadn’t been en route for anything permanent, maybe a couple more sessions. All told she was sorry he’d been hurt, apparently badly enough to end his rugby playing, but it did sound as if he’d deserved it. And at least he’d survived, unlike his horrible mates.

  Speaking of mates . . .

  * * *

  Heather shook her head firmly. Sean was no more a gangster than she was. At worst he was a bit of a Del Boy, ever-so-slightly shady, but good at heart . . . and good at sex too.

  Talk about staying power! Vic had undersold him. Although not brilliantly talented, he never went limp and could hold back for ages before cumming and cumming again. That first time he’d made her very, very happy and then he’d stayed up for a series of encores. Okay, he hadn’t managed the fabled three hours in one go, but he’d been convincing enough to suggest it was a possibility. She’d definitely be going back for more, even if he had blinked first, leaving her to do the lion’s share.