UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  Or lioness’s share!

  She sniggered. Vic almost certainly had an agenda including Sean, but she flatly refused to explain it. Vic was so . . .

  So . . .

  Secretive.

  On a sexual level Heather and Vic were completely in tune. Sex together was best-ever. On other levels . . .

  Heather didn't know quite where to begin. On other levels Vic was . . .

  Well, inscrutable.

  Becoming Vic's friend was a million times harder than shagging the ass off her. She'd always open her legs but never opened her heart.

  Heather considered herself to be considerate, caring and . . .

  And . . .

  Loving?

  Definitely.

  So why the bloody hell wouldn't Vic reciprocate?

  Ice Queen or what?

  The PA position didn't kick in until the start of December, only days away now. They had, however, already started the training; lots and lots of training. As well as outlining the zillions of day-to-day duties, Vic had stressed time and again the need for image.

  ‘You have to be the acceptable face of me,' she'd said. 'My weakness is people. I miss all sorts because people daren't speak to me. Sod that, they can speak to you instead. We can compare notes later, decide whether we listen or not.'

  ‘So I'm going to be your filter?'

  ‘No Hev, you're going to be my warm feminine side, while I stay as the cold, aggressive bitch. Even though that's far from the truth at bedtime, it'll work for the hired help. You can do the listening and collect the information; we’ll act on it together. And, on the rare occasions when I'm seen to change my mind, you’ll only get more powerful. The workers will be queuing up to confide in you. So long as you don't shag everyone in sight, we can't fail.'

  Heather had objected to that. ‘I thought I was free to shag everyone in sight.’

  ‘You are. But it’s best to treat WYB as out of bounds. Maintain an air of mystery.’

  ‘About us, you mean?’

  ‘About our personal lives in general. Find your fannies and willies elsewhere.’

  The very thought of willies made Heather think of Pat McGuire. As per always, she giggled. She still maintained a quite fierce attraction to Pat McGuire. Joanna had staked her claim though, while they’d been studying the two prop forwards from afar. That was why Heather had fixed that particular toss. At the time Joanna had been reluctant to make an approach. It had seemed important to encourage her as much as possible.

  How was I supposed to know McGuire has a hang-up over older women?

  Heather stopped giggling. With hindsight, she shouldn’t have gone for the coin toss. A private party back at her place would have been better, with partners being rotated every now and then. McGuire would have bought into that. So would Joanna, probably. Jonjo certainly would.

  Anyway, she’d missed the chance and poor Joanna had missed her peccadillo. Heather still felt bad about that. And she didn’t believe the rot McGuire had come out with about being committed. He might be afraid of older women, but not of younger ones with every-last-inch tans. Judging by the way he looked at her, he was as up for it as she was.

  Not that he’s going to get the pleasure. Not while Joanna remains unfulfilled.

  Shag Ms Jones; that was the mission for the rest of this year. She’d do it herself, but Joanna wasn’t convinced.

  Not yet.

  Heather frowned. She really did have drawers full of sex toys, mostly gifts from the likes of Mary Rose; no . . . almost exclusively gifts from the likes of Mary Rose, who was on a one-woman mission to keep Ann Summers in profit. Heather did possess a very classy vibrator (courtesy of her Australian girlfriend, Claire) and half a dozen personally selected Rampant Rabbits, but all her other devices had the redhead's fingerprints on them, particularly the strap-ons, which were Mare’s latest must-have.

  Vic had nearly died when she'd had a peep at the possibilities. In fact she'd gone almost frigid. Mentioning Mare's name hadn't helped. Not much, anyway. Vic had obviously believed she was mixing with some sort of deviants. It had taken all Heather's powers of persuasion to get her back into bed . . . and all her sexual A-levels to convince her to give one of the smaller ones a go.

  Heather smiled again. In her experience, bank robbers’ daughters could go from frigid to volcanic very quickly. Her (so far) one and only weekend with Vic had been prompted by a practical reminder of the joys of penetration; that and Vic’s sudden irresistible urge for deeper and more.

  If only she didn’t have to be so uncouth about it! She’s nearly as bad as Mare, using fuck as every second word.

  Vic was reassuringly jealous too, for all her guff about fun and flings. Mary Rose, the sister Heather had never had? Shouldn’t be allowed; especially not with her living as near as London. Why couldn’t she go join the other two in Albany? Or maybe the three of them could settle on Mars . . .

  ‘Because,’ Heather had said, and left it at that.

  And it was because. What with travelling and house-hunting she'd gone thirty-three months without seeing Mary Rose. Thirty-three months! Although they'd been to different universities, they hadn't previously been apart for more than five or six weeks from the day they’d met. Their ecstatic reunion had lasted exactly one hundred hours, punctuated by perhaps as much as ten minutes' sleep.

  And Vic compares me with the Tasmanian Devil!

  God knew what she'd make of Mare at full throttle. It hadn't been possible to control her for the first day, so Heather hadn't even tried.

  If only Joanna would be as compliant as I was! How happy I would make her! How absolutely delirious!

  I'd be quite content too, come to think about it.

  * * *

  In Heather's considered opinion sex was inevitable when women started talking about it . . . or jolly well ought to be . . . because it was every woman’s favourite subject. It was amazing how situations could develop. Amazing and gratifying too, of course. Two minutes into a chat about something innocuous and suddenly there you were, confessing your preferences and special likes. One word of encouragement later and you'd be at it, on a mental level at least, bouncing suggestive ideas off each other. And the step from mental to physical wasn't a big one. Not given a little privacy and that single word of encouragement.

  Well . . . with most women.

  Joanna wasn't a wet blanket, not exactly, but she certainly wasn't a pushover. So far a one-to-one in a bedroom had been out of the question. Just getting her to talk dirty over the phone had been a battle. Heather had had to progress from Mr Willoughby through Captain Wentworth, right up to Mr Darcy to get Joanna to play. It had taken another week and other authors’ characters (notably Heathcliff!) to coax her into borrowing a Rabbit.

  Then Oliver Mellors to get her to use it.

  Okay, so it had taken a while, but Heather’s efforts had paid off. The telephone conversation discussing the Rabbit’s precise use had been a lifetime highlight. She’d laughed, sighed and finally cried when her friend very audibly climaxed. That particular call had been timed at two hundred and two minutes and was worth every penny. Heather had rarely been so amused and almost never so severely excited.

  In fact she’d climaxed even more audibly.

  ‘I wish I was there with you,' she'd said as her legs finally stopped shuddering. 'The things we could do!'

  Joanna had hesitated. Usually she went quiet, almost remorseful after jilling. That particular Saturday she'd been much less reserved.

  ‘What things?' she'd wondered.

  ‘Sex things, with me being the man.'

  ‘I don't understand.'

  So Heather had expounded, telling her about the strap-ons without admitting they were Mare's latest craze, making out she'd been using them every other night for years rather than just once a blue moon. Overselling the product in true Mary Rose style, describing shapes and sizes, all in a rainbow of colours, guaranteeing there was something to tickle every fancy . . . including several fancies
a girl didn't even know she had.

  She'd told Joanna she would start with a tiny one, dripping with lubricant. Then, when she'd completely won her trust, she'd swap it for something a little larger, followed by something larger still . . .

  ‘I'll chase you round the bed with it,' she'd promised. 'We can try every angle and trajectory under the sun. Then I’ll use my favourite. It's long and thin and very knobbly. You just have to watch it going in and out. It's like sitting at a railway crossing, thinking the line of carriages is never going to end.'

  ‘Sounds scary.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be. We’ll do it face to face the first time, holding hands and rubbing noses. And very, very slowly. My hips rocking gently against yours. Our boobs pressing together. Everything hot and so, so sensual. Mmm, nice! I’ll take you to places you’ve never been.’

  Joanna had asked all sorts of questions but was still dragging her feet. Whilst obviously curious she equally obviously wasn’t going to hurry. That was fine by Heather. If Joanna wanted her to wait then wait she would. Going girl-on-girl could be a great leap into the unknown; she would never rush anyone who was in any way unsure.

  Besides, the wait would only add to the ultimate enjoyment.

  Meaning Joanna’s enjoyment as much as her own. Without blowing her trumpet too loudly, she had totally eclipsed Mary Rose on days two, three and (most of!) four of their reunion. When it came to that sort of shagging she really had become an expert.

  And Joanna really wanted to, however much she dithered. Reserve or no reserve, she really, really wanted to. Her après-jilling lulls didn’t last twenty minutes. She’d nearly always go again and was never, ever, ever stand-offish next day at work. They still hobnobbed shamelessly and higher grades hadn’t been mentioned in weeks.

  Although Heather was moving significantly upwards; very soon now they would be hobnobbing on equal terms.

  Not that she was expecting Wednesday’s official transfer to work miracles. Curious or not, Joanna hadn’t been joking about being stuck in her ways. She was still resisting the final temptation, ignoring basic, unsubtle innuendos such as girls’-tongues-know-better-than-boys’-tongues. No, Joanna wasn’t going to go beyond tentative phone sex anytime soon. When it came to the real, imminent thing she needed a man.

  And not just any man. She’d picked Pat McGuire so Pat McGuire it would be. Honour demanded it.

  How can I get them together? Heather wondered. Circumstances at the rugby match had been unique. That kind of lucky opportunity wouldn’t happen again. Something would have to be created. Maybe a double-date: herself and Joanna, Pat and Sean?

  Sean’s bed would easily accommodate the four of them.

  Hmmm. Joanna would take some persuading, but she could handle Ms Jones. McGuire’s reluctance might be tougher to overcome. And would Sean go squealing to Victoria afterwards?

  Guess who Heather brought with her?

  Even bigger hmmm. Her goings on with Ms Jones were probably best kept quiet. Perhaps she should skip the foursome and put herself up as bait. That certainly wouldn’t be a hardship.

  Okay Patrick, one night with Joanna, then you can shag me until one of us collapses.

  Our little secret.

  And you can have it any which way you want.

  Definitely no harm in that.

  Or maybe she should exclude herself and use Sean instead. Get him on McGuire’s case as some sort of challenge. Those two had the strongest, most laddish relationship she’d even known. Surely Sean would find it amusing to help set his mate up with the dreaded older woman?

  Hmmm . . .

  BEST SERVED COLD

  Read on for an exclusive extract from Best Served Cold, available early in 2016 and featuring the main characters from Unconsecrated Ground.

  Three years after The Black Horse Massacre

  February

  Jonjo stared through the window of the unlit portacabin, watching the snow, almost hypnotized by the sight. After a couple of hours waiting and watching the AK-47 had become an extension of his arm; it didn’t feel strange at all.

  Outside the flakes swirled heavier and faster than ever. It had been coming down for ages, initially covering the tops of walls, then grassy areas and pavements. By now the building works behind the cabin were quite thickly covered too, along with the main road running past the site. It was the road that concerned him most. A gritter had crawled past twenty minutes ago, sloshing its way through slush. There’d been sod all traffic since then and the surface no longer looked slushy; it looked distinctly white.

  Icy white.

  Jonjo glanced over his shoulder, his night vision adjusted enough for him to see the faces of his fellow trespassers. Those two weren’t nearly as tensed up as he was. This was just another job for them. Kev had found himself a chair and sprawled in it, humming tunelessly. Bri was leaning against a wall, eyes closed, asleep on his feet like a horse.

  Relaxed or what?

  Lucky them. Tonight was Jonjo’s comeback and for him relaxed wasn’t a possibility. Last time out hadn’t ended well and he couldn’t afford a repeat. Although Harry hadn’t made a song and dance about it (hadn’t even mentioned that last time had happened barely a mile from this very spot), everyone knew tonight was a test. Jonjo Blake had to prove he was still up with the best, and his disability couldn’t be an excuse.

  No pressure, then.

  Jonjo smiled grimly. He felt like a retired gunslinger, back for that final showdown. Not one in a white hat though. He hadn't retired because he'd met a good woman or found God. He wasn't forced back through circumstance, either. There was no murdered family and definitely no popular demand from a cowed township. His Westerns weren’t morality stories, they were dark and blood-drenched, starring Clint and directed by Peckinpah.

  Fuck the daydreams though, he was back; the revival was on. Gladstone Smith first, then Joey McGuire.

  No, first that frigging humming.

  Jonjo’s phone rang before he could tell Kev to put a sock in it. He automatically checked the caller, even though it could only be Barney O’Brien. They were both operating new, untraceable throwaways and nobody else had their numbers.

  Barney sounded mellow as always. He did occasionally flap, but you’d never know from his voice.

  ‘What's the snow like up in the Himalayas?’ he drawled. ‘There's eff-all down here.’

  ‘It’s settled feet deep,’ Jonjo lied. ‘The polar bears are moving south.’

  ‘Didn't think they had polar bears in Tibet.’

  ‘I must have mistaken the yetis, then. But forget them, what's happening?’

  ‘Murdo’s just been out. He made a call while he smoked his ciggie.’

  Jonjo didn’t need a picture painting because he’d done half the surveillance himself. The scene was a street near the centre of Leeds, rammed with cars and pedestrians by day, almost deserted by night. Barney would be parked a discreet distance short of the club, which would be blazing electric light in all directions. Gladstone loved casinos but this slightly less legit dive was his favourite. He called in at least twice a week to spend his ill-gotten gains.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said Barney. ‘Speak of the Devil, here comes Gladstone’s motor.’

  Jonjo added the fancy, chauffeur-driven limo into his mental image. It halted in the boxed zone outside the night club. Normally the bouncers jealously guarded that box. Even the most beautiful women were swiftly sent on their way. Gladstone's driver was one of the few permitted to drop off and collect.

  ‘Murdo's coming out again,' said Barney, ‘checking for terrorists.’

  Murdo was Gladstone’s minder, ex-military, rumoured to be ex-SAS. Jonjo believed the military bit but thought the guy strutted about too much to be SAS. He was more likely to be a reject NCO or redcap. He did, however, make a good show of being efficient, always thoroughly checking the limo before his boss got in. He’d definitely notice hijackers or bombs.

  ‘Here comes Gladstone.’ Barney whist
led. ‘Frigging hell, bags me the black one!’

  There was even less need for a painting of that. Gladstone invariably left the night club with more women than he brought. He must average about one arriving and two and a half leaving.

  ‘That’s it, he's in with the fanny,’ Barney went on. ‘Murdo's getting in the front. And they're off.’

  ‘Are you going after them?’

  ‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’

  * * *

  Capper raised the partition when he saw Gladstone had company. This was more for his own convenience than anyone else’s. Gladstone might not care but Capper personally didn't want to hear. It was bad enough having to see every time he looked in the rearview.

  Greedy bastard doesn't half pick 'em!

  He waited until Murdo had belted up then pulled smoothly away from the club. Pretending to be cool. Although he’d never admit it, Capper was starting to worry about getting everybody safely home. Tonight’s snow was far worse out of the city centre. Why Gladstone had to insist on Leeds in conditions like this . . .

  Still, that was Gladstone all over. He was The Man. Everyone else bobbed and did what they were told. And women too! It was amazing what fifty grand a week could buy.

  God knows how footballers turn out for training on a morning.

  They glided past a disinterested police car and headed for Bradford. Ever nervous, Capper held his breath until they were out of sight. Bastards must still be eating their chips. Not that he had anything to be guilty about; he didn’t even drink and drive anymore.

  He tried not to chuckle. He'd once been the success story; a top getaway driver, one of the very best. Twenty-six major jobs without being nicked . . .

  Apart from that very last time, and that had been a grass, three days after the fact. It had been no reflection on his driving. Oh no, it had been bone-brained muscle, too obvious in squandering his cut.