Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  Well . . .

  Okay, so he'd confessed to admiring Alesha Dixon, and fancying all the female partners on Strictly Come Dancing. And Tess Daly, Cheryl Cole and Dannii Minogue too, come to think of it. But he was admitting to nothing on a real-life level. Making him your typical man in the street, she supposed.

  The hot water at school, however . . .

  Jamie wanted to be a soldier, like his Uncle Rick. No, he wanted to be a fighter. And it wasn’t a whim; he was deadly serious. Games of Army and War weren’t enough. He would never refuse a brawl, always sure he would win. At first this wasn’t much of a problem because he was bigger and tougher than his classmates, who quickly decided not to challenge him. Then older boys got in on the act. By the time he was eight he’d beaten all the handy nine-year-olds and was about level with the ten-year-olds . . . and not at all happy at having lost the odd scrap. But then, before he was nine, he’d had a massive growth spurt and beaten up all the eleven-year-olds. Quite abruptly the calls for Penny to come into school to “discuss Jamie's latest episode” stopped altogether.

  According to Ask Becky, Jamie escaped suspension during his heaviest brawling stage because even the teachers knew he never started anything. Also according to Ask Becky, his last couple of years round at Myrtle Park Primary weren't entirely fight-free. Although no-one at his own school wanted to fight with him, word spread throughout the area, and every other hard-case eleven-year-old dropped by at one time or other to chance their arm. Also, also according to Ask Becky, every last one of these hard-cases went home bloodied and bowed, wishing they had never even heard of Jamie Rodgers.

  Bingley Grammar School was a much bigger goldfish bowl but, for Jamie at least, it had turned out to be more of the same old. There had been two years of prickly “discussions” about affrays with older boys, followed by sudden silence. Penny kidded herself that playing rugby was channelling his aggression but, in her heart, she knew the truth: at barely thirteen Jamie had already beaten up all the sixteen-year-old contenders and, like Alexander the Great, had no worlds left to conquer.

  In her role as “real mum” she’d kept most of this from Geoff, convinced he was stressed out enough already. Supported and backed by the girls, she’d let him believe Jamie's report cards, which all said he was an above average student and a superb sportsman. Into this she had sprinkled just the odd mention of playground scraps, giving the impression that Jamie was the sort of son every man wanted to have: in other words bright, brilliant at sport and just enough of a rascal to ensure he would never be boring.

  All of which was undoubtedly true, even if it was dressed up to keep good old Dad from fretting (with fretting being a mother’s duty, of course).

  Not that Penny really had much to fret about nowadays, apart from potential calculating vixens. And the way society was decaying around her. Yes, it was decaying. She’d been to Bingley Grammar herself and knew the truth: behind the shining success reflected in all the GCSE and A-level results, there was a darker side. She didn't need Ask Becky to tell her that, as the school had doubled in size overnight, things could have only got worse. In her day only a handful of pupils ever smoked pot and hardly anyone would think of bringing alcohol or weapons onto the premises. Nowadays all these things and worse happened every day.

  What was to stop some low-life from challenging Jamie then pulling a knife? Or, Heaven forbid it, a gun?

  *****

  Pat reckoned it had been fifteen years since he’d last seen DeeDee. That didn’t matter though; she was still instantly recognizable when he saw her again. Tall; pleasantly slim; short blonde hair; very alluring, pale blue eyes . . .

  And she was dressed like the high-powered accountant she'd obviously become. Looking at her, he found it hard to believe she'd just spent most of the day on a train. There was nothing in the least ruffled or untidy about Dee. Better still, she took after her mother and looked nothing at all like her kid brother.

  Pat had enlisted one of Sean's up and coming young guns, Luke, to drive them for the evening, and it turned out to be the easiest work Luke was ever likely to get: a few hundred yards from the station to the curry house, then maybe half a mile from there to Pat's. But that didn't matter. To Pat, Debra Rodgers had always been the special woman and he'd been determined not to miss a trick. If she said that she wanted to eat somewhere miles and miles away he was going to be ready, willing and able.

  In fact he had been hoping she would pick somewhere remote, even expensive, so he could whisk her away without batting an eyelash. Whisking her away for a curry didn’t have quite the same dramatic impact as, say, The Box Tree or The Bull.

  Still, he’d been prepared and she had to have noticed.

  More to the point, she’d been here . . . with me!

  Pat reckoned he was one of the Shama's most regular customers. He ate there at least twice a week so he’d been surprised to find the waiters seemed to know his guest even better than they knew him. In fact they didn’t merely recognize her; they asked if she wanted the menu or just “the usual”. At that stage she admitted she'd been coming here years, calling in every time she was up from Bristol. Apparently she had been visiting her mum every six weeks or so, without letting on to Sean.

  Never mind not letting on to Sean, he’d thought, what about me?

  He listened to DeeDee’s plans for the days ahead, concentrating on her face as much as the agenda. She looked exactly what she was, he decided: a forty-two-year-old woman who was very beautiful and oozed sex appeal out of every pore. The few faint lines on her forehead weren’t particularly aging, and there was no sign of wrinkles on any of the flesh he could see.

  She’s better than ever, he concluded, miles too good for the likes of Pat McGuire.

  Not that he was going to let that stop him. He’d told Sean he was going to help her in every way he could. So help he would, whether he was worthy or not.

  Now, doing the grand tour of his apartment, emerging from guest bedroom number two, he formally volunteered his services.

  ‘I'm putting myself at your disposal while you're in town, seeing as you can’t rely on you-know-who. If you want me to be hanging about all the time, I will be. If you want me completely out of the way, just say the word. And if there's something you want in the middle, that's fine by me.’

  ‘Does “disposal” mean for anything my heart desires?’ DeeDee was striking a pose as she spoke, smiling as though she knew the meaning of life and everything.

  ‘Absolutely anything,’ Pat confirmed.

  ‘I'll remember that. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Speaking of Sean . . . we're not expecting him to call in, are we?’

  ‘No, we still have the old arrangement. As well as never buying each other anything for birthdays and Christmas, we never visit.’

  ‘What’s he into these days?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Patrick . . .’

  Pat knew the warning signs of old. ‘He’s got the three Kings businesses,’ he said hastily, ‘that’s the pub, The Kings Table and Kings Cars.’

  ‘Still not an apostrophe between them?’

  ‘Not one,’ said Pat, laughing.

  ‘No drugs?’

  Pat’s grin got wider. Trust Dee to home in on that.

  ‘No,’ he said truthfully. ‘He had a bad experience. Drugs are well out. It’s a battle to get him to smoke a joint nowadays.’

  ‘So you’re as clean as he is?’

  ‘I’m even cleaner.’

  ‘Is Sean still on his bender?’

  ‘Yeah, he'll be well into day two of his swimming party.’ Pat didn't have to pretend to shudder at the thought. ‘He was right though; you really wouldn't like the company he's keeping.’

  ‘Go on,’ DeeDee said, walking into Pat's bedroom and looking around. ‘Try me.’

  ‘The guest list includes Hells Angels and showgirls. And that's only the respectable ones. I can't even begin to describe the others.’

  ‘Didn't you get an invite?’


  ‘I politely declined.’

  ‘You didn't fancy any of the showgirls?’

  ‘The showgirls are all right. It's the rest of the scene I don't like. Besides, I'd promised to meet you.’

  ‘That is the correct answer.’ DeeDee turned to him as he stood in the doorway, watching her carry out her inspection. ‘This is also far and away the best bedroom.’

  ‘That's why it's mine. But you can have it while you're here. I'll crash elsewhere.’

  ‘What about your girlfriend, Pat? Where's she going to crash?’

  ‘I don't have one. The closest I had to a girlfriend got married last September. To someone else, I mean. Not me.’

  DeeDee was still smiling. ‘So,’ she said, ‘Sean's tanked up and there isn't a girlfriend. I'm assuming there isn't some bunny boiler on your case. And you've just promised to do anything and everything my heart desires. Does that sum the situation up?’

  ‘It sums it up perfectly.’

  ‘In that case drop that crap about crashing elsewhere and get yourself over here.’

  Pat didn't need telling twice. A couple of strides took him into the bedroom and with no conscious in-between they were kissing, their bodies pressing together, arms clutching each other.

  And that kiss . . . it was the same one she'd seduced him with all those years ago. It swamped him, blowing his senses, making his brain swirl in drunken circles. From the very instant their lips met he lost all concept of time. They could have been kissing two seconds, two minutes or two centuries, he neither knew nor cared. Her tongue started to push its way into his mouth and he duelled with it, dimly aware she was grinding her flat stomach against his cock. He could smell the scent of her beneath the Hermes and realized they were both shaking with desire.

  Suddenly they weren't pressed so tightly together. The kiss went on but DeeDee's arms weren't tight around him anymore. He could tell she was hastily adjusting her clothing. From the alternate knee bends he guessed her knickers had gone south. Next moment she’d unfastened his flies and was pulling him by the arm. The kiss had finally ended and they were laughing breathlessly.

  ‘Wait,’ Pat managed, trying to remove his trousers, which were caught round his thighs.

  ‘No time,’ she replied, tugging all the harder.

  He let her have her way and they fell as one onto the bed, bouncing a few times before he came to rest between her legs.

  ‘Lift up!’ she said urgently.

  He did and she went straight for his boxers, fiddling briefly at the buttons before losing patience and using both hands to tear them open. Then she had hold of him with one hand and was using the other to pull back his foreskin before raking him with her nails.

  ‘No time,’ he said as he lowered himself back onto her.

  ‘No time,’ she agreed, kissing him again.

  Pat closed his eyes and enjoyed more of those swirling, drunken circles. Her tongue was in his mouth again and, as he jousted with it, he felt his cock slide most of the way into her wonderful hot wetness. She arched and wriggled and he pushed firmly, this time sinking all the way in. DeeDee's tongue was making rapid thrusts now. He matched them with rapid thrusts of his own and she broke the kiss again to murmur, ‘Yes . . . that's it, that’s good.’

  It felt blissfully good to him too. DeeDee was smiling up into his face, clearly through with kissing and murmuring for the time being, concentrating instead on banging their groins together.

  And being fully dressed was really turning him on. There was something teenage and furtive about it. Maybe it was the partial nakedness of their most private areas. Or maybe he'd just forgotten how fantastic Dee was at this sort of thing. Whichever it was, it was working excellently. He only hoped that she wasn't expecting a marathon because, for him at least, it was definitely going to be a sprint.

  Dee wrapped her right leg around him without missing a counterthrust. The rough, almost itchy feel of her stay-ups contrasted with the sleek sensation of her nylon-clad limbs. Then she followed suit with her left leg and the angles subtly changed. Suddenly, incredibly, their combined thrusts were taking Pat even deeper inside her and the sprint was almost over.

  ‘That's it,’ Dee groaned, locking her ankles in the small of his back. ‘That's it, that's it, that's it!’

  *****

  Harry Williamson had been patiently rebuilding and rearming since the utter disaster at The Black Horse. It had taken a lot of time and money to replace Driller Killer and bring in three more like him. And it had been difficult to bring in new blood for all those lesser lights that had fallen. For long enough nobody had wanted to know. At one stage his entire empire had been creaking and groaning. But gritty determination had pulled him through and things slowly started to come together.

  Getting Jonjo back had been a massive bonus. Okay, a one-legged Jonjo would not be much use charging the Scum fans anymore (not that he’d ever bothered with “soccer” agro), but he’d proved he could still handle a weapon. And people were even more scared of him now than they had been before. His missing limb intimidated folk the way men with scars and black eyes intimidated folk.

  Six men down, though . . . it had been a big blow to take. Few others would have survived.

  Now the rebuilding was complete and at last the chance had come to put things to rights. In a perfect world Harry would have begun by making Sean Dwyer eat his own shit in Bingley's new market square. Then he would have blown the little cunt’s too-pretty head off his skinny shoulders. And then he would have found a way to top both McGuire brothers before fucking the last ten Miss Universes . . . one after another . . . in alphabetic order.

  But this wasn't a perfect world, so the really enjoyable bits would have to wait.

  Especially that bit in Bingley market square.

  At first Harry’s big problem had been holding on to what he already had. While all that creaking and groaning had been at its worst, a few slivers of Shipley had slipped away, but the major parts had held. More recently, however, bad things had started happening in the outpost of Frizinghall. Strange girls had been renting out their bodies on his street corners; spiv-like money-lenders had been targeting his valued customers; drug-pushers had been pushing in his alleys and doorways. He’d been enraged. It had been a cancer on free-enterprise and he’d vowed to stamp it out.

  Slash the girls’ faces. Break the spivs’ legs and shoot the fucking dealers. That had been his initial impulse. Then he’d discovered Gladstone Smith was behind all of them, and he’d seen a better way to strike; a way that would instantly claw back every inch of lost ground.

  Shattered reputation? What shattered reputation?

  Smith was a hard man out of Bradford. Prostitution and loansharking were only sidelines for him; he made his big money through his legion of dealers. Fuck knew how many wars he’d already won in the city, but everybody there was scared of him. He wasn’t fleeing to Frizinghall; he was merely expanding into an area he hadn’t previously bothered with. Killing him had sent out an unmistakable message.

  Harry had given the job to Jonjo with few reservations. Disabled or not, Jonjo had been confident he could do it. And do it he fucking-well had.

  The message hadn’t just been unmistakable; it had been spectacular. Frizinghall instantly fell back into line; opposition elsewhere in the manor vanished. There were even flocks of teenagers wanting in again, just like before.

  Harry had previously taken knocks. The very worst had involved thirteen months on remand. He’d celebrated his return from that with a new tattoo. Now, older and wiser, he celebrated more discreetly.

  Now he allowed himself to think Dwyer.

  Chapter Six

  (Thursday 3rd April)

  Penny had filled three plates which, together with a generous supply of seconds, were keeping warm in the oven. Before the girls had gone off to uni, “seconds” hadn't really featured at Number Ten/Twelve, it had always been puddings. But, now she was outnumbered by men, there didn't seem to be the demand for puddings and
seconds had become obligatory. And she could never make too much; on the very rare occasions when she and Geoff didn't want more she could always rely on Jamie.

  And here he was again, coming down the stairs, hair damp from the shower. Only sixteen, already six foot and built like a brick outhouse. He sat at the kitchen table and gave her another of his grins as she passed him his meal.

  ‘Whoa,’ she said before he could dive in. ‘Say grace first.’

  ‘But there's only me here,’ he protested.

  ‘Then you will have to pretend you’re guest of honour in some officers' mess. Get on with it.’

  Still grinning, Jamie said: ‘Lord Jesus Christ be Thou our guest, and share the food which Thou hast blessed. Amen.’