by Limey Lady
Jonjo had a look then smiled slowly. ‘I'm pretty sure that's one of Dwyer's bum chums. He’s Kyle . . . Kyle Something, from Crossflatts. Shall I make a call and get him lifted?’
‘Not yet,’ Harry said. ‘There's something not right about him. And what's he doing in here, for fuck's sake? Is he high?’
Jonjo had another look. ‘Don't think so. He might be a bit pissed.’
‘Maybe he’s out with his mates,’ Harry said, ‘except he obviously hasn’t got any.’
‘Obviously,’ Jonjo snorted. ‘More likely he’s trying some proper pubs, instead of those kiddie pubs in Bingley.’
‘I wouldn’t call the Kings a kiddie pub.’ Harry considered a moment. He kept out of Bingley as a matter of principal (and for health reasons), but had to admit it was ace for pubs, much better than Shipley. Apart from the Pride there weren’t many boozers he liked in Shipley. Not that he was afraid to drink elsewhere; it was more a case of taste. He must be getting particular in his old age.
‘Never mind why he’s here,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep an eye on him.’
They watched Kyle sink his two pints then followed as he left. For all the Hopalong jibes, Jonjo moved easily on his artificial leg; they had no problem keeping a steady twenty yards behind. It helped that Kyle marched rather than walked, head aggressively forward, not once checking his arse.
‘Is he on a mission or what?’ Jonjo muttered.
‘What indeed,’ Harry agreed.
Kyle eventually arrived at the new Shipley Suburban Bar, which was stylish enough to have bouncers on the door every night. He seemed to know one of the doormen, a huge West Indian guy, and shook his hand before disappearing inside. They gave it two minutes then went in after him.
*****
These days DeeDee was FD at a well-known company based in Bristol. She'd been there virtually all her working career and was doing very nicely, thank you very much. A couple of years ago, when she had hit the big four-o, she had deliberately made a break from a cycle of just dating guys for a few months then moving on. She had been seeing Gavin ever since. Gavin was her opposite number at a non-competitive company and things had been going well. So well in fact that, after playing their own game of Escape to the Country, they’d had a bid for a holiday home in Constantine Bay accepted. The plan was to keep their own separate city centre apartments and let the seaside property out to holiday-makers, making use of it themselves in the quiet periods. The contract had been signed last week.
Except . . .
Except Pat had called and said “Hi” and she’d dropped everything, never pausing to consider Gavin. It hadn't really been her mum's tragedy that had brought her winging her way north; it had been that single word, “Hi”.
Now she was taking time to consider Gavin and it wasn't going to take long. Although Pat had only fucked her twice there was already no way she could go back into Gavin's bed. Not through guilt or any sense of remorse; it would just be like playing the Pirates after two glamorous clashes with Real Madrid.
It was funny, when she came to consider. For years and years she'd been clandestinely visiting her mum, kidding herself she was keeping it quiet to avoid having to see Sean. And all the time she'd really been avoiding Pat, knowing what even one glimpse of him would do.
Well, it was too late now. They were together again, properly, properly together. She had had just the tiniest fear he might not want her; that had evaporated after two minutes in the Shama. When he'd found out she was such a regular there had been a brief flash of pain in his eyes. It had so clearly hurt him that she'd never got in touch. That had been the moment realized just how much she was still in love.
And accepted it wasn’t something she would ever control.
Or want to control.
Pat was lying on his side watching her. She smiled at him as she took his dick in her right hand. It was slick from their earlier sex and even in repose, still impressively large. Not that it seemed to want to lie in repose any longer. It was already stiffening.
‘Wait,’ she said as he started to move towards her. ‘Let's have a sophisticated chat for five minutes.’
‘Okay,’ he chuckled, ‘your time starts now.’
‘I can't believe it's been twenty years.’
‘I thought it was fifteen, but you've always been better at numbers.’
‘Yes I have. And I'm going to keep count while I'm here. See if we can hit thirty.’
‘You're staying two or three days, then?’
She laughed. ‘I don't think even you could do it thirty times in three days. But you can have a go, if you want.’
‘Okay; whatever your heart desires. Remember?’
‘My heart desires another thirty times at least, but not necessarily in three days. I was thinking more like two weeks.’
‘Two weeks? Are you so glad to be back?’
‘Yes,’ she said. He was grinning at her but looked deadly serious. An elevator dropped abruptly in her stomach. She felt nervous and giddy and deliriously happy.
‘Tonight’s been good,’ she went on. ‘The first time convinced me you still like me. When you gave me an encore, it made me want to stay as long as I possibly can. It also prompted me to take up that offer of yours: the one about always being at my side.’
He seemed exorbitantly pleased to hear that. Seeing the expression on his face made her feel giddier than ever.
‘Okey-dokey,’ he said. ‘What's on for tomorrow?’
‘I want to go to my mum's, just to remind myself what needs doing. We’ll to get as much of her things to the charity shop as possible, skip the rest. Then I’ll start on the funeral. Then Mum's finances, which should be interesting; she was terrible with money.’
‘Sean's got the keys,’ he said. ‘I'll get them off him when the Kings opens. Then we can get on with it. Anything else you need in the meantime?’
She smiled and looked from his eyes down to his dick and back. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘actually there is.’
*****
The Shipley Suburban Bar looked and smelt brand new; even a philistine like Harry could see it was tastefully lit and decorated. He would have preferred the stink of burning tobacco, but had to admit it would be a good place to bring a bit of skirt.
Or to find a bit of skirt, come to that. There seemed to be acres of firm female flesh on display. And not so much already spoken for.
Kyle was at the bar. He'd bought a pint of Bulmers without the ice (leaving a handy gap at the top of the glass) and a double port separately. As they watched, he poured the port in with the cider then had a big drink, half draining the glass before ordering the same again. He finished his first drink, mixed his second then moved away from the serving area and stood, glaring around again.
Jonjo didn’t trust the bitter in a place as smart as this. He bought two pints of lager and they covertly watched the big guy, trying to work out what he was up to. He didn't seem to be waiting for anyone and, for all the glaring, didn't seem to be picking a fight. More than once he was bumped and accepted passing apologies without kicking off.
Most curiously, as he got towards the bottom of his latest cider, he was approached by what to Harry seemed to be a perfect specimen of womanhood. She had to be over six foot and, while unquestionably large, could never be called fat. Rather, she was generously proportioned for a girl of her height.
And those generous proportions must have been melted down and poured into her tight, glittering silver dress. Harry (no small fry himself) reckoned she was the sort of woman a man could happily lose himself in for a couple of days.
Kyle wasn't interested though. He listened impassively to her opening lines and then shook his head. He let her lean her breath-taking body against him while she whispered in his ear . . .
And then shook his head. Finally, as she retreated and cast one final, rueful and comically appealing glance at him . . .
He shook his head.
‘What was wrong with her?’
‘Beats me
,’ said Jonjo. ‘Maybe he's bent.’
‘He's in the wrong place then. I haven't so much spare in ages.’
Kyle was back at the bar. He bought a straight cider and downed it in one before heading for the exit. Harry and Jonjo abandoned their own drinks and tagged on.
There were three doormen on duty now, the West Indian plus two white guys who had EX-COPPER written all over them. They were taking advantage of a lull to smoke out in the street. Seeing Kyle, the West Indian pulled open the door. Kyle gave him a nod then stepped outside before deliberately elbowing one of the white guys in the back.
Harry grabbed Jonjo's arm, keeping him inside the building. ‘Let's just look and learn,’ he said.
The two ex-coppers must have been musketeers together. As the first shouted out in pain the second grabbed Kyle's shoulder and spun him round.
‘You're going to pay for that,’ he growled, drawing back to punch.
But Kyle was incredibly fast. His fist shot out of nowhere, crunching up under the second doorman's chin, instantly sparking him. Harry and Jonjo saw the guy's head crack down on the corner of the step as he fell. While they were still wincing, the West Indian dropped to his knees and, after quickly examining his fallen colleague, started speaking urgently into his walkie-talkie.
Out in the street the first ex-copper had squared up to Kyle and made the mistake of trying to fight him. Kyle was simply too quick and too strong. The doorman was swiftly forced onto the defensive and Kyle rolled forward like a top 1970s heavyweight: Norton, Frazier or Foreman . . . maybe even Ali. While the doorman was reduced to covering his head Kyle continued jabbing with his right, at the same time landing huge hammer blows with his left into the guy's body.
And they were huge blows. The impact sounded like someone was beating a carpet with a cricket bat; somebody very strong.
Harry could see it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, in less than a minute the doorman's legs crumpled and he dropped to the pavement. No way was he getting back up. Kyle left him and turned to the West Indian.
‘You,’ he bellowed. ‘Stand up and fight.’
‘This man's dying,’ the West Indian countered. ‘You want to piss off before the police arrive.’
Kyle snarled at him then started beating his chest and roaring like an ape. Harry thought he looked like Mighty Joe Young in a bad mood, but it didn’t last. Stopping as abruptly as he'd begun, he spun on his heel and left.
‘Fuck me,’ Jonjo muttered. ‘The guy's shook.’
An ambulance arrived within moments, although the police remained conspicuously absent. While the paramedics busied themselves with their patients, Harry offered the West Indian a cig.
‘What the hell was that about?’
‘That was Kyle.’ The West Indian laughed shakily, ‘Kyle the Bouncer Slayer. He wants to beat up every doorman in Yorkshire. I’ve seen him at it dozens of times.’
‘Does it always end like this?’
‘What, with men down?’
‘Yes.’
‘He hasn’t done me yet. But he’s done just about everyone else I know. Three at once back in Huddersfield; two in Pontefract; the toughest doorman in Wakefield. He even fought one to a draw in fucking Keighley. So yeah, it does usually end like this.’
‘Why did you let him in if you know what he's like?’
‘He's not barred from here. Well, he is now, but he wasn't before. He’s been as good as gold the other times he's been in. It must be full moon or something.’
‘He's a psycho,’ Harry said as he and Jonjo walked back down to the Pride, ‘one of Dwyer's main men and he's as flaky as fuck. There just has to be a way I can use that.’
Chapter Eight
(Friday 4th April 2008)
Geoff's unmissable meeting was the third in a series of attempts to settle a construction contract dispute, although he hadn’t been involved before now. He’d been included because of his experience in that very combative area. Today’s absolutely last chance attempt was chaired by his boss, Henry, and attended by “the Client” in person, “the Other Side” in the form of two quantity surveyors, and their solicitor, who had to be seventy at least.
Henry handled the introductions before running quickly through the position as it stood. His client had completed his side of the agreement in spite of being continually hindered by The Other Side's unreliable sub-contractors and poor site management. Obligations met, he wanted his two hundred thousand pound contract balance. The Other Side maintained his client had underperformed, delaying the site as a whole, therefore wasn't due anything. To “make him go away”, they had offered a goodwill payment of as little as fifty thousand. The offer would be withdrawn if not accepted by four o’clock that afternoon.
‘I have brought in Mr Rodgers as our new pair of eyes,’ Henry commenced. ‘Until yesterday he had no involvement whatsoever. He has now seen all the files but not spoken to anyone about the finer details. I understand you have done likewise at your end.’
‘Correct,’ the older QS said. ‘I can't pretend I haven't heard of the problem before, but I've only been hands-on since Wednesday.’
‘All right then.’ Henry beamed. ‘Let's see if you newcomers can find some common ground we have overlooked.’
‘I've been through our site records,’ the older QS began, ‘hoping to find something to persuade me to pay. But the more I look at it, the more I believe the offer of fifty thousand is too generous.’
Henry raised an eyebrow: ‘Not thinking of reneging, are you?’
‘No, no, we wouldn’t do anything like that. We're honourable chaps. I just meant to stress that, if we impose the LADs, as we are entitled to, it will be us asking for fifty thousand, not the other way round.’
Geoff could see the younger QS smirking while steam was coming out of the Client's ears. It was time to get stirring.
‘I tried to look at the situation impartially as well,’ he said. ‘I have all the history from our side. I believe we’re being used as a scapegoat . . .’
‘Hang on a minute,’ the younger QS cried.
Geoff ignored him. ‘But we’re not here to rewrite history, are we? We’re here to discuss the contract.’
Every eye in the room was on him but nobody spoke.
‘The contract itself is interesting in a lot of ways,’ he went on. ‘Let's start with the Arbitration Clause. It looks bog standard to me. Unless anyone wants to waste half a million contending its validity, I would say we're stuck with it. Agreed?’
The older QS had gone pensive. He stopped chewing his pencil long enough to say, ‘Agreed,’ and then resumed chewing.
‘Okay,’ said Geoff, ‘moving on to the financial implications. Traditional legal action ends here and now, effectively, so what's spent is spent. There isn't going to be any award for costs either way.’
‘There could be,’ the younger QS protested.
‘There could be in theory, perhaps. In practice . . .’ Geoff shrugged. ‘It's not going to happen. Nor is arbitration, not for two hundred thousand. Not unless there's some reason you guys want to drag this out for months and spend five times the amount of the debt. That leaves us with adjudication as the obvious option, if not the only option. Have you done many?’
‘Lots,’ the youngster said. ‘We always win.’
‘You must have a very tolerant FD, then. Most only ever go for it once before shooting themselves.’
The older QS signalled for attention. ‘I've done three in my time,’ he said. ‘Won two, lost one. And one of the wins went down like a loss. So I know what you’re going to be saying. We aren't going to be bullied though.’
‘Of course not,’ Geoff said. ‘But you’ll have done the sums like I have, so you know how much it's going to cost. You also know the Adjudicator is going to come out around fifty-fifty, before all the add-ons, making it a simple calculation. Depending on how ready you are to go for it, it may be cheaper to just pay us the two hundred now.’
‘Hang on a moment,’ the y
oung QS exploded. ‘You haven't a clue what went on at that site.’
‘I quite honestly don't give a damn,’ Geoff said mildly. ‘The Adjudicator won't know either. He'll just assume both sides are as bad as each other, knock out the obvious exaggerations in each claim and then split the difference. When I did that, I came out at a hundred and thirty-five thousand. I said fifty-fifty as our worst case scenario. And even at a hundred grand, you'd do well to come in under two hundred with irrecoverable costs. Especially if I kick off the proceedings on Monday and you aren't prepared.’
