by Limey Lady
Chapter Thirty-Five
(Wednesday 31st December 2008)
Sean had started walking the neighbours’ dog when the master of the house crashed his bike. It was his duty, he reckoned, and nothing at all to do with Arnie’s wife, Margie, who was seriously fit.
Honest to God it wasn’t.
Not entirely, anyway.
He had got to know the Nicholsons maybe a year ago, not long after they’d moved in. Like most of the other couples at his trendy end of Lady Lane, they were young, well-to-do and upwardly mobile. Unlike the others, they got out and about a bit and weren’t above drinking in the Kings. In his sociable, mein host mode, Sean had made passing conversation with them half a dozen times before he’d discovered they lived next door but one.
Margie had been fixed firmly in his sights from that moment on.
And she’d known it.
He supposed a woman like that was used to having men lusting after her. She had certainly seen the signs in him and shown no offence. In fact she had encouraged him with lots of casual double entendres and dozens of small gestures and smiles. She had even invited him to one of their barbeques, appointing herself his companion when he turned out to be the only one there alone. Holding his hand at one point and sharing several hotdogs.
Flirting brazenly with him but not showing any real intention of coming across.
Arnie’s job had something to do with “advertising”. He sometimes lapsed into a jargon-filled language that Sean didn’t begin to understand. He liked the bloke, though, and had put up with Margie’s constant provocation without trying to force her hand. He’d actually enjoyed the teasing and waiting, secretly sure his day would come.
For an intelligent guy in his early thirties, Arnie had one childish vice: his motorbike. Sean had never been into bikes and struggled when he started to wax lyrical about the fucking things. As far as Sean was concerned, bike jargon was as indecipherable as advertising jargon . . . meaning full of meaningless shit. So for long enough he had nodded and grinned in all the (he hoped) right places, and hadn’t a clue about whatever bike it was Arnie was riding. All he had known was that it was fast. And that Arnie’s greatest joy was to get out in the Dales and pretend speed limits didn’t exist.
Rumour had it that Arnie was doing a hundred and twenty when he hit the dry limestone wall with his name on it, somewhere north of Malham. When he came round, three days later, he’d told Margie it had been more like a hundred and forty. And that God, looking down on him, must have decided it wasn’t his time, flipping him off the wrecked bike, clearing the coping stones and into a field full of sheep.
He’d missed the worst of the impact, the exploding fuel tank and the first wave of pain from his broken legs and shattered pelvis in the black nothingness of those three lost days.
Margie had invited herself round to Sean’s that third evening, by a miracle catching him in and there on his own. A bottle of wine later she’d suggested a swim in his pool. He’d laughed and pointed out she hadn’t brought her swimming things. Halfway down the second bottle she’d suggested skinny-dipping.
He’d said she wouldn’t dare.
She’d responded by shrugging off her clothes and holding out her glass for more wine.
‘I dare do anything,’ she’d assured him.
And put it this way: all that waiting and teasing had been worthwhile.
That had been back in September; he’d been fucking her at least once a week ever since . . . usually twice or more.
And he’d been walking her dog.
*****
Walking the dog wasn’t really a hardship. In a strange sort of a way Sean found it almost as pleasant as doing the deed with Margie. He’d always wanted a dog but, thanks to the hours he kept, it simply wasn’t practical. Borrowing one off a neighbour made more sense . . . as did borrowing said neighbour’s wife, of course.
The Nicholsons’ dog was a black and white Border Collie. Margie said they’d got it from a farm two or three years ago, and it really should have stayed there. Not because she didn’t love the daft thing; it was just too full of beans and got bored easily because it wasn’t out terrorizing the countryside. She tried her best to give it exercise, but a mile or so on its lead wasn’t nearly enough. And Arnie might be home from hospital but he was six months away from even thinking about doing anything physical . . .
Now, on the last afternoon of the old year, Sean collected the dog and took it through Prince of Wales Park, then across Eldwick and onto Shipley Glen, where it could run and run to its crazy heart’s content, giving him chance to have a good think . . . and to make his decisions.
It was a fine day with unbroken blue sky, and cold with it. Sticking his hands deep in his pockets Sean trudged along, not really bothering to keep an eye on his charge, trusting it to keep its eye on him instead, trusting it to cover five times as much distance as he did, as well.
The energy in it! Why can’t it be bottled and used by others when needed?
Sean’s first consideration wasn’t so much a problem as a puzzle. It came in the form of a telephone call he’d received on Boxing Day morning, when he’d been thick-headed and knackered from two nights drinking and screwing with Heather.
He’d known Milton for years; had done quite a bit of business with him. Milton ran a large and very dangerous organization in East Lancashire and was a bit of a rarity: a self-made millionaire from Burnley. At first Sean thought Milton was calling to wish him compliments of the season . . . or wanting to buy a few more AK-47s. Turned out he’d wanted to talk about the sudden and unexpected death of one of his men.
‘Eric?’ Sean had echoed, ‘Eric the safecracker . . . that Eric?’
‘That’s the one. He was shot five times last night. He was on his way home from the pub. Whoever did it left a white rose between his teeth. What does that say to you, eh?’
It hadn’t been a chill that ran down Sean’s back; more like ten buckets of icy water.
‘Yorkshire,’ he’d said reluctantly.
‘Too right, and Eric hated Yorkshire. He always had bad luck there. He did a three stretch back in the Eighties, when a job went wrong in Sheffield. Then, ten years ago, he got beaten up in Leeds. The only other time he went was when he did that gig for you.’
‘Milton, honest to God, it wasn’t us. Eric did okay on our gig. The lads bunged him an extra couple of grand. Last thing we would want is to top him.’ Sean had shrugged and grinned sincerely, even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. ‘Face it, if we’d wanted to top him, we’d have done it back then, not now; saved ourselves a few quid.’
‘That’s what I reckoned,’ said Milton. ‘But I can’t see anyone doing it because of those older jobs. So that leaves yours. Maybe it was the other side?’
‘No way; the other side still haven’t the foggiest.’
‘Well some fucker has. Have you any ideas?’
Sean had hedged and wriggled, finally getting rid of Milton by promising to investigate and let him know. But how could he even begin? By ringing Mike McGuire and asking if he had any new suspicions?
He shuddered at the thought. No way was he approaching the McGuires about that. And, in the cold light of day, no way could they possibly suspect. The McGuires didn’t piss about. If they had suspicions, he’d have known about it. And as for leaving a calling card . . . and a fucking white rose at that . . . no, too subtle; far, far too subtle.
Thinking logically, if it wasn’t the McGuires that left either the Williamsons or his own lads. He couldn’t begin to suspect Pat, Tinner or Angel because they simply wouldn’t do anything like that; and none of the others had been involved; it had been a very discreet operation, very much “need to know”. And even if someone had sussed, they’d have had no reason to hit out against a helpful pawn like Eric.
Hang on, though. What had Pat said about Moggs and a black hole? Moggs shouldn’t have known about Eric, but he was best mates with Tinner. What if Moggs did know and had blabbed to Kyle
. Kyle wouldn’t have hesitated to pass on a gem like that.
Then again, the Williamsons were even less subtle than the McGuires. The arguments against Joey and Mike applied equally to them. He could, at a pinch, make tentative enquiries through his mole, but . . .
No, fuck that. It would be madness. Much better to conclude the rose had no significance and Eric had been blasted by some common, local villain. One who regularly said “Am I not” and “Can I not”, and was colour-blind to boot.
Talking about good old Moley . . .
These days Sean had a couple of mobiles on the go: black for everyday business, red for more select contacts. Moley had dialled in on the red one, not half an hour after Milton had rung off, bearing two bits of news. The first was brief and straight to the point. The Williamsons were going to waste Rat Donoghue on New Year’s Day. Moley could provide information that would enable Sean to stop that happening, if contacted before eight pm on New Year’s Eve.
The second concerned a supposedly un-nickable Lexus.
Sean hadn’t fully decided yet. Donoghue was a small-time smuggler of cigarettes and alcohol. His only connection with the Dwyers was a weekly payment. But that payment (supposedly five per cent of his profits) was to allow him to operate in Bingley, not to buy him protection. The few quid he chipped in wouldn’t be missed and, quite honestly, neither would the man himself. As human beings went, Sean rated Donoghue somewhere between an amoeba and a fruit fly. He wouldn’t have pissed on him if he was on fire. His only area of doubt was over Harry Williamson’s intentions.
He’d asked Moley what Williamson was up to without getting much of an answer. Donoghue was becoming a major player, in his own mind at least. Too big for just Bingley, he was now edging his way into Cottingley and Shipley, infringing on smugglers who were paying protection. It seemed he believed the trifle he paid the Dwyers gave him a licence for the rest of the world.
Sean hated to admit it, but he was tempted to think Williamson was right. Donoghue was getting too big for his boots. He was definitely skimping on the weekly percentage; skimping to the extent of taking the piss. It had been only a matter of time until he rattled the wrong cage. In fact, if he could have been arsed, he’d have done something about him himself.
That much said, although the details from Moley were sketchy, it sounded like the wasting was going to happen in Bingley. That could be taken as disrespect.
What was the alternative, though? To rush to Donoghue’s rescue, all guns blazing? Maybe tip him off, save him that way?
Nope, couldn’t do either. Shooting it out would not only be dangerous, it would start another war. And tipping the twat off would be like sending Harry a text saying:
GUESS WHO’S GOT A MOLE?
No, it came down to a question of value: a few quid off a smuggler who’d be getting topped sooner or later anyway? Or a spy in the camp who came up with rare but treasured snippets of information? Not too much of a contest, was it?
But the un-nickable Lexus was a different proposition altogether . . .
Sean only realized he’d completed his circuit of glen when he tripped over the Border Collie, who was waiting for his lead. The dog gave him a disgusted look then sat there, pink tongue lolling, while he got re-attached.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Sean said, after checking that nobody could overhear.
Retracing their way through Eldwick and the park, he decided he could blag away any disrespect so fuck it; he wouldn’t make the return call. Let Donoghue get himself out of his own mess . . . or rather, not.
*****
Dismissing Rat Donoghue from his head (subconsciously airbrushing him out) Sean mused about the women in his life. As usual he had a few on the go, but only two he was fucking regularly: saucy, sexy Margie and Heather, second time around. He supposed he’d keep them both going a while yet. Margie because she still had secrets to be explored. And Heather because . . .
Well, where to begin? If Margie was extremely fit he didn’t know where that left Heather. Heather was something else, looks-wise. And as for the way she behaved . . .
In some ways Heather was as much a mystery to Sean as Eric’s assassination. Andy and some of the others in the Kings compared her to Anne-Marie, but they didn’t know what she was really like. Although he made jokes about her being a nympho they weren’t so funny anymore. The girl really was insatiable. And, as the weeks had gone by she’d wanted more and more, gradually stepping up her demands. Now, after the excesses of Christmas, he’d started to realize she’d been going easy on him.
Her, that slip of a lass, going easy on him.
Except appearances were deceptive, weren’t they? Heather’s body wasn’t just fit in the sexual sense. He had seen her working out in his gym and had been astonished at the routines she put herself through; and, as for trying to keep pace with her in the pool . . .
Forget it. Adrian Moorhouse might have had a chance; Sean Dwyer certainly had not.
She was proud of it too. Her sex-addiction that was, not her physical fitness. The things she’d told him! Things girls were supposed to keep to themselves. Like her first experiment with a present she’d got from one of her dykey friends.
‘It’s absolutely the perfect shape for me’, she’d gushed. ‘And I managed four hours between cums. That’s my record by miles. When I finally surrendered I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven.’
Four hours. Hard to believe, coming from someone who could multiple-orgasm for England. Still, she never lied and didn’t need to exaggerate. Not when she was debating her specialist subject. If Heather said she’d fucked herself non-stop for a month, there’d be some truth in it. He was only glad she had run that particular marathon on a twisty glass dildo rather than his cock, and not least because the four hours was between cums. Christ only knew how long she’d been at herself before . . . and after.
If he really was being honest before God, he’d have to confess Heather scared him on levels he had not known he had. She was clever as well as beautiful. Not to mention utterly committed to working just as hard as she played. And she was much more discreet when it came to work than she was with those intimate confessions. He had soon realized she was never going to be a quick route into WYB’s millions and that all she wanted from him was sex.
Incredible . . . a girl like that, gagging for more sex than he could possibly give!
And he was considering dumping her!!!
Just lately he’d had nightmares where she wouldn’t let him stop. In them he’d wrap his hands around her perfect, flawless throat and squeeze.
But even that wouldn’t stop her. More, she kept yelling, more!
It didn’t matter how hard he squeezed. Their bodies kept violently bumping together and she kept demanding.
More!
More!!
More!!!
That’s how I like it! That’s how I like it!!
More!
More!!
More!!!
He’d even had the nightmare when she’d stayed over. Meaning when he’d finally had to admit defeat and she’d let him have a snooze. The thought of dumping her hadn’t sprung from constantly losing their sexual battles, though. Oh no. It had sprung from his growing fear that one day he’d wake to discover he really had strangled her without knowing it.
But what sort of a man would give in to fears like that?
Not him.
Not a man of his powers and self-control.
He had to walk past his own place to take the dog back to the Nicholsons’. Heather’s Mini was parked there in the driveway, inside his electric gates. She knew all the codes to get past his security systems, of course. They were due to go out tonight, to celebrate Big Ben striking twelve and she’d said shed drop in early. Depending on how long she’d been there, she would be busy doing weights, knocking out lengths or waiting for him in bed. If he had to bet he’d go for waiting in bed, watching porn on his widescreen TV.
And she would probably be playing with her twa
t to help pass the time.
Still, it was her twat to abuse. And there wasn’t a whole lot of afternoon left. Just long enough to help her on the abuse front without risking personal exhaustion.
Grinning, he quickened his pace.
Chapter Thirty-Six
(Wednesday 31st December 2008)
Heather had been doing weights and had also knocked out two hundred lengths of Sean’s small pool (it was twenty metres; she would have preferred thirty or even fifty). She had not, however, resorted to porn and self-abuse. There were other things on her mind far higher up the list than porn and self-abuse.
