by Limey Lady
Well, two or three places higher up.
She’d spotted Sean going into Prince of Wales Park when she’d been driving to his place. He hadn’t seen her but she’d seen the dog and sized up the situation immediately. He was doing his neighbour a favour, probably in the hope she’d do him a favour or two in return, and would be gone a couple hours at least. That left her with his house to herself for utterly ages.
Heather had seen Margie in the Kings and didn’t blame Sean for chasing her. She might well have chased Margie herself if the woman wasn’t so obviously men only. Still, that was her loss, wasn’t it? Silly cow probably thought you couldn’t have sex without the presence of a willy.
Anyway, Heather had no jealousy at all.
Not today, when she was busy worrying about her missing lover.
Rick Rodgers was without doubt the best lover she had never had sex with. And not just because he was the only lover she had never had sex with. She hadn’t physically seen him in the three months since fate had thrown them together on Ward 5 but she had spoken to him lots, usually late at night and always very, very intimately.
He was infinitely more reliable at that than he was at turning up in person. When it came to turning up in person he was hopeless. He’d make infeasible haphazard arrangements then cancel at the last minute. And then he’d replace infeasible haphazard arrangements with ridiculous, utterly impossible haphazard arrangements . . .
Then cancel at the last minute.
If she hadn’t known he was Special Forces, she’d have concluded he was scared of being alone with her.
Rick hadn’t actually come clean about what it was he did. Her money was on the SAS, but he had made a few throwaway comments about “Shaky Boat” and she knew that was the SBS; so it was one or the other. Anyway, whichever it was, he spent his time in remote, exotic locations far removed from bog standard Iraq and Afghanistan. Not that he had ever let his professional guard slip even once. Oh no, not him. She’d got that from the connection messages when she’d called him.
They were in Spanish, mostly. But French too, from time to time.
And who was she kidding about “late at night”? The calls might have been nearly all late at night for her, but she had reason to believe they were usually several hours sooner or later for him. The only times they’d coincided had been that very first call, then a couple of others in November . . . when he had been supposed to be back in the UK and hot to see her in Bingley . . . about the time she started to learn what “unreliability” really meant.
But never mind that. Right now she would accept all the unreliability in the world just to hear from him again.
That first call had set the trend for future conversations. He’d been cagey about his line of business so, giving up on that, she’d cut the small talk and gone straight for the long distance sex. And that was how it had been from then on: confessions and fantasy; wishes and lust.
And he’d been good at it, nearly as good as Mary Rose, which was a bit like saying a promising young footballer was nearly as good as George Best. Or that a teenage rower might become the new Steve Redgrave.
Yes, he was as good as that!
Sex talk aside, she still couldn’t quantify what it was about him. Indeed she struggled to remember exactly what he looked like. She could remember everything he’d said though.
Every . . . Last . . . Word.
Yet now he’d disappeared. From yet more Spanish answering machine messages, she had reason to believe he was in South America. Over a week ago he’d told her he was off on an “operation”. Probably wouldn’t get to wish her Happy Christmas until maybe the twenty-eighth.
Except now it was mid-afternoon on the thirty-first (here in England, anyway; probably not so long after breakfast wherever he was) and she was starting to worry.
*****
Heather had tried ringing Rick half a dozen times already today and he hadn’t picked up. If she lumped those calls in with all yesterday’s . . .
For perhaps fifteen minutes she lay on Sean’s bed, naked apart from one of his fluffy white towels, and mused over the political correctness of ringing again from there. It was probably as inappropriate as shagging Pat best-mate McGuire. Then she thought, Knickers, and dialled anyway.
Rick answered on the fourth ring.
‘For God’s sake,’ she cried, almost snapping at him in her relief. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Winning hearts and minds in Medellin,’ he said, sounding unusually downbeat, ‘how’s tricks in sunny West Yorkshire?’
Heather was immediately contrite. ‘There’s a dearth of tricks. That’s why I’m calling you. Hoping you’re still alive and kicking.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘It’s taken ages to get through. I was starting to worry.’
‘Were you worrying about me?’ His laugh was short and harsh. ‘No need for that. I’ve got the luck of the Devil.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Are sure? You don’t seem your usual self.’
‘I’ll be all right when I’ve hit every bar in this shitty city. Ask me again tomorrow.’
‘Rick . . . what is it? I’ve never heard you like this before.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. Then, still subdued: ‘We had a bit of an incident. I’ve lost a good friend.’
Heather didn’t know how to reply to that. In her line of business they lost billions of pounds every so often, but rarely human lives.
Well . . . apart from the odd and sometimes spectacular suicide.
Some of them very deserving.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘Is there any way I can help?’
‘You’ve helped already.’ Although his chuckle was decidedly rueful it was much better than that awful harsh laugh. ‘Hearing another of your adventure stories wouldn’t do any harm either.’
‘Rick,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re not asking me to be smutty, are you?’
‘Not right now. I’m not somewhere that’s exactly private.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m holed up on a hotel suite with a load of hairy-arsed soldiers.’
‘So you won’t be hitting those bars alone?’
‘Hell no, we’re all going.’
Heather frowned. ‘It’s early to be out drinking, isn’t it?’
‘Sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the world,’ he replied. ‘Besides, we’ve earned it.’
‘Okay then. You have my permission.’
‘Thank you. I’ll call tomorrow to wish you a happy New Year.’
‘And will you let me be smutty?’
‘Yeah; when’s the best time for you?’
‘I’ll be ready for you anytime. Just make sure you’re not going to be interrupted. I have a particularly shameless story in mind.’
She was still smiling as she closed down her mobile and popped it into her bag.
Ready anytime, she thought. Knickers to that; I’m more than just ready for it right now!
And it was true. Suddenly she was aroused to an unreasonable degree. If she’d been at home she’d have been making a beeline for Graham’s place already.
Her smile quickly became a wide grin. Graham had been her sex buddy for ages. What had kicked off with occasional bouts of shagging had become an almost formal arrangement. They’d even sat across a table and agreed rules.
Until Vic sank her sexy claws in, that was.
Discarding the towel Heather went to the bedroom window and looked out. There was no sign of the intrepid dog walker. Grabbing the zapper she switched on the TV then picked a random DVD out of a big stack. Not bothering to check its title, she put it in the player and pressed the start button. The enormous screen immediately filled with images of a well-endowed man giving a tanned blonde the sort of treatment her own body craved. Without paying too much attention to the action, she went back to the bed and let her thoughts return to Graham.
Their rules were simple. Either one of them could borrow sex off the ot
her at any time of night or day. They had to do this discreetly, of course. It was forbidden to barge in making demands when your buddy had company. That much said if caught alone one’s buddy had no right to refuse. He or she did, however, have the right to demand a sexual favour in return. Like compensation for inconvenience, as Graham had put it.
Heather couldn’t remember precisely how long the buddy arrangement had been in place. Possibly four years, certainly more than just two. And she’d been far and away the leading borrower. If she’d been paying a tenner a time she’d have run up the national debt of Brazil by now . . . possibly that of Germany and the UK as well, if not Japan and the USA.
Graham’s return favours often involved handcuffs, sometimes blindfolds and toys, and she enjoyed every moment of all of them. From time to time she’d find herself wondering why she’d never completely fallen for him. God only knew: the sex they had together was good enough. Maybe she really did like him too much as a friend.
Or maybe it was Vic . . .
Yeah, almost certainly it was Vic . . .
Heather sighed. Graham had certainly been a friend to depend on since she’d started her . . . her too occasional thing with Rick. From borrowing relatively rarely it had been just like old times again. In fact her demands had rocketed, and at peculiar hours. How often had she knocked at Graham’s door after an early morning phone call from abroad, panting and desperate for him to finish what she’d started alone?
Imagine what Sean would say if she pulled a trick like that on him!
For a minute or two she actually did try to imagine his reaction before giving up. Sean was too hard to predict. While he had rarely been anything but polite and charming, she couldn’t forget his reputation. She didn’t for one moment believe he was a proper gangster, but she was sure he was involved in more than a few shady deals. And some of the people he mixed with were genuinely scary.
The smile was back on her face now. The Kings Head had to have some of the roughest, toughest customers in Yorkshire, never mind just Bingley. It was a shame she’d missed that swimming party; the entries she could have made on her Sexy CV!
Although Pat McGuire’s numerous entries had been pleasant enough . . .
She chuckled. Pat had been more or less avoiding her since leaving the ranks of men she had never had sex with. He had, however, sent her a few suggestive texts, probably when he’d been drinking. So far she’d been sending prim and proper replies . . . God knew why; perhaps because it was hard to resist the chance of winding him up.
And he still hadn’t slept with Joanna, using her latest reluctance as an excuse.
Anyway, never mind him and his enormous willy; where the heck was Sean? He might not be as big as his mate or as skilful as Graham, but he was certainly the best man for the job she needed doing right now.
*****
Arnie had insisted his friend had a glass of wine with him, to see out the old year. That was cool by Sean, even if he would have preferred the husband to have been out of the way so Margie could play.
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ Arnie said, leaning forward in his wheelchair. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of this one.’
‘Can’t say I blame you,’ Sean replied. ‘Here’s to next year being ten times better.’
They raised their glasses and drank in synchrony. Then Arnie topped them both up again.
‘I really shouldn’t,’ Sean protested. ‘Heather’s waiting.’
‘Ah, the beautiful Heather,’ Arnie raised his glass again. ‘Blind me, Mr Dwyer. You certainly pulled a cracker there.’
Sean couldn’t stop himself from looking furtively over his shoulder as he spoke, checking that Margie wasn’t listening in: ‘Sez he with the uber-glamorous wife.’
‘You’re like a naughty schoolboy,’ Arnie said, making them both laugh.
‘How long will it be until you’re out of that?’ The visitor indicated the wheelchair while Arnie (who was of the perpetual glass-topping persuasion) topped them again.
‘Physio starts in February. They reckon it’ll take three months, but I’m going to do it in two. I’ll be back on my bike by spring.’
Sean did a double-take. ‘Arnie . . . mate, your bike’s mangled even worse than you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I got the insurance cheque this morning though. Like for like. Except prices have gone down, so I can replace it with something even faster.’
‘It’s not put you off then? Grinding all your bones to powder and that?’
‘Of course not; they’ve wired me together again as good as new. Just like Barry Sheene.’
A phone was buzzing in Sean’s pocket. He knew it had to be the red one because he’d left the other turned off.
‘Isn’t Barry Sheene a bit before your time?’ he said, fishing out the offending mobile.
‘He was my dad’s idol,’ Arnie admitted. ‘But I have to admire his lifestyle.’
Expecting the caller to be Heather, Sean glanced at the display. It was Kyle. Fuck him. He could wait.
‘Booze, cigs and women,’ he grinned. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t do much booze or many women either,’ Arnie grinned back at him, ‘just fast bikes. It’s killing me sitting here all day. I can’t wait to feel the wind in my face again.’
Sean finally made his escape and redialled Kyle as he walked home.
‘Why are you ringing on my hotline? Don’t you know what day it is?’
‘It’s Wednesday, innit?’ Kyle laughed his unpleasant laugh. ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t say I’m not nearly important enough to ring you up.’
‘Okay, spare me the grief. What do you want?’
‘Lockwood’s in court for sentencing soon. He still owes four grand. I want to kill him before he’s sent down.’
Sean shook his head for a number of reasons.
‘Killing’s not a good move when you’re loansharking,’ he said as mildly as he could. ‘Dead debtors tend not to pay.’
‘That useless twat’s getting a five stretch; minimum. Probably lots more. He isn’t going to pay us from inside.’
‘So we don’t get paid the four grand. That’s only the cream anyway. We’ve had back every last penny Swanny actually gave him . . . and more. What good’s killing him going to do?’
‘It’ll do me good. I can’t stand the bastard. And it’ll make everyone else take notice an’ all.’
‘Like the police, you mean?’
‘No, like everyone else who owes us.’
‘Ah, I see. Like Voltaire . . . to encourage the others.’
‘It’ll fucking encourage me,’ Kyle growled. ‘I’m sick of twiddling my thumbs while nothing happens.’
Sean hid his sigh. He wished he could instruct Cassidy to go kill himself, but that would rather blow him as a double agent, wouldn’t it?
‘Kyle,’ he said reasonably, ‘there’s nothing to be made out of it. And you’re too valuable to risk over a waster like that.’
‘So I keep twiddling, do I?’
‘New Year’s resolution, mate: I’ll get you something worthwhile. Okay?’
Kyle grunted a bit but wished him the best before ringing off.
‘Twat,’ Sean said, under his breath. ‘I’ll make you a resolution all right.’
Dismissing Kyle Cassidy as a problem for later, he simply switched of. The fact that in the last hour or so he’d taken a decision that would lead to the death of a fellow human being didn’t even register.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ he shouted as he let himself into his home. ‘Where are you?’
Heather was in bed, watching porn.
As predicted.
Or rather, she was on bed, porn playing in the background. She was currently watching her reflection in the overhead mirror as she brought herself off; doing it double-handed, of course. Massive brown rings surrounding hugely swollen nipples . . . always a fair indication of her mood.
‘
Come here,’ she said huskily. ‘Your DVDs are boring. I ne
ed the real thing.’
That annoyed him. His DVD collection was state-of-the-art, not boring.
‘You look fairly warmed up,’ he said. ‘They must be doing something.’
‘It’s my own memories that have warmed me up,’ she countered, ‘not your DVDs. I’ve been recalling a particularly enormous willy that wished me a very happy Christmas.’
‘I hope you mean mine.’
She chuckled. ‘Never mind whose it was. Come and wish me happy New Year.’
