by Limey Lady
‘Too fucking right I would.'
‘Save him for later. We don't want to make waves yet, not until Dwyer's gone down for the third time.'
*****
Andy was keeping a concerned eye on Sean, even though he seemed to have recovered. For a moment or two he’d had him worried, had Sean. Standing there gripping the telephone, drip-white, mouth working with no sound coming out . . . he’d looked like he’d been having a heart attack or something.
Having seen enough Andy had grabbed him by the arms and got him onto a stool at the bar. Then, in the best landlord tradition, he’d poured a very large brandy. Sean downed it in one tiny sip followed by a massive gulp. Watching some colour coming back into his face after that had been a bit of a relief.
Now, after another brandy, the two of them were in The Meeting Room. Hayley had arrived to cover the bar and Simmy and Luke were playing pool, supposedly looking after her. In reality Hayley could look after herself. Andy knew who he’d back if any customers cut up rough.
‘I’m fucked,’ Sean muttered. ‘I’m fucking-well fucked.’
‘Look,’ said Andy, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but if I can help . . .’
‘I don’t think anybody can help. That cunt’s stitched me up. There’s no way out.’
‘Come on mate, pull yourself together.’
Sean slurped from his new pint of cider. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You don’t need this, do you?’
‘I mean it Sean. If I can help in any way . . .’
‘Have you ever played chess?’
‘Not since school,’ said Andy, surprised by the change of subject. ‘I think there’s a set gathering dust in the cellar. I’ll let you give me a good thrashing, if it’ll make you feel better.’
‘I don’t want to play it. I was on about the end. When you’re down to your king and surrounded by lots of bishops and castles.’
‘Fucking hell Sean, shall I crack out some Underberg?’
‘Can’t you crack out the eye of newt and toe of frog?’
‘I’ll have to check. I’m all right for frogs. Newts might be tricky.’
‘Go on then, check. Honest to God, mate, I need some sort of intervention here, divine or otherwise.
Chapter Forty-Three
(Monday 12th January 2009)
When she slept alone Heather was usually an early riser. Five thirty really was early however, even for her. She had already done her exercises, shaved her important bits and showered until she squeaked. By now she’d run out of things to do.
‘Office?' she mused out loud. ‘Before dawn, on a Monday; even an exceptionally important Monday? Hmmm . . .'
She started towards the door then thought of coffee and stopped in her tracks. The thought was one of her more powerful ones; she could actually smell it. There were, of course, many coffee outlets within WYB. Every halfway decent PA kept gallons of the stuff percolating all day. Being a former PA herself she knew where to find the finest brews. Not at this ungodly hour, though. And the drinks machines could only be best described as . . . well, basic.
Quite recently Heather had impulse-bought Columbian coffee. At the time she'd been attracted by the packet, read the blurb and dropped it in her basket when she saw the word "Medellin". She had spoken to Rick when he had been in Medellin, so why not give it a go? It had turned out to be strong but had a taste to die for. Like one or two other things in life, she simply couldn’t get enough.
Temporarily postponing the office, she diverted towards her kitchen.
The sound of someone entering her apartment didn't divert her from the filter papers. She rarely used the key or bolts, gaining access by the coded lock instead. Apart from being the lazy option, this enabled select others to come and go whether she was in or out. Unless it was the cleaner (and it couldn’t be her because she only did Tuesdays and Thursdays), it had to be some lover.
‘Good morning,' a familiar voice said in greeting, 'I didn't expect to find you up and about.'
‘And good morning to you too, Ms Hanson,' Heather replied, smiling. 'Have you had another enjoyable weekend, shagging my boyfriend?'
‘Wonderful,' said Vic, depositing her overnight bag on the table.
‘What are you doing here, then?'
‘Graham has to be in Warrington for eight. I came to make you breakfast.'
‘Do you mean breakfast in bed?'
‘Too late, isn't it? You're all washed and scrubbed up.'
‘Do I look all right? I'm not too tarty, am I?'
‘Heather, you couldn't look tarty if you tried.'
‘I bet I could.'
‘Well you don't at the moment. You'll wow them.'
‘I only hope I can remember what to say. I’ve been tossing and turning all night, rehearsing in my dreams.'
‘You’ll be fine.' Vic went to open the fridge then paused. 'We can do a dry run, if you like. Drop into my office at eleven. You can wow me, and then we’ll go out for lunch. Have a drink to settle the butterflies.'
Heather was surprised how much she appreciated the offer. She'd done plenty of presentations in the past but nothing nearly as major as today's. And Vic was the best critic she could possibly get. Not only was she world class at giving presentations, she also knew today's target audience inside out.
'I thought you'd have too much on,' she said.
‘I can find time for this. It's important for me as well, you know. Not that you ever need any help.'
‘I might need help today. So I'll be eternally grateful. In fact I'll even buy you lunch at the Kings, just to prove it.'
‘The Kings,' Vic said, arching her brows. 'Won't it be crawling with policemen?'
*****
Pat blinked when the lights suddenly came on. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while, glimpsing his monstrous hangover every so often then swiftly backing away from it.
‘Oh no,' he groaned.
‘Oh yes,' a man’s voice replied.
That caught his attention. 'What the fuck . . .' he began, attempting to sit up.
That was a big mistake! The contents of his skull sloshed around alarmingly. He slumped back on the pillow and groaned even more pitifully. 'Christ, what hit me?'
‘A barrel of Stella,' said Tinner, coming into view over him.
‘Where am I? This isn't my bed?'
‘That is very observant, Pat. It's my spare room. I'm lending you it for a few days.'
‘It’s too kind of you. And it’s totally unnecessary.'
Steeling himself, Pat tried again. This time his brains didn't slop about so badly but something was stopping his leg from moving; something cold, hard and attached to his ankle. It was affecting his ability to get up.
‘Don't get mad,' said Tinner. 'Sean said we had to. It's for your own good.'
‘Is that a fucking handcuff?'
‘Yeah, police issue. You want to watch yourself. Pull against that and it'll take your skin off. They can make belting bruises, too.'
Pat shut up and counted to ten.
‘All right,' he resumed reasonably, 'what's the score? Am I in trouble?'
‘There are coppers fifty feet deep in town. Sean doesn't want you talking to them. Not until you've properly dried out.'
‘Dried out?’ Pat nearly lost it. ‘I don't need to fucking dry out.'
‘Hey, don't shoot me, I'm only the messenger.' Tinner grinned. 'You were well ratted last night though. I bet you don't remember where we found you.'
Pat considered a moment. 'I went in a few pubs yesterday. Was it the White Horse?'
‘Not even warm. And between you and me,' Tinner leant closer, 'it wasn't just Stella, was it? Now you know that, and I know that. So far, Sean knows fuck all. Let's get through the next few days and keep it to ourselves, eh?'
Pat considered some more. He knew the problems Sean had, but didn't know how much Tinner knew. He was also uneasy about being chained up. Last time he'd seen him, Sean was still struggling to answer his own questions. By now
he must have thought of something. He only hoped the solution didn't involve a human sacrifice.
‘Why are the cops after me?' he ventured.
‘Sean didn't say,’ Tinner shrugged, ‘although it might have something to do with a barbequed drug dealer.'
‘He heard about that, did he?'
‘Danny Painter did mention it. In fact he tore Sean’s ear off. To tell you the truth, I think we're keeping you away from Painter as much as the cops; giving him chance to cool off and that.'
‘Who's “we”?'
‘Me and Moggs; we're your room service. Please feel free to tip generously.'
‘Okay. Will a tenner get these cuffs off?'
‘No chance. I've not to listen to any threats or promises.'
‘For fuck's sake . . .'
‘I'm sorry Pat. Cursing and swearing isn't going to help. Not with Sean in the mood he's in.'
‘Let me talk to him.'
‘I wouldn't do that, even if it was allowed. You're top of his shit list right now, and that call from Painter finished him off. Andy said he almost had a fit. Fucking murderous, he was . . .'
*****
Vic finally opened the fridge.
‘Ye gods, Heather, you are back to your old ways, aren't you? I spy two bottles of Moet, seventy-three bottles of Pinot, a tub of butter and an egg. I'm not going to make much of a breakfast out of that little lot, am I?'
‘You can do cornflakes.'
‘There isn't any milk.'
‘Yes there is; inside the door.'
‘Excuse me, so there is. Three more bottles of pinot and half a litre of sour full-fat.'
‘It's not sour. The use-by date is the thirteenth.'
‘It looks like the eleventh to me.'
‘Look Ms Hanson, do you want cornflakes or not?'
‘Not at the risk of poisoning, Ms Hunter. What are my chances of toast?'
‘Is that a champagne toast?'
‘No. Just plain old brown or white sliced.'
‘You could try the bread bin, but I’m giving no guarantees. I used to have a girlfriend who made me the most delicious snacks all the time. She took off with my boyfriend, though. Since then the need for provisions isn't the same.'
‘Was she the tall, drop-dead gorgeous one with glasses?' Vic wondered as she foraged amongst scrag-ends of loaves.
‘That's right, but also with a heart of ice.' Heather laughed then grew serious. 'What did you mean about the Kings?'
‘Haven't you heard about the latest killing?'
‘Do you mean that mass shooting up the road?'
‘No, that was last week's news. There was another one yesterday. A known drug dealer got burnt to death. Apparently he used all the local pubs to find customers. The police say they’re going to interview everybody who has been out in Bingley since the start of December.'
‘That should keep them busy.'
‘You don't seem worried.'
‘Why should I be worried about murders? I’ve enough on my plate with presentations.'
‘Because of your relationship with Jack the Hat,' said Vic, as if it was obvious.
‘Sean's not a gangster. You know he isn't.'
‘I know he keeps interesting company. Apart from you, that is.'
‘Haven't you seen all the anti-drug notices in the Kings? They aren't for show; they’re taken seriously indeed.'
‘Sean smokes pot, doesn’t he?'
‘Only recreationally,' said Heather. 'And he doesn't let anyone buy or sell it in his pub.'
‘Are you sure about that?'
‘I’m absolutely certain. It's actually Andy who enforces the rules. And he hates drugs. I saw him evict someone once. It was awesome. It didn't half turn me on.'
‘What a surprise!' Vic pretended to yawn as she buttered toasted crusts.
‘Anyway, what's my relationship got to do with the police?' Heather poured coffee as she spoke.
‘You might be Sean's alibi.'
‘I haven't been his alibi for over a week. I can vouch for Krista's whereabouts up until Sunday teatime, if that helps.'
‘Yet another surprise!’ Vic took the mug Heather pushed in her direction. ‘I suppose marmalade is out of the question.’
‘Try that wall cupboard behind you. And it’s a preserve, so you don’t need to check the date.’
‘I’ll try not to.’ Vic quickly found an unopened jar of Golden Shred. ‘Are you still going out with Sean?’
‘It’s cooling off, but we still have our moments.’
‘Listen Heather, I’m not trying to preach, but he might be dangerous to know. Not because I think he’s a gangster, because of what other people think.’
‘Dangerous to my career, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll start looking for a newer model.’
‘That would be for the best.’
‘Okay then, that’s my resolution for the not-too-distant. What’s yours?’
‘I don’t do resolutions.’
‘What about you and Graham?’ Heather edged towards her friend’s bit of worktop and took a piece of toast. ‘He really likes you, you know? I hardly ever see him now you’ve got your claws in but, whenever I have seen him, he’s talked about nothing else.’
‘He doesn’t . . . gossip, does he?’
‘About the tricks and contortions you get up to together?’ Heather laughed. ‘No. Even the foulest sort of torture won’t make him reveal that. And I should know, because I’ve tried everything to make him talk.’
‘Heather, I . . . I really like him too.’
‘Ms Hanson, you are blushing. It’s more than just “like”, isn’t it?’
Vic turned away and stared at the wall cabinet. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘Yes you do.’ Heather abandoned her coffee and hugged Vic from behind, nuzzling the back of her neck. ‘Come on, say it. Four letters, rhymes with dove.’
‘It’s easy for you. You lo . . . you like everyone.’
‘I like lots of people,’ Heather agreed, ‘but not everyone. And I’ve only been in dove with a few.’
‘Dove,’ Vic snorted.
‘That’s right. I’m quite free and easy with my favours, but I don’t give my dove away as lightly as it may seem.’
‘I don’t know if I’m in dove,’ Vic said after a pause. ‘With Graham, I mean. I’ve never been in dove before . . . apart from maybe with you. And that’s a very big maybe.’
‘I thought you’d never admit even the possibility.’ Heather chuckled and squeezed tighter, her hands moving to boobs, having another neck nuzzle for good measure, ‘although you do pick your moments.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re about to dump me for Graham, aren’t you?’
‘No I’m not. I’ll never dump you.’
‘I felt dumped over Christmas, with my girlfriend away with my boyfriend . . . staying in my favourite country retreat. Tying each other up on my favourite four-poster bed . . .’
‘I didn’t realize you were put out about it.’
‘Well I was, matchmaker or not.’
‘I’m sorry, but your matchmaking might have worked too well.’
‘Say you’ll sleep with me tonight and I’ll let you off.’
‘I’m seeing Graham tonight.’
‘We could sneak out of work early . . . to celebrate or commiserate.
‘Commiserate,’ Vic snorted. ‘Not a chance . . .’
*****
Alfie had missed the first week of the new term at school. He’d also missed the arrival of a new lad called “Spenny”. Spenny had been expelled from some dump in Bradford and now intended to rule the roost in what he clearly saw as the puny backwater of Bingley. By the time Alfie went back, bright and breezy on Monday morning, Spenny's reign of terror had begun.
Him and fucking Robespierre!
Updates on the new star of the show came thick and fast. From the moment Alfie got there it was Spenny this and Spenny that.
&nbs
p; Spenny carried a blade all the time. He used a baseball bat on special occasions. By night he was prominently involved with a serious street gang. By day he’d already set up a protection racket and was busy expanding it all the time. He was also working his way through the school’s hard men, humiliating them one by one, beating up anybody who dared to resist.
