Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  He had four thousand three hundred and sixty pounds left. The letter from the building society this morning had demanded immediate payment of over eleven thousand. And that was just arrears on the marital home. He “immediately” owed at least as much on the buy-to-lets, probably more; as for the car finance company . . .

  Lockwood shook his head in bewilderment. He wouldn’t be taking it up the ass on the Audi again because it had been repossessed. Fifteen grand they’d reckoned he still owed on it. Plus, according to the charming communication he’d got the other day, two grand for “removal and repairs”. Apparently they were going to sell it and he would be liable for any shortfall from the total of seventeen grand. They hadn’t bothered to mention what would happen if they got more than seventeen grand, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

  Bastards would probably set a low reserve price to shift it quick.

  Like say sixteen nine-ninety-nine.

  Fuck ‘em. They wouldn’t get another penny from him and he expected the sentiment to be mutual.

  Same went for WYB and all the credit card companies . . . and Judith.

  His mood was black but he hardly cared. Gambling his way out of this mess wasn’t an option he could sell even to himself. There was no doubt about it; tomorrow he was going down.

  So fuck everything and everybody. Tonight he was going to go out and blast every last cent of that four thousand three hundred and sixty pounds . . . less taxis and drinks, of course.

  If he won, he’d keep going until it was all gone again.

  Unless he miraculously won millions and millions . . . enough to pay his way out of the country without a passport . . . one-way to Saint Kitts. Split the rest of his life between beach and casino.

  Failing that, his unauthorised kiss-and-tell would outsell Jeffrey Archer . . .

  Yeah. Dream on. Not going to happen.

  Fuck ‘em all.

  Tucking the wedge of money in his inside jacket pocket, he crept through the darkened downstairs rooms and let himself out of the back door. It was a good ten minutes’ walk to town, quarter of an hour with all the patches of melting snow about, but he was game for that. He wasn’t going to draw attention by calling a cab, not from here.

  The night was as black as his mood. He took it steady getting off the unlit patio and onto the gravelled path that would take him to the garden gate and, from there, the road down to civilization.

  He never noticed the figures waiting in the darkest shadows of all, beside his now empty garage.

  *****

  For once Heather was surprised by Vic’s behaviour. Okay, Vic always wanted to trib, but not usually as vigorously as this; it was as if she was running a race.

  ‘

  Hey,' she gasped. 'I'm supposed to be the Tasmanian Devil in these parts.'

  Vic responded by abandoning their scissoring position and shoving Heather onto her back. 'Open your legs,' she commanded.

  ‘What happened to please?' Heather wondered, obeying nevertheless. This unexpected, bordering on aggressive behaviour intrigued her . . . wherever it was going.

  ‘I'll please you,' Vic countered, grabbing her by the ankles and pushing them upwards and out, forcing Heather’s knees into her own face before squatting on her, pinning her to the bed in a folded-in-half sort of way.

  ‘Ye gods,' Heather said, 'you're going to nail me, aren’t you?'

  Not bothering to confirm the obvious, Vic really did do a Taz, using her latest position to thoroughly overpower Heather, grinding and bumping their sexes almost frenziedly. Heather could have thrown her off but didn’t want to. Increasingly excited, she simply submitted, climaxing quite quickly. Then, realizing Vic was nowhere near finished, she gritted her teeth and went with the flow.

  Good grief, she thought. More, more, MORE! Then, somehow managing not to giggle: Now this is what I call a celebration!

  Nice or not, nobody could last forever at that pace, not even a madly inspired Vic. Before so very long she emitted a sharp cry and came so violently her glasses flew off. But even then she wasn't finished. Oh no, although she let go of Heather's legs and eased out of her squat, she stretched herself out on top and kept going.

  Seeing as she was still effectively pinned (and seeing as Vic was still gamely thrusting away) Heather fastened herself around the other girl's back and carried on submitting. Good grief but this was nice. They were hotter and wetter than ever; skin sliding on skin as though they’d been coated in baby oil.

  And there was purpose now as well as frenzy. Vic seemed to be running at least a mile’s worth of her beautiful body up and down Heather’s clit.

  ‘You utter devil,' she breathed, taking hold of Vic's boobs, pulling them within nibbling range. 'Bloody hell, girl, go for it!'

  Much later, after countless orgasms had been and gone, when her nerve-endings had finally stopped fizzing and crackling, she noticed tears in her lover's eyes.

  ‘Vic,' she said cautiously, 'what is it? What's the matter?'

  ‘It’s nothing.'

  ‘It doesn't look like nothing.' Something heavy and awful sank in Heather's tummy. 'That wasn't your way of saying goodbye, was it?'

  ’No,' Vic said, sounding reassuringly alarmed. 'No, Hev, nothing like that! I still mean what I always say. I want to be fucking you when I'm old and grey.'

  ‘Thank Goodness for that. You had me worried. I thought I'd outlived my usefulness.'

  ‘A girl of so many uses,' Vic smiled thinly. 'All else aside, we're getting rich together . . . going global shopping . . . remember?'

  ‘The rate we're going we really will be old and grey.' Heather's laugh was more relief than anything else. 'Okay, so if it's definitely not that, what is it? Please tell. I want to help.'

  ‘Being alive,' Vic said after a long hesitation. 'As you know, I'm meeting Graham tonight, so what do I do? I sneak out of work two hours early so I can fuck his girlfriend first.'

  ‘His girlfriend happened to want fucking. She's not at all offended.'

  ‘Graham might be offended.’

  ‘Maybe he might, but only because we didn’t invite him to come and watch.’

  Vic mixed a sigh with a chuckle. ‘However hard I try, Hev, I can't believe how understanding you’ve been about us. I only expected to sleep with him once.'

  ‘I’ve never known you stop at once.’

  ‘I meant for one weekend. And you know what I meant.’

  ‘Yeah, I do. And Graham's happiness is important to me. You've heard all my arguments before.'

  ‘I know I have. You're just so . . . so adult about it.'

  ‘Maybe . . . or maybe I lie. For all you know I could still be angling for that threesome. You know, the delight of seeing his bendy willy slipping into your . . .'

  ‘I'm sure you are,' Vic said sternly. 'And I'd take you along tonight. Except I don't think Graham could hack it. Emotionally, I mean. He'd obviously have a crack at the physical challenge. Who wouldn’t?'

  ‘Hmmm . . . "Graham" and "emotional"; not two words often used together.'

  ‘You know he's in . . .' Vic paused before spitting it out. 'He loves you.'

  ‘Like a sister.'

  ‘No Hev, like a lover.'

  Heather did a double-take. Vic using "love" and "lover" in almost the same breath . . . unheard of!

  ‘Huh,' she said finally, 'he's more in dove with you than he is with me. You're made for each other, aren't you?'

  ‘Hev, you’re not the only one who talks to Graham, I talk to him a lot. He thinks . . . he thinks he's no chance with either of us. Not emotionally.'

  That heavy something began to rise again in Heather's tummy. It didn't seem nearly as awful on the way up as it had on the way down.

  ‘Don't say he thinks we've got something going,' she said, trying to sound dismissive. 'Me and you, I mean. Not something serious.'

  ‘He says it's the most seriously obvious thing he's ever seen.'

  ‘He can’t be basing that on me,' said Heather. ‘I’m quite ins
crutable.’

  ‘Heather . . . you obviously love everyone, even delinquent debtors. Although I do agree to some extent; it's never all or nothing with you.'

  ‘Isn't it?'

  ‘No. You're very rational; as far as I can tell, anyway.’

  ‘But Graham reckons otherwise?’

  ‘And how. He keeps telling me we shouldn’t have secrets; not from each other.’

  The wave of excitement washing through Heather was better than any cum. It was definitely time to jump in with both feet . . . even if she was afraid of the landing. 'Okay,' she said, 'I’ll confess. I use the L word a lot but Graham's right; when it comes to all or nothing there's only you. Not Claire. Not even Ingrid.'

  A deathly silence ensued.

  ‘Do you really mean that?' Vic said finally.

  ‘Yes Victoria, I really, really do.'

  ‘What about Mary frigging Rose?'

  ‘She doesn't count. She flies in and out of my life like a witch on a broomstick, turning things upside down every now and then. She’s definitely an annoying sister, nothing like you and me.'

  ‘You still fuck her, though.’

  ‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? I bet even you fancy her on the quiet.’

  Vic’s pause was longer than ever. ‘So you don't love her?'

  ‘Not romantically, no.'

  ‘Just a sister witch, then.'

  ‘Yeah, the closest sister witch anyone could ever have. But not particularly romantic.'

  Vic gulped before speaking again. ‘So what about me?'

  ‘You are the most beautiful person I've ever met. And the best-ever in bed. Do I have to spell it out?'

  ‘Well . . . you could try.'

  ‘Okay, you’re a wicked, manipulative cow and I love you; in fact I regularly orgasm at the sight of you. And you're an amazing fuck. I'm trickling down my leg at this very second . . .'

  ‘Enough!' Vic laughed. 'I get the message. And thank you.’

  ‘Never mind thanking me; I’ve told you my secret, let’s have yours.’

  Vic hadn’t recovered her glasses; she looked vulnerable without them.

  ‘Come on, Victoria, I can’t wait forever.’

  For a moment it felt as if Vic was about to come out with something terrible. Then she gave her multi-megawatt smile: ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Of course it is. What else could I have to hide?’

  ‘I don’t know; an even greater love for my boyfriend, perhaps?’

  ‘No . . . although I am very fond of him. I don’t want to stop seeing him.’

  ‘Neither do I, but I will if you ask me to.’

  ‘Can we carry on under the old arrangement,’ Vic said after yet another lengthy pause, ‘reviewing at regular intervals.’

  ‘That sounds good to me.’

  ‘Deal then.’

  They sealed it with a kiss.

  Well, quite a lot of kisses, actually . . .

  *****

  Carlisle waited a few minutes before surrendering to the urge for a fag. Picking up both new pints from the bar he made his way outside.

  Like most towns, the pubs of Bingley had responded to the latest anti-tobacco law with designated outdoor smoking areas. While the Kings boasted the Caesar's Palace of such facilities, The Fleece had gone for a more basic approach. Not for them the fancy awning, expensive TV screens and yard heaters. Oh no, they had simply re-designated the small backyard beside the outdoor toilets, an area which hadn't changed much in the last century or so. There had been, however, one relatively recent addition: an old-style wood-burning stove.

  Emerging from the pub Carlisle had to smile. In his opinion the stove was a big success. It warmed the yard better than any Calor gas heater and, seen as it was now, by night with the door not closed, it reminded him of steam trains and bonfires. Confronted with that, it was impossible to not to be impressed. Even the grimmer-faced locals lightened up when they came out here.

  Speaking of which . . .

  Half a dozen of them turned his way, smelling a copper as surely as he could smell their weed.

  ‘Evening lads,' he said casually, depositing the beers on a table and opening his cig packet.

  The group of local drinkers quickly decided he was harmless. Giving him the odd grunt and nod they went back to their conversation about some ill-fated building project or other.

  Briggs had moved away from the other customers, obviously wanting privacy while he took his call. Carlisle could see him walking to and fro in an archway leading back to Main Street. He didn't look happy.

  Carlisle was lighting his second cigarette when his fellow copper joined him.

  ‘Want one?'

  ‘Fuck yes.'

  That was a surprise. Briggs was a semi-reformed smoker. If asked before his fifth pint he invariably refused. Asking during pints five to eight was a bit of a gamble: you could get yes, no or maybe. "Fuck yes" was usually reserved for well into the second gallon.

  ‘Was that bad news?'

  ‘Bastard reporters, they’re worse than Donald.'

  Carlisle waited for Briggs to explain.

  ‘They’ve been after Lockwood’s story,’ said Briggs, ‘even though they’re not supposed to be allowed to sell it. That was a friend of mine. Apparently it’s become exclusive.’

  ‘So Lockwood’s selling it, whatever?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s gone into e-publishing. He’s just emailed a copy to my friend.’

  ‘What’s he going to do with it?’

  ‘He’s a she. She’s going to put some of it on the front page tomorrow. It’ll be a scoop for her and free advertising for him.’ Briggs laughed shortly. ‘I don’t know why I’m het up about it. You’re the one who gets a mention, not me.’

  ‘Me?’ said Carlisle.

  Then Briggs’ mobile rang again.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  (Tuesday 13th January 2009)

  Pat was watching American Football when the bedroom door opened. The game wasn't live but he didn't know the result and, deep into the third quarter, Dallas were in serious danger of winning, so he was all attention. While he wasn't a Cowboys fan, anything that kept the Cowgirls jumping up and down had to be good.

  ‘Put it in the usual place, garcon,' he said without turning from the screen.

  ‘You're obviously not pining to death,' a familiar voice replied.

  It wasn’t Tinner, it was Sean. Pat muted the volume before looking at him. 'I was wondering if and when you'd call in.'

  ‘I've been busy. You know, trying to avoid war with Danny Painter, that sort of thing.'

  Sean had brought a seat in with him. Kicking the door shut behind him, he approached the bed and straddled his wooden chair like he was Christine Keeler.

  ‘You can't half cause trouble when you've had a drink,' he went on. 'What the fuck got into you?'

  ‘Do you mean with Benjy?' Pat was struggling to read Sean's expression. He didn't seem to be out of control but was definitely edgy. As if he might be the bearer of bad news. 'He sold me some dodgy stuff. I decided to retire him.'

  ‘Did you take this dodgy stuff on Wednesday? Before we went you-know-where?'

  ‘Yeah, that's why I got . . . carried away.'

  ‘Why, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘You know I hate nicking things.’ Pat lowered his eyes. ‘It was Dutch courage, I suppose.’

  ‘You didn't have to retire Benjy so conspicuously. Couldn't you have just shot him? Or pushed him under a bus?'

  ‘Nobody saw me.'

  ‘Danny thinks otherwise. I had to eat shit to persuade him it was mistaken identity.'

  ‘Does he believe you?'

  ‘No. He's checking you out.' Sean laughed without any humour. 'I did suggest it was the sort of trick Kyle would pull, but I don't think he bought it.'

  ‘So what’ll happen when Danny confirms it was me?'

  ‘Nothing is going to happen, because he can't afford to confirm it. Not after last time. He'd lose
face.'

  ‘Right,' said Pat, 'I'll bow to your knowledge of human nature . . . again.'

  Sean sat in silence a minute, still giving little away. 'How've those two been treating you?' he asked eventually.