by Limey Lady
‘It really might work.' Pat frowned. 'What was the stroke of luck?'
‘Apart from Williamson kicking some life back into me? Lockwood had left his PC on. It had timed out but his password was written on his mouse mat. I don't know what I was looking for, to be honest, or what I intended to do. Downloading violent images would have taken too long. And even if there were some on it already, I was afraid they'd have a date on them. I was being nosy, I suppose. But I found an email he’d written to a reporter, giving his life story without naming too many names. He'd only just sent it.'
‘How did you know it was a reporter?'
‘The email address had the paper's name in it. I followed it up and got out of there as soon as.'
‘Followed it up?’
‘You bet I did.’
‘Go on. What did you say?'
‘Not me . . . I made out it was Lockwood’s postscript. In it he said his full story would never be told. The guilt was too much. He only hoped those poor young souls would rest in peace. Keep it short and sweet, that's the ticket.'
‘Has everybody bought it?’
‘I don’t know about everybody, but the media certainly has. You’ll have a laugh when you see today’s headlines. Although Harry won’t be laughing; he’ll be in tears.’
‘Christ,' said Pat.
Epilogue
Thursday 12th February 2009
Alfie looked out over the reservoir, liking the way sunshine reflected off the flat water. He was standing on the exact spot where his tent had been pitched, ankle deep in still-flattened reeds, looking along the line of his scratched arrow towards the tall chimney far away across the valley. That moonlit night seemed to be centuries ago, even though only a few weeks had passed.
He supposed he'd known it had been a gun all the time. Recovering it had been easy. To tell the truth, it had been a bit of an anti-climax. After seeing it being thrown he'd spent the rest of the night dreaming of sunken treasure, preparing to make like a pearl diver. As it happened the res was silted up and he could easily wade, gritting his teeth against the cold but suffering no real hardship
The gun had been visible under about a foot of water and he'd been able to just bend down and pick it up.
Life had changed massively for him since then. Home life was much better without Nige there fucking everything up. Denny had soon got over him and was behaving herself much better. She’d done a whole fortnight of staying in and worrying about Social Services (who’d never arrived, surprise, surprise!) before starting to go out again. So far she'd brought one bloke home twice and stayed out three times.
Alfie found this behaviour very acceptable. The bloke who had stopped over was called Reg. He was more like Paul than another Nige. Reg had been savvy enough to bring pop, crisps and peanuts and was shaping up nicely. Although Alfie was inclined to give him a chance he was still awaiting developments. He didn't know where Denny had slept when she'd stayed out those three nights . . . apart from it wasn't at Reg’s. Denny had bribed him to say nothing about those absences, so he could be sure of that.
Anyway, however it worked out for mother and son he felt he had put himself in a good position. He'd asked Denny to let him know in future if she wouldn't be back and she had meekly agreed, telling him that tonight was the first he should know about in advance.
Right now school was the only normal, everyday thing that worried him. For the first time ever he was letting his classwork slip. It wasn't that he suddenly couldn't hack it; no, he hadn’t missed much hiding out here by the res, he had caught up in no time. No, it was more like a general lack of interest . . . or rather, the discovery of better interests . . . much better interests.
The afternoon after sorting Spenny had actually been the first time he'd ever bunked off school. He'd thoroughly the experience and found it impossible to resist when Kayleigh suggested they did it again.
And again and again so it was happening nearly every afternoon.
No wonder I’m getting behind with my schoolwork.
He had always previously got on with teachers but relations were now strained. Mr Fredrickson had already taken him aside to ask what was wrong. “Nothing” sounded like a pretty lame answer, even if it was true. He wasn't doing drugs and didn't booze too much, his home life was better than ever and he had a girlfriend. What could possibly be wrong?
Schoolwork and Kayleigh aside, there was no denying that things had changed. Alfie had become a man with a reputation. The confrontation with Spenny had been simply too spectacular not to be noticed. His year masters had asked questions and he had said it was no big deal, just a bit of handbags. Spenny had said very much the same and nobody else was actually admitting being there so, officially, that was effectively that. They’d been made to shake hands and told not to do it again. Unofficially, however . . .
Spenny's credibility had collapsed overnight. Word spread that he was a coward who’d pulled a knife when Alfie gave him a slapping. He had, furthermore, physically shit himself when trumped with a gun. In some accounts he'd been so scared he'd licked Alfie's shoes clean. In other accounts Alfie had made him kiss Kayleigh's arse and beg for mercy.
Exaggerations aside, Spenny hadn’t shown any inclination to seek out retribution and was therefore ruined. His collectors found someone else to gravitate around and the protection racket was no more.
By contrast Alfie was flavour of the month. Younger kids kept approaching, eagerly wanting to pay him protection. When he politely refused to take their money he became more popular still. He had even heard himself being compared with Robin Hood.
He also heard more worrying rumours: that he'd got the gun to protect his poor, helpless mother from a wicked Hells Angel.
That was a bit of a worry . . . at a time when guns had become a major talking point in Bingley.
By now Alfie had read every article ever written on the Maxwell Killings. He had worked out the dates and times a thousand different ways and convinced himself he was correct. The two guys he had seen up here on that moonlit night had been hotfoot from the scene of the crime.
Who were they? It was impossible to say. In his memory they had been two big blokes, one of them even bigger than the other. The papers said the killer had been a guy called Trevor Lockwood, who didn’t look all that big . . . but how to be sure? Seen from that sort of a distance, standing up there in a country lane, miles away from the nearest streetlight, the gun thrower could well have been him.
But by the same token it could have been absolutely anyone.
Make that: two anyones.
Anyway, it didn't matter. What mattered now was the fact that this Glock in his pocket was just about the hottest weapon on the planet. Never mind: Who shot JFK? Or even: Who shot JR? Right now every man and his dog wanted to know who shot all of those kids.
And I’ve got myself the rep of a guy with a gun.
He'd already scrubbed the weapon squeaky clean and wrapped it tight in cling film, wearing Denny's Marigolds all the while. Taking aim at the distant chimney, he threw it out across the water, well beyond the main bank of silt. He took careful note of its new splashdown point, which was over deeper water this time.
Job done, he made his way through the reeds and scaled the wall. He paused a moment in the lay-by, looking back at the reservoir. A huge weight seemed to have lifted off him. He was cleansed but in no way ready to go back to how he’d been before. He liked being a man with a reputation, a modern-day Prince of Thieves, and was beginning to revel in the power. People kept coming up to him with money-making ideas and soon he would have to start taking them seriously. He would, after all, need an income at some stage.
‘Goodbye Glock,’ he whispered. ‘Stay safe. I'll be back when I need you.’
###
Author’s Note: I sincerely hoped you enjoyed the exploits of the characters in Best Served Cold. Most of these crazy individuals can be found in my previous full-length novel, Unconsecrated Ground and a lot of the ones still alive feature in The
Battle of Ilkley Moor, which will be published later in 2017.
For fans of shorter stories, Heather Hunter plays a major part in a whole string of tales; most of them back in her university days, when she was young and even more footloose (hard to believe, I know, but go see Other Books by LimeyLady below). As a word of warning, in her early days Hev always classed herself as “well on the lezzie side of bi”; it follows that a lot of her short story sex is girl-on-girl and man-free. Outside of the bedroom she is, however, still a force to be reckoned with. Put it this way, if Sean Dwyer ever really had tried to throttle her, he would have been in for a big surprise.
In fact he wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale.
Thanks again for reading. I hope to see you again soon.
LL
Other books by LimeyLady
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 01
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 02
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 03
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 04
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 05
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 06
Heather’s Busy Week Pt. 07
New Beginnings
New Beginnings Advance
New Beginnings Falter
New Beginnings Revive
New Beginnings Conclude
Dangerous Dealings
No Holds Barred in London
No Holds Barred in Belfast
No Holds Barred in Boston
No Holds Barred in Munich
Two Sides to Every Story
Unconsecrated Ground
Heather Falls in Love Part One
Heather Falls in Love Part Two
Heather Falls in Love Part Three
Sammy Jo Has a Big Night Out
Sammy Jo Has Another Big Night Out
Sammy Jo Tries Team Building
Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part One
Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Two
Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Three
Heather’s Hectic Weekend Part Four
Davina
Davina Again
Davina Does Christmas
Davina Does Easter
Davina Does Older Women
Davina Does Scotland
