Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Unconsecrated Ground
    Unconsecrated Ground
    Unconsecrated Ground
    Ebook569 pages8 hours

    Unconsecrated Ground

    By Limey Lady

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Although most believe Sean Dwyer to be a wheeler-dealer and ladies-man, there is more to him than meets the eye. For the last ten years he has been building a secret empire. Now, as he reaches the top of his unsavoury profession, he is at last in a position to wreak havoc. Question is, can anybody stop him?

    Beautiful, bisexual and still only twenty-four, Heather Hunter has completed her extended gap year and returned to her roots. By no means ready to settle down, determined to finally make use of her qualifications, she’s aiming for a career in the world of banking and is lucky enough to be based in her sleepy old home town. Historic serial killers aside, nothing of note ever happens there. What could possibly go wrong?

    Heather isn’t aware that almost a decade ago a young burglar from Bingley was caught housebreaking in a neighbouring town. Unfortunately for him, he was caught by Harry Williamson, not the police. After a brief interrogation he was summarily executed and disposed of in an unmarked grave. To this day his body has not been found.

    Before she knows it, conveniently forgetting she’s supposed to be "off men", Heather finds herself on a collision course with Sean Dwyer, who has vowed revenge for his murdered underling. Like most other local, law-abiding citizens, she fails to recognize Sean for what he really is, believing he's no more than a good-looking rogue. The idea of one or two lengthy collisions with him is actually quite appealing . . .

    Then a new, particularly nasty assault fractures the peace. This time, faced with losing all he has struggled to cheat and steal, never remotely considering the impact on those around him, Sean decides his only option is to fight back and win.

    And this time the odds are much more favourable.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLimey Lady
    Release dateNov 30, 2016
    ISBN9781370988112
    Unconsecrated Ground
    Author

    Limey Lady

    Here's a confession for you: I'm not sure if "Limey Lady" is a pseudonym or my alter ego. Back in 2016, when she came into being, she was definitely a nom de plume. Now, however, I am not so sure.As background, I have always written stories but, up to 2009, writing took a backseat, way behind the demands of my family and career. Then a life-changing medical condition . . . well, it changed everything for and about me. Suddenly I had/have time to spare. Suddenly I was/am churning out tale after tale.I was born in York but brought up in West Yorkshire, in part of the Aire Valley often described as "Bronte Country". I must say, though, that although most of my stories are set locally, they have little in common with the fine works of Charlotte, Emily and Anne. So far my output can be divided into two: long stories featuring ne'er-do-wells, guns and some violence . . . and shorter stories featuring "liberated" women who rarely do what they're supposed to do.Limey Lady was created to be the author of the short stuff. But the longer novels all include feisty, uncooperative females - much like her characters - so I'm going to put her name to both as I publish on Smashwords.Watch this space . . .

    Read more from Limey Lady

    Related to Unconsecrated Ground

    Related ebooks

    Thrillers For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Royal Hotel, Mt Hope

      Nov 14, 2018

      Royal Hotel, Mt Hope
      6 min read

    • Article

      Man of HARLECH

      Jul 26, 2023

      The directions to our friends’ house were not encouraging. ‘Turn right at the sign which says Here Be Dragons,’ he said cheerily. ‘Carry on until you reach The Middle of Nowhere, then turn left up the track by the woodshed. It’s a bit rugged, so stay

      3 min read

    • Article

      Travelling On

      Mar 17, 2023

      Travelling On
      7 min read

    • Article

      Tumblong Tavern

      Oct 20, 2023

      Tumblong Tavern
      8 min read

    • Article

      HOMEBUSH Hotel

      May 14, 2020

      HOMEBUSH Hotel
      6 min read

    • Article

      The PROMISE

      Aug 25, 2021

      The PROMISE
      9 min read

    • Article

      Nugrybauti

      Apr 24, 2019

      Nugrybauti
      8 min read

    • Article

      Running Away

      Feb 22, 2021

      Leaving London behind her, Millie drove faster, picturing thousands of crazed fans in pursuit, desperate for what – a lock of her hair? Or Julian; except after the last gig, somehow she knew he wouldn’t follow. She knew from bitter experience that di

      5 min read

    • Article

      The Incredible Journey

      Jul 6, 2022

      I have done mostly what most men do And pushed it out of my mind But I can’t forget, if I wanted to Four-Feet trotting behind WHEN our boy Eion set out one summer’s day to walk from the Hook of Holland to Istanbul some eight years ago, he left these

      2 min read

    • Article

      Rocket Man!

      Jun 15, 2021

      Rocket Man!
      12 min read

    • Article

      HOT DOGS And Ice Cream

      Jul 21, 2021

      HOT DOGS And Ice Cream
      7 min read

    • Article

      Ferreting baht ’at

      Jan 27, 2022

      Ferreting baht ’at
      3 min read

    • Article

      Suddenly You Were Gone

      Feb 4, 2020

      Suddenly You Were Gone
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Way Things TURN OUT

      Jun 3, 2020

      The Way Things TURN OUT
      7 min read

    • Article

      THE DUKE OF Edinbrough Hotel

      Nov 13, 2019

      THE DUKE OF Edinbrough Hotel
      6 min read

    • Article

      Stonehenge

      Jul 11, 2023

      Stonehenge
      7 min read

    • Article

      The TV in the Twilight Zone

      Sep 26, 2023

      One thing that made other club members jealous was when one of us was lucky enough to come across a ‘barn find’. That’s the modern-day description, of course; back in the late 1980s most of these semi-abandoned scooters were found locked in sheds or

      4 min read

    • Article

      Ghoulies and Ghosties

      Oct 1, 2022

      Ghoulies and Ghosties
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Lights... Are On

      Nov 19, 2018

      There were times when you needed a break from the nationals, trying instead a rally with a somewhat different approach. There were some great inland ones with many situated almost in the middle of nowhere. Usually, with a couple of hundred in attenda

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Best Laid Plans...

      Sep 9, 2020

      IDON’T understand why your life is quite so chaotic,’ my mother said recently. I was huffily defensive. ‘It’s not only me, actually. Everyone’s life is like this.’ Two days later, we lost our game of brinkmanship with the Government and finally pulle

      2 min read

    • Article

      What Say You?

      Feb 16, 2022

      What Say You?
      8 min read

    • Article

      Life In The past Lane

      Aug 27, 2021

      Life In The past Lane
      5 min read

    • Article

      It Happened to Me…

      Sep 7, 2023

      It Happened to Me…
      8 min read

    • Article

      Not The Face!

      Jan 5, 2022

      Sometime in the middle of 2019 I bumped into an old friend I had not seen for a few years. There was the usual “What are you doing now? How is the family?” and so on, but at one point the conversation got around to me admitting to my hobby of chasing

      6 min read

    • Article

      Hot Dogs And ICE CREAM

      Jul 18, 2023

      Hot Dogs And ICE CREAM
      6 min read

    • Article

      Search PARTY

      Jan 13, 2021

      You find me hunched over the ironing board in the kitchen and thinking dark thoughts about Mrs Bertha Berman. Tell me honestly, is there any more soul-destroying occupation known to womankind than the ironing and attempted folding of fitted bed shee

      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Unconsecrated Ground

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Unconsecrated Ground - Limey Lady

      Prologue

      Wednesday 14th July 1993

      It was late and the tourists were long gone. Half a moon sat high in the clear night sky, its baleful light illuminating the moorland and road beneath it. To the south the land was walled off into fields which rolled down the hillside, towards the distant valley bottom. On the wall-less side of the road, to the north, was the moor proper. Mostly covered in bracken and thick heather, this was rough terrain. It had none of the fancy walkways found further on, on Ilkley Moor itself; the ones frequented by day-trippers. Instead it had no more than rabbit paths, most of them leading to treacherous peat bogs.

      Currently the only sign of life was a Ford parked up on the grass verge, its lights off and its colour indeterminable in the wan moonlight. Anyone seeing it may have assumed the Escort contained a young couple. At such an hour couples without a place of their own often stopped out there to do the things young adults have been doing together since time began. Older couples had been known to stop there too, doing the same sort of things, out of sight of their respective spouses.

      Surprisingly, the vehicle contained five men, and sex was not on the agenda.

      Tony, the youngest there at twenty-one, was crammed in the back with two others. He had been itching to come on a job like this. It was almost beyond belief that it was finally going to happen. Talk about exciting! The thrill was even better than being on a promise with Eileen Sharpe, a girl with the reputation of never failing to deliver.

      Eileen, he thought lasciviously. I wonder if she’ll still be awake when I get back into town.

      Ralph, tonight’s gaffer, checked his watch. ‘Ten to go,’ he said, twisting in his front passenger seat so he could see his partners in crime. ‘I’m going to run you through it one last time.’

      The guy next to Tony sighed heavily. Tony tried to ignore him. Sam was a miserable bastard at the best of times. His glass was usually empty and never got as much as half full. If you told him he’d just won the pools he’d still find something to moan about.

      ‘When I give the word we put these on,’ said Ralph, handing out black ski masks. ‘Then it’s out of the motor and in through there.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a gate twenty yards ahead, on the other side of the road.

      ‘We follow the track downhill but we don’t walk on it,’ Ralph continued, ‘there are loose stones and all sorts of crap, and we don’t want to be heard. So we stick to the grass instead. Sam, you’re our dog man, so you lead us for that bit.’

      Tony struggled to keep his game face on at that. He didn’t give a toss about their target but wasn’t happy about the dog. He liked dogs and this one hadn’t done anything wrong. Killing it so it didn’t get in the way didn’t seem fair.

      ‘The dog’s old and fucked,’ Ralph enlarged. ‘It’s deaf but it can still bark, so don’t piss-ball about. Get it topped then follow me in through the front door. I take it you all know what happens then.’

      The three in the back muttered confirmation.

      ‘You,’ Ralph turned to the driver, ‘watch us in then drive nice and steadily thataway.’ He pointed straight ahead, towards Ilkley. ‘When you get to that layby wait there for five, then drive back just as steadily and park here. We’ll with you in a few minutes but keep listening and looking. If any bastard comes, drive off before he sees you, all lit up and legal. Lose him then turn round and come back. Got me?’

      ‘I’ve got you.’

      ‘Right then,’ Ralph rechecked his watch, ‘let’s do it.

      Thursday 15th July 1993

      John Hunter groaned as the rattle in his engine changed tune. It sounded even worse than usual, making the Border Collie in the passenger seat give him a funny look.

      ‘Steep hill, this,’ the farmer bluffed. ‘It’ll even out over the tops.’

      Gyp wasn’t convinced.

      ‘Honest Injun, it’ll be purring like a BMW again. You wait and see.’

      John laughed as his dog gave up on him and stuck its head out of the window. Getting some sensible cool air, he supposed, instead of his silly hot air.

      Not that it was cool outside. Summer had arrived at last and the Landy’s bald tyres weren’t rolling along, they were squelching through melting tar. And who was he kidding about purring like a BMW? This old heap never had purred.

      ‘There,’ he said as the road levelled off, ‘told you.’

      Gyp kept his head in the wind and ignored him.

      John kept the worn pedal pressed down and tried to ignore the flickering oil light, as he had been doing for months. Bloody Landy! Every bugger else’s ran forever but this sod had other ideas. And he’d only bought it in 1984. Not ten years past brand-new and already planning treachery. As if he hadn’t enough to worry about.

      ‘Worse things happen at sea, Gyp. That’s what my mother allus used to say. She even said it when Dad caught hissen in the baler. He wasn’t too happy about that observation, I seem to recall.’

      The farmer chuckled to himself then grew serious as the turnoff to Hal’s came into view. Never mind his little worries, worse things were happening at Hal’s. That was why they were here, ready to lose out on a bit of horse-trading, hoping to give the so-and-so a bit of a smile.

      The gate was open. John squelched the Landy off the road and left the engine running while he latched it behind them.

      ‘Between you and me Gyp, Hal’s losing the plot. His missus has left him; up and away with all the kids. Hurt any man, wouldn’t it? What’d we do if Susan and Heather left us? Who’d make us our rabbit stew then, eh?’

      The Border Collie gave him another of his looks.

      ‘I know it’s ridiculous, but it happens. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

      The rutted track wound around one empty field before dipping down past a second. The last of Hal’s cows had gone a fortnight ago but John was still shocked by the loneliness of the place. Pulling up in the farmyard didn’t make him feel any better. Hal’s dog, Laddie, should have been out barking by now. And where were all the hens?

      ‘Stay,’ he said, closing the driver-side door.

      For once Gyp didn’t argue.

      John wasn’t overburdened with imagination. Even so, the deserted farmyard gave him the creeps. Okay, the last farm lad had gone along with all the cows, but it shouldn’t be as quiet as this. Summat should be going on.

      ‘Hal!’ he called, flinching at the sound of his own voice.

      There was no response. John glanced at the Land Rover. There was a shotgun in there. He’d feel happier carrying it, but that’d be daft.

      ‘Hal!’ he called again, getting an echo but no reply.

      No volley of barks, either.

      *****

      John made his way to the farmhouse and went inside without knocking. Downstairs was tidy enough, apart from a newspaper on the kitchen table and washing-up on the draining board. It was very clean washing-up though, so Hal hadn’t lost it altogether. He just hadn’t got round to putting his stuff away. And the paper was last night’s Telegraph & Argus, so he hadn’t gone after the missus. Not unless he had left today and gone shank’s pony; Hal’s Landy (even more of a heap than the Hunter Landy) was out there, parked by the laithe.

      He called his friend’s name again before going upstairs, leaving the obvious place until last, giving everywhere else the quick once-over. Hal had five kids. Three girls shared one spick and span (but now very empty) room. Two boys shared a messy (but now very unlived-in) attic. All was exactly as to be expected.

      John approached the main bedroom and hesitated. If anything had happened in Hal’s sleep, this was where he would be. His hand was trembling as it reached for the handle.

      ‘Don’t be soft,’ he muttered to himself.

      He opened the door and had a look.

      There was nothing to see. The bed was rumpled but unslept in, and definitely not occupied by a dead farmer.

      The trembles became more noticeable. Natural causes would have been bad, but John had ruled them out from the start. Laddie wouldn’t have gone off if there’d been a heart attack or summat. Hal knew they were coming, too. He wouldn’t have gone off either. Not when there was bartering to be done and whisky to seal the deal.

      John rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, suddenly jiggered although he’d barely been up five hours. All farmers were under pressure these days. He was creaking and groaning along with the rest of them, trying to balance reality with the supermarkets’ demands. Slipping a little further into the mire as each season passed. He’d see it through, somehow, but plenty of others had fallen by the wayside.

      The laithe! That’s where they do it, nearly allus.

      As he left the farmhouse Gyp barked to attract his attention. The Border Collie was standing on the driver’s seat, his single front paw on the steering wheel, nose aimed towards the patched-up barn.

      ‘Great minds, eh? Stay there, boy. There’s a good ‘un.’

      The sun was beating down harder than ever. Dust came up off the parched farmyard as John crossed it and pulled open the much-weathered barn door. Immune to the blast of heat and reek of recently-cut (no longer needed hay) he stood a moment, getting used to the light.

      Swiftly wishing he hadn’t.

      Laddie was bundled on the floor, beside a split bale. He’d been decapitated and was lying in a puddle of blood. Flies were feasting on his remains.

      Gyp was barking like crazy when John returned to the Land Rover. He had to yell at the top of his lungs to shut him up.

      ‘Stay,’ he added, when they’d both calmed down a bit. ‘You don’t want to be seeing that.’

      He broke the weapon and loaded both barrels before snapping it shut again.

      ‘I’m not flayed,’ he said to his still-excited dog. ‘But some bugger’s gone mad. Now wait there. I’ll be back soon.’

      The barn door was the sort on runners . . . in this case, rusty and twisted runners. John’s first attempt to open it had only half-succeeded. Covering inside with the shotgun, he used his boot to open it wider.

      ‘Hal?’ he called. Hearing a faint noise from somewhere deep inside, he skirted poor Laddie and turned into a purpose-made aisle between two twenty-foot stacks of bales. Thin shafts of sunlight came in through gaps in the roof. Hal was slumped in the glow of the brightest shaft, propped against one of the wooden struts that supported the south-facing wall, gagged with the sleeve of his own shirt.

      John was beside him in a flash, ripping away the gag.

      ‘Jesus’ sake, Hal,’ he cried, ‘what’s happened?’

      Tears and snot caked the other farmer’s face. He was moaning and didn’t appear to be in any state to reply. John rose to his feet.

      ‘I’ll ring 999.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Me hand,’ Hal jerked his head to one side. ‘Look what the bastards did to me fucking hand.’

      *****

      The damage looked worse than it was. Not that anyone would have swapped places. Not with a man who’d had his hand nailed to a strut.

      It took the end of a crowbar and a delicate touch to get the six-inchers out. John grabbed the litre bottle of Grant’s as he half-carried Hal past the Hunter Landy. For medicinal purposes: Hal’s pain and his own shakes.

      Finally, two glasses inside them, initial first aid out of the way, they faced each other across the kitchen table.

      ‘Are you ready for a brew?’

      Hal nodded so John used the teapot to fill two badly-chipped mugs, adding plenty of sugar and generous splashes of whisky.

      ‘Still no ambulance?’

      ‘No. I’ll be right.’

      ‘Do you want me to ring the police?’

      ‘I said I’ll be right.’

      ‘Okay, you’ll be right.’ John swigged down some of his fortified tea. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

      ‘They killed Laddie.’

      ‘I saw that, but why? And who the hell were they?’

      Hal had swilled his face after bathing his hand. His eyes were still swollen and red though, and talking about his dog was bringing fresh tears.

      ‘There were four of them,’ he said, ‘four of the bastards. They turned up last night, late on; caught me napping.’

      John remembered the open gate. ‘Didn’t you hear them coming down the track?’

      ‘No. I don’t know how they got here, or how they surprised Laddie.’ Hal sniffled. ‘First I knew I had a gun under me chin.’

      ‘Armed then?’

      ‘Two of them had guns. One of the others had a gert big knife. Like a cleaver. Dripping blood it was. They’d come prepared, all right.’

      ‘Robbing farms now, are they?’

      ‘Oh aye,’ Hal snorted. ‘They were after the millions stuffed in me mattress.’

      John tipped more Grant’s into his friend’s half-empty mug.

      ‘Did they get it?’

      ‘Nothing to get, is there?’ Hal wiped his leaky eyes. ‘I’m fucked, John. I can’t keep up with the debts.’

      ‘We’re all in the same boat. Bloody banks! They’ll be charging for fresh air next.’

      ‘These weren’t from WYB.’

      ‘I guessed not. Who were they?’

      ‘They were local lads. I don’t know names.’

      ‘What do you mean, lads?’

      ‘Early twenties, I’d say.’

      John refilled the kettle and put it on the stove, buying time to think.

      ‘This was over an unpaid bill, right?’

      Hal stared at him before answering.

      ‘WYB stopped me writing cheques in January. About the same time me last card stopped working, just afore Mr Taxman wanted his pound of flesh. It’s been hand to mouth ever since.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘So I borrowed from a man down in town. Now he wants it back.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘I’ve had a few threats, but nowt that worried me. I tried to bide it out.’ Hal shook his head. ‘I’m not as tough as I thought. Thank God Gwen didn’t stick around to see this.’

      ‘Listen Hal, you have to go to the police.’

      ‘And tell them what? I’ve blobbed on summat I shouldn’t have had?’

      ‘You can tell them you’ve been brayed. And that they’ve murdered your dog.’

      ‘I don’t even know who they are.’

      ‘You know who lent you the money.’

      ‘It’s not that simple.’ Hal shrugged helplessly. ‘They haven’t started yet. The bastards said I was getting off lightly for now, so I can keep working and repaying. They even made sure I was right-handed afore banging in them nails.’ He waved his bandaged left hand in the air. ‘Next time they’re going to bring bolt cutters for me toes. And jump leads for me balls.’

      ‘That’s all the more reason to tell.’

      ‘I’m not going to the police.’

      ‘Okay,’ said John, ‘why don’t you get your gun? I’ve already got mine. We can go and discuss things with this moneylender. Come to an agreement.’

      ‘I can’t let you get involved. Asides, they know where Gwen is. Any funny business and they’re going for her and the kids.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘What would you do, eh? What if it was your missus?’

      ‘I drive down into town and blow the bastard’s head off.’

      ‘What about his gang of mates?’

      John took the pot and made another brew. This time he tried not to think too much, but couldn’t stop himself.

      ‘This moneylender,’ he resumed. ‘They wouldn’t call him Dwyer, would they?’

      Hal’s jerky reaction answered the question.

      ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Sean Dwyer?’

      ‘Not you an’ all?’

      ‘No. Not anymore.’

      Hal reached for his mug then took a diversion to the whisky bottle. ‘So,’ he said after significantly strengthening his tea, ‘you know him?’

      ‘I borrowed a few quid last year, paid it back a month later. He seemed decent enough.’

      ‘Decent enough,’ Hal waved his bandages again. ‘He might be decent when you keep to your instalments.’

      ‘How far behind are you?’

      ‘Don’t ask.’

      ‘I’ll help if I can. God knows, I’m struggling myself, but I won’t stand by.’

      ‘You can’t.’ Hal’s eyes were leaking again; seeing him like that made John’s blood boil.

      ‘Yes I can,’ he said firmly.

      ‘There’s no point, I’m in too deep. The bank’s after me an’ all. This place will be gone soon.’

      ‘So it’s more than a few quid?’

      ‘It’s thousands, not hundreds.’

      ‘You haven’t gone and mortgaged your granddad’s farm?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ Hal added even more Grant’s. ‘That’s what WYB want me to do. Clear what I owe to them through a mortgage. Borrow a bit more on top; so I can freshen things up a bit and buy missen a few new beasts.’

      ‘What’s stopping you?’

      ‘I can’t pay Dwyer’s instalments. How the hell can I pay a mortgage?’

      ‘You can try. A new herd of cows will only help.’

      ‘That’s the way Silas went, afore he hanged himself.’

      ‘Silas tried too much, too fast. You’re not gambling.’

      ‘No? Would you start from scratch right now, with twenty-five years of mortgage hanging around your neck?’

      ‘What’s the alternative? Giving in?’

      ‘The farm’s not good for building,’ Hal said, staring down at the table. ‘But I’ve had an offer. Some fancy dan wants to open a B&B.’

      ‘Jesus.’

      ‘It’s selling out, I know. And he’s offering bugger all, just enough to get the creditors off me back.’

      ‘Including Dwyer?’

      ‘Yes, including Dwyer.’

      ‘What then?’

      ‘Tent in a field and labouring, I suppose. I’m no good for owt else.’

      ‘Hal, take the mortgage. Forget what I said about your granddad. In your position he’d go for the mortgage every time. So would your dad.’

      ‘I know. But there’s a problem, isn’t there? How can I ever sleep here again? Land’s poisoned for good now, isn’t it?’

      PART ONE

      May to October 1995

      I believe it is peace for our time.

      We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

      Go home and get a nice quiet sleep.

      Neville Chamberlain

      Chapter One

      Saturday 6th May 1995

      ‘Woman is hurrying us to Armageddon!’

      The street preacher could have stepped straight out of The Life of Brian. He had long, wild hair and even wilder eyes. His clothes were expensive and clean but hung unkempt on his gangly frame. He was unshaven and gesticulating like a madman. In fact he might as well have tattooed prophet of doom on his forehead and hung a sign around his neck announcing the end is nigh. Yet for all that, there was something compelling about him.

      It must be his voice, Samantha thought, because it’s certainly not his looks.

      ‘Call her Goddess of the South Wind! Call her Queen of the Succubae! She’s been playing the same games since time began! And now Man is standing back and watching as the whore straddles her scarlet beast and rides hard for Megiddo!’

      Powerful stuff, whatever it was supposed to mean.

      Samantha had been listening a while and was losing track. If she’d ever been on track to start with, that was. As far as she could tell, the wild-eyed man was laying blame for every ill on Equality. Apparently Equality was only a first step and Woman’s ultimate aim was the destruction of everything.

      Like sincerely!

      The prophet was one of four preachers in Darley Street that fine May afternoon. And he was winning the competition. The four were much of a muchness but he was the only one holding an audience for minutes on end.

      If it’s not his voice, perhaps it’s that gigantic wooden cross. Samantha couldn’t help smiling. That is one heck of a prop!

      Samantha Rodgers wasn’t in anybody’s audience. She was queuing for the cash point and it was taking forever. A coachload of little old ladies must have arrived just before she had. Two of them had carefully got their money and five more were still there at the front of the queue. Not that she really minded waiting. The weather was lovely and age was a fact of life, wasn’t it? Even that miserable girl chuntering away behind her would one day wake up, wrinkled and doddery.

      She smiled to herself once more. This part of Bradford was always good for people-watching. Some had not one second to spare while others had all the time in the world to stand and listen or queue. As it was a match day quite a few claret and amber football shirts were mixed in with the shoppers and idlers. The football shirts were mostly drifting uphill, towards Valley Parade, although plenty were stopping off at the burger stand, seductively sited on this unofficial Speakers’ Corner.

      The smell of frying onions could have driven her crazy if she let it. How easy it would be to forget she’d already eaten and munch a jumbo hotdog. But she had already eaten and there was a big night ahead. Pub discos always meant late finishes and silly amounts to drink. And, unlike some, she had to watch her figure.

      Her smile became wry as she edged a few more inches towards the cash point. She was glad her (usually) adorable husband had carried on playing football beyond the scary age of thirty. He worked too hard and needed the distraction as much as the exercise. The social side was good too, for her as well as him. The only cloud on that horizon had been the emergence of a rival . . . and a sexy one at that.

      No, she was a very, very sexy rival.

      Her name was Penelope but everyone called her Penny. Penelope was going out with one of Geoff’s teammates but hadn’t let minor details like that get in her way. Oh no, Penelope had set her cap at Geoff, make no mistake. She never missed the chance to have a good flirt.

      Flirt? She was practically stalking him.

      Samantha had to chuckle. Okay, so she was exaggerating, but Penelope really was relentless. With kids to worry about, Mummy had long since given up watching the matches herself, turning up to collect Geoff later instead, after he’d had a few beers. This season it had been the same story every week. Before she walked into the crowded taproom she could have guaranteed that Penelope would be cozied up close, batting her lashes and hanging on Geoff’s every word, being pretty and desirable and obviously ready for anything . . . the little minx.

      Needless to say, Penelope was drop-dead gorgeous. She had short, chestnut-coloured hair, beautiful deep blue eyes and a body most girls would die for. She also wasn’t such a little minx; she had incredibly long legs and the world’s cutest bum. And she was a whole four years younger.

      It would have been quite easy to despise her.

      *****

      The queue for cash was down to the last little old lady. She had to be in her nineties but her fingers were fairly flying over the PIN pad. She didn’t look like she’d take very long at all. Samantha shuffled forward until she was a polite distance from the screen. The rest of the queue shuffled after her, Miss Misery Guts still chuntering.

      How can she be such a wet blanket on a day like this? Don’t say she’s got a relentless rival too!

      Samantha chuckled softly. The most recent football disco had been at Easter. For a while before then, since the Big New Year Bash or possibly even the Bonfire Night Bonanza, Geoff and Penelope had been sneaking a slow dance or two, when the smooches started. Samantha had been turning a blind eye to this sneakiness, pretending she was above petty jealousy. She’d even declined her own invitations to dance, not wanting to seem to compete. The Easter Extravaganza had been different though. Everyone had been three parts sozzled and the smooching went on so long it would’ve been rude to opt out.

      Not that she’d opted for Geoff. Without sparing him a glance she had got close and personal with several others, most memorably Mitch, this year’s captain, who she had danced with for ages.

      Just thinking about Mitch gave Samantha a shiver. She’d let him kiss her lots of times and hadn’t complained when she’d felt his very hard hard-on, only separated from her trembling tummy by two thin sets of clothing. She’d even been tempted when he suggested they slipped outside. She’d said no, of course (she wouldn’t really cheat any more than Geoff would) but it was good to know a young stud like Mitch found her so attractive.

      Good? Make that stimulating. She’d been one hundred per cent faithful from the day she’d met her husband-to-be. At Easter, however, if she’d been the teeniest bit less grown-up, or ever so slightly drunker . . .

      ‘That man doesn’t know what he’s saying.’ The last little old lady nodded towards the prophet of doom. She finished tucking money into her purse and turned to Samantha, her eyes bright and sharp.

      ‘My best friend made a mistake when she was seventeen,’ she went on, ignoring a dramatic sigh from Misery Guts. ‘She trusted a boy and he put her in the family way. She wasn’t married so they put her in an asylum and took away her baby. Drove her stark staring mad, it did. She died on her twenty-first birthday. And he complains about Equality.’

      ‘That’s awful,’ said Samantha. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Don’t be sorry; you just do your bit to make sure we never go back to the Dark Ages. I used to idolize Emily Davison and Emmeline Pankhurst. If they were here today they’d smack that silly man’s face. I’m going now, before I do it myself.’

      Samantha put her card in the cash machine and entered her PIN. She had only intended to draw enough for the babysitter and the odd round of drinks. In the spirit of egalitarianism she took out sixty pounds and headed off up the hill. She was going to buy that ridiculously daring top after all. Okay, so she might not have the sylphlike curves of young Penelope, but she wasn’t bad for a mother of three. And, while Penelope was relatively modest in the chest department, her own décolletage wasn’t far short of magnificent. If tonight came down to a chest contest, there was only going to be one winner.

      Well, two actually, and both of them hers.

      Her foot was physically on the Kirkgate Centre steps when she heard someone shouting about the T&A. He looked like a Big Issue seller who’d fallen on hard times and was almost impossible to understand, possibly because he didn’t have any teeth. But she could translate receivership and West Yorkshire and felt obliged to investigate. Geoff took a keen interest in local business affairs; articles about receiverships were compulsive reading for him. He’d almost certainly already know about this one but, with it being the weekend, there was just a chance he didn’t.

      Samantha had a fifty pence coin in her jacket pocket. Turning away from the shopping centre, never suspecting this was the worst snap decision she would ever make, she fished it out and weaved through the throng.

      Higher up Darley Street, before it became pedestrianized, there was a small commotion but nobody paid particular attention. More shouting only added to the general hustle and bustle.

      ‘Keep the change,’ Samantha said. The T&A seller didn’t look as if he’d intended to give change anyway. He grunted something without looking at her.

      The full headline took up plenty of front page; it read:

      RECEIVER APPOINTED

      AT LOW MOOR FIRM

      SIXTY JOBS AT RISK

      Samantha didn’t recognize the firm’s name but it sounded important. And the appointment had been made late yesterday, so Geoff probably had missed it after all. Pleased with herself, she set off to get that top.

      Suddenly chaos! The first man came careering at her out of nowhere. She barely had chance to register him before she realized he was being chased. He was also running downhill so fast that he was out of control. Still holding the newspaper, she thrust out her hands to fend him away.

      Then everything went into slow motion. She saw the line of red roses appear across the first man’s chest before she heard something too soft and plasticky to possibly be gunshots.

      A film, she thought instantly. They must be making a film.

      And the special effects were astounding. They’d even managed to drill three neat little holes through her Telegraph & Argus. How on earth did they do that?

      She was still wondering as she fell to the ground.

      *****

      Dinger and his mates weren’t wearing replica shirts or any other giveaways. They were smart-casual and didn’t stand out as they headed for the City match . . . via another boozer or two, naturally. The game today was low category but, like all those Welshmen, they lived in Hope. Even now, at a just about meaningless end-of-season fixture, there was always a chance of catching some away fans en route to the ground.

      Particularly in the pubs they were going in.

      The shooting took them by surprise. They were used to daily violence but normally the heavy stuff happened in less public places. Like everyone else, their instinct was to hit the deck and keep their heads down. The everyday street sounds had given way to screams and cries of outrage.

      ‘He’s hit that woman!’ Zed was as outraged as anyone. ‘What a fucking twat!’

      The gunman had turned away from his two victims and was strutting back uphill. He obviously didn’t give a toss about the innocent bystander and even less about witnesses.

      ‘Let’s get the fucker,’ Speed yelled.

      Zed and Speed took off without further ado. Dinger scrambled to his feet and ran after them. He was up for this. With any luck they could catch the bastard, stamp his head in and still make it to The Cartwright for more beer before kick-off.

      Something, probably Zed’s crazy roaring, made the gunman look over his shoulder. He didn’t seem so cocky when he saw three fired-up headcases on his arse. Dropping the strut he bolted left into Godwin Street. The three mates hared on behind, twenty-odd yards between him and them.

      ‘Get the fucker,’ Speed yelled again.

      ‘War! War! War!’ Zed bellowed.

      There was the usual line of vehicles queuing to get into the multi-storey. The gunman ran to the front of the queue and darted into the entrance. By the time Dinger got there, very few seconds later, he was at the top of the entrance ramp, waving the weapon at his pursuers.

      ‘Fuck off,’ the gunman shouted. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

      ‘I know you’re fucking dead,’ Speed shouted back.

      This brought a burst of fire that missed Speed but got the windscreen of the first car waiting at the barrier.

      ‘Shit!’ cried the man behind the steering wheel, clutching his belly.

      ‘He’s out of ammo,’ Dinger said. ‘I heard it clicking.’

      ‘I’m gonna make him eat that fucking shooter,’ Zed snarled. ‘He just made it personal.’

      They rounded the barrier and sprinted after the gunman. Firing at them had increased his lead but it was easy to follow the sound of his running footsteps as he worked his way, level by level, to the rooftop parking area.

      ‘Watch the ramp,’ Dinger barked at Zed. ‘Speed, you watch the lifts. Let’s corner the bastard.’

      ‘War,’ Zed bellowed. ‘War! War! War!’

      *****

      What a showing up. I must have fainted. Thank God Becky isn’t here. She’d be so embarrassed.

      Samantha was lying on her back on the pavement, a circle of gaping faces above her. Sirens were blaring in the distance. Surely not for me, she hoped. Apart from the sirens it was eerily quiet, as if something major had occurred. It was almost a relief to hear the prophet of doom; he was carrying on regardless in the background.

      ‘This time the whore-queen has produced more than a swarm of demons! This time she’s whored with Samael and produced a beast all of her own!’

      Samantha tried to get up but nothing happened. She couldn’t move anything.

      ‘Easy now,’ a gentle voice said.

      At least her eyes still worked. She rolled them to her right and saw a kindly-looking girl in her early twenties.

      ‘I want to get up.’ Samantha was surprised she sounded so feeble. She didn’t feel feeble, she felt quite normal; unable to move just about every last muscle, but otherwise normal.

      ‘Please don’t try,’ the kindly girl said. ‘You’ve been badly hurt. We don’t want it to get any worse, do we?’

      ‘Hurt? How can I have been hurt?’

      ‘You’ve been shot. But don’t worry, I’m a nurse. I’m taking care of you.’

      ‘It was a film, wasn’t it?’ Samantha noticed the girl was covered with blood. She was pressing a folded jacket against her newest patient, trying to plug holes. Samantha tried to say something else but her mouth filled with hot, coppery liquid.

      My children! Oh dear God, my children!

      Suddenly it was impossible to cough or swallow. The nurse helped Samantha turn her head a little and the hot stuff trickled out over her chin. More blood, she realized with the tiniest of jolts. Lots more blood. She must be leaking pints and pints of it . . . and all the colour was fading out of the world.

      ‘Is that . . . is it mine?’ Her voice was weaker than ever now. She already sounded like a ghost.

      The nurse glanced at the gore on her hands and clothes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be all right. We’ll replace it when we get you to hospital. It won’t be long now. Please try to put up with the pain just a little longer.’

      ‘I don’t have any pain. That’s not good, is it?’

      ‘Don’t worry, darling. Please . . . please don’t worry.’ The nurse stayed professional but wasn’t much more than a child herself. Her smile faltered and there was a hint of desperation as she raised her voice and asked if there was a doctor to hand.

      There wasn’t. The circle of faces stood firm over them, awesomely silent. The sirens blared closer. Somewhere, not far away, a baby was crying. Back down the hill the prophet ranted on.

      ‘Samael’s bastard has seven heads and scales of steel! He breathes fire and preaches love, yet no man recognizes him for what he is!’

      Dear God, Samantha prayed, if You are taking me now, please watch over Sandy and Becky and Jamie. Please give Geoff the strength to carry on. He loves the children as much as I do. All he needs is guidance. He’ll always do the right thing, just so long as You tell him what he has to do.

      There was still no pain. And that feeling . . . it wasn’t a normal feeling after all. It was a nothing. Her circuits were disconnecting and shutting down.

      ‘Stay with me!’ The nurse was shaking her arm. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. You really must stay awake. The paramedics will be here any second. You’ve got to fight to stay with me. Fight it. Please, darling, fight it.’

      Samantha’s lungs were next on the shutdown list. Perhaps they were full of blood, drowning her. Drowning was supposed to be just like slipping off to sleep, wasn’t it? And she’d never felt so sleepy before, not ever. Her eyelids had lead weights attached to them.

      ‘Fight it! Please darling, fight it!’

      Samantha simply couldn’t. All her fight had gone. She made one final effort, concentrating as fiercely as she could on the children and Geoff, but it was no good. Even her brain was shutting down now.

      Tears were streaking the nurse’s face. Her professional smile had become an anguished grimace.

      ‘This film . . .’ Samantha murmured. ‘I can’t . . .’

      ‘Stay awake, darling . . . darling? Talk to me, please . . .’

      *****

      They hadn’t needed to trap the gunman; he managed that all by himself. He must have thought there was another way into the shopping centre. Or maybe he was just stupid. Whatever, as soon as he hit sunshine at the top of the final ramp he headed for the most remote corner and took shelter behind a Mondeo.

      Dinger stopped about thirty paces away and waved up Zed and Speed. There was no need for them to guard exits now; all they had to worry about was that gun.

      ‘What are we waiting for?’ said Speed. ‘Let’s be having him.’

      ‘He’s reloaded,’ said Dinger. ‘And I left my flak jacket at home.’

      ‘What are we going to do, then? Starve him out?’

      ‘Hold on, I’m thinking.’

      Dinger frowned. Like the rest of the multi-storey, the open air level was rammed with parked cars, but they were useless as cover. Stupid or not, the bastard could see the enemy from under them and through their windows. This was going to take brain, not brawn.

      Not that everyone appreciated that.

      ‘For fuck’s sake,’ the gunman yelled. ‘What’s this got to do with you? Why don’t you piss off and leave me alone?’

      ‘Because I wanna kick your head in,’ Speed replied before charging.

      Dinger was too late to stop him. He could only watch as the gunman popped up like an evil jack-in-the-box, firing four times at his would-be attacker, bringing him down. Then something silver was flashing through the air. Zed had ripped a wing mirror off a nearby Vectra and pegged it hard at the murderous twat. His aim was good but not deadly. Worst luck. The wing mirror gave the gunman a glancing blow, sending him scrambling back out of sight without stunning him.

      ‘Wait, just wait a minute.’ Dinger pulled Zed behind a row of vehicles. Speed was lying out in the open, holding his leg and cursing bitterly. He could only have been hit once; Dinger had heard the other three bullets ricocheting away. And there was only one pool of blood; a medium-sized one that didn’t look life-threatening . . . yet.

      ‘Break off more wing mirrors,’ he ordered. ‘The bastard’s switched to single shot. He must be running low. I want you to cover me while I get Speed.’

      ‘That’s a fucking ace idea!’ Zed started ripping.

      The rescue only lasted moments but seemed to take forever. Dinger’s heart was in his mouth all the way. Although he would never admit it, he almost shat himself. There was none of the adrenalin rush he got fighting Huddersfield or Leeds. No natural coolness under fire, just a mad dash, muscles burning, fingers scrabbling frantically for a grip on Speed’s clothes.

      Two shots: one pinging off the tarmac by his feet, the other parting the short bristles on his skull.

      Then Zed was filling the sky with mirrors, the shooting stopped abruptly and Speed was bouncing as he was dragged to safety.

      ‘Fucking surrender,’ Zed bawled. ‘Or come out and fight.’

      ‘Just fuck off! Leave me alone!’

      ‘His gun’s empty,’ Zed said to Dinger. ‘Let’s get him.’

      ‘Let’s not,’ said a new voice.

      Even Speed looked round and joined in the general groan when he saw who’d arrived. Bobby Roberts was one of the spotters for troublemakers at City matches, home and away. They knew each other of old. Over the years they had played a sometimes grim, sometimes hilarious version of hide-and-seek from Newcastle to Plymouth.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ Dinger snapped.

      ‘Checking nicked wing mirrors.’ Roberts laughed as he crouched beside them, like one of the gang. To be fair, he looked the part. He was dressed as if he was out on the ale and didn’t have the obligatory copper’s tash.

      ‘Sounds about right,’ Zed snarled.

      ‘Chill,’ said Roberts. ‘I was joking. We’re on the same side for once. We’re just taking over before you two get shot up as well. We can’t afford any more compensation.’

      About a million uniforms were flooding the area now, some of them armed.

      ‘Will I have a compo claim?’ Speed had quickly got over the trauma of taking a hit. ‘Nice one!’

      Dinger felt distinctly cheated as he and Zed were bundled away from the action, leaving their mate grinning as he waited for his stretcher. Someone with a megaphone was already addressing the gunman, attempting to strike up an accord. This encouraged the gunman to climb onto the multi-storey wall and threaten to jump. Seemed he was less afraid of being exposed to trained marksmen than Zed’s mirrors.

      A crowd had gathered in the street below. Flatfooted officers were holding everybody back, creating a space to catch the potential jumper. Roberts took Dinger and Zed inside the cordon and stood with them, making sure they kept out of the way while the catchers got themselves organized.

      ‘What happened to the woman?’ Zed asked.

      ‘She didn’t make it.’

      ‘What a fucking bastard!’

      ‘He’s flipped,’ Roberts agreed. ‘Two murdered in broad daylight . . . another critical. Attempts on you three .

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1