(15th August 1988)
There had been a lot of bad in Huyton’s twenty-five years; lots and lots of bad. Usually he was on the giving end, though. He’d never been hit with a baseball bat before. And it hurt. Thank fuck the little twat had aimed for his shoulder instead of his head.
One to the head and I might well be dead, he thought. Then, chuckling in spite of everything, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.
All the time I think in rhyme.
‘Move it,’ Little Twat snarled, ‘Unless you want another.’
For once compliant, in agony and unable to move his arm, Huyton allowed himself to be bundled into the back of a van and driven away.
Jesus, this was not in the plan!
Favouring his undamaged right side he tried to sit up, only to be met with kick from a brand-new Nike.
‘Keep down, arsehole,’ a different voice said. The speaker was young but heavy on the Yorkshire accent.
Huyton kept down. He hadn’t previously taken notice but, now he’d had a look-see, he found he was not alone. He had company. Two white lads, in their late teens or early twenties, at a guess. One of them was the twat with the baseball bat. The other one . . . the one with the zits . . . had a handgun.
Normally odds of two-to-one wouldn’t have bothered Huyton. Sadly, the circumstances were not normal. He was rendered almost blind by pain, physically handicapped and flat on his arse. While he wasn’t scared of the gun, the last thing he needed was another belt from that bat.
Who in hell are they, he wondered, local vigilantes?
He hadn’t an answer to his own question. They weren’t undercover bizzies, he was sure of that. A plod wouldn’t have belted him from behind; not with so many witnesses around, anyway.
Huyton cursed. His lifestyle had given him a nervous disposition; he wasn’t usually the sort to be taken unawares. Usually he could sense danger and avoid it before it happened. But not today; today he’d been taken for a muppet and sewn up like a kipper. There he’d been, out in broad daylight, minding his own business, shaking down a few Asian dealers . . .
Next thing he knew he’d been clobbered by someone who fancied himself as Babe Ruth.
The journey was not a long one. After only a few minutes the van pulled up and the engine died. Doors opened and slammed as the guys in the front got out.
‘Stay where you are,’ Zitface commanded.
Huyton wanted to rip the bastard’s head off but common sense prevailed. He stayed where he was and tried to identify the gun. Unless he was very much mistaken, it was the ever-popular Browning HP. Ever-popular in his bit of Merseyside, anyway. Obviously the Yorkies had a liking for the Hi-Power too.
Someone thumped on the van’s panelling and yelled, ‘Wakey-wakey, we’re here!’ Then the rear doors opened to reveal a small crowd. Others must have been already there, waiting for them. Wherever they were.
‘Get up real slow,’ said Zitface.
Seriously outnumbered, seeing no alternative, Huyton hauled himself upright, his left arm singing Ave Maria. He reckoned it was gradually getting better, but in no hurry to make a full recovery.
Zitface waved the gun at him. ‘Let’s go see Charlie,’ he said. ‘He’s got a new shirt waiting for you.’
*****
Sean grinned down into the face of the woman under him. Sally was old enough to be his mother. She could have done with losing a few pounds but she had great tits and a pretty face. And boy, could she fuck!
Yes, he thought, yes she could!
Just shy of his twentieth birthday, Sean had had a lot of experience with “ladies”. In fact he was renowned for being up for fresh fanny when and wherever opportunity knocked. And he wasn’t too fussy about “fresh” or “wherever”. He claimed he preferred younger women but had never been known to turn down an older one. The older ones were always hungry for cock. Hungry? No, some of them were ravenous. Like this one. Like . . . what’s her name again . . . Sally. Sally was as ravenous as anybody he’d ever met. It would be rude to let her down, wouldn’t it?
Sean’s ego was such that he’d forgotten how and why they’d got together. Later, in the pub, when he was telling everyone about his dazzling “swordsmanship”, he’d claim it was all down to his irresistible charm. In truth charm had been only a tiny part of it: Sally was fucking him for coke.
‘Yes,’ he grunted, firing into her, never pausing to wonder if pregnancy was still a possibility. Not for one second thinking about anything but firing and firing and firing. Then, registering her lack of orgasm, he grinned again. She’d be supposing she’d had her lot, game over player one. Hadn’t she got a surprise in store!
Quickly recovering his rhythm he produced his party trick and carried on . . . and on and on and on, without needing to rest. Driving his rock-hard cock into her again and again, enjoying the feel of her and the increasingly wet sounds of sex.
And he wasn’t the only one enjoying it. Sally was thrusting back at him more energetically than ever. ‘Brilliant,’ she gasped, ‘don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.’
Sean had no intention of stopping. Naturally gifted, he could go on like this all day. Come to that, he could go a lot more vigorously and keep on all day. For him, in situations like this, to think was to act. Gritting his teeth, he pushed in more strongly, at the same time ever-so-slightly upping speed.
‘Fuck me,’ Sally yelled. Then, vigorously cumming beneath him, ‘yes, fuck me! Fuck me!! Fuck me!!!’
Ever the gent, he obliged.
*****
The van was parked on an expanse of bare earth behind a massive old mill building. Like really dead massive. Its original purpose served, the mill yard had now been split into several lots, most of them currently vacant. Not this one, however. It was being used as a scrapyard. There were piles of junked motors everywhere, guarded by the world’s biggest Alsatian, thankfully fastened onto the end of a long chain.
‘Mind the dog,’ said Little Twat, sniggering.
‘Wouldn’t want you getting hurt,’ Zitface added. ‘Not yet.’
Huyton let himself be led across the yard. Well, he had the shooter pressed up against his spine, so perhaps “let” wasn’t strictly accurate. It was more a case of having no say in the matter. He still wasn’t afraid, not exactly, but he was wondering what the fuck was going on. Wild thoughts were swirling inside his head. That mention of a “new shirt” was ringing alarm bells, but he didn’t know why.
There was a dilapidated old portacabin standing by the mill. It looked as if it was propped against the wall for support. Zitface told Huyton to go inside so he did, and was surprised to find a smart interior consisting of just one room. He was also disturbed to see a long, bench-like desk and as many as a dozen chairs, set out in a rough semi-circle around the perimeter. Another solitary chair had been placed smack-bang in the middle of the carpeted floor.
A ravaged-faced man was sitting on the desk, idly swinging his feet. ‘Ah,’ he said in greeting, ‘you must be The Accused.’
Huyton had been in plenty of courtrooms over the years. He recognized the set up in a flash. And those alarm bells were ringing louder and louder.
‘Come on in, lads,’ the ravaged-faced man went on. ‘Take a seat.’
Most of the crowd did as requested but Little Twat and Zitface held position behind Huyton, gun barrel in spine, bat presumably out and ready for action.
‘Charlie, let me prosecute this one,’ said Little Twat. ‘It’s my turn.’
‘Fair enough,’ said the man on the desk. ‘You can be Mr Prosecutor today. Did you frisk him?’
‘Yeah; he only had this.’
The lad was holding up Huyton’s favourite weapon: a silver hammer. In his agony he hadn’t been able to stop it being confiscated. Now the sight of it made him sigh. He wasn’t a sentimental guy but he loved that hammer. He’d got it from a fence who swore it was the one that inspired the old Beatles’ song. It wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t even made of silver. But it didn’t half feel good when he banged it down on some fucker’s head.
‘Must be the Liverpool in him.’ Charlie grinned. ‘Okay, son, I’m going to give you a choice. Sit or be nailed to the floor. What’s your poison?’
Oh fuck, thought Huyton as realization dawned, this crazy bastard thinks he’s Charlie Richardson.
*****
Pat was spending the afternoon in a similar manner to his lifelong crony. The difference was that he wouldn’t be bragging about his prowess later. He’d been making love, for one thing, not simply fucking. And, for another, his “older woman” was not one to brag about. Not with her being Sean’s sister.
Now, lying back and smoking a post-coital cig, he marvelled at the way they’d been carrying on. It had been two years and Sean still hadn’t a clue. Sean, the man who thought he knew everything about everyone in these parts.
Pat had known DeeDee almost as long as he’d known Sean. Their families had been next-door neighbours for ever and a day. Sean had been his very first playmate. And they’d bonded right from the off. By the time they began primary school they were already firm friends. That friendship continued all the way through the educational system . . . until Sean got himself booted out of the fifth form . . . and it would continue until one of them died. Theirs had been an ever-changing friendship, though; it certainly hadn’t stood still.
DeeDee had always been there in the background, throughout all their childhood. In fact she’d been as much of a big sister to him as she had been to Sean. Except he’d sometimes listened to her well-meaning advice; Sean never did.
Pat grinned as the lady in question took the cigarette from his hand and used it to light another for him. As a boy he’d admired DeeDee without even once looking at her sexually. She really had been like one of his fraternal sisters: friendly, beautiful and completely out-of-bounds. Then, one night in 1986 . . .
DeeDee had been at university but was back to attend a friend’s birthday party, held at the rugby club. He’d been doing extra training because competition for his treasured position at loosehead had been getting fierce. Strictly speaking, their paths shouldn’t have crossed on an occasion like that. Partygoers were expected to stick to the function room; club members and players were supposed to keep out of their way. But things never went exactly to plan, did they?
We were destined, he thought, never mind “paths crossed”.
It was fair to say Dee had been pleased to see him. If he remembered correctly she’d been done up to the nines. And she’d practically stuck her tits in his face when saying hello. That was probably the moment he first noticed her as a woman, come to think about it.
Anyway, after re-introducing herself outside the ladies’, she’d shown no intention of re-joining her mates, abandoning them and joining him in the Committee Room instead, obviously happy to be surrounded by would-be-colts and older players and ex-players.
Being courteous as well as the next-door neighbour, he’d offered to see her home. And he hadn’t protested when she suggested they stopped off for sex. Not just once, either. Firstly on the rugby pitch of Bingley Grammar's arch rivals, Beckfoot. Secondly, again at her instigation, about three minutes further along their way. And finally, acting on an impulse of his own, he'd picked her up in his strong, prop forward’s arms and taken her vigorously against the wall of a snicket, maybe two hundred yards from their homes.
‘What are you giggling about?’
‘Happy memories of being an eighteen-year-old,’ he replied, blowing smoke rings.
‘About me, I hope.’
‘Oh yes,’ he assured her. ‘I only ever have happy memories about you.’
*****
By the time Sally cried “enough” Sean had lost count of all the cums. She’d beat him four-to-one, he reckoned, but as to an actual final score . . .
‘I need the loo,’ he announced. ‘Then it’s up to you whether I stay or go.’
Sally laughed. ‘I said I was paying you with an afternoon in bed. It’s early, yet. And you’re still up and proud, aren’t you? Make sure you don’t pee on my bathroom ceiling.’
‘I won’t,’ he assured her. ‘And I’ll be back, ready for more. Like I said, the rest is up to you.’
Strutting naked into the bathroom he wondered at the nature of women. A mate of his regularly compared them to typhoons. “They turn up all hot and wet,’ he maintained, ‘and when they leave they take away your house and car.” Not that anything like that would ever happen to Sean. And not that he’d ever pay for it in any way: not by cash and definitely not by marriage. That much said, the idea of a woman paying him with her body was another thing altogether.
When he returned Sally was snorting through a rolled-up tenner.
‘Hey,’ he cried, ‘I thought your baggie was for a party.’
‘I needed a hit,’ she replied. ‘And it’s just a small one.’
‘So am I staying or what?’
Sally looked up and devoured him with her eyes. No way had her hit been “just a small one”. ‘Get on that bed,’ she commanded. ‘I’m going to show you what fucking is all about.’
‘Okay,’ he replied, smirking, ‘if you insist.’