Best Served Cold Page 5

  ‘I'm glad we don't own that fucker,’ Andy said as Sean quickly played up to the thirty-five pound prize.

  Sean grunted as the red lights changed to wildly flashing white lights and three JACKPOT symbols rolled crazily into place on the win line. Before his second spin he got the chance of a repeat win, with a light moving rapidly and randomly over eight squares, some marked REPEAT, the others SPIN. More out of habit than in any hope, he pressed the CANCEL button and was surprised when the light slowed right down, making it easy for him to stop it on a REPEAT.

  Wildly flashing white lights as the bank absorbed the new win, moving Sean’s balance up to seventy pounds.

  Andy had picked up an old-fashioned barrelled glass with a handle. He stood beside his gaffer as he got his next chance to REPEAT or SPIN.

  ‘That never happens twice,’ he said.

  And he was right: the CANCEL button didn't help this time and, try as he might, Sean could only stop the light on SPIN. He laughed at himself for even thinking about the possibility of another jackpot . . . then blinked as three double bars landed in a line. Fifteen pound win, gamble on a 4. Fuck that. He collected and, in the absence of a HOLD, started his fourth game. Three single bars landed this time. A ten pound win, gamble on a 7. He fished out another pound coin and put it in the machine, giving him ten games all told.

  Games five to eight followed a similar trend: reasonable-sized wins with unattractive gambles which Sean didn't take up. Game nine produced three cherries (a mere one pound win), with a gamble on a 2. Sean gambled higher and lost, then launched game ten. The tinny wheels rolled and stopped as far as possible away from any sort of win.

  ‘Fruit salad,’ Andy said, laughing, ‘time to quit while you’re ahead.’

  The bank now held a hundred and twenty-two pounds. Sean collected it and piled the avalanche of pound coins into the barrelled glass.

  ‘What a fucking world this is. If my mum had had half that luck, there wouldn't have been any head-on.’

  ‘I'll swap you this lot for notes.’

  ‘No,’ Sean said quickly, ‘I don't want it. Leave it behind the bar. Get yourself a drink out of it. And get all the lads their first pints for the next day or two.’ He paused a second before going on: ‘And tell Marco thanks, but no thanks. I'm going on the Bar Snack and Whisky Diet for a while.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Andy. ‘You'll find plenty of snacks by the whisky. All you need is a jug of fresh water . . . which is coming right up . . . and you're set.’ He hesitated. ‘I've got Hayley taking over at four. Shall I join you? Or would you rather be left alone?’

  ‘Join me,’ said Sean. ‘I'll be all right for a couple of hours and then I'll start to go mental if I don't have someone to talk to.’

  “The Meeting Room” was a converted storeroom Sean used as his office. When he went in he found Andy hadn't skimped. As well as four bottles of Johnnie Walker, he'd laid on a couple of dozen packets of crisps, ten packets each of salted and dry roasted peanuts, a handful of packets of Mini Cheddars and at least a crate of pork scratchings. Sean ripped open two packets of Green Top before unscrewing the lid of the first bottle and pouring himself a large drink.

  Christ, he thought, I wish Anne-Marie was here.

  But she’d graduated and moved away more than a year ago. He couldn't depend on her saving him from the black dog this time. In fact he knew he’d never see her again, even though she had promised otherwise. In his heart she was gone. The paths of their lives had touched then parted.

  And, although he knew her youth and intelligence had had to move her on, it still didn't feel fair.

  Why did fate give me just one, too brief moment with a sweet girl like that? Why when, at the same time, it keeps me banging heads again and again with that cunt Williamson?

  The more he thought about it the more convinced he was. For him at least, fate did not exist. No, in his case he was just a plaything of a whole mob of gods, some who liked him, some who hated him, but most who were just bored and amused themselves by pushing him to extremes. Like in one of those old films, where they created triumphs and disasters for a mere mortal, just to work off their own frustrations.

  Trouble was, to him it wasn't so much being pushed to extremes; it was more like being torn between extremes . . . as though they had him tied between two bent palm trees or four wild horses.

  Right then he felt like getting tooled and doing a Michael Ryan up and down Main Street. Slaughtering dozens of people like that wouldn't bother him any more than ordering Bunny Burrows' murder had ever bothered him. In fact it would be fucking brilliant, on a par with that massacre in Shipley. If he thought for one second he could get away with it . . .

  Chapter Four

  (Wednesday 2nd April 2008)

  Vic had gone quiet after their synchronized giggles. ‘I saw Jack the Hat the other day,’ she resumed unexpectedly, ‘from a distance, of course. I don’t think he’s too bad a gangster.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s a very good gangster,’ Heather replied. ‘Just like the ones your dad knows in Islington. I bet he loves his mum and only ever eats pie and mash. Plus the obligatory jellied eels, naturally . . . a real prince amongst gangsters.’

  ‘I’m being serious, Hev. I can’t believe there are any really horrible gangsters in Bingley. And Jack the Hat's got his good points, anyway. If I ever get back into that market, I'll certainly give him another go.’

  Heather’s antennae twitched. This was a first. In their forty-odd months as lovers Vic had only ever admitted to fancying girls. She had done random one-nights often, group sex parties occasionally and blokes no nay, never no more.

  ‘Wouldn’t Jack the Hat be like jumping back in at the deep end?’ said she, playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘He might have changed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put money on it.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Although you could check him out for me again.’

  ‘I didn’t check him out for you last time.’ Heather laughed. ‘I checked him out for me. He’d have got a lot more of scrutiny if he hadn’t been so loved up with his schoolgirl waitress. And if I hadn’t suspected the two of you were scheming against me.’

  ‘Did you just say schoolgirl?’

  ‘Okay, she was a nineteen-year-old student. But she looked a lot younger.’

  Vic chuckled and somehow managed to look both self-conscious and unrepentant. ‘I was only ever scheming to get you well and truly laid. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do now,’ said Heather, ‘I wasn’t so sure at the time.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘But you still did it, and Sean was as good as I said he was, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I can’t deny that.’

  ‘So you won’t mind checking him out again then, will you?’

  ‘Hang on, are you asking me . . . a girl who’s more or less given up on men . . . to prepare the way for you?’

  ‘I possibly am,’ Vic shrugged and looked sheepish, ‘maybe.’

  ‘It’s never a good idea to dig up old ground.’

  ‘Come oh, Hev, you said you’d do anything for me.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, the other weekend; when I stayed over. Surely I don’t need to remind you exactly what I’d just let you do?’

  Heather laughed. ‘Okay, reservations or not, I’ll think about it. But never mind Sean or Jack the Hat or whatever you want to call him, how about my Graham? I can guarantee he’s worth having. He’s only the teeniest bit kinky and hasn’t a nasty bone in his body. And you know how much he fancies you.’

  Vic rolled her eyes. ‘What was it you said about cast-offs?’

  ‘I’m not casting him off. I’m just proposing something you’ll both enjoy, out of the kindness of my heart.’

  ‘More like to give you an excuse to go philandering.’

  ‘What can I say? I’ve not had a decent philander in ages. Neither have you. Not with a bloke, anyway. And Graham’s readily available, when he’s not gallivanting aroun
d India. It might take me a while to catch up with Sean. You could try Graham in the short term.’

  Vic blinked behind her sexy specs and said nothing.

  ‘Not a nasty bone in his body,’ Heather repeated. ‘And he has a lovely willy. Very skilled with it, thanks to . . .’

  ‘Oh all right then,’ the other girl said abruptly. ‘I’m not quite ready yet, but I’ll put Graham down on my list.’

  ‘You’d better not be saying that to humour me. You know I love him like a brother.’

  ‘Steady on girl. You’ll be getting done for incest.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’d shag him even if he was my brother. And I’d still want him to shag you too, for both your sakes.’

  ‘I’m touched. And I meant it. He’s on the list.’

  ‘How high up is he?’

  ‘He’s right at the top.’

  ‘Is he? He will be delighted. So am I, come to that.’ Heather grinned again. ‘Can I come and watch? Maybe join in from time to time?’

  ‘Slow down.’ Vic rolled her eyes again and tried to look stern. ‘You can tell him he’s on a promise, but he will still have to wait a bit longer. And he’ll definitely be on his own, to start with, without your slinky ass anywhere within a mile. I know you’ve been winding him up about a threesome, but it will be a long while before I'm ready for that . . . after our last attempt.’

  Heather nodded. One of their rare nights out in Leeds had ended with herself, Vic and a girl called Poppy in bed together. While the sex hadn't been a total failure, it certainly hadn't been anything to write home about. In fact it would have been lots better if Poppy hadn't been there at all. Three definitely had been a crowd. God only knew how Vic coped with dozens at once during those Headingley parties.

  ‘Just tell me when you’ve psyched yourself up and we'll do a Wife Swap,’ she said. ‘I'll go stay at your place with one of your scary friends. You can entertain Graham at mine. Meaning his and mine combined. So you have a wide variety of rooms to use.’

  Vic let the offer of a “variety of rooms” sail over her head. ‘My friends are not scary,’ she said. ‘They’re all beautiful.’

  ‘They scare me when they’re all together. It must be like getting jumped by the Stepford Wives.’

  ‘I find it very pleasant,’ Vic said. ‘And I think you would too, considering your history with rugby teams.’

  Heather didn’t regret her past but did regret confessing so much of it. Vic had heard plenty over the years. Worse still, she didn’t seem to believe that sort of behaviour was completely behind her.

  Or a one-off, come to that.

  ‘Groups are out for me,’ she said. ‘I only ever tried it once. Well, once when more than two men were involved. That was enough. I’ll do an occasional threesome nowadays, but that’s my limit.’

  ‘That’s fair enough; horses for courses, as they say. You don’t have to tell me how tastes change. Just tell me which one it’s going to be.’

  ‘Do you mean for the Wife Swap? Do I get a choice?’

  ‘I think it’s fair to say I could set you up with any of them . . . or any combination that tickles your fancy.’

  ‘I told you. Groups are out. And even three’s too many for a Wife Swap.’

  ‘Okay. Pick one.’

  ‘I’ll try any of them individually.’

  Vic’s smile was slight but it spoke volumes. Heather half-expected to be accuses of thinking the Stepford Wives weren’t so bad after all. Not if she didn’t need to rule any of them out.

  But Vic didn’t take that route. She’d already done all the manoeuvring she wanted.

  ‘What about Krista? She really is hot for you.’

  ‘Is she the one with the amazing eyes?’

  ‘That’s her. Are you up for it?’

  Heather felt a thrill run all the way down from her heart to her toes. ‘Definitely,’ she said, ‘if you’re able to overcome your fear of hard willies, I’m more than capable of shagging Krista, even if she is the scariest of the bunch.’

  *****

  Sean was pouring his second drink when Pat McGuire arrived, surprising him by pulling him out of his chair and giving him a bear-hug.

  ‘I'm utterly gutted,’ Pat said. ‘I can't stop thinking about when we were kids. Do you remember your mum taking us to Skipton Baths? And the open air pool at Ilkley? And that awful lemonade she used to make for us?’

  ‘For fuck's sake, Pat, you'll have me bawling in a minute.’

  ‘I've been bawling myself already. And I don't care who knows it. I feel like part of me died with her. Catherine and Padraig are going to be devastated.’

  Pat sat down at last and got stuck into the crisps in a big way. Sean waved the whisky bottle at him but he shook his head. ‘You know me and that stuff don't mix. I'll stick with lager.’ He ripped into a packet of cheese and onion. ‘Andy says it was definitely an accident, by the way. Is that right?’

  ‘More a case of her acting like a bull at a gate,’ Sean sighed, ‘as per usual. Luckily, she didn't take anyone with her. She just spoiled an old couple's round of golf.’

  ‘Not one of Harry Williamson's little tricks, then?’

  ‘That's the first thing that crossed my mind, although I'm ashamed to admit it. Not, Poor old Mum. I thought: Has that cunt struck again? But no, I went up there with Ray and Neil to see for myself. That wasn't any set up.’

  Sean slopped more whisky into his glass, this time diluting it a bit with water. ‘Why do I feel so guilty?’ he wondered out loud. ‘I know she only lived a few miles away. And I know I hardly ever went to see her, but what man my age visits his mother every week? And don't say you do, because you're an exception; you don't fucking count.’

  ‘Everyone feels guilty when someone they love dies,’ said Pat. ‘It's a combination of all the angry words, all the things they should have said or done but didn't. Look how you were when your dad died; you were pissed off for years. Sometimes I think you still are.’

  ‘Thank you, Marge Proops.’ Sean shook his head then laughed in spite of himself; swigged whisky. ‘I'm not saying you’re right, but I was a proper twat for my mum, wasn't I?’

  ‘Yeah you were, very consistently and for all your life. I'm amazed she never disowned you. How's DeeDee taken it?’

  ‘She doesn't know yet. I'm building myself up to ringing her. Two more drinks should do it.’

  ‘I'll ring if you want.’

  ‘Why?’ Sean said, scowling.

  ‘Because two more drinks and you'll end up arguing with her, like you always do.’

  Sean considered a moment then passed Pat his mobile, set ready to call DeeDee's number. He bit open some dry roasted and some ready salted nuts, alternating between the two as he watched and listened to Pat's half of the conversation.

  ‘Hi, is that DeeDee? It's Pat McGuire, from Bingley.’

  Showing more of that surprising touchy-feely-ness, Pat made it so obvious that he had bad news for Sean’s sister that she almost seemed to end up telling him what had happened. During this Sean noticed that tears were trickling down Pat's cheeks and realized his own eyes were starting to leak. Then Pat was passing him the mobile and DeeDee was there, shouting ‘No way,' into his ear.

  ‘What do you mean no way?’

  ‘No way are you arranging Mum's funeral. I'm going to do it. I'll be there tomorrow.’

  ‘That's fine by me,’ he said reasonably. ‘You'll do it lots better than I would, anyway. Where are you planning on staying? Mum's place?’

  ‘Not Mum's place,’ she said quickly. ‘I don't mind sorting out her things, but I couldn't stay there very long. And there's no way I could sleep there.’

  ‘Shall I book you in at the Bankfield then? I’ll get you their best suite with all the trimmings. And don't worry; I'll pick up the tab.’

  ‘Don't I warrant an invite to Southfork?’

  ‘Do you mean my place?’ Sean’s laugh seemed insincere, even to him. ‘Best not. You wouldn't like the company I keep. The Bankf
ield's got a lot nicer class of guests. And it’s got room service.’

  As DeeDee sighed Sean saw Pat's outstretched hand. He gave the mobile back before washing down another handful of dry roasted with whisky and water.

  Still a million miles from pissed, but buzzing nicely.