Silver Ch. 21-23

As his thumbs worked the soft flesh around each nipple, Kelly arched her back and moaned with the dull pain of tweaking the whiplash injury. Misreading the reaction for lust, Pete’s eyes lit up. Leaning in, his tongue worked its way across each mound, lips compressing the teats. Hoisting her to him so that their faces locked, in the same movement she lifted, allowing him to thrust into her from beneath with a grunt. This time it was a groan borne of pure pleasure that escaped her lips. Pete bucked wildly, thrusting powerfully from the buttocks, the act that was over in under a minute. Yet both lay breathless.

Pete was no Casanova but what he’d lacked in technique, he made up for in enthusiasm. A warm feeling rested in Kelly’s belly after they made love a second time, remaining locked together for an hour. Lying side to side, staring at the ceiling, Kelly enquired in a whisper: ‘Did you mean what you said yesterday?’

‘Um, remind me…about what?’

‘About marriage…about starting a family…’

‘Yeah, um, of course I did, especially if it means I get to spend the rest of my life with you…’

Kelly smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask my father’s permission first…’

* * *

Finally she arrived in the tiny village as the darkness, like her eyelids, began to fall. Annoyed to see the store closed, denying an opportunity to top up on cigarettes, she was about to smash the window when the police car across the road caught her eye. Scurrying away, a distant memory recalled a place behind the pub, somewhere to spend the night.

Creeping from shadow to shadow, she headed alongside the pub, distant voices echoing from within. No padlock, the door to the outhouse opened readily and she sneaked inside. The dank and unpleasant smell was no disincentive to welcome sleep, arriving almost immediately. Come the morning she’d be refreshed and ready to do what needed to be done and God help anyone that got in the way.

Twenty-two

Tuesday threatened to be turbulent from the moment the first shard of lightning broke the trees and the rain drummed a tuneless beat against the windows. Unforeseen to those cocooned inside the pub, their police guardian’s sojourn came to an abrupt end when his superiors deigned his time could be better utilised elsewhere, just a dry rectangle of grey road left behind as a brief reminder. Though that soon would be blackened with rain also as the storm lashed the tiny village.

Woken by a rumble of thunder, Nick glanced over in the semi-dark, hearing Matt’s snoring, before rising to head to the shower. Through the gush, his phone’s faraway tone sounded. The sprint from shower to bed, leaving a watery trail in his wake, took mere seconds but it was still too long to answer a message that had already been recorded. Despondently he listened as Ryan Byrne explained that he was touring the Far East and wouldn’t be coming back for anyone, not even Richey.

As he was listening to Ryan, another message was being recorded. The bleep caught him unawares. Quickly he activated the second message. Eyes expanding, his heart fluttered as Jan spoke for the first time in over three days. He was annoyed that Ryan had denied an opportunity to speak directly with his wife but at the same time overcome with joy. She offered greetings and assurances of her wellbeing, yet something in the wearisome way she spoke suggested otherwise. Nonetheless he played back the message a second, third and fourth time, savouring the words, pleased just to hear her voice after so long. He toyed with the idea of phoning back but decided against it.

Downstairs, he filled Richey in on Ryan’s declinature, little surprise to the singer who seemed almost resigned to his fate. ‘Nick, I need you to do me a favour,’ Richey entreated. ‘I’ve some people coming to see me at midday. I wondered if you’d get the others out of the way for an hour or two.’

As Nick looked back quizzically, Richey responded: ‘Keep this to yourself, but it’s the press.’

‘Oh I see – you’ve decided to cash in on your story?’

He pressed out his bottom lip, the patented Richey Osgood wounded look. ‘I don’t really want to but they have me over a barrel. If I don’t talk to them, some other rag will just run the story for nothing. At least this way I get some say in what goes in the article.’

‘Whatever,’ Nick replied with a look of disdain.

Richey countered: ‘It doesn’t change the fact that this gig’s ten hours away and I’ve still no band.’

‘After twenty-five years, you’d expect better,’ responded Nick with a barbed sarcasm.

‘Twenty-five years,’ Richey mused wistfully, ‘the silver anniversary. I guess silver’s appropriate where I’m concerned.’

As a puzzled expression filled Nick’s face, Richey offered clarification: ‘Silver, a.k.a. second place?’

‘I’m not with you, Richey – second place? Second place to whom, may I ask?’

Richey outstretched his arms, blowing hard. ‘My whole life’s been about coming second. Where do I start? Second place to that fucking turtle song in the charts…Second place to REM on the bill in America…Second to Doug for Cass’ affections…Second to Vaughn in the songwriting stakes…’

A brief lapse followed before Richey looked up and into Nick’s eyes, mouthing: ‘Second place to you.’

Nick laughed out loud. ‘Me? What have I ever had that you haven’t?’

‘True love, happiness, success, respect…need I go on? You don’t realise how lucky you are.’

Perhaps Nick didn’t, though he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Anyway, you make your own fortune in life. And your fortune – or lack of it – is self-inflicted.’

‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me.’

‘Look Richey, if you don’t mind my asking, just how bad are things?’

Richey’s eyes glazed over. ‘Um, about sixty, maybe seventy, grand the last time I looked.’

‘Well that’s not exactly the end of the world, is it now?’

‘Um, that’s seventy grand in debt.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s about thirty grand on credit cards, twenty owed to people like Spike, and the other twenty…the twenty’s owed to the sort of people that don’t take excuses too lightly. You know the sort.’

Nick shook his head slowly. ‘Not loan sharks…oh Richey, why on earth…?’

‘Why’d you think? I had nowhere else to turn,’ he countered, squeezing his thumb and forefinger tightly together. ‘I’m that close to declaring bankruptcy. This place has been losing a grand a week for as long as I can remember. Quite frankly I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’

Nick blew. In comparison his finances were positively rosy.

At that moment they were joined downstairs by Miranda, the mobile phone fused to her ear. The glossies chasing her side of the story, it seemed that a bidding war had arisen. Her agent at the other acting as willing go-between as the figure rose and rose, at least someone would be getting rich out of all this commented Richey sardonically.

Next to awaken Pete glanced over at Kelly, still asleep. Brushing back the hair from her eyes, he planted a light kiss on her forehead before stepping into some clothes and venturing out. Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream, like someone was being attacked.

* * *

Rising that morning, Candice ran over the plan in her mind. Unaware of Richey’s change of circumstance, she expected him to be up at the manor house and not right under her nose. Screwing up her face at the smell in the outhouse and poking out her tongue, she craved nicotine. Unaware that the officer had abandoned his charges, there seemed to be little prospect of getting to the shop, so the best bet was from inside the pub. The last time she’d been down here there’d been a cigarette machine in the walkway between the two bars, though a decade inside had eroded her memory for finer detail.

Fumbling in her pocket, the keen edge of the knife pricked her finger and she dabbed at the cut with her lips before creeping out slowly into the unseasonable air to hover at the rear window of the pub. Through a gap in the curtain Candice could make out a youthful female figure, tall and slim, speaking on a mobile phone. Further past, just in view, was the machine, its luminous red and blue frontage promising cigarettes. All she needed was for the girl to move and the way was clear. Instead the girl headed nearer, towards the window. Staring out blankly at the inclement morning, their eyes almost met and Candice was forced to bolt back to the sanctuary of the outhouse empty handed.

* * *

Pete soon discovered the source of the scream, Larissa facing him on the landing, wrapped in a sheer white robe, an anxious expression etched on her pretty face. ‘Quick, you help, yes?’ she implored. ‘In there…it’s horrible.’

Pete went to investigate as Larissa stuck to the doorway. ‘What…where?’

‘Down there, by vindow…’

Pete crouched down low, scanning around. ‘Well, whatever it was it’s…’

Hearing the door shut, he glanced up. Larissa towered over him like an Amazonian. ‘…gone,’ he finished, mouth falling agape.

The robe eased from Larissa’s shoulders, caressing her body as it slipped to the floor and pooled at her feet. A rich golden all over tan, the blonde of her crown was evidently natural, breasts like they’d been sculpted to her slender body, as firm as two oranges. She offered a hand to help him up. ‘Thank you for looking, Peter,’ she purred.

Pete swallowed hard, looking beyond Larissa, via Kelly’s room, to the heavens. Unsure whether it was a newfound faithfulness or the fear of getting caught, something prompted him to say: ‘Larissa, um, look I’m sorry...but no…’

Pouted disappointment sullied her pretty face. Bending down she gathered up the robe as Pete shimmied past, avoiding eye contact. ‘Richey still has feelings for you, you know?’

‘Ree-chee…he tell you this?’

‘No, but it’s obvious.’

Easing through the doorway, his halo almost scraped the landing ceiling as he headed downstairs.

Still in bed across the way, disinclined to rise, Kelly stretched uncomfortably, contemplating what would happen when the real world came-a-calling as inevitably it would. The return to home already deferred by more than she ever could have wished for, it couldn’t be delayed forever. Her mind was beset with doubt.

What she had with Pete was akin to a holiday romance. Things were good in this environment, but could they be the same back home? Equally, with Nick: the fantasy before the discovery had been so much more thrilling than the fact. Hauling her body out of bed she tossed on some clothes and ambled down to the bar past Larissa, wondering what surprises the day held in store.

Downstairs, growing restless Matt tipped back the lemonade with a scowl. A persistent headache hardly helped the frustration he was feeling. ‘I’ve got to go down the station and see if there’s anything I can do,’ he advised.

‘If you hang on a bit, I can give you a lift,’ offered Nick. ‘I’m planning to drive into town at midday.’

‘Nah, I need to go now. I’ll hop on a bus. See you later.’

Though he didn’t realise at the time, it was a decision that would spare the young journalist’s life. Perhaps his luck had finally turned for the better.

* * *

The shadowy figure moved back to the rear window of the pub. The young blonde, still on her mobile phone, had been joined by an older blonde in the back bar. From her vantage point, Candice waited for the path to clear, growing ever more impatient. At this rate someone was going to get their throat slit real soon. To make matters worse, not only did they not disperse, but walked towards her. Turning on her heels, Candice scuttled back to the sanctuary of the outhouse in frustration and anger.

The back door swung open and the young female stepped outside, still speaking merrily on her mobile phone. The older blonde followed and, as if to taunt Candice, a cigarette was lit and drawn on longingly, the smoke wending its way over beneath her nostrils. With the day having grown cheerier and the sun beginning to dry out the tarmac, the two women took seats less than six feet away as the uninvited guest shrank back into the shadows to regroup.

Fifteen minutes passed before the older blonde ambled back inside, the younger one wandering off in the other direction, up towards the hills, the phone remaining soldered to her ear. Finally the path was clear. Candice could get her cigarettes before heading up to the manor house and Richey’s date with destiny. Eyes darting back and forth she sprinted the short distance from the outhouse to the back door. Easing open the door, she tiptoed to the machine, more furtive glances. Its request for £6 took her aback and she felt inside her pocket, feeling only three coins.

In the front bar, their backs were turned away from her. But as one of the figures rose from his stool, her jaw dropped upon seeing Richey move into sight. He was here. Richey was here. All of a sudden, everything had changed. Her task was ten times easier. The voice inside her head said to finish the job there and then. But he was surrounded. It wasn’t that she minded killing all of them if need be but, outnumbered, they’d surely overpower her. She needed to wait until he was alone. Tiptoeing back to the outhouse, heartened she sat down on the worn rug to mull things over.

Another half an hour passed before movement outside drew Candice’s attention once more. As Nick herded the group into the Zafira, Candice noted that Richey wasn’t among their number. Alone at last, Richey, she thought, fingering the blade. About to head inside to bid a final farewell to her former lover, a car drew up, prompting a deep silent scream in her guts. Out stepped a smart dressed woman and a man holding camera equipment. Richey intercepted them at the back door with a handshake and Candice grudgingly held her ground as seats were taken inside, tops of heads visible through the pub window.

An hour long endurance, finally there was movement by the window, and the reporters stepped back outside. In his fist Richey coveted a large wad of notes that he would never get to spend. Candice waited for the car to pass and the engine sound to disappear before drawing a breath and making her move.

* * *

The walk to the bus stop having helped clear Matt’s head but an eternity spent hanging around the police station helped to restore it. Yet it was worth the wait, for Spencer and Lee were finally freed with no more than a caution. Matt said he must phone Richey, but Lee stopped him with a shake of the head. Both youngsters agreed that they weren’t going back.

Booking into a decent-looking hotel, Matt discovered that, with their newfound freedom, the two were insatiable. They couldn’t get enough of his toned athleticism or he their fresh cherubic bodies. The slap of young flesh was constant until deep into the afternoon. Matt could stay forever in this paradise.

Unseen and unheard on the muted television in the hotel suite, a headline ran across the screen in black and red: ‘BREAKING NEWS: TRAGEDY IN VILLAGE PUB’. A reporter, small among the battery of emergency service vehicles, addressed the screen in hushed tones. ‘The rockstar Richey Osgood has been killed in an incident that has sent shockwaves through the small community of Penn in Wiltshire…’

* * *

After a pleasant lunch in nearby Chippenham, the Zafira returned to Penn, a wave of red, white and blue lights blazing through the haze and grabbing Nick’s attention in the rear view mirror. Seconds later the sirens wailed and, with the first on his tail, Nick pulled over to let the convoy pass. ‘Look, there’s a fire,’ pointed out Kelly, as cloud-scorching flames and choking smoke billowed from one of the faraway buildings. ‘It looks to be coming from the pub.’

Racing to the scene, the tension increased the nearer they got. Everything was centred on the Green Man. Parking as close as the ring of fire engines, ambulances, police vehicles and a thick yellow and black cordon would allow, Nick busily went about establishing what had happened. A gloved hand held him back as the first spray from the fire hose gushed into the belly of the flames. ‘There’s a man inside,’ Nick shouted agitatedly, desperate to draw attention.

‘There’ll be no one alive in there,’ the grave response rang out.

Soon the others were at Nick’s shoulder, looking on open-mouthed, Miranda, Kelly and Larissa in tears. With copious on-the-spot news teams having arrived to join the battalion, the journalistic circus of the previous day was surpassed tenfold.

* * *

It was twenty minutes earlier that Armageddon came to the small village of Penn. Stalking her prey to the front bar, Candice watched from the shadows as Richey sat counting the money, his head bowed. Reaching inside her pocket, Candice was disappointed to learn that the knife had been left behind. Waiting until Richey had moved away, she availed herself of a handful of pound coins from the till before returning to the outhouse with the precious cigarettes. Drawing gratefully, she allowed her nerves to calm, reaching for the knife. The rank aroma inside the hovel seemed to have intensified. It was a bit like…a bit like gas…

She looked across at the stove…then a blinding light. A blue-hot fireball headed straight for her, the heat stripping the skin from her bones, her skeleton reduced to ash. The ball of flame torpedoed out into the car park, reducing the outhouse to rubble as it went, battering the pub and shattering every window, melting everything else in its path. The rear of the pub completely demolished, the front bar took a heavy impact, the optics exploding in a glorious fountain. Sparking off a series of fires inside, there were mini explosions all over the pub, the curtains and upholstery quickly ablaze. Not even Richey Osgood, with his luck, could have survived that as the Curse of the Speeding Hearts claimed its final victim.

* * *

The afternoon spent knee-deep in flesh in the hotel with his mobile phone switched off, a somewhat exhausted and blissfully ignorant Matt Black arrived at the Tollgate to join the queue of foot shufflers awaiting the gig. He hadn’t wanted to leave but felt it his duty to support Richey, a vow made to return after the gig. The promise of ‘Live Music’ on the board outside offered little clue as to what lay ahead inside.

Soon Matt was in the thick of the speculation. Barely able to believe Richey was dead, he read the raft of messages before trying Pete’s mobile but it was turned off, as were Nick’s and Kelly’s. Someone had heard a rumour that the gig was still going ahead, though no one knew quite what to expect. The demise of their hero didn’t seem to have put off the fans, a long line forming behind Matt within minutes. As such, he held his ground, the only way to be sure seemingly by venturing inside. Stood amid the crossfire of continual debate, the sea of bodies pushed Matt forward until the front door was before him.

Piped rock music spilled out of the hollow auditorium and a board heralding ‘Forthcoming Events’ gave no clue either, its space for that night left intriguingly blank. Groups of two and three that had tumbled from the bar to litter the corridor sipped effervescent cider from plastic pint holders, adding fuel to the debate. The bar peppered with fellow journalists, chins were lowered in acknowledgement as Matt pushed past. Espying ‘Diamond’ Dave Donnelly at the bar, the younger man avoided eye contact and a confrontation he could do without, taking up a position out of sight. His headache still persisting, Matt ordered a bottle of mineral water, before retreating to the far side.

The cold drink went down well and his headache seemed to ease, but a bottleneck at the bar prohibited a second bottle so he headed upstairs to gain a favourable pitch. Groups of rock fans hung aimlessly around pillars, chatting beneath canopies of dancing cigarette smoke. Pushing by, Matt stood at the balcony’s edge, peering over, the blackened stage holding no clue as to what lie in store.