Lucky Jack Ch. 01

That reminded me of Josie. She deserved to be put up for the Mother Theresa Award for Services to Humanity for last night's full breasted performance. I still felt bloody awful but fucking with Josie had at least reminded me that there were still some things worth living for. I guess that a man can learn to live with just about anything as long as his dick is in good working order and there are girls about like Josie looking to share some fun.

My logistical situation had not changed magically overnight I still had nothing to eat or drink, and so I pulled on my jeans and a black Guinness tee-shirt and set off for the village shop to buy myself some provisions.

Unless things had changed the village store would still be opening from dawn 'til dusk as it had since the 1950s so that Old Man Jarvis could squeeze every possible penny from his local customers, catching them for cigarettes on the way to work in the morning, overpriced groceries and Post Office services during the day and forgotten last minute provisions or ice cream for the kids in the evening. He was a mean old bastard who over charged for everything and would short change you if you weren't sharp at checking your loose change or failed to spot his skilful sleight of hand. The number of coins that appeared to be in his hand were always more than got into yours.

I don't think that there wasn't a kid in the village who hadn't had the local constable round after being reported for shop lifting sweets. Jarvis never had the balls to confront even the youngest kid but knew who they were and simply reported them to the fuzz. No kid ever got charged, Fat Ted Clipper, PC201, had been a child in the village himself and just came round to the house, had a cup of tea with your parents and gave the boy a lecture on the wrongs of shoplifting and a caution on not getting caught. Repeat offenders got a size 12 boot up the arse. Half-inching the odd Mars Bar from under Old Man Jarvis's nose became a matter of principal and a test of skill to the village lads. Today's district police constable was probably some young wench who flashed through the village twice a day without even slowing her patrol car, was stationed at Guildford and lived the other side of the county.

It came as a bit of a shock that the shop and post office had gone. In its place was a twee little art gallery selling a few paintings by a newcomer local artist nobody had heard of, framed prints and tacky chintzy needlework. Who the fuck needed an art gallery in a farming village like Woodley Hill, what you needed was somewhere that sold coffee and cigarettes and beer for Christ's sake!

It was silly frustrations like that which were really pissing me off and provoking unreasonable bouts of temper and so I viciously kicked the bottom of the shop door leaving a black rubbery scuff mark on the pastel pink paintwork and walked into the middle of the street and stood looking around for something else to take out my temper on. There wasn't any traffic at that time of the morning but if there had been I would probably have ended up howling like a dog and chasing cars down the street. Being out in the road did have one advantage, I could see the whole length of the High Street including the flashing sign by the new filling station where Tom Watkin's motor repair shop used to be.

Flash! PETROL Flash! MOTs Flash! CONVENIENCE STORE

It looked as if Woodley Hill had finally joined the 21st Century and got a real petrol station to replace the two mechanical hand pumps that the Watkins family had operated from their workshop forecourt since cars were invented. Not only that but the new place had a modern well stocked garage shop, a real shop, a Tesco Extra no less!

Fifteen minutes later I was back at Gran's cottage loaded down with a couple of 10 packs of Stella Artois, a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, tonic water, instant coffee, a bag of croissants, bread, butter, and assorted packets of crisps. There should enough snacks there to see me through a few days if I took my main meals at the pub or got a take-away.

More importantly I had dived back into the world of the seriously addicted and bought a 200 carton of Benson and Hedges Gold. Bugger the cost, I really needed to get back on the nicotine habit before I got so stressed out that I did something really stupid. The Tesco bill had come to £134.00 including the carrier bags I had reluctantly been made to pay for, which I had put onto my least used credit card and would try to reclaim the cost from the solicitor as expenses when I got back to London.

A half-dozen hot croissants dripping with butter washed down with a couple of mugs of vodka laced black coffee helped me to feel a bit more like a human being, I still felt exhausted but my temper had calmed if not improved and I was ready to get down to sorting out Gran's things. The light of day had brought to my attention small stacks of document folders neatly laid out on the table in the back parlour.

There was a covering note from the solicitor's office which stated the under the terms of Gran's will an assessor had been appointed to value the contents of the cottage for probate and to identify those items which had been specified as bequests in the will... SEE LIST IN FOLDER C. The television and video recorder along with a small collection of tapes had been donated to the care home that Mum was living at and several bits of furniture and one of the paintings had been bequeathed to friends in the village. All of those items I now noticed were marked with a red label and were due to be removed tomorrow. That meant that I was stuck in the village at least until that happened, but it would give me time to arrange to have my loot picked up and taken up to London and the dross taken by a clearance firm. There was a list of recommended dealers attached SEE LIST IN FOLDER B.

I had not realised that after I left Gran had got herself a cat... probably better company and a lot less trouble than a teenaged grandson, which had already been found a temporary home with a neighbour, SEE FOLDER C, it could stay there. The last thing that I needed in a London flat was a mangy furball, stinking the place out with cat litter and eating its head off, I could hardly afford to feed myself at times. I would probably have just kicked its arse out and left it to live on mice and those irritating bloody squirrels and song birds. Anyway what was the life expectancy for a country cat in London traffic?

There was a pack of blue labels and a form to complete stating which items I was removing for my personal portion of the estate and so I spent the morning attaching the marker labels to the cooker, fridge-freezer, a rather smart bathroom cabinet, a couple of rugs and a half dozen 20th century landscape paintings, some of which were by artists that I had actual heard of. I wasn't really that appreciative of art and would put them into auction as soon as possible to raise some badly needed cash. There was one large framed photograph of Gran, Mum and me hanging in her bedroom which I would keep along with the aviation prints from my old bedroom.

I discovered Gran's family photograph album and her bible in her bedside cabinet and put them into the back of my car. If Mum ever recovered I would give them to her. I didn't recognise most of the people in the pictures but Gran had given over a whole page at the back to a large colour photo of me in my school uniform. I hadn't known it was there. Just knowing that she had cared choked me up and had me heading for the vodka bottle.

The black sacks containing her clothes I ferried down and stacked by the door ready to go to the church jumble collection point and I added a couple more of towels and linen, I had plenty of that sort of gear at home already, Mum had bought all new stuff when I came home to live with her after university.

The rest of the morning was spent on my telephone arranging for the house clearance people to come and empty the cottage. They were a local firm and were happy to turn up at short notice and would pay me with a cheque made out to the trustee fund. They also did removals and would pick up the blue labelled items that I had selected and deliver them to my London address for me as part of the deal. If I had needed to haul that fridge freezer up the stairs to my flat on my own it would not have been worth the effort. I am a strong lad and quite fit, despite the drinking, but moving furniture is not something that I do by choice... I am far too lazy for that kind of frigging about.

The next call was to the vicarage. There was a new incumbent since I had left the village but not the one who had conducted the funeral who had been an old friend of Grans from a neighbouring parish. This new priest was a woman with a plummy voice who made sympathetic noises about Gran passing away and assured me that the church would be more than happy to receive the bags of clothing and soft furnishings for their jumble sale. I agreed to transport the black sacks to the village hall which would probably be a single trip in the VW Golf, I gave her my mobile number and she told me she would get a member of the church committee to contact me to arrange access to the hall.

I was about ready to call it a day and walk up to the Bird in Hand for some lunch and a pint but had one further call to make.

I speed dialled Paula at the office and heard the telephone on her desk click as the call was transferred to her mobile, I guess she was away from her desk. I lit my third cigarette of the morning and waited for her to pick up, which seemed to take an awfully long time.

"Hello Jack, where are you?" She had obviously got my number listed for recognition on her cell phone.

"I'm down in the depths of Surrey sorting out my grandmother's affairs," I told her grandly. I wanted to sound as though I was doing something constructive. Thank God she could not smell the booze on my breath over the telephone. Paula had always been good to me even though she knew all my faults and weaknesses and I needed her on side to get me my job back. "I should be back in town on Friday."

"Good! We need to get together to talk," she told me. "But don't come to the office... You are not welcome there at the moment."

"What? Why?" That was a stupid question, I knew full well why.

"You were a pratt to punch Neville in the work place... He has started a disciplinary action against you and has reported the incident to the police...wants to bring an assault charge!"

"Oh, shit!" I had seriously screwed up again. This was even beyond Paula's powers to fix. No way was I ever going to get back to work for any part of Global PLC in the future, a pity because they paid relatively well.

I wasn't so worried about the police charges, Neville the Pratt was not popular; most of the office witnesses would probably suddenly have an attack of 'The Three Monkeys' and become blind, deaf and dumb and the fuzz were not likely to want to attract the level of paperwork that his complaint would generate... but with everything else I really did not need a police caution on my record.

"I think that I have got the company off your back... I told them you had already handed me your resignation before you hit Neville, so strictly speaking you were not working for them at the time of the incident!"

"Thanks Paula," I said. I really was grateful to her. "You are a real lady... I shall miss working for you."

"OK," She laughed. "Enough of the flattery... just give me a call we you get back to town and we will meet up on Friday and discuss a proposition I have for you... and try to stay out of trouble OK! I do not appreciate having to sit in the can to take your telephone calls ... Bye!"

Wow! The vision of Gorgeous Paula sitting with her knickers around her ankles talking to me in secret was a picture that I wanted to keep filed away in my memories of erotic moments. I didn't know what she had in mind for me on Friday but I was going to be there ready and willing to do her every bidding.

I was a bit disappointed that Josie was not behind the bar at the pub that lunchtime her fabulous tits would have been a welcome sight and I guess that I may also have harboured some slight hope that she might have changed her mind and be up for a repeat performance of last night's shag-fest when she finished work later that evening.

I was also disappointed with the pub lunch. There was a choice of the piss-poor microwaved pie which I had sampled last night, a 'serve yourself' chilli which was bubbling away in a crock pot on the bar and was at best probably several days old, or a grilled rump steak, all of which came with chips and peas. I selected the steak and took my plate to a table by the window. The bar was not busy, mostly village pensioners who would get in the bar as soon as the pub opened and nurse a single pint until closing time unless somebody else topped it up for them. The steak was over cooked, tasteless and tough and had probably been carved off the arse of somebody's prize bull that had died of extreme old age and I suspect that the chips had been cooked off last night and just plunged back into the deep fryer to reheat. The Bird in Hand certainly wasn't going to win any pub cuisine awards and with Josie not present I would probably give it a miss and go into Guildford or Woking for my evening meal...if I was sober enough to drive by then.

The two pints of bitter that I had consumed with lunch had topped up the lagers and vodka I had been guzzling since breakfast and by the time that I got back to the cottage I was just about out on my feet from lack of sleep and more than a bit rat-arsed. I had completed most of the tasks that I had set myself for the day and took myself upstairs, stripped off in the bathroom splashed some cold water over my face and then made my way to the bedroom and flopped onto the bed stark naked and within seconds was sound asleep.

I awoke to the sound of somebody hammering at the front door. I mean really hammering with the huge old iron knocker, not just a light knuckle tapping the way that Josie had the night before.

The racket set my teeth on edge and my head thumping, I had been jerked out of a heavy alcohol induced sleep which had brought on an instant hangover of the worst kind. I could not imagine who would be trying to demolish the bloody door at seven o'clock in the evening but in my confused and pain wracked state it couldn't be anything other than another dose of fucking bad news!

Maybe it was the law coming to arrest me for belting Neville Short?

Even in my miserable befuddled state that seemed unlikely... nobody knew that I was here except Paula and I didn't believe that she would turn snitch and grass me up. The police were hardly likely to instigate a nationwide manhunt because some obnoxious little wanker pissed somebody off and got his snout flattened.

What else had I been up to? I searched the recesses of my mind for something I ought to feel guilty about.

SHIT! It had to be Rugby Roy! He had discovered that I had spent last night shagging his girlfriend and was out for my blood.

He had probably already beaten poor sex starved Josie to death and was now outside with the intention of ripping me limb from limb with his bare hands. He was big enough and strong enough to do it as well. If it was the man mountain then maybe I could escape out of the kitchen door and flee across the fields to the woods, or perhaps hide in the loft with those fucking squirrels until he went away. My car keys were in my jeans pocket...but where the fuck were my jeans? Yeah, it had to be Roy, it couldn't be anybody else but I needed to know for certain.

I tugged on my flimsy cotton sleeping shorts and crept towards the bedroom window on all fours. God only knows where the rest of my clothes had gone. The knocking had stopped for the minute but I could now hear somebody rattling the door. Oh, fuck he was trying to get in... the door was locked but Roy was built like a bloody gorilla he could probably smash the door in with a single swing of that huge prick that Josie had boasted about. I kneeled below the window sill and peeped over trying to get a sight of the front doorstep without exposing myself. The low evening sun was directly on the window blinding me and making my eyeballs feel as though they were being poached. My eyes were watering...water? My tears were probably pure vodka it certainly stung like they were. I couldn't see a fucking thing... but I could hear. I could hear his footsteps as he followed the shingle path around the end of the cottage.

BLOODY HELL! Did I lock the back door, I thought I had but I couldn't be certain? I needed to find the balls to go down and make certain! If all the doors were locked and he started to tear the house down brick by bloody brick then I would be within my rights to call the police to come and rescue me. I might get a commendation for letting them catch the maniac who had murdered his girlfriend in a jealous rage and was now running amok through the village in a homicidal rampage. I was still half pissed but it felt like a good plan.

I scuttled as silently as possible down the narrow wooden staircase and peered into the sitting room. The curtains were still closed, I hadn't bothered to open them that morning and the room was now in deep shadow as the evening drew in and the sun started to sink below the horizon. There was no movement in the room so I tentatively stepped out and tiptoed towards the door to the kitchen my bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor.

There was a sharp snickety-click of a lock being turned followed by the distinctive creak of old hinges. Oh Fuck! He was coming in through the back door!

My first instinct was to flee, I needed somewhere to hide... maybe I could pull down the ladder and get into the loft and wind the steps up again before he found me? I made a dash for the stairs instinctively grabbing the nearly empty bottle of vodka from the table as I passed by. Once in the darkness of the narrow staircase I paused listening for sounds that indicated pursuit. There were some scuffling noises coming from the kitchen. I took a couple of deep drafts from the vodka bottle. The fiery liquid hit my guts like a napalm bomb the shock clearing my mind and instigating a new run of logic.

I couldn't run and I couldn't hide, not in the cottage at any rate. There was no way that I stood any chance in a stand up fight with Josie's hulking boyfriend, I would get pulverised before I even got a punch in giving him all the time in the world to carefully and slowly break every bone in my body. My wrecked corpse would probably then be tossed into a nearby pig-sty and Lucky Jack would end up adding the flavour of London City to somebody's rashers of bacon.

BUT... If I could surprise him before he got a grip on me, then perhaps I could buy enough time to make a bolt for the car... it seemed like the best plan... it was the ONLY bloody plan!

I needed a weapon. One final swig emptied the vodka bottle and I gripped the neck, the litre flask making a comfortably weighty truncheon in my fist. Now I just needed to stay concealed until I could surprise him...

There was slight creak of floor boards right beside me and a darker shadow moved across the opening to the stairwell. Oh fuck, he was here!

Everything happened so quickly. I let out a loud yell, as much to give myself confidence as to frighten my opponent, I raised the bottle above my head, swung it downwards towards the looming shadow and lurched forward.

I tripped on the bottom stair riser stubbing my bare toe painfully and stumbled forward, the bottle leaving my hand and sailing across the room to smash loudly against the stone fireplace leaving me weaponless. My naked body pitched forward, arms flailing and cannoned into flesh and blood my hands snatching at anything to arrest my fall and I felt flimsy fabric rip and tear in my grip. There was a deafening high pitched scream against my ear and then I was rolling, wrestling and struggling on the floor with my opponent. My arms were going like a windmill but all I succeeded in contacting with was the floor boards my knuckles coming off second best.