[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “Same one?”

  He nodded. “It always ends there, though; I never seem to get to the part where he–”

  In the corner, folded up like an old duvet, Mick coughed himself awake, and stretched hard enough to cause the ashtray in his lap to spill onto the floor.

  Ros let Eddie’s hand go, and then stood. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said to Mick.

  “Huh?”

  “Did you need him to prop up your ego again last night?”

  “Ros.” Mick rubbed his face and picked sleep from his eyes. “You should have joined us. We had a good ol’ time, didn’t we, Eddie?” Mick unfolded his skinny legs, and gawped at Eddie and his tears. “What’s up with you?”

  Eddie shook his head slowly and looked away.

  “Get your stuff and get out, Mick,” Ros said, hands on her hips.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “You deaf?”

  “I’m only concerned for his welfare.”

  “Welfare, my arse. You’re despicable! You found him when he was low and you propagated him, turning him into–”

  “Hey, hey!” They looked at Eddie. “I’m here, you know. I haven’t left the room.” He stood and dragged a sleeve across his face. “He didn’t force me to drink, Ros. I wanted to drink.” He looked from Ros to Mick. “And it’s way past the time you weren’t here, Mick; I have things to do.”

  11

  Friday 19th June

  – One –

  The auditorium was the size of an indoor football stadium. It had foldaway seats arranged in rows at the front and around the sides, but leaving space by the stage for the press. Around the periphery, lighting gantries trained on the large D-shaped stage jutting out from the back wall like a giant bubble caught on the side of a bathtub, immersed the glass podium and the discreet row of plush chairs off to the left, with dazzling white light.

  During rehearsals early this morning, their voices had ricocheted off the walls and ceiling, echoing as though they stood in the Grand Canyon. But things had changed considerably in only a few hours. There wasn’t a square inch of floor space left. A constant low chatter droned as people took up their seats, jostling for the best view of the stage, while sound engineers and cameramen made the final adjustments, where photographers sat cross-legged down at the foot of the stage, plugging in flash units, and checking white balance.

  The Prime Minister, the Justice Secretary, and several other senior politicians filed in and took up the positions in the plush seats, staring at the gathering of hundreds. After the national anthem and the introductions, the schedule commenced. The lights dimmed slightly and Sterling Young strode centre stage, waving to the party faithful, beaming at his audience as though this were a pop concert and he was the headline act. The cameras caught it all, their flashes bouncing off the glass screens behind Sterling like a dogfight in a Star Wars movie.

  The crowd hushed, Sterling rested his hands either side of the lectern. And then he began to speak of the progress his party had made in all spheres of government in the last two years, and each category of improvement, as each broad-grinned pause won him praise from the fans. But this wasn’t intended as a party political speech.

  This was the launch of something big, and it commanded the attention of the British public, and it sparked interest and derision from Europe, interest and admiration from America. Legalised killing. Wherever you lived in the world, Britain’s reinvigorated capital punishment programme was big news.

  Journalists captured each word, each nuance, as Sterling boomed out his speech in a deep commanding voice. Stills cameras flashed, and as Deacon watched, he counted seventeen television cameras recording every word and every expression for later dissection in the studio with a “panel of distinguished guests”. Yes, this was the launch of something big, and the world wanted to be there to catch it.

  Sterling paused to let a powerfully delivered point sink in. Ten thousand eyes were upon him, and the room was silent. Deacon felt the hairs on his neck stand up, and felt the sweat on his palms, knowing the time for him to speak approached quickly.

  “This year marks the dawning of a new age in Britain,” Sterling yelled. “People will come to wonder how we ever managed without this new legislation. It is a show of defiance against those who would betray their fellow Britons and deny them what they have strived for. It is a crackdown on criminals the like of which has never been seen before.” He paused, head turning left to right, promoting the tension. “I am proud to have worked alongside the man at its helm, the man whose vision is for a truly just society where decent people are once again cherished, and where those who make life a misery for others are punished. I am proud, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce the Minister of Justice,” Sterling turned to Deacon, beckoned him with a wave of his arm. “George, come on up here.”

  Deacon stood and waved, grinning widely as the crowd erupted into a booming applause, and felt the make-up he wore crease and stiffen. The cameras belched into a frenzy as he approached the glass lectern and shook Sterling by the hand. Sterling returned to his seat, applauding as he went.

  Deacon waited. Thousands of people peered at him. He checked his autocue on the tilted glass platens arranged in a fan of three in front and at the sides, arranged so that he might turn to the whole audience and deliver his speech in a flawless manner.

  The crowd quietened, the whistling stopped, the clapping dribbled to a halt and those with seats retook them, notepads and recorders poised. But he did not speak for a long time; instead, he gathered their attention and then almost ceremoniously turned his back on them. On the wall at the back of the stage was the new Great British Independence Party emblem; a depiction of a flaming torch held aloft by two lions overlaid across the British Isles. “The new Great Britain”, it proclaimed. Gone were the fluffy flowers of the departed Labour party, and the crudely drawn trees of the old Conservatives – now it was about teeth, and it was about claws and the depiction of fairness – at last – fairness protected by a lion. The press loved it.

  The background began to change. The lions remained, the torch remained, but the picture grew smaller and from the deep blue background emerged a title that grew clearer and bolder. Deacon applauded the title and turned around to face his enraptured audience. A wave of approval began in the middle rows where the party faithful gathered, but with a warm smile, he raised a hand and hushed it.

  Power.

  “Like all of us, our Prime Minister was deeply saddened by the death of the late Justice Secretary, Roger King, and our hearts still go out to his widow and his children. Two years ago he was taken from us. Even now he is dearly missed.” Deacon looked down, remembering what the PR team had said about projection, and about timing. He bit down on his lip, and then looked up, eyes narrowed as though preparing for a fight. “And we were all sickened by his murder!” The applause came again, amid murmurs of agreement. “From that day, our Prime Minister decided that this country was fighting a war on crime. The country had had enough!” He brought a fist down hard onto the lectern. He stared around the auditorium, eyes wide now as though genuinely angry.

  “This party came to power in the wake of his death, and in the wake of the terrible events caused by Terence Bowman when he slaughtered twenty-three innocent people for no other reason than he was bored. We built a memorial to his victims. How much better if those innocent people were commemorated not by stone, but by a change in society so far-reaching, so radical that no memorials would ever need to be built again? Being in government gave us the opportunity to introduce a justice system that this country has long cried out for, the justice system it deserves.”

  He gazed out over the crowd, lost in memories of that dreadful day.

  Eventually he said, “I had a speech prepared for today but I’m not going to use it.” There were mumblings, and from the plush chairs, Sterling Young looked at him anxiously. “I care deeply enough about this subject that I don’t need any prepared words. I feel passionately a
bout my job and duty to this great country of ours.” He moved away from the lectern, strode around the stage, the blue of the diamond screen behind him like a sunlit sky. Cameras tracked his every move. “You know,” he began, “I was asked to fight that war; I was asked to take away the privileges of the few who think they can disregard the lives and safety and property of others, and I was asked to ensure those privileges went to the people who were made victims by the criminals. I felt honoured to accept.

  “For too long the victims suffered and the criminals laughed at us. For too long the words ‘reform’ and ‘understanding’ went hand in hand with tax hikes and misery. They took masses of money from law-abiding citizens to fund illogical, unworkable programmes to reform the character of criminals who were beyond reform; who sapped the country’s wealth, and went back out into the community to commit crime all over again. And what did the victim get from the old regime?” Deacon gazed around at the silent faces. “Nothing.”

  He turned around to the huge blue screen behind him. The words “Fairness in Punishment” glowed in bright red. Beneath them, “Criminal Justice Reform Act”.

  “If the victims had items of value stolen from them, their insurance premiums went up. If they had been attacked, they couldn’t work and lost earnings. The list,” he said, “goes on. And the old regime shrugged its shoulders and gave away their money to pay for a criminal’s lifestyle and their Legal Aid.” He raised his finger to the ceiling, brought it slowly down and said, “It stops here. It stops here!” The crowd applauded again and the cameras snapped. In the corner, Sterling Young rose to his feet and applauded too.

  “Last year the Criminal Justice Reform Bill went through parliament at an astonishing speed, and it was wholeheartedly backed by many diverse groups of people, not least among them, People Against Crime. And if I may just take this opportunity to express my gratitude to Josephine Tower who so tragically died earlier this month in the most horrific of ways along with eighteen of our wonderful young people.” He spoke over a ripple of polite applause. “She and her colleague, Emily Cooper, have accomplished so much in their work on this new act, and of course, we miss her very much, and the tireless way in which she sought solutions to what appeared insurmountable problems.”

  They applauded again, and Deacon paused respectfully.

  “Together we ensured that The Rules, as they have become known, are indisputably fair, that they cannot lead to the death of an innocent person, and the safeguards within the act have ensured the approval even of religious and humanitarian organisations. The level of public support is unprecedented. And four days ago, The Rules came into being.

  “The underlying message is simple: if you commit crime you will be punished!” Deacon thrust his head forward with such force to emphasise the words that his hair swung onto his forehead. Nonchalantly, he swept it back, and continued. “Since we took office, we have come a long way. We have seen the introduction of routinely armed police to guard against the more violent offenders, to protect themselves and the public. We are proposing vasectomy for persistent criminals because it is proven that criminals breed criminals – and why provide for them when in later life when they will steal from you or kill you? We have outlawed certain kinds of pornography; we are cracking down hard on drug offenders and prostitutes; all things that taint a good, clean society and all things that attract crime.”

  He waited for the appreciation to settle, strolled around to a new part of the stage and then continued his performance. “I was visited only yesterday by an elderly gentleman from my constituency in Yorkshire. He was a proud man.” And he held a fucking gun to my head. “And do you know what his request was? His request was for politeness to return, his request was that decency and manners and safety should return to the country. ‘Victorian values,’ he called them. And he was right! Why should we put up with people whose sole intention is not to contribute to society’s wealth, but to ruin the lives of those who do contribute? People are fed up with them, claiming the police don’t do their job, claiming the judicial process is weak and cannot cope. Until now, they were absolutely right. But, it stops here.

  “The judiciary…”

  Deacon paused for the unscheduled applause to settle down.

  “The judiciary has teeth now and has been instructed to use them. We have undertaken a massive prison building programme, because we thoroughly expect there to be a bigger prison population—” he held up a finger “—only for the time being. When those criminals experience life behind the bars of a new reformed penitentiary where there are no entertainment facilities except a pack of cards and a communal television, when their DVD players and private TVs are removed, when they work for nothing except their board and lodgings; and more importantly, when they see that The Rules do work, and that the guilty are punished by paying the ultimate price, that swollen prison population will shrink very quickly!

  “And another thing that the criminal will not like: any costs incurred by victims, that includes items stolen, that includes increased insurance premiums or time taken off work to aid the investigation, will come out of the criminal’s bank account. He literally will pay for his crime!”

  The cheering had begun before the last words pounded out of the loud speakers. There were whistles and boisterous applause. Stamping feet became the bass accompaniment to raucous shouts of agreement, as row upon row of people stood to lend their weight to the speech. The cameras spewed flashing light into the arena, turning Deacon into a strobe-lit figure walking the boards.

  He looked at them; they were like a hungry mob. They are sheep. “Of course,” he began again, quietly, ready to build to a climax, “reform and rehabilitation are offered. We all would prefer those who slip for one reason or another into criminality, to come back into our community as decent citizens, and we congratulate those people. However, hardened criminals who are determined to test the teeth of the Justice Ministry, will be sent to jail for a long time… but will receive help so as they may reintegrate into society. And then, when they reoffend, if they reoffend, they will be given an even longer sentence, but still offered further help, they will be offered treatment, but most importantly of all, they will be given a warning: offend again and you will be put to death!”

  He continued to speak over the cheers and whistles, but inside he grinned as wide as his imagination would allow. Deacon loved the adulation and could almost fool himself into thinking that they loved him too. He briefly allowed himself to wonder if anyone would want his autograph as he left the arena.

  “Murderers,” he continued calmly, “go straight to Rule Three where it is at the discretion of the court and the Independent Review Panel to impose the death penalty or send them to labour camps for a life sentence. But the courts are under strict guidelines to punish by death unless it is against the public interest to do so, unless there are overriding mitigating circumstances.

  “And it is with regret that I have to inform you that murderers already serving their sentences cannot be retried under The Rules, but those murderers who have evaded capture, who are still at large in our communities, can be routed through the new Criminal Justice system, and they will receive the full weight of the law.

  “You know, it costs us £30,000 each and every year to keep a prisoner for life. It costs fifty-eight pence for a bullet and £140 for a pine casket. Money well spent, I believe.” He smiled at the giggling audience.

  “I’ve told you about the elderly gentleman I saw only yesterday in my constituency; well, I’ll tell you another story of what happened while I visited Leeds only last week. I went to the railway station to see how they had progressed since that awful explosion there a few years ago. I laid a wreath at the plaque.” He quietened. And then he looked up, hate in his eyes, “Those bombers are the very antithesis of what our country needs!” He strode, and then waved lazily with a floppy right arm, as though exhausted by fighting the good fight. “I digress,” he smiled. “Forgive me. I was there to see how the station was
coping with the drug problem it has, with the graffiti and with the anti-social behaviour it experiences, behaviour which people find distressing, depressing, frightening.” His voice cracked on the final word.

  To those in the rows closest to Deacon’s feet, it seemed as though he were crying, his eyes looked damp as he recalled his tale, and as though he felt the utter despair that some people had to live with. It was this image, the weeping politician, which would sweep the front pages tomorrow. “People want safety on our streets and in their homes, and by God they have a right to expect it!” Hastily, he wiped a hand across his face. The cameras clicked, hundreds of them.

  He walked around the stage and then he stopped, looked at the audience and began to laugh. “I apologise to you again. I told you I felt strongly about this, didn’t I?” Deacon smiled at the photographers. “Where was I? Oh, yes. While I was there, I saw a group of seven or eight youths, mid-teens, hanging around, hands in pockets, smoking.” He raised an eyebrow. “Up to no good. Nearby a group of pensioners were obviously afraid of these kids. One of the kids, a girl, began kicking at a phone booth, really kicking at it hard. And I wondered why she was doing it, she couldn’t get money from it, it was a card-only phone. She smashed the handset against the card slot and continued kicking it. I was flabbergasted. The elderly people circled around her, keeping their distance and hurried away. I didn’t blame them; she was making me feel nervous.

  “But she was doing it because she wanted to, because she had no regard for property. She was doing it because she knew there would be no consequence. Who would stop her? What would happen to her for causing criminal damage to a phone box? Nothing. That’s what would happen.” His eyes scanned the silent audience, who listened with nods of recognition. “No one dare do anything; clip her round the ear and you’d end up in court, and if she clipped you around the ear, you’d end up in hospital.” He opened his arms to the audience and asked, “Why should we put up with it any longer? Why should those pensioners be scared? People want to feel safe in their homes and on their streets and they don’t!” He paused. “But they soon will. Soon you’ll be able to sleep soundly in the knowledge that people don’t commit petty damage anymore, people don’t burgle anymore.