[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  14

  Saturday 20th June

  Alice stood and dared to look into the dark ribs of the spider-encrusted ceiling. She saw that Christian wasn’t there; and she hoped he was out doing the business, getting her some gear, otherwise… well, otherwise she’d go fucking berserk! Simple as that.

  “Hurry, babe,” she whispered; and with arms again folded around her breasts, she walked over to the bed and looked down at Spencer. She smiled, and touched his hair, stroked it with a mother’s gentle fingertips, felt the softness of his skin and…

  the hammer smashed into his skull and shattered a spray of blood and warm brains across her face

  …heard the tiniest of snores coming from his puckered lips. Spencer’s eyes flickered but stayed closed. She breathed hard and walked away, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Fuckin help me,” she whispered. The sugar had all but gone, the Pepsi and the Lucozade were gone, and she needed something fast before she shrank into a black ball of spiky hatred in a corner, before she became dangerous to be around.

  Why wouldn’t he give her the fucking cash? She could go out and make her own deals, she could…what, exactly?

  You could get ripped off again, you could come back with no stuff and no cash and probably with your fanny on fire because you got raped by a dealer just before he robbed you.

  Fuck! Why did he always leave it until she’d run dry before he went for more? Just what was his damned game? He had no right to… why not keep a little on standby in case something shitty happened? Was that too–

  Hold on. Maybe Christian had hidden some.

  The blackness of her eye sockets creased a little as she squinted.

  He brought Spencer into the world, Alice. He did that and he cared for you both like a decent man. Don’t mock him, girl; that, out of all the things you’ve thought tonight, is the lowest you’ve got.

  She swung the cellar door open and the smell of linseed punched her in the face.

  The candle flickered as she descended the stone steps and into the bowels of the rotting old house. Her hand cast flitting shadows on the whitewashed walls and she shuddered as the temperature dropped another five degrees.

  You know he’d be furious if he caught you down here, dontcha? He’s told you before to stay out, hasn’t he? And why did he tell you, huh?

  “If he had nothing to hide from me, why would he ban me from coming down here?” The smell grew stronger.

  She swallowed and straightened. “I have a right to see it, whatever it is. I have a right to it, half of it’s mine.”

  Hey, come on, leave the guy alone; it’s his only privacy from you. Come on, look what he done for you, how he stood by you. The least you can do is respect his wishes–

  “Fuck his wishes.” The candle wavered. “What’s he ever done for me, eh? Got me pregnant is what he did, the bastard, and that made me depressed and, and…”

  Alice began to cry.

  He gave you a family, Alice. You think on that, girl. He gave you stability.

  “You call this stability?”

  You ain’t got a mortgage and you ain’t got no rent to pay, but you got a roof over your head, you safe and you free, and that’s what you both need more’n anything.

  “I need a fucking hit more than anything.” She held the candle out in front of her at arm’s length and shuffled into the blackness of Christian’s realm.

  15

  Saturday 20th June

  The knock came. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  Eddie put his coffee – coffee! – down on the table and answered the door. He hadn’t seen Mick in over a week. Maybe Ros had been right when she said Mick only wanted to sink into the gutter with some company, and his chosen company was Eddie.

  “Come in, Mick.”

  Mick closed the door behind him. “Hey.” He pointed at the coffee. “What the hell’s that?”

  “I’m back at work Monday. Thought I should try and be–”

  “Fuck that. Grab the glasses; I brought us some Metaxa.”

  “Honest, Mick, I–”

  “Now, now. I don’t wanna hear any bollocks, Eddie. Sit ya bum, Mick’s here now.”

  “I need to go to bed.” He looked into Mick’s bloodshot eyes and then burst out laughing.

  Mick didn’t laugh, he just grabbed two glasses off the wonky sideboard and perched in his usual chair by the window. “I have news, Eddie.”

  “Hi, Eddie, how’re you feeling?”

  Mick smiled. “Hey, I’m sorry; I forgot my manners there for a minute.” Fake concern smeared itself over Mick’s whiskers and even the crow’s feet smoothed out a little. “How are you; no, I mean it, Eddie, how are you doing these days? Things any easier?”

  As if you care. “No, things are not any easier. I wake up every morning – if I’m lucky enough to fall asleep, and I realise my kid is still dead. How’s that? I feel like slitting my throat. Next?”

  Mick ignored him, eager to feel the burning sensation of brandy flowing into his gut. “Speaking of throats,” he said, smile growing all the time, “come on, get some of this down yours; it’ll fade the blues until they’re almost tolerable.” He handed Eddie half a tumbler of brandy, chinked glasses and slumped in his chair, leg cocked over one arm in his usual fashion. He lit a cigarette and exhaled as though he were in his own lounge.

  “I doubt it.” Despite his earlier good intentions, Eddie took the glass, as the justifications began to pop into his head. The little voice inside put up a fair fight, but in the end, addiction always won over reason. Hell, he was celebrating his last weekend before returning to the job; and hell, Sam was still dead! Both of them were top drawer reasons to enjoy that glass of Metaxa. He nodded the glass at Mick and drank with a free conscience.

  “Guess what.”

  “Me and guessing games are not the best of friends.”

  “Christ, you are touchy tonight, aren’t you? Job freaking you out; going back after a long time off can–”

  “Get on with it.”

  Mick took his leg off the arm of the chair and sat forward, cigarette in one hand and glass in the other, and waved both at Eddie as he told his tale, smile right back on his face as though it were glad to be home. “The first Rule Three death is next week!”

  Eddie shook his head. “Rule Three?”

  “Oh come on,” he said, “you had your head up your arse all year?”

  “I’ve had one or two distractions, yes.”

  “Fair point. Margy Bolton is due to go before the gun tomorrow. You remember her? She’s going to be famous.”

  “That bitch is already famous.”

  “She’s going to be in all the papers and on all the stations. She’s more famous than the fucking PM, is Margy.”

  “They’re not televising it, though? Tell me they’re not.”

  “No, no. Christ, that would go against the decency legislation.” And then he winked. “But there is a loophole. They can broadcast the sound of her dying, of her being shot. No visual, but plenty of audio. The fucking ratings will soar, I promise you.”

  “You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

  “Damned right. I tell you, Deacon has risen in my estimations no end since he brought The Rules in. They’re calling him the new hero of the twenty-first century.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Most of the people I’ve interviewed think it’s about time we got tough on the killing culture, as they call it. And it spreads wider afield than good ol’ Blighty. The Yanks are applauding us big style; they think it’s wonderful, and those states that already employ the death penalty feel vindicated.”

  “What about those that don’t?”

  Mick shrugged. “Dunno, really. Like always, they’re saying it’s wrong to kill people, but there are more in favour of capital punishment than against it. I mean, most of Europe nearly had a coronary when The Rules came in; no way Deacon could’ve got it through European legislation – The Sixth Protocol, Article
1, abolition of the death penalty – had we not pulled out of Europe altogether.

  “But who gives a shit about Europe anyway? I certainly don’t. And I’ll tell you something else, Eddie, when The Rules kick in, the crime rate will drop through the floor.” He stared into thin air, and with arms outstretched, drew out an invisible banner, “I’m writing it up as this: people will be able to leave their doors unlocked as they did back in the 1940s; Britain will once again be great.” His eyebrows rose. “What do you think?”

  “Do you think that’ll ever happen? Because I don’t.”

  “Well, maybe people won’t leave their doors unlocked, but once criminals see their brethren die – or hear them die, should I say – they’ll think twice before burgling, robbing and murdering.”

  “Some, maybe. But not all.”

  “Hey, I’ll accept some, that’s a good enough start for me. Crime will drop, overcrowding in prison won’t be a problem anymore, and Britain will be more prosperous for it in the end.”

  “I don’t agree with killing someone.”

  Mick sipped the brandy, peering over the rim at Eddie, obviously wondering whether to pursue the matter. He decided he would. “If you found the green Jag man, would you still say that?”

  Fair question. Christ, it was a good question. Eddie thought about it, drank his drink, and lit a cigarette before he could even formulate a response. “Yes. I don’t agree with killing someone. I admit that finding that bastard would probably test my principles.”

  “Good enough answer for me, Eddie.” Mick topped their glasses up. “I’ve written a good piece about her forthcoming demise; Rochester liked it, and it’s rolling on page two on Monday if things don’t change.”

  “Who’s Rochester?”

  “Editor.”

  “And what could change?”

  “You are behind, aren’t you? They haven’t even finished the London and Birmingham slaughterhouses yet. Or should I say, the ‘Termination Buildings’. The one in Leeds is done apart from carpets and paint, and some final testing; it’s where the kiddie-killer bites the bullet, literally. And then I hear they haven’t even finished selecting the executioner yet. Shit, can you believe it; I mean I know they probably don’t have any apprentice-trained candidates to choose from, but Christ, come on!”

  Eddie shook his head, laughed. “I think Deacon is full of shit. He gives off this air of supremacy. He’s a baby-hugger, but I bet behind the scenes he’s a bastard, and I further bet he gets his way on most issues.”

  “Who cares what he’s like when he’s out of the public gaze, so long as he doesn’t smother the babies when he hugs them, he’s fine by me.”

  “I’m surprised there haven’t been more objections to it. I mean how can you put a gun to someone’s head in this day and age and get away with it?”

  “Happens all the time, Eddie. But you never hear of it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, if the government is under threat, either by terrorists or by infiltrators, the heavy mob gets involved and the threat just disappears.” Mick clicked his fingers. “In a cloud of dust.”

  “Who’s the ‘heavy mob’?”

  Mick shrugged. “I don’t know; they keep it to themselves, don’t they? But I guess there are men with big guns, like your MI5 or your NCA crews. They’re the clean-up brigade; they’re the ones who make all the nasty things go away so the government and the public can make believe everything’s okay.”

  “Who was it said ‘keep taking an eye for an eye and the world would go blind’?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you live by the gun, you die by the gun.”

  “Are you pissed already? You’re making zero sense to me, Eddie.”

  “I’m talking about killing, legally killing. If you kill people who have done wrong, there’ll be no bugger left before long, and the eye for an eye thing means that no progress is ever made if you just solve your problems by killing them.”

  “Bollocks. Kill your problems and you have no problems. Anyway, you speak to most decent citizens and you’ll realise that they’re sick of being treated as the chaff while the wheat – the criminal – is afforded all the powers and rights he could wish for. They want tougher sentences, they want–”

  “Retribution. Whatever happened to reform; now you’re saying everyone is out for punishment.”

  “Hoorah.” Mick put down his drink and applauded. “You got that one right. Did you know that it costs you and me nearly £30,000 a year to keep a man in prison? And did you know there are currently 889 lifers in prison under the age of thirty? And since life actually means life now – not like it used to when life meant fifteen years before being let out to kill again – that means that each one has on average another thirty years to do. Do the maths on that, Eddie, and you end up paying a bill of around a billion pounds. That’s a mighty fine wad, wouldn’t you say? How many hospitals could you build for that?”

  “That’s Deacon talking. But you’re missing the point. There’s a host of reasons why it’s wrong to kill someone.”

  “Oh, go on then, wise one, let’s hear it; should be good for a laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing. And I’m the one directly affected by someone who would now be on what, a Rule Three? for killing Sam.”

  Mick nodded. “If he’s found guilty of murder, and it’s proved beyond all doubt – hear that, Eddie, beyond all doubt – that he killed your boy, he faces the gun.”

  “I would like him to spend the rest of his life in a cell.”

  “A lot o’ money going to waste.”

  “It’s not wasteful; it’s punishing him, month after month, year in year out. He has nothing to look forward to except death. Why give him what he wants on a fucking platter?”

  “Fair point. So you’re in favour of long sentences for punishment, but not for reform.”

  Eddie drained his glass, tossed the dead cigarette into the ashtray and lit another, sighing the smoke out in a long stream. “Couldn’t give a monkey’s toss about reform; what has he got to reform about? He can’t bring Sam back by reforming his character, can he? I want him punished. Anyway, what should worry the public is the police.”

  “Why?”

  “What happens when the evidence they have inadvertently puts some innocent man in the slaughterhouse? It’s happened, sometimes not even on purpose.”

  “Oh come on, corruption is dead.”

  “For a journalist, Mick, you’re fucking naïve. Coppers have been doing it for centuries. And they’ll be under more pressure to bring in the results now. They’ll be inclined to cut so many corners it’ll be round when they’ve finished.”

  “Won’t work. All evidence for Rule Three cases gets sifted by the Independent Review Panel; they’re forensics people, law people–”

  “And coppers?”

  “So what? They’re independent.”

  “Okay, so what happens to the poor schmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, whose evidence fits if you look at it in a certain light, but is actually innocent? At least if he’s banged up for a few years, there is the opportunity to set him free.”

  “It’ll never happen, Eddie. Mark my words; it’ll never happen.”

  16

  Saturday 20th June

  Christian looked back at the open window, checking that the escape route was still there, just in case. “You give me no trouble, and I’ll give you none.”

  “Get out of my fucking house. Now.”

  Christian silently climbed down onto his front, feeling the coolness of the floor on his hands and on his belly where his T-shirt had pulled up a little. This was the time when normal burglars would have slid back out the window, thankful to have gotten away with their life and their arse intact. But Christian was different; he felt different, almost felt as though he had a God-given right to be there, because what he was doing was right. He had selected the target and the target was his until he’d milked it, and no one, not Mr Golfer, Mrs Golfer or even the
fucking police would sway him until he was finished.

  It was a shame that it had come to this, a confrontation that neither man wanted. But he had a woman at home and both of them could use a little fattening up, and one of them could use a little escapism. Escapism wasn’t cheap. The man in there, the golfer, seemed wealthy enough, and Christian didn’t think that donating a couple of hundred quid would force him to sell one of his cars.

  “I said get out now or else I’m calling the police.”

  He crawled further forward, past the refrigerator – one of those large American jobs – and closer to the archway giving onto the lounge. He watched Mr Golfer’s shadow grow nervous. Christian’s mouth watered. And he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous himself; of course he was, but the nerves were tempered by the challenge and they were calmed by the goal.

  The threshold with the lounge was inches away from his face. He could see Mr Golfer’s bare foot around the corner of the archway, could see the shadows beneath the moonlit window and could make out half of the leather chair Mr Golfer had presumably sat in before he took up his stance. All the man with the club had to do was look down and take another small step forward, and he could stroke that full head of free-living hair with a five iron, and then be patted on the back for it later. But he didn’t move.

  From his breast pocket, Christian took the coin and the small black box. Without making a sound, he flicked the ‘on’ button, listened to the tiny whine as the capacitor charged up, and waited patiently for the LED light to glow. And then he tossed the coin across the lounge. Heads or tails? It tinked into the glass door of the DVD cabinet and moments later, he lunged.

  Christian leapt, closed his eyes in readiness and tripped the flashgun with the thumb of his right hand. Mr Golfer shrieked again as his world turned instantly white, overexposed, and then sank into a land of green shadows punctuated by a bright orange dot. And that’s when he screamed.