Christian opened his eyes and punched the man in the balls. The golfer folded, gasping for air, retching, his free hand groping wildly in the air between them. And then he stood.
Why don’t you be a good victim and hand over the cash and let me walk away with it, huh? Why make things so damned difficult?
He watched the shock on the golfer’s face turn to anger. Christian swung his right fist, but Mr Golfer was surprisingly quick as he drunkenly stepped aside, and in the same movement, swung the club around his back. Christian tried to move, he could see what was about to happen – how the club would smash into his skull, how the blood would spray across the lounge walls and then the police would arrive, pin a medal to Mr Golfer’s chest, arrest Christian and throw away the key.
The club was already on its arc down towards his head. He saw it – heard it whoosh before it crashed into the ceiling lamps. Glass shattered, plaster fell like snow from the ceiling, and the club’s arc changed, deflected like a car bouncing off another car in a road accident. Unluckily for him, the light didn’t deflect it much and it still travelled toward him.
The club smashed into Christian’s thigh and he went down screaming. For a second he wondered if his leg was broken, since all the sensation had evaporated apart from a throbbing tingle at the edges of the numbness. And then he thought he’d better shut up and stop screaming before the club found him again and came back for a second go. But it was too late. The scream gave away his position and there was another loud whooshing sound. Christian closed his eyes.
The club smacked into the skirting board, and Mr Golfer screeched furiously at him. Christian grabbed the man’s pyjama bottoms and yanked. He could think of nothing else to do. For the time being, he was paralysed and lay on the lounge carpet like he was a tee on a practice green. The pyjamas slid down but Christian kept on pulling, yanking hard until the golfer lost his balance and banged to the floor on his bare arse. Face to face.
In the near-darkness, both men grunted and screamed. Christian leapt at him, knocked him backwards and sank a punch into the golfer’s belly. The man’s breath rushed out and his face crumpled. His hands went to his stomach and he dropped the club. He rolled over and glass crunched beneath him, the breath streamed in through clenched teeth hissing like a punctured tyre. Christian got to his feet, ran a hand quickly down the side of his leg, and felt light-headed as the real pain bypassed the numbness and seized his mind. There was damage there; he didn’t know how bad but when he tried to put weight on it, it ignited a fire that burned furiously.
“I’ll fucking have you, you bastard!” The golfer coughed, and Christian let his knees fold so his weight fell onto the golfer’s balls again. More rushing air, bulging eyes, and groans.
“Where’s your money?” He ignored the pain in his leg, pulled his mind back to the job and back to the predicament he found himself in. He could still be caught, and so he’d better focus on getting the money and getting out of there. He held his right fist a foot above the man’s squinting eyes. “Tell me where, or you’ll have a broken nose to go with your flat balls.”
“Fuck you,” the golfer spat through clenched teeth.
Christian didn’t hesitate. This was for his family, it was for his way of life, and now it was for his freedom too. The nose cracked and the man screamed again, hands smearing the blood across his face. In this light it looked like black sludge. “Next time it’ll be your teeth. Tell me where you keep your money.”
“I haven’t got any.”
The fist mashed the golfer’s mouth, and more blood trickled down the side of his face. His hands fell to his sides and Christian wondered if he’d gone too far and knocked the fucker out. But his eyes were still open, their moistness shone in the moonlight; his breathing still shallow and fast, and he stared at Christian without malice, without feeling, and then he whispered, “It’s over there in the bureau, right hand side.”
“You’d better not be pissing me about.”
“I’m not.” And then his eyes closed in a long blink that scared Christian a little; made him wonder if he’d caused the man some real harm, something he didn’t want on his conscience. He almost felt like kicking the silly bastard for making him go so far. There was no need for all this, and he felt the anger swell up in his chest again, because it was for nothing, all this, it was pointless – the man could and would claim this back on the insurance.
He grabbed the flash unit off the floor and then stood and limped across the lounge. He opened the bureau and saw nothing.
“In the tin,” said the man. “In the tin on the right.”
And there it was. In a Cinderella tin, no doubt bright and colourful during the day, but only various shades of grey now. “This your holiday money?” He pulled out a wad wrapped in a plastic bag.
And then Christian was blinded.
17
Saturday 20th June
Henry sat in the chair and massaged his bandaged hand. He felt like shit and he looked pretty much the same. He waited in the drawing room like some guest at a hotel rather than being allowed to see the old fart right away. His father, the revered George Deacon – Sir George Deacon, champion of the common man, if you don’t mind – was busy polishing his golden letter opener in the study, by God; but he was the one who summoned Henry, not the other way round. Henry tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. It was a mixture of nerves and anger.
He was cold and he was hungry, and these sensations, coupled with the anger, meant he shook uncontrollably. His hand throbbed beneath the bandage and if it had been just a little tighter, he could imagine the skin popping out between the wraps like an inner tube through a hole in a tyre.
It had started three weeks ago at the very end of May; a day that could only have been hotter if you were sitting on a furnace, and he was angry that day too. But his anger then was caused by being stuck in traffic while his sale walked out the front gate and drove away.
“Henry.”
Henry jumped and almost fell off the Chippendale.
“Henry, where have you been?”
“What– what do you mean?” Henry stood, put his bandaged hand behind him and took a step away from his advancing father.
“I invited you to my after-speech party. And what’s more, boy, I expected you to be there!”
Didn’t invite me to the fucking speech itself though, did you? “I couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. I had–”
“What? What did you have? Stomach ache, a sore head, or perhaps another appointment in the syph clinic?”
Henry ground his teeth. “I had things to attend to.”
Deacon spun and began walking back to his study, and Henry followed him down the dimly lit hallway with deep red carpet underfoot, and carved wood flanking the walls. Over his father’s shoulder, he saw a man sitting in a chair at the end of the hall. A discreet wall lamp cast its glow onto the newspaper he read. As they approached, the man looked up, nodded at Deacon and became engrossed again. Sirius, the lapdog; Henry recognised the big man even from that one small glance, and he too was on the hate list, the slimy bastard. Henry followed Deacon into the study.
Deacon closed the door and silence cloaked them.
Henry looked around at this sanctum that he had visited once before without his father’s knowledge. For a study, it was a large room, easily big enough to accommodate a snooker table and a bar. Thousands of books lined its walls, all neatly stacked on mahogany shelves, and they gave off a musty, comforting smell. And then there was the desk, a thing so large it probably had its own Ordnance Survey reference. It had two flat-screen monitors and two phones on it – one of them bright red. The Bat Phone, Henry immediately christened it. He sat in the chair facing the enormous desk and Deacon busied himself at the drinks cabinet. Lead crystal decanters tinkled against handcrafted tumblers.
“Tonic?”
Henry looked over. Shook his head. “Neat.” He already felt intimidated, not only by his surroundings, but by his father. Politics had turned h
im from the one man to whom he could tell anything into the one man from whom he kept everything. He’d become a vapid businessman whose cronies included ministers and lords, whose name was not on the Prime Minister’s printed Christmas card list, but on the handwritten list instead.
He nodded thanks for the drink, and downed it in one.
“Fill it yourself, Henry, would you?” Deacon sat, slackened his tie. “So what did you have to attend to that was more important than my after-speech party?”
“Personal things.” Henry sat, readied himself for the interrogation.
“Am I not your father? Can’t you tell me personal things any longer?”
“I’m surprised you have the time.”
“Was that a flippant remark, Henry?”
“Yes, it was. Strike that from the minutes, would you.”
The dictionary struck him on the knee and fell to the floor. Henry jerked, banged his bandaged hand and spilled his drink. He stared at Deacon, and in that instant, hated him.
“Would you like to start being civil to me, Henry? As you can see, I have no shortage of books.”
Henry refilled his glass again.
“You should have come to the speech. Though I say it myself, I was wonderful. Even Sterling commented upon my performance.”
“I’m sure you did a wonderful job, Father.”
“I gave a heart-rending speech about the Criminal Justice Reform Act, Henry. Do you know anything about it? The Rules, some people call it.”
Henry shrugged, kicked aside the book and retook his seat. He saw something in his old man’s eye, and knew that he was playing games. The tone of voice, the insinuation threaded through the question like a certain track near a certain village threads through certain slag heaps. “No, I don’t…”
“The Rules, Henry, are a radical new way of dealing with criminals. Basically, you get three chances to reform, three chances given to you by society to keep your nose clean.”
“My nose? You say it as though you’re–”
“Bear with me.” He said this with a smile that was far too warm, far too friendly to belong to idle chat, more in the vicinity of the end is nigh. “However, the rule of three only applies to petty criminals, or rather to those who don’t pose a serious personal threat to anyone. It doesn’t apply, in its fullest form, to those who kill, or to those who have killed and have not yet been caught.” He stared directly at Henry.
Henry looked away.
“Those people go straight to Rule Three. The gun.” Now Deacon did not smile.
That comment was aimed directly at him. Being an estate agent gave you an instant malice-o-meter; you knew when people hated you enough to talk to you while drawing the dagger behind their back.
But that wouldn’t bother you, you bag of shit. They could break down the doors to this place, drag me screaming out into your grounds and put a bullet through the back of my head, and your only concern would be for the damaged door and the blood on your roses. “Why have you called me down here, Father? You never call me down here.” And then he thought more about it. And he could see why his father would be bothered. Not because of the death thing: that wouldn’t cause his heart to flutter – did he have a heart? He would be bothered because his reputation would be soiled. He recalled, after his last little excursion from the path of righteousness, how dear Daddy had him up against the wall, threatened to smear his face across it. He wouldn’t risk the PM crossing him off his Christmas card list.
“I never call you down here while I have government business–”
“Or while there are people here I could embarrass you in front of.”
Deacon’s eyebrows rose. “True,” he said.
“So why have you summoned me? I’m busy with the business, I can’t–”
“You can’t take an evening off and spend it with your father? What kind of son are you?” He sipped his drink, staring at Henry over the rim with cold eyes. “I’m what, thirty miles away from your home? That’s nothing to a man who drives like you do.”
Ever seen a trap door, Henry thought, and gone over to have a look anyway? He swallowed. “I don’t drive quickly.”
“Quite,” was all Deacon said. “What about the business? Gone bust yet?”
“What a thing to ask! No, I haven’t gone bust yet; it’s doing alright considering the climate we’re in.”
“So you’re nearly bust.”
His hand throbbed.
Deacon laughed and reclined in his seat, arms folded, enjoying his son’s visit.
“Okay,” Henry said, “cards on the table, why am I here?”
“Cards on the table?” Deacon reached into a drawer and pulled out a blue folder, all the while keeping his dark eyes on Henry. From the folder he took a sheet of printed A4 and slid it across the desk to Henry. “Treat yourself.”
It was a copy of the statement he made to the police two weeks ago about some nasty scrote who relieved him of his beloved Jaguar. Astonished, he looked up at Deacon. “How did you get hold of this?” Henry’s chest grew tight over a hammering heart.
“I am the Justice Secretary, Henry. I pull so many strings, they call me the puppet master.” Deacon laughed at the expression on Henry’s face. “I’m only kidding about the title, I just made it up, but it has a certain ring, wouldn’t you say?” Deacon stood and marched around the desk, and Henry pushed into the back of the chair. “I like to keep a discreet eye on what’s happening in your life, Henry. To an extent, we are estranged, and well… I don’t want you getting up to any mischief; I don’t want your old tricks to re-emerge.”
“You’re keeping tabs on me!”
“Steady,” Deacon said, “this isn’t Nineteen Eighty-Four, you know. I take an interest, that’s all.”
“Bollocks!”
Deacon swung his fist with such ferocity as to knock Henry sideways out of the chair. The chair crashed on top of him and hadn’t come to rest before the study door burst open with Sirius filling its frame. Henry looked up and screamed. Deacon waved Sirius away and when the door closed, reached down and pulled the chair off his son, providing his foot with unhindered access.
As each blow struck his back, all Henry could think of was that he wished he were in the SAS, because if he were…
Henry curled up on the floor and Deacon took the opportunity to stamp on his bandaged hand. That brought Henry’s mind round from the greyness it was sinking into, and he surfaced with venom in his veins and hatred in his mind. He rolled over just as Deacon was about to lay another well-aimed foot at his kidneys. “Stop!” He made it to his knees, and Deacon, grunting like a boxer about to deliver the killer blow, pulled back just as Henry’s fist made contact with his balls.
Deacon stopped dead. His spindly old legs buckled, and he sank to his knees, groaning and clutching his balls.
Henry brought his reddened face within inches of his father’s and hissed at him through clenched teeth, “If you ever touch me again, you old fuck, the world will find out what a hypocrite you are. You’ll go from a seat in Westminster to a seat in the slaughterhouse in record time.”
Deacon’s eyes widened with surprise, both with pain and at the sudden display of a spine from his wimp of a son. But behind the surprise was something else. Fear.
“What do you know?” Deacon’s words fell out of his mouth in a rush, blurred together by that fear. He stood, propping himself against the desk, and then shuffled back to his chair, trying to hide his astonishment. “Out with it!”
Henry climbed to his feet. “You bastard.” He held out his bandaged hand and saw the blood seep through it. “It was beginning to fucking heal!” He spat blood onto the carpet and looked reproachfully at Deacon.
Deacon arranged his shirt, pulled his tie back into position, and said, “Tell me what you think you know.”
“I don’t think I know anything.” The anger resurfaced. “I do know.”
Deacon stared at his son for what must have been a minute, then calmly asked, “What happened
to your hand, Henry?”
This was turning into the best fucking day of his entire life – except for Launa Wrigglesworth! – and he wondered why he hadn’t used the threat before. It was two years old, he’d had it in him for two whole years, and in all that time he had taken the beatings and the humiliations, rather than use the old man’s tactics against him. And now that he had used it, it worked better than a razor blade chastity belt. But he did not gloat.
“I burnt it.”
“Why did you burn it, Henry?”
There was a tentative understanding in Deacon now, almost a grace that Henry had never seen before; and he wondered if this was how politicians dealt with everyday life, whoever had something over someone got the prize. And when someone had something on you, you obliged, you conceded gracefully and you never mentioned it again. That’s life in the great game of politics. Deacon wore an expression that Henry had never before seen: compliance. He really did have him by the balls.
“You know why my hand is burned; you know how I burned it too, I guess.”
“I want to hear it from you, boy. You tell me exactly what happened, and I’ll try to help you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because, for the time being, I believe your threat is real, and I have a lot at stake at the moment. Things that I would rather not lose. If you mess things up, it taints me.” He looked derisively at Henry, like he was a piece of shit. “You know,” he said, “if they catch you for this, you’re going to die for it? I’ll look bad for siring such an abomination, may even be voted out, but you’ll die, boy!”
“Abomination?”
Deacon said nothing.
“So what’s the deal?” Henry leaned forward. “You help me out this once, and the next time I mess up you kill me?”
“I hope there will not be a next time.” Now Deacon leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a bare whisper; “This is the only time this threat of yours will work. The next time you try to use it, be prepared to die. Do you understand me?”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 9
