[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  He stared into Deacon’s hateful eyes and nodded, “Yes.”

  “I mean it, Henry. Next time it kills you.”

  Henry nodded again. They understood each other for the first time since Henry ploughed his clumsy way through adolescence. And it was something to be celebrated. “Drink?”

  “Did you kill that man on Leeds Road?”

  Henry sighed, “Yes,” and went on pouring the drinks.

  “Why?”

  “He was annoying me.”

  “Did the twelve-year-old boy annoy you too?”

  Henry blinked. He held his head high, breathed in deeply though his nostrils. “That, sir, was an accident, pure and simple.”

  “You sounded as though you were giving your pre-prepared answer from the dock of a courthouse then.” Deacon tipped the glass. “You were travelling at an estimated fifty-eight miles an hour. You were in a thirty zone. That’s two deaths in one day; quite a feat. Even for you.”

  “Spare me the funnies, please. I have been over it a thousand times, and there’s nothing I can do now that will change either of those deaths, the tramp or the kid.” Henry sipped and then winced as it bit into his cut lip.

  “You almost sound as though you care?”

  Henry shrugged. “No, I don’t care. It’s sad that the kid died, but—” he shrugged again,“—shit happens. I need extricating from this mess before it turns around and bites me.” And then he looked up. “Bites us.”

  “Have you destroyed the car?”

  “No.”

  “What! Why the hell not?”

  Henry held up his hand. “I tried to burn it,” he said. “But it burned me instead.”

  “How did you explain that to the police when they asked for your statement?”

  “Said the car thief slammed my hand in the door.”

  “They believed you?”

  “I was in pain! They believed me. Why would they think I was lying, carjacking happens all the time.”

  “I can’t believe no one saw you kill either of them, especially the man on Leeds Road, in rush-hour!”

  “It all comes down to witness statements, and you know how unreliable they are. My story stands.”

  “So what if they find the car and it’s got your prints all over it?”

  “It’s bound to have my prints over it: it’s my damned car!”

  “Steady on, Henry; we have an agreement, that’s all. It doesn’t turn me into your underling.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll have Sirius destroy it.” Deacon searched the ceiling, looking for some kind of answer, and in relief, Henry sat back down and let him work it out. “Can’t be tomorrow or Monday, I have places to go.” He looked back at Henry. “We’ll have to make it sometime on Tuesday.”

  “Why wait, though? Why risk anyone finding it? I mean, if you’ll help me, then we could sort this whole thing–”

  Deacon shook his head. “If anyone had found the car we would know about it, the police would have knocked on your door by now. Another couple of days won’t hurt. In the meantime, keep going as though nothing has changed.”

  “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure.”

  “Where is the car?”

  Henry smiled. “Remember Great Preston?”

  18

  Saturday 20th June

  – One –

  Christian breathed hard, holding a wad of cash; maybe five or six hundred pounds. He stared at the man on the floor who groaned and writhed about in the glass from the smashed ceiling lamp. Standing above him in the doorway was Mrs Golfer, wearing a towelling dressing gown, eyes furious with what she saw.

  “Get out of our house.” Her voice was strangely calm as she looked from her husband to her burglar; her own private burglar. “I have called the police.”

  “I would have done that too.” He looked down at the wad, wondered if they could get by without all this money. “What was this for?” he asked Mrs Golfer.

  “That’s none of your damned business, my lad.”

  “I’m not your lad,” he whispered. “I only–”

  “Get out!”

  Christian limped across the lounge, heading for the kitchen, hoping to find the keys dangling in the back door. As he passed Mr Golfer, he looked down, saw the pain in his eyes, the embarrassment.

  “You’ll fucking hang for this, you bastard.”

  “Don’t think so.” Christian stuffed the cash into his jeans pocket and quickly left the house. He was a quarter of a mile away on Kirkstall Lane in Headingley, near the stadium before he saw two police cars speeding past, blue lights flashing, but no sirens. After another quarter mile, he suddenly remembered his shoes in the hedge at the bottom of the garden.

  Che sera, he thought. Christian walked home.

  – Two –

  The candle was weak, the darkness oppressive, claustrophobic. And Alice could feel the beginnings of a panic attack coming on. She was naked and cold, a little afraid, and now she could imagine her demise down here in a dank cellar, could imagine the candle rolling away across the gritty floor as she sucked at the dust through her constricted throat.

  She held the light at arm’s length again and crouched, looking past its glow and into the gloom, towards a set of drawers, wonky old wooden things not fit for the tip, and she wondered if that was where he kept her stuff. It made sense, but it was a little unimaginative. She pulled the brass loops on each of the drawers, and wasn’t the slightest bit surprised to see them full of nothing more sinister than painting equipment.

  She slammed the drawers shut, and turned, looking for more…

  There was a dark, tongued-and-grooved door with a rusty latch, standing right before her. A hundred years ago they had tipped sacks of coal through the grate at the back of this old house, and this was where it landed. And this is where the stash would be. Alice smiled.

  A quick sweep with the candle assured her she was alone. Except, there was an easel just to her right. On it, facing away from her, was a canvas stretched over a frame and held in place by some kind of clamp. A protective sheet of plastic hovered above it, suspended from the ceiling by lengths of twine. She bit her lower lip, noted how low the candle had burned and wondered how much time she had left before it died, or before Christian came home. She decided she could look at the pretty picture all she wanted after she got her gear.

  Alice lifted the latch and the door pulled noisily outward, scratching an arc in the dirt on the stone floor. She nearly screamed as the candlelight wafted in its breeze and dipped into a dark blue before recovering and illuminating the web hanging like a net curtain before her eyes. In its centre was a long-legged, skinny, hairy fuck of a spider. It looked at her, unmoving, un-frightened, it looked at her through big oily eyes.

  She held the candle beneath the web and watched the spider scuttling upwards, disappearing behind the doorframe. The light showed a row of black plastic spines stacked against each other at the wall side. Alice bent beneath the web – expecting that thing to drop onto her bare back and scurry up towards her neck – and shuffled forward, reaching out her hand as she went.

  The spines were the edges of canvases stretched over wooden frames. She grabbed one, pulled the plastic bag away, and peered at the dark colours. She couldn’t make anything out though, no distinct shapes. There wasn’t enough room for that. But she could see fifteen or twenty of them, all about the size of an A3 sheet of paper. “I wonder how much these are worth.”

  You wouldn’t!

  Well, it would stop her having to rely on Christian for everything, wouldn’t it?

  So, what’s selling his paintings for money, if it’s not relying on him?

  “I mean, I don’t have to go begging for cash, and if I ran low of stuff, I could go and buy the gear myself instead of being kept prisoner in a fucking shithole!”

  Hey, you don’t wanna go stealing off your man. Please. You don’t wanna do that, Alice.

  “Shut up!”

  She looked around at the pict
ures, and then her shaking hand reminded her why she was there. Drugs. Where the hell had he hidden them? They had–

  She heard the corrugated iron over the back door creak and then grate against the floor. Directly above her head she heard gentle footfalls in the lounge. Her hands tingled. I gotta get out of here; if he catches me down here, no telling what he’ll do. But wait! What if it’s not him, what if it’s the police or one of those kids that hangs around at the end of the street with his hands in his pockets and eyes that could cut you in two?

  And then she heard him. “Alice,” he called softly.

  Relief stole away the anxiety, she stood quickly, turned and walked into the spider. It scuttled across her face. Alice screamed and dropped the candle.

  She slapped her face, her neck, her chest. And then she just stood there naked in the darkness screaming.

  19

  Saturday 20th June

  – One –

  “What were you doing down there?”

  She pushed the cellar door closed and looked stubbornly at him.

  He’d go out and earn the family a crust, and all the while she was… well, what was she doing? “Have you been looking at them?”

  She nodded slowly.

  The bags under her eyes looked deep enough to jump into, her hair was a tangled freak show, and here in the brightening light of a new day, she looked like something about to star in a horror movie. He stroked her chin with the back of his hand. “You didn’t touch the one on the easel, did you?”

  “It’s still under the cover.”

  Her voice was meek, almost afraid, and that was something he never wanted to invoke in her. He put down the bag and then put both fists on his hips. “I don’t want you going down there. It’s dark and–”

  “I had a candle.”

  His eyes closed, face blank. Finally, he sighed. “Where is it?”

  She shrugged. “Blown out, somewhere on the floor.”

  Great. Let’s start a fucking fire! “So it’s dark.”

  She looked back at the floor.

  “It’s dangerous, Alice. And you could damage things that belong to me. Things I value.”

  When she looked up this time her eyes had narrowed; her lips were barely a line on a tight white canvas. “Things that you value? What about me, Christian, do you value me?”

  “Hey, of course–”

  “Then how could you go out and leave me with no fucking stuff?”

  “I’ve brought some for you, babe. No need to get upset.”

  It didn’t work. “Upset! I’m not fucking upset; I’m going fucking crazy, is what I am.”

  “Did you go down there looking for stuff?”

  She looked away again, stood shaking like a demure porn star. And then she was on the offensive again. “You can’t fucking blame me.”

  He held his hands out.

  “You left me no choice!”

  “You’re right,” he said, “you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re a bastard to me, Christian. Sometimes,” she shouted, “I think you hate me. You want me to suffer because I’m on drugs. You want to punish me and to control me.”

  “Bollocks. That’s the drugs talking.” His eyes drifted out of focus. “I wish you weren’t on the damned stuff in the first place.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “Give me the gear before I blow!”

  He rummaged inside the plastic shopping bag and brought out a small block of brown resin. He watched her eyes as he handed it over.

  “Is that all?” She stormed away into the lounge, found a spoon and a lighter.

  “When we finally make it out of here…” Her eyes snapped to him, syringe ready to break the skin on her groin, and he couldn’t make out whether it was a stare of impatience, of regret, or hatred. He didn’t like this Alice. “When we get out of here, we’re gonna get you sorted.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, Picasso?”

  “I just need a lucky break.”

  “Everyone needs a fucking break.”

  “Won’t be long now. This new one I’m working on…”

  She released the pressure on her groin, and let the needle fall too. Her eyes rolled and she squeezed a handful of greasy hair. After a while her heartbeat returned to normal, the poison numbed her anxiety, and she looked at him with eyes that could have belonged to the real Alice. “How many pictures are down there?”

  He brought the plastic bag over and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Twenty or so.”

  “Ever tried selling any of them?”

  From the bag he brought out sandwiches and shower gel. “I did at first, but I got nowhere. People weren’t interested, said they had new artists coming out of their ears, and that new stuff was always difficult to sell, or they weren’t taking on new clients… the list goes on. I got fed up of trying, and decided to carry on doing what I enjoyed: painting. I’m not a fucking salesman.”

  “So how’re you going to get us out of here, Mr Picasso?”

  “Stop taking the piss.”

  “You said you were going to get us out of here, but if you can’t go out and sell the damned stuff, how you gonna do it?”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “What for, a fucking invitation?” Alice pulled a sweater on, and stared at him. “They won’t come knocking on your door, hoping a fucking artist lives here, and hoping he has a fucking masterpiece to sell to them. God, you’re fucking thick!”

  Calmly, he said, “I’m waiting. I’ve nearly finished this one–”

  “And then what? You gonna haul it round the art galleries or something?” She gave him no time to reply. “Like hell you are. You’re gonna put it to one side while it dries and you’re gonna start another; another one that the critics will really love, another one that’ll get us out of here in no time at all.” She stopped, panting hard, anger slowly dissipating. “Sometimes, Christian, you are so full of shit. I bet you have stuff down there that’s as good as you’ll ever paint. Why wait to see if you can paint any better? They are all you; they are just different pictures.”

  “Have you finished?”

  “Your ideals won’t get us out of here. I’m sick of living like a dosser in a place they should have pulled down a century ago. And what are you going to do when he’s old enough to go to school, huh, teach him yourself? We should be looking for a nursery already.”

  Christian looked away. “I’m not going legit,” he said. “I won’t–”

  “‘Be a number’? I know. You’re a stuck record. But you’re not going to get by as a great unknown; you can’t live anonymously for ever.”

  “Why not? I’ve managed this far.”

  “How far have you come, eh?”

  “I’ve got you,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  He paused. “You going to leave me?”

  “What if we get sick? You need National Insurance for treatment–”

  “We’ll get by.”

  “The wonderful Picasso says we’ll get by, well that’s okay then, isn’t it!”

  Christian knelt before her, wincing at the throbbing pain in his leg, folded his arms across her bare legs, and stared up into her dark wide eyes. “We’re not so badly off; we don’t have to sign on at no stupid dole office, we don’t owe the state anything.” He could see he wasn’t getting through, “We can look people right in the eye and be proud that we live by our own means. I won’t be a slave to a regular job.”

  “You need freedom, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “So we can look people in the eye as we steal from them to get by? There’s a fucking world of difference between living The Good Life and stealing to exist in a fucking shit-tip.”

  “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

  “I sometimes wonder who’s on drugs. Get real. And do it in a fucking hurry!”

  He couldn’t get angry at her, no matter how much she goaded him, he couldn’t do it. He smiled, stroked her leg some more. The night had gone well, and
Mr Golfer had been good enough to buy a bit of food for them, and some tobacco for Alice, as well as the drugs, some drinking water and a few toiletries. And there was still 350 quid left. “Hey,” he said, “wanna see them?”

  “You going to show me your paintings?”

  He nodded.

  “Make it quick before Spencer wakes up.”

  – Two –

  She followed him down the stone steps, seeing but ignoring his limp as the torchlight illuminated the steps before him.

  “Okay, babe, stand still while I connect the lights.”

  “You got lights down here?” So his “studio” was the only place to have electricity; how could he value his studio above the lounge?

  “Of a fashion.”

  He disappeared into the corner, taking the torchlight with him, and the blackness attacked Alice. “Hurry up, this is freaking me out.”

  “Relax, I’m hooking it up.”

  “Don’t you go getting no shock!”

  “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “It’s DC.”

  “Oh, that’s okay then,” she said, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.

  “I’m thinking of tapping in to one of the streetlights; see if we can have some mains power in here at last.”

  She caught sight of a violet spark and then a glow above her head turned quickly white, spreading light right across the dusty room.

  “Wow, this is wonderful!” She spun around, staring at the small spotlights, the kind you’d normally find sunk into a kitchen ceiling.

  “They’re just 24 v spots,” he said, “so don’t get too excited.”

  “You never said we had electricity.”

  “We haven’t.” He walked back around the corner, rubbing his hands on a rag. “It’s an old truck battery that’s no good for anything except a couple of bulbs really. I didn’t want you to think we could power a cooker or a fire from it.”

  “What about a TV?”

  He shook his head.