[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  But maybe there was a way around it all. It was something reserved for the fruit loops and the desperate.

  If he can’t come to me, why can’t I go to him?

  And so she had.

  It had been her mum’s suggestion, and she’d treated it with derision as though she wouldn’t be foolish enough to fall for hocus-pocus like that. But the black hole grew bigger, its pull stronger, and her will to carry on lessened.

  Eventually, there came a time when the pull of suicide was equalled by the pull of hocus-pocus, and Jilly came to see a medium. She wasn’t a fruit loop, she was just desperate.

  The night was cool, and a breeze like a refreshing tonic floated over her as she walked the cinder path from the community hall. She smelled the scents of flowers caught in the breeze, and for the first time in a million years she smiled. It had been a good night.

  Overhead, the yellow moon was out of focus through a veil of mist that might be the precursor to a storm tonight or tomorrow.

  – Two –

  Eddie stared at it.

  It wasn’t much of an altar, but it was a fitting tribute to his little man; the New York Yankees baseball cap perched on the stained mantelpiece was all he had of Sam now. That, and the memories that came and went with the bouts of sobriety and incapacity. Right now, Eddie was in one of his rare sober moments, but his eyes flicked between the baseball cap and the bottle. In the end, the tears rippled both and he reached for the bottle.

  The ceremony two weeks ago had left him paralysed from the neck up. It was hard enough to bury your own kid on his birthday, without having your estranged wife beat the crap out of you in front of the congregation because you killed your boy.

  If he’d been there on time, Sam wouldn’t have been at Josh’s chasing a ball down the street; they’d have gone for a Mac and caught a flick.

  But less than a week after letting his boy die, he’d stood over the small grave feeling the sun’s heat drill into his head, and felt the half-bottle of brandy in the pocket of his new black suit begging him to take a swig. For the sake of his boy, he had resisted and stood there sober while Jilly told him all the things he already knew, and she wasn’t ambiguous about it either.

  Standing between her parents, Jilly had shouted at him from across the grave, and Eddie had neither the heart nor the motivation to retaliate, because everything she’d screamed was true. “You killed our Sam! You sank him in the fucking earth, you bastard! He was only eleven, he was days from his birthday and you couldn’t even make the effort to be there on time for him. Today was supposed to be his birthday.”

  And that was about the time he realised how much he had damaged her; his inability that morning to get things right had resulted in this, Jilly’s heart was broken, and she was crippled by it. He felt like a bag of shit.

  Was it possible to spoil a funeral? he asked himself. It was the shittiest day of his life, and the screaming made it shittier. Yes it did make it worse, twisted the day into anger instead of smoothing the river of grief in which everyone swam.

  Jilly had snatched herself away from her parents and almost run around Sam’s grave to smack Eddie on the face with enough force to knock him down. There were gasps – he got the impression that some of those present were just soaking up the entertainment – and the old vicar called for calm. It didn’t happen. Eddie raised his hand to protect himself and Jilly crouched to hit him more. He didn’t stop her because he deserved it, every blow and every fiery word; he soaked it up and almost begged for more to lighten the load of his burden.

  Jilly stood up straight and panted, looking down at him, her hair a tangled mess, mascara streaks gruesomely etching her reddened face, and she kicked him. And that’s when the brandy bottle slipped out of his jacket pocket and fell on the bare earth. If he’d been a foot closer to the grave, it would have slid into the hole and landed, thud, on his kid’s coffin. How ironic. Both of them stared at the bottle and then both of then stared at each other. “I hope it kills you, you worthless fuck,” she snarled and kicked him one more time.

  “So do I,” he whispered.

  They all left huddled in a group with Jilly and her parents at its centre. The vicar came over, patted him on the shoulder, and asked if there was anything he could do. Eddie looked up, thought about punching him, and then whispered, “Bring my boy back.”

  The sextons quietly worked around him, almost reverently filling in the hole, and Eddie sat there on his arse, his new suit looking decidedly worn, and stared from the brandy bottle to his boy’s coffin until the coffin disappeared and all he could see was fresh earth. Eddie sat there among the silent work, and he cried for the death of his boy.

  “Is there anything worse than burying your son,” he asked the bottle, “other than knowing you were the cause of it?” It didn’t answer, just stared back at him, miming the words, drink me. He was a regular at the local Booze King where behind his back they called him “Brandyman”. He didn’t care, so long as he got his dose of oblivion once or twice a day. No, there was nothing worse than burying your son and knowing you were the cause.

  As he unscrewed the lid, he asked himself why tonight was different; why was he sober? Easy. The self-loathing was dominant and it told him he needed a night off the booze so the memories could punish him properly instead of them having to fight through a haze where the pain barely made a mark. Tonight he needed to feel the pain sharp and deep like the thrust of a knife, like the bonnet ornament of a green Jaguar as it tore into his ribcage. Yeah, let the film roll and let me suffer like my boy suffered; go on, give it to me again. He screwed the lid back on and put the bottle down.

  And anyway, tomorrow was his first day at work since… he needed to be sober for that, at least to begin with. They would all be scrutinising him, they would all offer their condolences, and he wanted to be able to say ‘thanks’ without breaking down; hell, he didn’t even want his chin to wobble, so best get it over with tonight, and then tomorrow night he could visit Brandypuke Farm and his old friends guilt and hatred. But the bottle did look inviting, and it smiled up at him and said, Come on, Brandyman, take a swig.

  He clenched his teeth, looked at the baseball cap and tried to put the bottle into a place in his mind it couldn’t reach. His eyes slid reluctantly away from the cap and the fact that his son’s fragile head used to live inside the damned thing, and they slowly came down to look at–

  Oh what was the fucking use? Why prepare yourself for work when you don’t want to go back, why deny yourself the booze when you’ve no intention of going back?

  You know, if you do it tonight, the pain is gone, click, just like that. No more hurting, Eddie. And it does hurt, doesn’t it? Yes, do it tonight, eh. And what was the best way, the quickest? Hanging.

  With stinging eyes, Eddie opened the door to the kitchen and pulled out the Dirt Devil, unwound its flex and threw it over the door. He accepted the invitation, and took a long swig from his friend, and stood with his back to the door, heart thumping, eyes streaming, thoughts of his first words to Sam: “I’m sorry, son.” They blasted through his mind like a small explosion as he wound the flex around his neck. Eddie took a last look around his “home”, his eyes settled on the baseball cap, and then he tensed.

  Do it. Just drop, just let your legs buckle and it’ll all be over in a couple of seconds.

  He closed his eyes and tensed up. Then he let go.

  His backside hit the floor with a mind-numbing bang and he could feel the small vacuum cleaner climbing the other side of the door. “Fuck!” The Dirt Devil banged against the door. “Can’t even fucking kill myself. You useless piece of shit, Collins.” He wound off the flex, and let the Dirt Devil clatter back to the kitchen floor.

  He stared through the tears at the cap and then the bottle.

  The phone rang. Eddie jumped. The screen said “Jilly”. He swallowed, and if he’d been wearing a tie, he would have straightened it, would have freshened his breath too, just in case. He reached for the thing, avoi
ded video, pressed talk instead. “Hi, Jilly.”

  “Eddie, put the screen on.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, please.”

  Icy cold. He opened the flap on the mobile phone and pressed video. A wonderful colour image of Jilly leapt out at him, and he almost flinched, expected her fist to come through the screen and punch him in the nose – just for old times’ sake, she would say, and hang up.

  “Are you sober?”

  What? Whatever happened to Hello Eddie, how are you? Long time, no see. How you copin’ with your grief? Are you sober, shit. “Don’t piss about with small talk, Jilly.”

  “Well, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m sober, for Christ’s sake. Why?”

  “Come over.”

  He looked into the screen, saw her eyes avoid his own, as though she was suddenly embarrassed. This wasn’t like her; he squinted, suspicious. “Why do you want me to come over? Have you got your dad with you, gonna let him have ten minutes with me? Going to kick some more crap out of me, Jilly?”

  She pursed her lips, and though the screen had reasonable resolution, it wasn’t quite good enough to pick out the full extent of her blushes. She was feeling guilty about the scene at Sam’s funeral, and wanted to apologise.

  Only she wasn’t the forgiving kind, wasn’t Jilly; she was the punishing kind. Even the poor resolution showed that in her eyes. “Why do you want me over?”

  “I have some news. Please come over.”

  “News? What news, why can’t you tell me over–”

  “I won’t ask again, Eddie.”

  22

  Sunday 21st June

  – One –

  He sat in his own lounge feeling awkward. He said thank you when she handed him a coffee, smiled politely. It was as though they were back in their courting days, long before the time when he felt relaxed enough to fart in her company.

  He wanted to ask her what she wanted at this time of night; didn’t she know he was going to tie a knot in the Dirt Devil flex? Didn’t she know how difficult it had been driving past Booze King? He needed a drink, and somehow he knew coffee just wouldn’t hit the spot. Instead, he looked around politely, as though admiring her choice of décor, and felt like asking her if she came here often. The presents in the corner had gone, and on the walls, photos of Eddie had gone too, and in their place were more of Sammy, lots more.

  He sipped the coffee, put it on the floor and sat forward in the chair, elbows on knees. “So,” he clapped his hands together, “what’s so important?”

  She sat on the settee opposite him; legs tucked underneath just as she always did, cuddling a cushion. “You know the problems we always had with the heating system and with the lights fusing all the time?”

  “Yeah?” His suspicions were aroused further.

  “Well, I know what the cause is. The fuse box in the cupboard under the stairs has been wired up wrong, or it has a fault inside it.”

  Eddie blinked. “At last I’ll be able to sleep soundly.”

  “There’s more.” She took a large breath. “I went to see someone tonight and they told me about the fuse box, told me I had to get it fixed urgently before something horrible happened.”

  “Okay.”

  She stared at the carpet.

  “If you haven’t dragged me all the way over here to beat me up again, then what have you got to tell me?”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “Too late.”

  “See! I knew you’d make this hard for me.”

  “Come on, I’m here listening to talk about the fucking fuse box–”

  “Sam’s okay.”

  His heart stopped. He couldn’t take his eyes off Jilly, who now met his stare. His mouth fell open and he cocked his head to one side. “Say again.”

  “He’s okay,” she whispered.

  “What… what do you mean, he’s okay. What are you talking about?” No sooner had he asked the question, than the answer ploughed into his mind. And yes, he did think she was crazy. “You’ve been to a…” he clicked his fingers, searching for the title, “A medium? You’ve been to see a fucking psychic?”

  And then it all came out in one long blur of words. “He was good, Eddie; he told me about the fuse box, and he told me he could see a young man, coming up for a birthday. He said he was a smart little fella wearing a cap with NY on it.” She rushed through the sentence, probably to limit the time Eddie had to ridicule her. “He said he loved you.”

  What do you say when someone tells you that your dead kid still loves you? “Jilly, please, babe–”

  “I know what you’re going to say and you can save it, Eddie. This man came out with all sorts of things that no one else–”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “He knew you’d bought Sam a PlayStation!”

  “So?”

  “He knew how he died; said he was playing football with a kid called Joshua and was hit by a green car while retrieving the ball.”

  “How many newspapers has that little titbit been in? Jilly, he’s a con, they all are. They’re just playing with your grief and they’re taking your money. They’re scum and should–”

  “Shut up.”

  “They’re using you.”

  “Like you always have!” She screamed at him and then threw the cushion at him too. She unfolded her legs, leaned forward and she was all snarls and claws, and she looked at Eddie with eyes that flashed red in the pupils. She had gone wild. “He told me that he loved you still – though God knows why – and he told me to tell you that he didn’t blame you.” Her eyes narrowed and she leered at him. “Fuck knows why; because I still do, you drunken piece of shit.”

  “Jilly, he’s pulled the wool–”

  “Then how did he know about the wiring?”

  “They prey on people like you,” he said, “that’s how those vultures earn their living. You don’t believe in all that bollocks, do you? I thought you were a sensible woman.”

  “People like me? People like me! You cheeky bastard; you practically threw Sam under a car and then you have the cheek to tell me they prey on people like me! People who are grieving, you mean. People who–”

  “Who need to reach out and still feel Sam’s hand, yes. They’re not stupid, Jilly. I don’t know how they found out all this crap about the electrics, but they did and they used it to pull you in like they do every other sucker!”

  “You’re wrong!”

  “They are out to con you, to manipulate you, can’t you see that? What they’re offering you is a chance to,” he searched for the phrase, “to not let go; they’ll give you snippets of him, tell you things you’d like to hear–”

  “What about Sam saying he loves you? Don’t you like to hear that?”

  Eddie fell silent, heart racing, cheeks flushed and the desire for a drink so strong it almost pulled him off the seat and out the door. “I’d rather hear it from his own lips, Jilly.” He swallowed and looked up at her, eyes wide, sorrowful. “But he’s gone, babe.”

  “He’s reachable, dammit!”

  “He is not,” he whispered. “It’s a con. We sank his body in the ground two weeks ago. And nobody, not even you, wants him back more than I do—” he felt the familiar sting of tears, but he swallowed, coughed and carried on “—but it’s not going to happen. Let him go, Jilly. Don’t keep on punishing yourself by seeing these vultures.”

  “They’re not–”

  “They are!” he yelled at her, and then he shook his head. What was he doing? She was upset, she needed comforting, she didn’t need a row, dammit. But she didn’t need false hope either. “You’ll grieve forever if you believe he’s out there somewhere in the ether or flying in between the stars just waiting till you contact him again. You have to let go, you have to recover.”

  She cried. In great sobs, she cried into another cushion and Eddie almost got up out of the chair and went to her. But he couldn’t; she didn’t want him anymore, she wanted Sam, and she would do an
ything to have him back.

  “Hey, you’re so desperate, Jilly–”

  “I hate you.”

  “I expected you would. But I thought you should know about them, the mediums, that is, and if I’ve shattered their carefully fabricated illusion of a reunion, then I’m sorry, sort of. But I think you need to get a grip and move on.”

  “Oh, good idea!” She looked at him, and her eyes were red and puffy already. Their lashes stuck together. “I could do what you do, couldn’t I? I could just get pissed all the time to cover up my feelings and to blot out any memory–”

  “It wouldn’t matter how much I drank, Jilly. I could never blot out my memories of Sam. He’ll be with me always in here.” He patted his heart. “I don’t need no psychic bullshit to tell me he loved me; I know he did, despite all my failures. And I don’t need no man in flowing black robes with a fucking crystal ball to tell me–”

  “Oh shut up. I’ve heard enough.”

  Eddie felt sorrow like he never had before. Jilly was such a strong woman, the way she always told him to quit drinking or he’d be out, and he always thought, yeah, yeah. And then she did it, she kicked him out. And how strong did she need to be to do that? She was strong, but look at her now.

  And his heart went out to her, but his hands feared to follow, just in case her claws and her red eyes and her venom came back. But it made him sad that she was so much in grief that she couldn’t see the way they fooled her. She missed Sam so much that she was willing to lay her head under their guillotine and take part in the charade. Grief made a fool of everyone, even strong people.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more positive about it, Jilly.”

  She said nothing, looked at the wall, tears falling from her trembling chin in a silence that was almost scary.