The stickers were new.
And so was the camera over the till area, and the one over the technical drawing paraphernalia. And these cameras worked. No one had replaced the batteries in the fakes because they had the real thing now.
The door swung closed behind him, and the incessant racket of the demonstration was reduced to something easily obliterated by a preoccupied mind. There they were, the oil paints. Christian’s mouth began to water as he ambled up the aisle opposite them. Red ochre. Burnt umber. And anything else you can get your hands on in a hurry, he thought.
He pictured himself in the cellar, small dusty bulb casting its glow over the huge canvas. There it was, almost complete, stretched over a simple wooden frame and draped against a home-made easel. And soon it would be finished. Dejection would settle on his shoulders, and a dark mood would slowly crush him from the inside out. And he’d be back in reality with a junkie woman and her stupid imagination.
There they were, each in a rack, like a thousand spices lined up in a kitchen. Christian licked his lips and reached out for the white tubes. Burnt umber slipped into his jeans pocket. Red ochre next, two tubes, and a tube of white, followed by a sable brush which stuck out from his pocket like a flag.
The few people at the till were engrossed in conversation; others in the aisles looked at goods for sale. Christian slipped towards the door, fingering his goatee as he went.
“Excuse me, sir!”
He swung the door wide and leapt into a throng of people who cared little for the morals of errant artists and who cared perhaps equally little for the lost profits of an overpriced art shop. He mingled, caught hold of the flow and went with it. The shouts of the shopkeeper were as dead as dust, lost in the noise like a droplet of water in a rainstorm.
Christian made his way through the crowd, avoiding the thrusting arms and jostling that was part of its momentum, and emerged on The Headrow, straight into the path of an armed officer.
– Two –
Behind her, lost to the sounds of agitated shoppers and buses slowly ploughing their way up Eastgate, a small bell tinkled. Max locked the door and searched the bustle of people for the druggy-girl in the floaty top and tight faded jeans.
Her pocket bulged with cash like never before. Max had paid her £250 for the paintings. And they enraptured him; he was in her palm like the beads of sweat that nestled there now. He was hers, and he couldn’t get enough. She knew he was selling them for a huge profit, probably made a couple of hundred on top of what he paid her, but she could live with that. Everyone was happy, as the saying so stupidly went.
Christian wouldn’t be happy when he found out. But only for a short time, because she had found that elusive gateway into commercialism, into hygiene, into running water, and into light for all. She was the agent who had at last done what Christian could not. Surely for that alone, he ought to be pleased.
Cigarette dangling in her mouth, Alice headed back up Eastgate towards The Headrow. She had one thing to do before climbing aboard the bus back home, and that was to spend a tenner on a lottery ticket.
– Three –
Christian froze. His feet were stuck to the pavement; his wide eyes stared at the officer.
The vidiscreens pumped out the Crimestoppers number and flashed images of wanted felons, and for a moment he thought he saw his own image among them.
“Been doing a spot of shopping?” The officer smiled so widely that Christian knew he’d been caught. He sighed, and that was enough for the officer to slap on a pair of black plastic cuffs and speak some garbled rubbish into the discreet mic on his lapel. The officer looked in Christian’s pockets and found the paint. “Planning a spot of redecorating, son?”
Christian whispered, “Something like that.” He looked away as a girl walked past him and into a tobacconist’s shop. She wore a floaty top and tight, faded jeans. Ten yards behind her, a rotund man in a waistcoat followed her.
36
Tuesday 23rd June
“But why are there two?”
Mick wiped his nose on his sleeve and then looked from the officer to the tray where his cigarettes, lighter, wallet, and two dictaphones were. “They go through batteries just like that,” he clicked his fingers. “And anyway, one of ’em is a little temperamental.” He scratched his head and whispered, “But I’m not sure which one it is. And if I mess this interview up, that’s it,” he shrugged, “I’m out of a job.”
Mick thought he would be asked to leave one behind. “Okay, go on through.” The officer grimaced at the vomit on his tie. “Might want to smarten yourself up a bit first.”
Mick waved without looking back, “I’m fine, thanks.” Pompous bastard.
Another officer outside Deacon’s door checked Mick’s details against his list before knocking. As he opened the door and ushered him into the hallowed room, Mick pressed record on the dictaphone that he’d slipped back inside his pocket. Wearing a broad smile on his homely face, he walked in tall, exuding loyalty to Deacon as though the man were an icon. “Sir George.” He held out a hand and strode towards the great man. “So good to meet you again.”
“Mick, please.” They shook. “Sit down, sit down.”
Mick loved the way Deacon ignored the stain on his tie – always a sign of a good upbringing, was that. He sat, placing his notepad and pencil and his dictaphone on the desk between them. A picture of the Queen hung resplendent over the fire; silver candelabras adorned the mantelpiece. Oak was everywhere and books too, hundreds of them, and the carpet… well, you could trip over and fall into it, it was so deep. “It’s a while since we had our last chat, Sir George; I hope you don’t mind this imposition at such short notice.”
“Not at all, I know you’re quite a fan of The Rules and so,” he smiled warmly, “you’re always welcome here; helps spread the word, you know.”
He found it surprisingly easy to imagine Deacon in an angry or violent temper. He was quite weighty on the top half, had “ruthless” stamped right across his wrinkled forehead and razor-sharp eyes that searched for and exploited weakness. “You’re aware that I and The Echo are great supporters of The Rules, but I wonder, sir, if I may begin by asking for your reaction to the public opinion on them.”
He switched on the recorder, and Deacon held up his hand. “Mick, Mick. Slow down, would you.” He stood, slipped off his jacket and strode around to the shiny wooden cabinet. “How about a drink first?”
Mick licked his lips. It was a thirst that tea or coffee couldn’t combat, and anyway, it would help Deacon open up. “You’ve twisted my arm, Sir George. You know I could never refuse a good malt.”
“Who says you’re getting the good stuff?” Deacon bellowed with laughter, and Mick joined in, keeping the volume lower than his host’s. “There you go. Sip it slowly, now,” he laughed again. “Anyway, I know you like a drink, Mick.” He winked. “I do my research, too.”
Mick tipped the glass at Deacon, and sipped. “So, Sir George; what is your reaction to public opinion?”
“I presume you mean the positive opinion we have received?”
“There have been a number of calls from the Church and from campaigners overseas for The Rules to be abolished.”
Deacon took a deep breath. “Well, the Church has many different voices and it expresses its doubts over the state taking a role in humanity that it deemed the sole responsibility of the Lord God. I fully understand that position, and while most of Great Britain’s subjects are Christians, the overwhelming voice they speak with tells me we are doing the right thing. Even the Bishop of Chichester is a convert, I’m pleased to say.” He raised a finger to stifle Mick’s next question. “Consider this, how many innocent lives have we saved by killing the murderers and the rapists?”
He stared at Mick as though expecting an answer. “We have saved, it is estimated, sixteen. That’s sixteen people living today who would be dead, and sixteen families not grieving, not torn apart. And that’s in just a week! How many more people have been sa
ved from assault, rape, burglary? That is a question I can’t answer with any degree of certainty; but it must run into hundreds, and for that, I am grateful. And I suspect,” he smiled, “so too is the Church.”
“And the overseas campaigners?”
“Now you’re talking about countries where the death penalty has been out of existence for many years, hundreds of years in some cases. Maybe they have their crime under control and don’t need such a forthright approach to securing the peace enjoyed by their nation. Though I doubt it.” He sipped again. “France, Belgium, Germany and the like are tied into European law and ECHR; since Great Britain left the union, we are bound only by our own laws. I suspect that if their peoples had the choice, they would follow our lead.”
“But there are still a lot of dissenters, Sir George.”
He dismissed the statement with a wave of a nonchalant hand. “Bound to be. It’s a heck of a law; one that gives the state the right to kill a citizen.” His hand curled into a fist. “Make sure your tape recorder is working, and listen carefully: if a person takes another’s life unlawfully, or they are a persistent offender who ignores the counselling provided to them, why should innocent citizens put up with them on the streets, or pay through the nose to keep them in jail?”
“Carry on,” Mick nodded to the recorder, “it’s working fine.”
“Do you know how much it costs to keep a villain in the comfort of a modern jail?”
Mick shrugged, knowing the answer, but guessing wrong to promote Deacon’s sense of conversation. “Twenty thousand a year?”
“Try thirty thousand, per year per prisoner.”
“Some would argue that incarceration is the best form of punishment.”
“Naturally they would. But it’s expensive, reform is unlikely and in most cases – particularly with sexual deviants – impossible. And do we really want these people back on our streets again at some time in the future? I don’t think we do.
“And then there is the deterrent factor. Hotly disputed over many years, but research indicates that most offenders would not have committed serious crime had The Rules been in force prior to that crime being committed. The Rules work. And for those on Rules One and Two,” he picked up his glass, “well, would you burgle or rape again if you knew death was but a fingerprint away?” His eyes narrowed. “And anyway, what’s wrong with good old-fashioned punishment?”
“So what do you say to the woman who kills her husband after years of abuse? You going to kill her too?”
Deacon sat back in his squeaking leather seat. “We have been through all this before, and you know it. But I’ll refresh your memory. I have great sympathy with those unfortunate enough to suffer at the hands of a supposed loved one. Not all murderers deserve the same fate; some, as in your example, who suffer diminished responsibility or mental incapacity, deserve an alternative to punishment for a crime they unwittingly committed or committed while under duress. And for those, there is every chance of reform, of reintegration where they pose a risk to no one. Medical treatment will always be available to that class of unfortunates – we are, if nothing else, a just and tolerant society employing a just and tolerant government to administer the law as it sees fit.
“Don’t think of it as a ‘bloody code’, like the one used in the nineteenth century; we’re not out to slaughter those who commit crime through no fault of their own–”
“Maybe not, but what about appeals?”
“You’re moving off the point of the discussion here, I think. But since you ask; the appeal system is fairer now than at any time in the history of British law. Do your research, Mick, and you’ll find that appeals against capital punishment went where? To the Home Secretary – a politician! Surely, decisions of such a magnitude where aspects of legality and proportionality, where aspects of law and mitigation are to be considered, should be made by an expert in the law, not by someone governed by the doctrines of politics. That’s why all appeals quite rightly go to the Lords Judicial in consultation with the Independent Review Panel.”
Mick abandoned the sipping and slurped the whisky, then placed the empty glass under Deacon’s nose. He smiled.
“More?”
“Go on, then.” So far, so good, he thought. The interview, designed to cloak the real issue, meandered on the fringes. Wait, he told himself, choose the right moment before asking him what you really want to know. “What do you think of Margy Bolton’s execution?”
Deacon handed over the glass, returned to his side of the desk but did not sit; instead, stood there pondering the question. “You know I can’t talk of specific cases.” His answer was cold, not at all the jovial host.
“You must have an opinion.”
“I do, yes. But not specifically aimed at that one case.”
“Margy Bolton is the first woman–”
“To be executed by the state since Ruth Ellis in July 1955. I know my history, and I also know she wouldn’t have killed those kids after the 15th of June – proof of the deterrent value.” Deacon’s demeanour had changed; the warmth he extended to Mick began to wane and as he gulped his whisky, his sharp eyes looked at nothing other than Mick. Deacon sat and sighed, as though waiting for the next nonsensical question, as though obliged to appease this parochial journalist.
Mick cursed; he asked these questions as a way of engaging Deacon in conversation; but instead he was turning Deacon away from him. He tried to bring him back on side. “All I’m trying to say, Sir George, is that the state is impartial when it comes to executions.” He smiled warmly. “And that’s a good thing. After all, she killed a class full of youngsters, she killed three teachers and she killed Jo Tower. The nation was outraged and it demanded justice–”
“No it didn’t! It demanded retribution. And it got retribution. The court, however, did not acquiesce to their cries of retribution, it stuck rigidly to the guidelines set down in the act, and it administered the trial and passing of sentence perfectly. The Rules worked.”
“Yes, yes, Sir George.” Mick reached out and switched off the dictaphone. Then he looked back into Deacon’s eyes. “I’m not trying to make you look bad or to trip you up here,” he said, “I’m trying to cover all the bases and have The Rules appear impartial–”
“They are impartial!”
“I know!” he shouted. Then he closed his eyes, could hear Deacon puffing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.” Fuck, this was all going wrong. “Shake my hand.” Mick reached over the oak desk.
Deacon looked confused. “What?”
“Go on, shake my hand.”
He did, slowly, cautiously as though Mick was wired into the mains. “What was that for?”
“How about we forget that last episode, and start again? I meant no offence–”
“None taken.”
“Really?”
“What do you want to ask?”
It hadn’t worked. Deacon was still as frosty as a winter’s morning, eyes just as dark, too. He was going to have to bring the conversation down to a more human level; comical, even. “I’m not here for anything specific, Sir George.” Mick sounded deflated, eyes roaming the lower regions of the room, a sigh leaked out of his loose lips and then he reached again for the whisky. He shrugged, looked up; “I’m wasting your time, aren’t I?”
“What’s the matter, Mick? You don’t seem your usual self.”
Mick shrugged again. “I dunno; I think I’m losing my touch, not that I ever had a very subtle touch in the first fucking place. Oops,” he held his hand over his mouth, “sorry, Sir George.”
“Forget it.” He nodded to Mick’s glass, “More?”
Mick held it out, didn’t make eye contact.
“Were you at my speech last Friday?”
“I was there. I thought it went very well; even though the audience were selected to applaud in the right places.”
Deacon laughed, and Mick sneaked a sly glance at him.
“You noticed then.”
“I thought you spoke with real passion, real passion, I mean.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Was your anecdote real?” He looked up as another whisky came his way. “Don’t worry,” he nodded towards the dictaphone, “it’s turned off; I really do have discretion, you know.”
“I had to get my point across to the nation. It’s a game. Power is everything; give the public what they want and they’ll vote you back in. It’s a game.”
Mick showed the slightest nuance of being uninterested, trying to make Deacon feel safe, as though what he said mattered little anyway. He puffed and sat back in the leather chair. At last the drink was having a calming effect, and with it came a tinge of bravery, and he tried to turn the conversation away from the dull grind of work and politics and on to a friendlier, more personal level. “So,” he said, “how’s Henry these days?”
Deacon would either clam up altogether and dismiss the interview as a non-starter, or he would just slip into the small-time rhetoric of one worn out middle-aged man talking about life’s disappointments with another.
“He’s okay. Business seems to be floundering. But the market’s poor for real estate just now.” He paused, looked at Mick to make sure the “uninterest” was still there, and added, “He’ll never amount to anything; he’s a waster.”
“I’m under the cosh at work as well.”
“He’s thirty-seven and still can’t control himself or his own life.”
“I’ve been told to pull my fucking socks up,” no apology this time, “or find another job. Bastards.”
“Every couple of weeks I have to get him out of trouble, it seems.”
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 20
