[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  His surroundings changed without his knowledge. He was in a white room. The walls were white, the ceiling was white and the shining floor was white. There were no windows, he noticed. How sad, he thought.

  The air smelled minty but with a hint of lavender, very soothing. He felt quite tired and wondered if Henry would be home soon. It would be good to share a nice cup of tea with him before bedtime. He missed Henry, wherever he had gone, perhaps he was playing in the old quarry again. Deacon smiled. He loved Henry, he was a splendid boy.

  In front of him a red lamp lit up and Deacon instinctively lifted his head a fraction – not more, because it was somehow restricted – and peered at it. Then he heard a whoosh, a sort of burst of air pressure, and then

  It took eight months and six days for Sterling Young’s government to fold and leave office. George Deacon’s conduct had been the catalyst for what turned into the most intensive period of investigations into a British government ever conducted. Though never proven, questions were asked about Deacon’s involvement with a certain Terence Bowman, the Victoria Subway gunman.

  People looked back to the beginning of GBIP’s rise to popularity, and it coincided with Bowman’s crime. Deacon had cleared the path into the Justice Ministry by killing his predecessor, King. And he invoked a national backlash against gun crime by employing Bowman. GBIP had cruised into Downing Street, and The Rules began claiming lives.

  The last life it claimed was Mr George Deacon’s.

  THE END

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  The Lift

  Today, two events changed my life.

  They didn’t make me turn to religion or become a vegetarian, nothing quite so drastic; but for me they had a profound effect, like a stutter in life’s journey – a hesitant footstep from one predictable day to the next.

  I’ve seen scores of bodies in my time, and they don’t bother me as long as they’re not slimy, maggoty, or too smelly; certainly nothing to put me off my Big Mac. But for the first time ever, today I saw a live person become a dead person. There was no ethereal moment where I saw the soul rise from the warm corpse, nothing quite so dramatic. Just the final exhale and then over a period of a minute or two, the eyes began to cloud over.

  At exactly the same moment the person became a corpse I witnessed the second event. I saw a person become a killer. As the corpse’s eyes milked over, this guy’s eyes turned feral. Now that would put me off my burger. That was fucking frightening.

  I flicked away my cigarette and stared at the butt-ugly tower block and its cloned brethren. Depressing. Why do they do that, the architects? Why do they go out of their way to make something depressing to exist in? I could have done better with some Lego blocks and a tube of UHU. The whole estate was like a prison, and I bet that’s how it felt to live there.

  I ignored the graffiti surrounding the intercom panel, buzzed flat 68 and waited for a reply. It didn’t arrive and I sighed again. It was going to be another shit day. I’d been in the office for precisely eight minutes; just long enough to grab a radio and battery, my kit and van keys, and have a brief altercation with my arsehole of a boss.

  It wasn’t my fault. He was grumbling about my paperwork not being up-to-date, about statements I needed to do. We slipped back into the same old argument, the same old rut; it was like being married to a monotonous fat prick who only knew how to highlight problems and didn’t have a Scooby how to fix them. The way I see it, my job is out here catching the scrotes who made people’s lives even more miserable than the architects were doing, not sitting behind a desk writing statements for the courts to play with. I know, I know, it’s part of my job and it’s what I signed up for all those years ago, but writing a statement can take two or sometimes three hours. I could have attended three burglary scenes in that time, or a rape scene, or a fire scene. In short, I could have helped the people who needed it instead of fucking about helping some barrister pay for his next yacht. You think all criminals wear gloves and a mask? Nope, there are quite a few who wear gowns and wigs too.

  Anyway, I’d gathered my gear together, letting his ranting fall out of my brain as though it were a party political broadcast, and marched out of the office, telling him to get a clerical assistant to write the damned statements. I’m pretty sure the stapler missed my head by less than an inch but I didn’t care, I was out of there. Happy days.

  Sort of. And now, as I lit another cigarette and leaned against the entrance waiting for someone to let me in, I wondered what kind of person could talk their way into an elderly person’s flat and rob them blind. They usually pretended to be from the water company, asking them to check under the kitchen sink and when they did, the bogus official – the bogoff – would nip into the bedroom and steal a wallet or a purse. They didn’t care about the carnage they left behind. I remember one bogoff where they took everything, the old guy’s medals, his change, even his bus pass. To this day, I can still see his crumpled face, and if I’m on a real downer, it can make me weep.

  These bastards didn’t have a conscience, that was for sure, but they had balls. Either way I’d love to get my hands on one of them for ten minutes – it’d be enough to convince them never to do it again. And when I say I’d like to get my hands on them for ten minutes, I mean I’d like to get my hands on them, not their balls. That thought tickled me and I found myself smiling a bit, secretively like I was being naughty, when they walked into view.

  I continued to smoke even as I bludgeoned the smile to death, and watched them, a young scrote in a freshly stolen tracksuit, and an old guy; his grandfather maybe? Scrotes don’t like it when you watch them; staring at them makes them feel self-conscious, and if they’re up to no good – which most folk their age around here are – they get nervous. This kid seemed nervous to begin with, and although they were still out of earshot, I thought he was almost pleading with his grandfather who shoved him in the back every few paces.

  Seeing me in my uniform, black jacket with reflective blue and white tape, black trousers, heavy black boots, a police radio - with incessant chatter falling out of it - clipped to a shoulder harness, a very long and very heavy Maglite dangling from a loop on my belt, shut the kid up quick. When they saw me, they almost came to a stop and I could tell they’d considered just turning around and walking away by the way they glanced at each other. The scrote mumbled something and the old fella kind of growled, and they began walking again, but there was a definite reluctance in their gaits and silent curses on their lips.

  By this time, I suppose it was too late to stop and turn around; they were nearly here, and walking off now would’ve been very suspicious indeed. You see, they dress us like coppers. A quick glance at me and you’d mistake me for one, yet I have no more powers of arrest than you. I’m a toothless tiger, a pencil with no lead; whatever. If the authority had aimed to make the streets appear more heavily populated with police officers by dressing me up in their party clothes, then it worked.

  The scrote looked at the floor for the final few steps before they both stood at my side. One of them, probably the youth, stank like week-old sweat. It was nauseating. The old fella looked at the youth and growled, “Do it.”

  The kid tutted, pressed a buzzer, and then pressed a whole row of buzzers. They looked away from me as they waited. The old guy cleared his throat as though he was about to speak, but changed his mind.

  I didn’t look away. I smoked my cigarette and I stared at the youth with his ear studs, his bum-fluff moustache, and his downcast dark eyes. The old fella wore a pristine blue shirt and tie, grey slacks and, surprisingly, white trainers. His eyes were pale blue, and he stood out for me, other than the trainers–tie combo, because of his greasy yellow hair which complemented his bushy moustache with a chain-smoker’s yellow stripe running up through its centre. His fingers were similarly nicotine stained.
I couldn’t take my eyes off either of them.

  Now you might think I was being intentionally intimidating; that I was guilty of prejudice; that I should give each person a chance based on their actions and demeanour and that I shouldn’t judge people. Bollocks. Yes, I was being intentionally intimidating because I could imagine how many youngsters playing on the swings the youth here had intimidated, how many mothers pushing prams away from school he’d sneered at or leered at, or how many old people avoided the local Post Office because of pricks like him belittling them. I nurtured a kind of respect for the old guy because it felt good to see that some kids were still kept on a short leash. And then I wondered why the kid was on a short leash? What had he done in order for granddad to be in on the act?

  A crackly high-pitched voice came back over the intercom, and the youth said, “Yo, ’smee.”

  I nearly spat out my cigarette. “Yo, ’smee”? What was all that about?

  There came a grunt, followed by several more grunts, several more people in flats up and down the block either answering the buzzer or just activating the door release irrespective of who it might be out here waiting to get in. Either way, the lock clicked and the youth was through the door and into the echo chamber of the foyer, designer trainers squeaking on the smooth painted floor.

  The old man followed close behind, his back straight as a slab of concrete and nicotine moustache leading the way as though sniffing out a rat – or a turd.

  At that moment, as I flicked away my cigarette, loaded the camera bag onto my shoulder and grabbed my forensic kit, the lift doors trundled slowly open and an old lady wearing a black beany hat and carrying one of those bags for life teetered out on pins that had seen better days. She seemingly ignored the old fella, saw only the youth, and I could tell she was a little startled, but she did what most elderly people do, she kept herself on full alert and focused somewhere in the mid-distance. That somewhere was me. And I held the door for her. The youth boarded the lift and was less than polite to the old lady, affording her little room, and I heard the old guy snap, “Grant!”

  The kid’s disrespect made my hackles rise and I smiled an apology at her, swung the door wide and she, bless her, quickened her stride. “No rush,” I said, “take your time.”

  I could see the youth, this Grant kid in the lift, turn around to face me, a very slight twinkle in his eye as though he’d got one over on me. Granddad was in the lift beating the button inside with a jack hammer. Whatever happened to waiting for me!

  The old lady didn’t so much as look at me as she exited the building, not so much as a smile or a thanks for holding the door open. “You’re welcome,” I said as she ambled past. “No really, don’t mention it.” Old cow still ignored me. “Oh. You didn’t.” Some old people don’t fit into the stereotypical mould you just created for them.

  Just as some youths don’t, right? And just like Grant’s granddad wasn’t prepared to wait for me despite my display of gallantry to the old girl, and despite me carrying a shit-load of bags and equipment.

  Okay, point conceded.

  Anyway, the lift door was closing just as I reached it. I stuck a boot in the decreasing gap and the doors shuddered and then opened again. I stepped aboard and eyed them both. The youth appeared more nervous than ever, and his shoulders slumped a little. I wondered later if that little twinkle in his eye was something far more watery. This was going to be an interesting ride.

  No one spoke.

  The doors trundled shut behind me and I put my forensic kit on the floor, hitched the camera bag further up my shoulder, winked at the CCTV camera up in the corner. I stared this time at the stainless steel walls. They were knobbly. I mean they weren’t flat, the walls, they were pressed so there were bobbles in regular patterns all over them. This is my favourite type of lift wall. Yes, I know how weird that sounds but stay with me; they are the type that you can see on many different focal points. Remember those books that were all the rage ten years ago, the ones that looked like miscellaneous shapes until you stared through them, until you focused on a level below them, and then suddenly the miscellaneous patterns made sense? Well, these bobbles didn’t make any more sense, they were still just bobbles, but you could see them one, two and sometimes three levels below their true distance. I’m smiling here because I know you haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about. But it’s a good way to pass the time when you’re travelling in a lift.

  On the grey tiled floor were blackened spots of discarded chewing-gum. The ceiling had graffiti on it, and overall the lift smelled faintly of disinfectant. I say “faintly” because it also smelled of piss, and the piss was winning hands down. Along with the recently introduced stench of body odour, I imagined the disinfectant would be making a grab for the white flag any time soon.

  Still no one spoke.

  There was more graffiti, obscene this time, scratched into the walls, and I wondered how they’d got away with it considering the camera was supposedly watching, and I also wondered what the arseholes who did it got out of it. Why would you want to scratch a penis on a lift wall?

  At least I didn’t feel claustrophobic like I do in some of the smaller lifts; this was maybe five feet square so at least there was breathing room. I’ve been in some that wouldn’t even take three people, and if you’re one of the two people in it, you couldn’t avoid invading the other person’s space – horrid.

  As we ascended, I could hear the machinery struggling to haul us upwards, could hear the cables whipping in the shaft, and as I turned around, I saw the brickwork between the floors drifting downwards through the cracked, wire-reinforced window in the door. Above my head, the CCTV camera peeking out from a little stainless steel nest recorded our joviality. And over the door, red digital numbers, some of their elements missing, ticked off the floors very slowly.

  I looked back at the youth and he was studying the red digits too. Maybe it was the first time he’d actually counted without using his fingers. This lift, it seemed, was providing a valuable public service.

  I studied the unlikely pair and couldn’t quite work out their dynamic. “You related?”

  The youth was about to speak, but the old guy cut him dead, “Nah,” he said, “we’re just good friends.”

  “But–”

  “Isn’t that right? Grant?”

  Grant said nothing, stared at the floor, and the old guy stared at me with a false smile on his lips as if to say, “Satisfied?” Well, I wasn’t. There was something strange about them, and I wondered if that something strange was sexual. Good friends, eh?

  The youth was itchy, antsy, call it whatever you want, but two things were obvious to me: he didn’t want to be with his “good friend”, and he didn’t want to be here in this lift heading to wherever he was heading. He felt uncomfortable, uneasy to the point of screaming, feet tapping out a tune maybe or just moving because he had too much nervous energy thrumming around his system. Was it nerves, I wondered, or was it drugs? His eyes looked dull, not fully opened, as though he’d only just woken up, yet their pupils seemed a normal size. His right hand rattled loose change in his pocket, his left drummed against the lift wall in rhythm with his foot. If I said “boo,” he’d likely have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot.

  I was tempted.

  The old guy was quite different. His eyes wandered only occasionally; his red complexion gave him a healthy country look that complemented his big rough hands. But his whole ensemble was a little skew-whiff with the out-of-date suit he wore. I wondered if he were ex-military such was his upright stance and his overall demeanour. The only thing that threw me were the trainers. Weird.

  He was silent, still, his fingers didn’t twitch, his feet didn’t tap out a beat, he didn’t mime-whistle a tune, he didn’t even find the lift walls entertaining. His eyes became still as though inside he was pondering something.

  And I believe that something was me.

  Eventually, the old fella’s gaze dropped to the unmarked black kit box
then flicked up to the Nikon bag. And finally his eyes settled on my radio. During normal use the radio has a pretty green flashing LED mounted on top and the screen illuminates when there’s a transmission in progress. Right now though, the LED was a steady red. No signal. Screen unlit.

  I could tell he had business to attend to, and he ached to be free of this lift and of me. There was a weird kind of crackling in the air, a tension that I didn’t much care for yet wasn’t afraid of; it was the kind of thing where you find your heartbeat is raised slightly and your hands had become fists without you even knowing. It was a tolerance, a live and let live standoff that only a short journey permitted. They kept sneaking glances at me, and looked away quickly each time I met their eyes with a glare of my own. It was amusing until eventually the old guy didn’t look away.

  And then things went wrong.

  The old motor hauling me, an old guy, and a piece of trash up the insides of a decaying joke, shuddered, screamed, and then finally stopped. It was like a mechanical heart attack.

  “Fuck,” Grant yelped.

  “Mind your language, boy.” The old guy said. “What happened?”

  They both eyed me as though it was my fault. I looked through the tiny cracked window in the door and noted the bricks were completely stationary. Bollocks, I thought.

  I’d been right, this was going to be a shit day. As well as being cooped up with a moron and a pensioner, I would be forced to engage in conversation with them. I shrugged. “It’s a wild guess, but I’d say the lift has stopped.”

  They appeared confused, trying to decide if that answer was sufficiently comprehensive.

  “So what you gonna do, man?”

  I slipped the camera bag off my shoulder and dropped it by my kit bag, relieved to give my aching shoulder a break, and took out my mobile phone. I’m not one for phones really, on account of I don’t like talking to people so it seemed a waste of money having one. But they’re good for other things too. You can play games on them; no not your Grand Theft Auto-type games, which are for hermits and people of limited intelligence. No, I bought a mobile phone for the board games and the other more interesting things they could do.