The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Good,’ King stiffened, pleased at what he was hearing.

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t get carried away with yourself,’ she warned him. ‘Coming down hard on the local tearaways and shit is fine, but some of the other people round here …’ She gave a knowing shrug. ‘I wouldn’t ruffle too many feathers, if I was you. You never know who knows what – who’s connected to who. You get my meaning?’

  ‘So long as nobody draws unnecessary attention to themselves,’ he smiled. She flicked her cigarette over the wall and onto the grass below and headed back to her maisonette. ‘I don’t suppose you’re carrying the keys to that metal grid on you?’ he asked still smiling.

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Do yourself and everyone else a favour and catch this animal who’s been messing with the kids round here. Feeling is, because it’s only our kids, Old Bill don’t care. You find him, you win everyone’s respect – almost.’ She turned away from him before shouting into the dimness of the concrete cave. ‘Nakiya.’ She saw the look of interest on his face. ‘My daughter.’

  ‘I see,’ he nodded.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ she explained, ‘which I know you are – the keys are never on the outside – always on the inside. Even if I’m just out here for a smoke or a friendly chat with a passing cop.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied as her teenage daughter appeared on the other side of the grid holding a single key.

  ‘Open it,’ her mother demanded, causing Nakiya to eye King suspiciously. ‘It’s fine,’ she told her. ‘He’s fine.’ Nakiya’s expression changed from one of suspicion to disinterest as she quickly unlocked the grid and swung it open. Ubana stepped inside quickly, the grid being slammed behind her and immediately locked. She turned round and looked through the bars as King leaned back on the wall with the sun pleasantly on his face.

  ‘Looks like you were right,’ he smiled.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she asked. ‘About what?’

  ‘About this place being a prison,’ he told her.

  Her eyes rolled as she unwittingly examined the bars in front of her. ‘Maybe,’ she replied, ‘but if you ever want to stand on this side of the bars, you’d better have a warrant. Know what I mean?’ She winked and closed the door before he could answer.

  She was right about one thing, he thought to himself. Word really did travel fast on the estate.

  A short time later King met up with Renita to patrol the estate together looking for trouble. As they headed down a huge vehicle ramp that led to dozens of underground garages, King spotted a large piece of plastic wall hanging a little looser than the other panels on the bottom section of a low-rise row of flats and maisonettes. He stepped towards it and pulled it even looser and peered inside the bowels of the building.

  ‘Someone’s pulled this loose deliberately,’ he told Renita. ‘Wonder where it leads to.’

  ‘Probably the basement area of the building,’ she guessed. ‘It’ll be where the water tanks and electrical stuff is all kept. Everything will be pumped into here before being fed out to the flats.’

  ‘So why would somebody want to break inside?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘Why don’t we see if we can find out?’

  He pulled the loose panel to one side so she could more easily enter. ‘Ladies first,’ he grinned.

  ‘Well thank you,’ she joked. ‘You’re such a gentleman.’

  She clambered through the small gap into the semi-darkness and watched as King did the same. They both un-holstered their Maglite torches from their utility belts, instantly illuminating their surroundings, and realized they were in some sort of corridor with dozens of pipes running above their heads and along the walls next to them. Underneath their feet was nothing but cold concrete lit by the occasional safety light glowing red.

  ‘Christ,’ Renita complained. ‘It’s like being in a bloody submarine.’

  ‘Not a side of the estate most people would ever see,’ he replied, squinting as he followed the beam of light from his torch. ‘Want to split up like they do in American horror movies?’ he teased her.

  ‘No I bloody don’t,’ she told him. ‘Place gives me the creeps.’

  ‘This way then,’ he encouraged her and headed off along the corridor, following the long cones of light that stretched out ahead of them as they walked deeper and deeper into the strange underground world until the thin corridor suddenly and unexpectedly opened out into a cavernous room where there was a little more light from the weak overhead strips and seemingly grey metal box after grey metal box attached to the surrounding walls.

  ‘Wow,’ Renita declared. ‘What d’you think’s in the boxes? There’s hundreds of them.’

  ‘Not sure,’ King answered, his torch sweeping every corner of the room. ‘Probably the electrical circuit boards for the block.’

  ‘Amazing,’ she admitted. ‘You wouldn’t want to be the one to try and find the blown fuse if electrics failed.’

  ‘No,’ King agreed as he drifted to a corner where something had caught his eyes in the torchlight. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You found something?’ Renita asked, slowly following him.

  ‘Over here,’ he told her as he passed his light over the arrangement of old sofa cushions, homemade stools and a crate that was clearly being used as a makeshift table, littered as it was with the remnants of drug use and alcohol consumption.

  ‘Christ,’ Renita surveyed the scene. ‘Lovely place to talk the night away with friends.’

  King bent closer to better examine the items strewn across the table. ‘Don’t be too harsh on them,’ he told her. ‘Looks like cannabis and alco-pops – nothing too heavy. Probably just kids looking for somewhere to hang out of the rain and away from their parents.’

  ‘Speaking from experience?’ she asked.

  ‘I was a kid once,’ he answered.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ she replied, trying to sound serious.

  ‘Still,’ he ignored her, ‘can’t have them hanging around off their faces down here. Only a matter of time before they start a fire and burn the whole bloody block down.’

  ‘Idea?’ she prompted him.

  ‘Hope you brought a good book,’ he told her.

  ‘Ahh,’ she complained. ‘You’re not serious, are you? You want to wait down here until someone shows up? Could be hours. Could be days.’

  ‘We’re not going to wait down here for days,’ he began to explain.

  ‘Good, because this place still gives me the creeps.’

  ‘But let’s give it a while.’

  ‘Fine,’ she reluctantly agreed and followed him to the darkest corner of the basement room where they prepared to lie in wait for whatever came their way.

  Susie Ubana sat in her kitchen waiting for someone to answer the number she’d called on her untraceable pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Eventually a man’s voice spoke cautiously.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me,’ she replied.

  There was slight pause before the man spoke again. ‘What do you want?’ he asked without any politeness or subtlety.

  She drew deeply on her cigarette, exhaling as she spoke. ‘We may have a problem.’

  ‘Go on,’ he told her.

  ‘These new cops on the estate – the one in charge,’ she explained, ‘I think he’s planning on upsetting things around here.’

  There was a long silence before the voice spoke again. ‘Can he be persuaded?’

  ‘Not like that,’ she assured him. ‘He’s young. Clean. Untainted. He still has … ideals.’

  ‘Do I need to do something right now?’ he asked.

  She sighed before answering. ‘No. Let me keep an eye on him – for now.’

  ‘OK,’ the man agreed casually. ‘But keep me informed.’ The line went dead before she could answer.

  ‘Shit,’ she cursed under her breath before taking a long pull on her cigarette.

  King and Renita waited silently in the dark shadows of the corner, their eyes
well adjusted to the dim light. The sound of distant laughter made them look at each other as they visibly tensed, but as the noise grew louder and closer they realized it was more giggling than laughing – the sound of children. Soon they could hear their footsteps as well as their voices talking softly to one another as they filed into the opening and took what appeared to be their usual places on the stools and cushions; their conversation grew a little louder and coarser as they became increasingly confident they were alone.

  ‘Now,’ Renita whispered in his ear.

  ‘Not yet,’ he hissed back as he watched the five children aged between twelve and fourteen empty their pockets onto the table making a communal display of cigarette papers, lighters and broken cigarettes. The youngest-looking child pulled something too small to see from his trouser pocket and began to fiddle with it. King guessed what it was and what he was doing, but still he waited until he could be sure.

  He didn’t have to wait long before the boy began to heat whatever it was he was holding over the small flame of a lighter, immediately filling the basement with the smell of softening cannabis resin, but still they waited until he crumbled the resin into the waiting tobacco on a paper bed that another boy rolled and ignited with his own lighter. King tapped Renita on the shoulder and stepped out into the space, clicking his torch on and half blinding the youngsters. They looked to one another in terror before trying to scramble to their feet, but King and Renita were already on top of them.

  ‘Police!’ King half shouted, before lowering his tone. ‘Everybody stay where you are.’

  ‘Fuck,’ one of the girls announced, dramatically clutching her chest. ‘It’s just the police. You nearly scared the hell out of us.’

  ‘Nobody do anything stupid,’ King warned them. ‘You,’ he spoke directly to the youth holding the joint. ‘Put that out and drop it on the table. Everybody else – let’s have any drugs, cigarettes or booze on the table too.’ He gave them a couple of minutes to search themselves, but they produced little to add to the collection that they’d already made.

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked once they were no longer fidgeting in their pockets.

  ‘That’s it, man,’ the one who’d brought the cannabis resin answered. ‘What d’you expect – a whole soap or something?’

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ Renita scolded him, ensuring the silence of the others too.

  ‘Right then,’ King shone his torch in their faces one by one. ‘Who do we have here?’

  ‘I recognize chatty boy here,’ Renita told him. ‘Darren Stokes, right? Been causing trouble round here for years. And that one,’ she pointed to a pretty girl with long, straight blonde hair, but the eyes of a battle-hardened street fighter, ‘that’s Crissy O’Sullivan. Don’t be fooled by the angelic face.’ Crissy gave them her best sarcastic smile before her face again turned to stone.

  ‘Who else?’ King asked, but no one answered. He tapped the nearest one on the shoulder with his torch. ‘You. Name?’

  The small, unhealthily slim boy sighed before answering, his translucent skin shining in the light. ‘James.’

  ‘James what?’ King snapped at him.

  ‘James Mulheron,’ he admitted with another sigh as King moved to the next girl.

  ‘And you?’

  She brushed her short brown hair from her young face. He could see the fear in her eyes and guessed she was new to the group. The weak link. ‘Kimberley Clarke,’ she almost whispered.

  ‘Your parents know you’re hanging around with these clowns?’ King asked. Kimberley just shrugged. ‘Thought not,’ he told her and turned his attention to the last of the group who, despite his boyish appearance and slight build, had a look of feral viciousness about him. King instinctively knew that if this was the boy’s first contact with the police it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He shone the torch directly into the boy’s face, making his eyes appear black and red – like a trapped rat’s. ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you anything,’ the boy snarled, summoning some fight from his urban, animal instinct.

  ‘Have it your way then,’ King warned him. ‘If you won’t tell me who you are we’ll have to arrest you – for your own good, you understand.’

  ‘Just fucking tell him,’ Mulheron demanded, but the boy stood firm – his face a mixture of fear, defiance and hatred.

  ‘And obviously if I have to arrest you then we’ll have to arrest all of you,’ King threatened, immediately turning the entire group on the isolated boy as they took turns to tell him to say his name – their fear of arrest making their young faces twisted and ugly until Mulheron could take no more.

  ‘His name’s Billy Easton,’ Mulheron told them. ‘It’s fucking Billy Easton.’

  King saw the fire burning in Easton’s eyes. Betrayal on the estate to the police had clearly long been installed in the boy’s fabric as the greatest of sins – even if it was just a name to save them from arrest.

  ‘Billy Easton, eh?’ King nodded, tapping the boy on his shoulder with his torch. ‘I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you.’

  The boy never flinched – his eyes intense flames of intent that momentarily unnerved King.

  ‘All right, you lot,’ King suddenly barked. ‘Leave all your shit here and fuck off.’ The children looked to one another, unsure – suspicious of King’s motives. ‘I said fuck off,’ he repeated, this time drawing a look of concern from Renita.

  ‘Sarge?’ she checked. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he told her. ‘Now go, all of you. Just go and tell all your friends this place is now out of bounds – understand?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mulheron agreed. ‘We’ll tell ’em.’

  They hurriedly scrambled to their feet and scampered off towards the corridor – all except Easton, who took his time getting to his feet, his eyes never leaving King’s.

  ‘Got something to say, Billy?’ he asked, but the boy didn’t answer as he turned towards the corridor and strolled after his fleeing friends. ‘I’ll see you around, Billy,’ he tried to wrestle the initiative from the boy, but it was already too late.

  Once the sound of their retreating feet had faded King examined the table, taking the remains of the resin and unsmoked joint before carefully placing them in a pouch on his utility belt.

  ‘Better not leave this behind.’ He spoke more to himself than anyone.

  ‘No,’ Renita agreed, sounding a little confused. ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Come on,’ he told her. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  A few minutes later they were back in the bright sunshine that overheated the microclimate of the estate and made everything shimmer and dance – the warmth giving King’s fading hangover new life.

  ‘We should find a drain,’ Renita told him.

  ‘A drain?’ he asked. ‘What the hell d’you want to find a drain for?’

  ‘You planning on booking that resin and joint in as property found when we get back to the station?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Got enough paperwork to get through without wasting my time booking this in.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she explained. ‘So chuck it down the nearest drain.’

  ‘Not this time,’ he replied casually.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, sounding a little suspicious. ‘You’re not planning on getting stoned, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed again. ‘I don’t even smoke cigarettes.’

  ‘So why d’you want to keep it?’

  ‘I’d just rather keep hold of it,’ he smiled. ‘You never know when it might come in handy – when we might need it to encourage someone to tell the truth.’

  ‘That’s a route fraught with danger,’ she warned him. ‘Every little toe-rag’s got a mobile they can record shit on these days.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he reassured her – a call coming through on his radio saving him from any further questioning.

  ‘PS 42.’ The voice on the radio used his shoulder number as his call sign. ‘PS 42 receiving – Control over
.’

  ‘Now what,’ he complained, before answering professionally. ‘Go ahead, Control.’

  ‘Can you take a domestic dispute,’ the male voice from Control Room back at Newham Police Station asked, ‘at number 24 Millander Walk? That’s your patch, I believe. Informant’s a Debbie Royston – says her boyfriend is drunk and won’t leave the house.’

  He froze for a second. It was his first domestic since the incident. The familiar images from his nightmares rushed him – the girl in the white dress staggering towards him, the maroon blood spreading through the pristine material. The mother and son lying together in a scene of carnage, but always worst of all – the tiny figure of the girl no more than six years old, lying still and peaceful, her eyes wide open in death with barely a mark on her body. His radio blared again and brought him back to the present.

  ‘Can you deal, 42? Control over.’

  ‘Yes,’ King answered, his voice almost too weak to hear. ‘Yes,’ he repeated more strongly. ‘Show me as dealing. I’m with 274.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the voice acknowledged. ‘I’ll show yourself and 274 as assigned.’

  ‘You all right?’ Renita asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he lied as they began to walk to the location of the domestic.

  ‘Is this your first domestic since … you know?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Can’t avoid domestics for the rest of my career. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I can handle it on my own if you’d rather,’ she offered. ‘No one need know.’

  ‘No,’ he snapped at her slightly before gathering himself. ‘No. I want to deal. I have to.’

  As they approached the scene of the reported domestic, King was relieved to hear the normal sounds associated with such an occurrence – a man and woman screaming at each other – dispelling his fear that he was about to walk into another silent trap of horror.

  ‘Sounds like things are in full swing,’ Renita joked before they had to dive head first into other people’s misery and anger.

  ‘Great,’ he replied through gritted teeth as they approached the front door and found it already open – the sounds of exchanged profanities spilling out onto the communal walkway. King knocked on the door once, called inside, ‘Police’, and then entered without waiting to be invited, quickly taking in his surroundings – looking for any immediate dangers, obvious or hidden. Other than the duelling couple he saw none, although he was surprised by the size and clever open-plan design of the kitchen and living area of the maisonette, noting that it was clean and ordered, with no shortage of decent mod-cons, least of all the oversized LED TV dominating the space. He was relieved the fight was taking place in the living area and not the kitchen where deadly weapons always lurked close to hand, denying the attacker time to think – time to take stock before they committed a serious armed assault or worse.