The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘See,’ King told the feral youths. ‘That’s why we came in here in the first place – because we saw you two little fuckers sneaking in here with a couple of TVs under your arms. Lucky for us eh, Danny?’

  ‘Very lucky,’ Williams flatly agreed.

  ‘This is a fucking stitch-up,’ Morrison had the audacity to complain.

  ‘And you were both wearing your gloves,’ King continued, ‘which is why your prints aren’t on the gear.’

  ‘You’re out of order,’ Morrison said indignant.

  ‘Gloves in summer. Carrying gear that will be easy enough to trace back to last night’s burglaries. Found in caretaker’s storage room stashing the goods. You’re fucked, boys,’ King read them their futures.

  ‘This is a fucking set-up,’ Morrison bleated as he remained pushed up against the wall.

  ‘You need to learn to play the game,’ King snarled. ‘Have to pay for your crimes eventually. Be a bit more professional and take this one on the chin – for all the ones you got away with. At the end of the day you brought this on yourself, boys – leaving a message for us at the burglary scenes. What was it again, Danny?’

  ‘Fuck the Old Bill,’ Williams answered.

  ‘That’s right,’ King mocked them. ‘Fuck the Old Bill. Trying to tell us something, were you?’ he questioned Morrison, pushing him in the back. ‘Trying to say this is your territory or something, were you?’ Again he pushed Morrison in the back, but harder now and with the base of his palm only. ‘Well you understand something,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘this is our territory now,’ and again he hit Morrison in the back, but now with a short punch into his spine that made his legs give way a little.

  ‘Easy, Sarge,’ Williams tried to warn him, but King didn’t seem to hear or care.

  ‘We own this estate now,’ he explained. ‘You and all the other scum like you are marked men. We’re coming after you all. D’you understand?’

  ‘Yeah?’ Morrison remained defiant.

  ‘Yeah,’ King assured him.

  ‘Yeah – well when you’re long gone we’ll still be here,’ Morrison told him over his shoulder. ‘This estate will always be ours.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ King told him, pulling Morrison’s hands behind his back and snapping on a set of quick-cuffs tight enough to restrict the blood flow into his hands and make him wince with the pain. ‘But right now you’re under arrest for burglary, so say goodbye to your beloved estate, Tommy. Could be a while before you see it again.’

  He had to be more careful now than ever. The sporadic plain-clothed operation the police had tried had been easy enough to avoid – with everyone on the estate shouting and talking about it. All he’d had to do was lie low until they’d moved on to something else. But the new police that had turned up were clearly different and there to stay for some time. There were only four of them and they were young too, but they seemed to be on the estate all the time – watching everything – determined to make a difference. But still, the Grove Wood Estate was a very big place and their eyes couldn’t be everywhere. Initially he’d decided to put his special tastes to one side until they’d packed up and left, but they were still here and he couldn’t simply wait until they weren’t. His urges were too strong.

  From the shadows of an abandoned garage he watched the group of children, at least a dozen strong, all aged between five and ten, as they strolled subterranean roads and walkways that crisscrossed the estate looking for new and exciting places to play – the official playgrounds and grassed areas long ago abandoned by the children to the local teenage gang and the pit-bull terriers that helped them keep hold of their turf while crapping everywhere.

  The groups of children who wandered the estate made easy targets – their parents either not caring where they were or trusting in safety in numbers, even though they knew someone, probably one of their own, lurked on the estate preying on young victims. But such was life on the estate, where survival of the fittest and luckiest were the only true rules and parents pulled the safety net from under their children at a very young age so as to prepare them for lives of hardship and disappointment. Which was why he chose the Grove Park as his hunting ground.

  He tracked the children at a safe distance, staying out of sight until he saw what he was waiting for – a small group of the younger children breaking off from the larger group to walk in a different direction. His breathing and heartbeat quickened as he began to close in on the small group, but still he couldn’t strike until he had one alone. He couldn’t risk moving on a group or even just two children – the chance of one raising the alarm would be just too great. No. He had to wait for the perfect moment. But the longer they stayed together the more frustrated he became, until finally a girl, no more than seven, slowed and stopped. For a moment he stopped breathing altogether as the others now also stopped to check on her. He was close enough to hear their shouted conversation.

  ‘What you doing?’ a boy called to her.

  ‘I gotta go home,’ she answered.

  ‘Why?’ the boy asked.

  ‘I think it’s almost time for me tea,’ she told him. ‘I promised my mum I’d get home on time.’

  ‘You sure?’ the boy checked.

  ‘Yeah,’ she assured him. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘All right, Caz,’ the boy gave up, turning and walking away with the others, leaving the small figure in her dirty white shirt and ill-fitting jeans standing alone, her straight blonde hair hanging limply around her face. ‘See you later.’

  ‘See you later,’ she called after them before spinning and heading straight back towards him.

  He stepped a little further back into the shadows until he could almost feel her – so close now – her tiny feet shuffling along the driveway until she was level with the garage he was hiding in. At the last second he pulled his baseball cap down, made sure the wide collar of his tracksuit top was pulled up high and slid his wrap-around sunglasses on as he stepped out in front of her, smiling. He could see the immediate tension in her body and fear in her bright blue eyes as her already developed survival senses readied her to run or scream or both. He needed to act quickly.

  ‘Caz, right?’ he quickly said. She eyed him suspiciously, but nodded a yes. ‘I’m a friend of your mum’s,’ he lied. ‘She told me you should have been back for your tea ages ago – asked me to come and find you.’

  ‘I was on my way,’ Caz explained – the thought of being in trouble with her mother overtaking her other concerns.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he smiled, ‘but we’d better get back.’ Caz nodded enthusiastically and began to walk in the direction of her flat until he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘No, not that way,’ he told her. ‘It’ll take too long. Don’t want you to get in more trouble. Come on. Follow me. I know a short cut.’

  King entered the Old Queen’s Head pub in Islington – his brother’s choice not his – and was slightly taken aback at the pleasantness of his surroundings. Red leather armchairs and sofas mixed with old wooden stools and tables spread across the wooden floor; a far cry from the Trafalgar back in Canning Town, or the pubs he and Sara very occasionally visited near their flat in Chadwell Heath. The trendy, well-heeled clientele were something he’d grown unused to as well. He was glad he’d bothered to go home and change before coming instead of just wandering along in half-blues. He spotted his brother, Scott, sitting at a small table next to one of the large windows, staring out at the passers-by, an untouched drink abandoned in front of him. He ordered himself a beer from the bar before heading over to Scott and sitting quietly opposite him, waiting to be noticed. When his brother still hadn’t emerged from his trance after more than a minute, King decided he’d waited long enough.

  ‘You all right there?’ he asked loudly enough for Scott to stir, looking from the window to his brother, his face still blank for a few more seconds before he finally smiled and spoke, shaking his head at his own daydreaming as he did so.

  ‘Christ. Sor
ry, Jack,’ he apologized, offering a hand that King accepted. ‘Didn’t see you come in there.’

  ‘Was it somewhere nice?’ King asked, momentarily confusing his brother. ‘When you were staring out the window,’ he explained. ‘Were you anywhere nice?’

  ‘Oh,’ Scott smiled. ‘I see. No, not really.’

  ‘Back in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Scott shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Just thinking, I suppose.’

  ‘I see,’ King dropped it. ‘How you doing anyway?’

  ‘Good,’ Scott answered unconvincingly. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m good.’ King was a much better liar than his brother. ‘How’re your wounds?’

  ‘Pretty much sorted,’ Scott told him. ‘I should be able to get back to my regiment soon.’

  ‘Good,’ King nodded. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Seems a long time since I saw you last,’ Scott suddenly said – surprising him a little. ‘You must’ve been very busy.’

  King’s expression showed his confusion. ‘Not that long. I don’t know – maybe a couple of weeks. If that.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Scott replied – looking concerned, before managing to smile a little. ‘Whatever. Probably just me. My condition means I sometimes lose track of time. You should watch out for that yourself,’ Scott warned him. ‘After what happened to you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ King dismissed it. ‘And how is that stuff with you?’ he asked, referring to Scott’s post traumatic stress.

  ‘The army shrinks tell me I should be fine,’ he explained, ‘in time and with some help. It’s not like the old days. They’re not going to execute me for cowardice or anything.’ They both laughed lightly. ‘But what about you? How are your injuries now?’

  ‘Fine,’ King shrugged. ‘Bit stiff. Nothing a couple of pints can’t sort out.’

  ‘You always were a tough little bastard,’ Scott told. ‘You know, I can hardly ever remember you crying as a kid. No matter how hard the knock you took.’

  ‘Didn’t want to make myself a target,’ King replied. ‘Other kids saw you crying in boarding school and you became a target.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Scott agreed. They both took simultaneous sips from their drinks. ‘I remember I was still lying in intensive care when they told me you’d been hurt. They didn’t want to tell me how serious at first, but I made them. Even through the pain and the drugs I can remember what the first thing I thought was.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘What were the bloody chances of that?’ Scott smiled. ‘Two brothers almost getting themselves killed – a thousand miles apart and doing completely different jobs.’

  ‘I tried to work it out once,’ King joked, ‘but I ran out of zeroes.’

  ‘God knows what Mum and Dad must have thought.’

  ‘God knows,’ King shrugged.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Scott asked, ‘have you seen the Colonel lately?’

  ‘Yeah,’ King sighed. ‘Sara and I went over a few days ago and had dinner with him and Mum.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ Scott smiled. King said nothing. ‘He doesn’t change, does he?’ Again King didn’t respond. ‘He was all right when I got wounded though. Pulled some old army strings to make sure I got the best treatment.’

  ‘He’s all right,’ King gave a little. ‘He and I are just different people, that’s all.’

  ‘He was pretty damn worried when you got hurt,’ Scott explained. ‘He may not have wanted you to see it, but he was.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t want me to see it then he did a pretty good job,’ King complained. ‘Seemed to think it was my own fault for joining the police and not the army – some kind of twisted karma.’

  ‘Just his way of dealing with it,’ Scott tried to make him less resentful.

  ‘Whatever,’ King told him. ‘When you go back to your regiment will they put you back on full duties?’ he asked out of the blue, keen to move the conversation on.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Scott answered without enthusiasm.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid they’ll send you back to Afghanistan or somewhere worse?’

  ‘We’re not in Afghanistan any more,’ Scott grinned.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ King told him.

  ‘Anyway,’ Scott said, glancing out of the window, ‘if they do they do. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you quit?’ King asked. ‘Join the Met instead.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Scott answered, shaking his head. ‘Christ, imagine what the Colonel would say. Anyway, looking at what happened to you, I’m probably safer in the army.’

  ‘What happened to me was a freak incident,’ King pointed out. ‘Getting shot or blown up in some far and distant land seems a regular thing for you lot.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Scott answered, looking more serious, ‘but I think I’ll stick with the military. Why don’t you quit the police and join up too – make the Colonel’s day.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ King answered, horrified at even the suggestion. ‘You sound like the old man. All that saluting and polishing your boots would drive me mad.’

  ‘I can assure you it’s not like that in Afghanistan and … other places. It’d be right up your street. You’re still young enough.’

  ‘No chance,’ King finished it, taking a long sip of his drink to punctuate the end of the discussion.

  ‘So what are you up to now?’ Scott changed the subject. ‘Made you superintendent yet?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ King explained. ‘I’m still a sergeant – having a little fun before life gets serious … spreading my wings.’

  ‘A sergeant doing what exactly?’

  ‘Running a special unit,’ King answered.

  ‘What – anti-terrorist or something?’

  ‘Hardly,’ King told him. ‘It’s a uniform unit. One of our estates got out of hand and it’s my job to bring it to heel.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ Scott replied unconvincingly.

  ‘It is,’ King answered eagerly. ‘Almost no supervision, just me and a few handpicked boys and girls miles away from the Borough HQ. It’s proper police work.’

  ‘Is that the normal sort of posting for someone on accelerated promotion?’ Scott enquired suspiciously.

  ‘Probably not,’ King admitted, leaning back in his chair, ‘but it’ll do for me. It’s like … it’s like we’re our own little police force. No one interferes with us, we do things our own way – make up our own rules and get things done – how policing should be everywhere. I tell you, we got the local slags well on the run.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Scott told him, before giving him a warning. ‘But remember – power corrupts and total power corrupts totally.’

  ‘No one’s doing anything corrupt,’ King reassured him, spreading his arms apart. ‘We’re just getting things done.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ Scott advised him. ‘I’m guessing the police is probably a lot like the army. The senior brass like things nice and predictable. If the shit hits the fan, they’ll throw you under a bus.’

  ‘The senior management love us,’ King insisted. ‘We get them the figures they need.’

  ‘All the same,’ Scott cautioned him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ King assured him. ‘Even if it came to that, they’re not smart enough to trip me up.’

  ‘Beware hubris, brother,’ Scott reminded him.

  ‘It’s just robust policing,’ King promised. ‘No need to be so concerned. If the powers-that-be come looking for me, it’ll be to pin a medal on me – not to fuck me over.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Scott replied. ‘I hope so, although I don’t understand this need to try and prove yourself. You’ve already done enough. You don’t owe anybody anything.’

  ‘I owe myself,’ King answered quickly. ‘I owe myself the chance not to become like them.’

  ‘And who is them?’

  ‘The stuffed-shirt brigade,’ King told him. ‘Senior officers – people like the old man. There has to be more to life than that.’r />
  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Scott smiled. ‘You’ve already earned it. Think of the nice life you and Sara could have together.’

  ‘I’m twenty-four years old,’ King reminded him. ‘I need more.’

  ‘More what?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ King admitted before offering an answer. ‘More life. More everything.’

  Scott gave a small laugh before answering. ‘A difficult thing to come by.’

  ‘I know,’ King agreed, his face as serious as Scott had ever seen. ‘But I have to try.’

  ‘Well then,’ Scott said, still smiling as he raised his glass, ‘a toast. To the condemned man.’

  8

  King sat at the small dining table in the kitchen of the tiny flat he shared with Sara, grimacing and rolling his head in discomfort as he rubbed and gripped at his shoulder and back where the madman’s knife had cut deep. His suffering was enough to attract Sara’s attention, even though she was in the storm of getting ready for work.

  ‘Bad?’ was all she asked.

  ‘Bad enough,’ King replied, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

  ‘Take your pills then,’ she told him.

  ‘I already have,’ he answered truthfully.

  ‘Then do what I keep telling you to do and go and see the GP to get different ones.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised. ‘Next time I get a day off.’

  ‘Pull a sickie,’ she encouraged him, ‘and see them today. I’m sure your team can manage without you for one day. Or is that what you’re worried about?’

  ‘I’ll survive,’ he told. ‘Just go to work.’

  ‘Just don’t be a hero,’ she answered, swinging her small rucksack over her shoulder and heading for him. She held his face in the palms of her hands and kissed him on the forehead before heading out of the front door.

  Don’t be a hero, he thought to himself. As if he ever wanted to be a hero. The surging pain interrupted any thoughts other than finding a remedy. He pushed himself to his feet, headed for the cabinet where they kept medical supplies and surveyed the goods on offer, but none were as strong as what he’d already taken and most couldn’t be mixed with an opioid. He slammed the cupboard door shut and spun back to the empty room looking for answers – his eyes falling on another cupboard where they kept their meagre supply of booze. Against his better judgement, he crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet and peered inside at the small collection of bottles: drinks bought for special occasions but hardly touched, things bought for Christmas and quickly forgotten. His eyes passed over the slim pickings until they settled on a bottle of whisky – something he rarely touched and didn’t particularly enjoy. His hand stretched out for the bottle before he pulled it away, shaking his head. If he turned up for work even slightly drunk people would notice it straight away. The smell alone of whisky on his breath would give him away. He sighed and closed the door, taking a seat back at the kitchen table, the frustration of not being able to dull the pain bringing him close to tears – until he remembered something.