The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘I need you to make a call for me,’ he explained.

  ‘Your …’ the DC enquired ‘… your radio not working then?’

  ‘Just do me a favour,’ Marino ordered him with some irritation, ‘and make the call.’

  ‘OK,’ the DC shrugged, turning his radio on. ‘Who d’you want me to call?’

  ‘The Grove Wood Estate’s Policing Unit,’ Marino told him.

  ‘Any one of them in particular?’ the DC asked.

  ‘Just try them all,’ Marino hurriedly demanded. ‘Quickly.’

  The DC pulled a face to show he didn’t understand, but made the call anyway. ‘Any Grove Wood unit receiving, DC Hutton, over?’ The reply should have been almost instant, but there was none.

  ‘Try again,’ Marino insisted, but the result was the same, spurring Marino to his feet. He grabbed his jacket and started filling his pockets with the detritus from his desktop – his face serious and urgent. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he asked the young DC.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied without much interest.

  ‘Babysit the two robbers banged up downstairs until I get back. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Going somewhere?’ the DC asked sarcastically.

  ‘The Grove Wood Estate,’ Marino answered.

  ‘Trouble?’ the DC asked, more intrigued now.

  ‘Could be,’ he answered noncommittally.

  ‘Want some company?’

  ‘No,’ Marino answered firmly – thinking of what he might find and what he may want to keep quiet. ‘It’s better I go alone.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the young DC told him and returned to the pile of reports on his desk as Marino headed for the yard and the unmarked car that would take him to the Grove Wood Estate.

  Alan Swinton sat alone in his small, unpleasant flat watching children’s TV while he ate a simple sandwich and drank a glass of milk. It was his usual evening diet and one of the few things he was capable of preparing for himself. Abandoned to the state by his parents who couldn’t cope when he was just a young teenager, he’d spent most of his adult life in and out of mental health institutions until finally someone in a suit with a name badge that said Doctor decided that he had some learning difficulties, but was capable of looking after himself and should no longer be under care or supervision. At which point the health system had spat him out into the care of social services who’d found him an unwanted flat on the Grove Wood Estate, showed him how to sign on at the job centre and cash his unemployment benefit cheque and bid him farewell. Having been in the system once and thrown out the other end he was now all but barred from it – abandoned to solitude and a daily battle to survive he was barely equipped to win.

  His only pleasure was the simple company of children and enjoying the same uncomplicated things as they did. Most adults, especially the ones he’d encountered on the estate, were scary and intimidating and they talked about things he neither understood nor wanted to discuss – crude and ugly things that had no place in his life.

  Suddenly a gentle knocking at his door made him tense and cock his head. Had he imagined the sound? He had very few callers at all, let alone late evening ones. Occasionally one of his young friends would call at the flat, seeking refuge while the latest domestic disturbance in their own homes subsided. He’d feed them snacks and let them watch TV with him until they thought it would be safe to go home. But this knock at the door didn’t sound childlike. Children tended to almost slap his door, but this was a subtle rap of someone’s knuckles, although the sound was somehow muffled, as if the caller was wearing gloves, despite the warm summer evening.

  He muted the sound on the TV and listened hard, jumping with fright as he heard another knock on the door. He decided it must be one of the children from the estate needing his help and so lifted himself from his chair and headed to the front door – forgetting to look through the spyhole like the lady from social services had shown him – forgetting to use the door chain like the man from the housing association had shown him. Swinton was ill-equipped to survive on the estate. He had no instincts for danger. Already the local teenagers had identified him as a target and a victim – occasionally hammering on his door and screaming obscenities through his letter box, something he dealt with by hiding in his flat and holding his breath until they grew bored and went away. But tonight the men on the other side of the door were no troublesome teenagers.

  He swung the door wide open to find three figures in dark boiler suits and ski masks standing in front of him. All he could see were their eyes, burning with malignant intent. He froze where he stood, unable to even try and close the door – resigned to whatever fate they’d decided for him. The man in the middle stepped forward and punched him hard in the stomach, making him collapse to his knees. He held a forlorn hand out in self-defence, but it was easily pushed away as another punch crashed into the bridge of his nose – blood spraying onto the hallway wall before it began to run in thick streams from both nostrils. He collapsed onto his side and grabbed his own nose in both hands, feeling the warm flow of thick blood, the sight of his hands being quickly covered in crimson panicking him into action as he grovelled and tried to crawl away from his attackers, making terrible, pathetic sounds like a wounded pig.

  Soon the men were on him, hauling him to his feet, pulling his arms behind his back and clamping his wrists together with something that felt like cold metal before pulling a cloth hood over his head at which point he lost control of his bladder, urine flowing down his legs – his trousers becoming stained dark where the warm liquid ran. If they hadn’t been holding him he would surely have collapsed.

  ‘Fucker’s pissed himself,’ one of cruel voices accused him.

  ‘You should have listened to me when I warned you,’ another told him – the man’s mouth close enough so he could feel the warmth of his breath through the material of the hood. ‘Now it’s time to pay.’

  ‘I … I didn’t do anything,’ he pleaded through the blood that clogged his nose and mouth.

  ‘Fucking sex-case,’ another voice with a strange accent damned him.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ the most dominating voice ordered before stopping them. ‘Wait,’ the man seemed to change his mind. A second later Swinton felt the bottom of the hood being lifted above his mouth and a strong hand gripping him around the jaw and forcing his mouth open, then pushing a large ball fashioned from some fabric into it – filling nearly all the space. He heard something being ripped before his lips were taped shut. The only sound he could now make was a desperate, sad mumbling noise. ‘Let’s go,’ the leader demanded and Swinton was pushed and pulled from his inadequate sanctuary into the warmth and dread of the estate beyond his door.

  Marino climbed the stairwell with an increasing sense of urgency as he headed for the address he’d been given for Alan Swinton – the words of the informant he’d spoken to on the phone becoming more concerning each time he replayed them in his mind. At best it sounded as if Swinton was going to receive a serious beating at the hands of some local avenging angels. Maybe they even intended to kill him. But even worse than that possibility, increasingly he had to consider the unthinkable – that the very people who were supposed to be protecting Swinton were the ones who’d taken it upon themselves to administer a brutal, maybe even fatal punishment. He’d seen with his own eyes what they were capable of, even if he couldn’t prove Butler’s injuries had been caused by them. Any hope he’d had that that was an isolated incident fuelled by what had happened to Renita was fading by the minute. He was beginning to regret not at least speaking to Professional Ethics and Standards confidentially and having the Unit looked into. If something happened to Swinton he would have his blood on his hands too. But like it or not he was old school. Turning on other cops just wasn’t in his DNA. He needed to sort it out in-house.

  As he reached the top of the stairs and turned onto the walkway, some movement about forty metres ahead in the gloom of the next stairwell along alerted his senses to impending dan
ger – the figures of men in dark clothing disappearing into the darkness like bats into a cave. He hadn’t run in a long time, but he ran now as silently as he could, only stopping when he reached the open door of Swinton’s flat. He quickly peered inside, but saw no signs of life, although the TV was still showing children’s cartoons.

  ‘Shit,’ he cursed quietly before running the rest of the distance to the stairwell and looking over the metal bannister. He squinted into the darkness, and could just about make out four figures moving slowly but silently – the figure in the middle of the group seemingly struggling as the others dragged it along. ‘Damn it,’ he told himself. Moving at that speed he knew he could easily catch up with them, but then what? The way he figured it he’d be outnumbered at least three-to-one.

  He patted the mobile in his trouser pocket and for a second considered calling the CID office and getting some help sent, but by the time they arrived it would be too late, and if he was right about the Unit he would have opened up a horrible can of worms that he’d never be able to get the lid back on. No, he decided. He had to do this alone. If they saw him perhaps he could persuade them to stop – to hand Swinton over to him and the CID for investigation. He’d assure them no one else need ever know – so long as they swore never to try and pull anything like this again. At the end of the day they were still relatively young and dumb. He was sure he could pull them back from the precipice. Save them from themselves.

  He ran down the stairwell, moving at speed, but being careful not to trip and fall, until he reached the bottom and jogged quickly towards the corner of the block they must have disappeared behind. But as soon as he rounded it he was struck in the solar plexus by a hard and accurate punch that doubled him over in pain and panic at not being able to breathe. Before he could think about straightening, his legs were kicked from under him and he fell hard onto the concrete ground. He managed to outstretch a hand towards his attacker – looking through his spread fingers at the lithe figure in dark clothing and a ski mask.

  ‘Wait,’ he managed to say. ‘Just wait. You don’t want to do this.’

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ the figure told him in an obviously faked voice. ‘Just stay out of our business.’

  ‘It’s not too late,’ he pleaded. ‘Just let Swinton go and I swear that’ll be the end of it. It goes no further than here tonight.’

  The figure stood over him, threatening and imposing. His eyes were hidden by the darkness so Marino couldn’t be sure it was who he thought it was. If he could see the eyes he’d know.

  ‘It’s already too late,’ the figure told him with more than a trace of sadness in his voice. ‘Don’t try and follow us. If you do I’ll have to hurt you. I don’t want to do that. Understand?’ he demanded, suddenly more urgent. ‘Just don’t try to follow us.’

  Before Marino could answer the figure sprinted off into the darkness, leaving him feeling more alone than he could ever remember – lying abandoned and vulnerable on the ground in the middle of one of the most brutal housing estates in London. Gingerly he got to his feet, using the wall to steady himself – looking in the direction Swinton had been dragged off in, but knowing he had no intention of trying to pursue them. The stark decision he now faced made him feel sick to his stomach. If he went back to the station and said nothing, then he could be signing Swinton’s death warrant. But if he raised the alarm questions would be asked as to why he hadn’t already informed Professional Ethics and Standards of his suspicions. He was already guilty of complicity, which for a cop meant loss of his job, his pension and even probable prison time. Somehow he’d unwittingly allowed himself to be drawn into the Unit’s darkness. He knew what they were doing and had done nothing and that would be enough to damn him in the eyes of the police service and the law. He’d have to find another way to stop King and his band of brothers.

  ‘If you kill him I can’t help you,’ he shouted as loudly as he could into the darkness, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces that surrounded him, not caring who heard him calling out. ‘If you kill him I can’t help you any more.’ He slumped against the wall and clutched at his painful chest – his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Don’t kill him. For God’s sake, just don’t kill him.’

  Brown ripped his ski mask off and threw it on the floor of the basement. His hair was matted to his face with sweat and his eyes burnt red with the fading effects of the cocaine and exhaustion. Swinton knelt in front of him still hooded and bound – like a prisoner waiting to be executed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Brown shouted. ‘What the fuck was he doing here?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ King reassured him as he too removed his mask and tossed it casually aside. ‘I took care of it.’

  ‘What do you mean, “you took care of it”?’ Brown demanded.

  ‘I mean I warned him off our business,’ King tried to explain.

  ‘You told him it was us?’ Brown panicked.

  ‘No,’ King laughed at him. ‘Course I fucking didn’t.’

  ‘But he knows it’s us, right?’ Williams asked once he too had removed his mask.

  ‘Maybe,’ King shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Can’t be sure.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Williams shook his head. ‘Then we need to dump this bag of shit somewhere back on the estate and get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘And why would we do that?’ King smiled. ‘Do you hear any sirens screaming around the estate? Do you see any helicopter circling above? No,’ he answered for them. ‘No you don’t, because Marino hasn’t told anyone. Because Marino’s not going to tell anyone. If he was, he already would have.’

  ‘Why?’ Brown demanded. ‘Why’s he not going to tell anyone?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ King admitted. ‘Maybe he’s stupid enough or arrogant enough to think he can bring us down on his own.’

  ‘Or save us,’ Williams offered.

  King ignored him. ‘Maybe it’s too late now for him to blow the whistle without dropping himself in it for not blowing it when he first suspected something.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brown clutched at this like a drowning man reaching for an overhanging branch. ‘That’s it. He left it too late.’

  ‘But he’ll still come for us, right?’ Williams pointed out. ‘He’s not going to just quit.’

  ‘Maybe he will now,’ Brown argued, buoyed by a new belief that Marino couldn’t touch them. ‘Maybe he’ll be scared off.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ King calmly warned them. ‘But if he’s working alone we can handle him.’

  ‘Aye,’ Brown agreed in desperation. ‘We can handle him on his own.’

  ‘I still think we should get rid of this nonce and disappear,’ Williams insisted, ‘or get back on patrol and make like nothing happened.’

  ‘Watch what you’re saying,’ King reminded him, pointing with his chin towards the kneeling, shivering Swinton who made the occasional mumbling sound from behind his hood. ‘And we can’t just let him go. That wasn’t part of the deal. People expect.’

  He stepped forward and rolled the hood above Swinton’s mouth then ripped the tape off and allowed him to spit the ball of material out – coughing and gagging as he did so. Once his convulsions were over King rolled the hood back down, causing Swinton to panic until he realized he could still easily draw air through the thin material.

  ‘Who are you?’ he spluttered a question. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Questions,’ King told him coldly. ‘Questions that need answers.’

  ‘I … I don’t understand,’ he answered truthfully.

  King slapped his hooded face hard enough to knock him off-balance and fall over sideways from his kneeling position, the sound of the blow reverberating around the walls of their underground interrogation centre.

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ King hissed into his face – the material of the hood curving in and out of Swinton’s mouth as he threatened to hyperventilate. ‘You know exactly why you’re here.’

  ‘I … I’ll tell the police,’ Swinto
n tried to threaten them. ‘I swear I’ll tell the police.’

  ‘Tell them what?’ King laughed at him. ‘That you tried to rape a young girl and got found out? That the people on the estate made you pay for it?’

  ‘What?’ Swinton asked, his voice faltering with confusion.

  King lifted him to his knees, only to knock him back down with a punch to the side of the head, before grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and pulling him back again. ‘The girl,’ he venomously accused him. ‘Her name is Rosie and now she’s too frightened to even speak.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Swinton shook his head behind the hood, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Liar,’ King screamed at him and punched him where he guessed his nose would be, sending him tumbling backwards over his own bent legs.

  ‘Jesus,’ Brown stepped closer. ‘What’s the point in questioning him? We know what we have to do. We don’t need a confession. Let’s just get on with it.’

  ‘I want to hear him say it,’ King snarled. ‘I want to hear him admit it.’

  ‘Why?’ Brown continued. ‘Don’t you think it was him?’

  ‘No,’ King answered before correcting himself. ‘I mean yes. I know it was him, but I still want to hear him say it.’

  ‘Fuck this,’ Williams joined in. ‘Let’s just do it and get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘No,’ King insisted before turning his anger back on Swinton. ‘I want to hear him say it. I want him to admit he did it.’

  ‘Who cares,’ Williams complained.

  ‘I care,’ King told him through gritted teeth, momentarily confusing the here and now with the past – the girl who’d been attacked becoming the girl in the white dress and Swinton her father. ‘He was going to kill her – like he killed the others.’

  ‘What?’ Brown frowned ‘What are you talking about, “like he killed the others”? No one’s been killed.’

  King turned on him, his eyes blazing with hatred and retribution as he tried to work out where he was and why Brown and Williams were there with him. Eventually he shook his head to chase away the demons and bring himself back to the present.